maria

Summary: They were never nothing—but John Logan made sure they were never something either. Until the night he sees her with someone else... and realises too late what he let slip away.

Warnings: none :)

Request:

heyy, first of all I wanted to say that I LOVE your writing, like to a next level hahahaha!!!

Do I was wondering if I could request a John Logan x reader fic based on moths of a flame by the weekend?? Like they have history, but nothing ever comes out of it (mainly bc of Logan) and he start hearing rumors that the reader started kinda seeing someone and it bothers him, but he decided to not do anything about it bc he thought that they were just rumors. Than the hockey guys throw a party and she went there with this “new guy” and they’re all close, laughing and hugging, and Logan notices and gets quite pissed and as soon as the guy leaves the reader’s side for a second he comes in, and yeah, that’s all I have hahahahahaha :)

again I totally understand if you don’t want to or sm, it’s just that I had this idea and I feel like you’d be the best person to make it come to life♥️♥️♥️

The bass from the speakers thumped through the walls, vibrating up your spine as you leaned back against the kitchen counter, laughing at something he said.

You hadn’t meant for it to look like this.

Okay—maybe a little.

Your hand rested lightly on his arm, his body angled toward yours in a way that made it obvious—too obvious—that he was interested. He was easy to talk to, warm, attentive. And most importantly?

He wasn’t John Logan.

Across the house, Logan stood near the living room doorway, red cup in hand, jaw tight enough to crack.

He’d noticed you the second you walked in.

Of course you came. You always came to the team’s parties. But tonight was different. Tonight, you didn’t walk in alone. You didn’t gravitate toward the usual group. You didn’t even look at him.

And now—

Now you were laughing. Touching. Smiling at some guy Logan had never seen before like he was something worth your time.

Logan tipped his drink back, but it didn’t dull the irritation crawling under his skin.

“Who’s that?” Dean asked, following Logan’s line of sight.

Logan shrugged, too quickly. “No idea.”

Lie.

He knew exactly who you were.

He knew the way you laughed when you were trying not to. The way you bit your lip when you were thinking too hard. The way your eyes would flick to him—always—no matter who else you were talking to.

Except tonight.

Tonight, you didn’t look at him once.

—

“Hey, I’m gonna grab another drink—want anything?” the guy beside you asked.

You shook your head. “I’m good.”

“I’ll be right back.”

And just like that, he was gone.

You barely had time to turn back to the counter before a familiar presence filled the space beside you.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Your body went still.

You didn’t have to look up to know it was him.

“Logan,” you said flatly, finally turning your head. “Didn’t know you were still here.”

His eyes flashed. “Yeah, funny. I live here.”

You hummed, unimpressed. “Right.”

For a second, neither of you spoke. The noise of the party faded into the background, replaced by something tighter. Heavier.

His gaze dropped briefly—to your hand still resting where the other guy had been—and something in his expression darkened.

“So,” he said, voice edged, “this is what we’re doing now?”

You frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” he gestured vaguely toward the room, but his eyes never left yours, “you and… whoever the hell that is.”

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You mean me talking to someone? Yeah, Logan. Crazy concept.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you don’t know what I mean.”

Something in your chest twisted, but you forced your expression to stay neutral. “I don’t owe you anything.”

The words landed harder than you expected.

He took a step closer.

“No,” he said quietly, “but you don’t get to pretend there’s nothing there either.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Nothing where?” you challenged, even though your voice came out softer now.

His eyes searched your face, frustration bleeding into something more raw.

“Between us.”

Silence.

God, you hated him for that. For saying it like it was simple. Like it hadn’t been months—years—of almosts and maybes and him pulling away every single time it got too real.

You let out a slow breath. “You mean that thing you never wanted to talk about? That ‘between us’?”

His expression tightened. “That’s not—”

“No, actually, it is,” you cut in, pushing off the counter so you were standing toe-to-toe with him now. “Every time something almost happened, you backed off. Every time it meant something, you acted like it didn’t.”

“That’s not fair.”

You laughed, sharp and humorless. “Fair? Logan, you don’t get to be mad now because I finally stopped waiting around for you to figure it out.”

His eyes flickered—hurt, anger, something dangerously close to regret.

“You think that’s what this is?” he asked, voice low. “You and that guy—this is you ‘moving on’?”

You lifted your chin. “Maybe it is.”

He scoffed, but there was no real amusement in it. “You don’t even like him like that.”

“And you would know?” you shot back.

“I know you.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, quieter now, almost rough, he added, “I know you don’t look at him the way you used to look at me.”

Your breath caught.

“That’s the problem, Logan,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I used to.”

The weight of it hung between you.

Heavy. Unavoidable.

Behind him, the guy you came with started making his way back through the crowd.

Logan noticed.

Of course he did.

His gaze flicked over your shoulder, then back to you—and something in him snapped.

Before you could react, his hand closed around your wrist, not rough but firm, pulling you just a fraction closer.

“Don’t,” he said, voice tight, urgent now. “Don’t do this just to prove a point.”

Your heart pounded.

“Then give me a reason not to.”

For the first time all night, Logan hesitated.

Really hesitated.

And in that split second of silence—

You saw it.

Fear.

The same fear that had always stopped him before.

Your expression hardened, even though it cost you.

“Yeah,” you said softly, pulling your hand from his grip. “That’s what I thought.

You stepped back just as the other guy reached you again, slipping easily back into his side like nothing had happened.

Logan stood there, watching.

And for once—

He didn’t come after you.

Summary: convincing John Logan to fake date you is apparently much easier then admitting you have feelings for the one guy you can't have.

wc: 842

Pairing: John Logan (Off Campus) x reader

A/N: I wasnt really sure what to do with this, i might do a longer part idk

Part 01: Fake Lies, Real Feelings

Masterlist

pairing: John Logan x readerfem

summary: When you confessed your love to the idiot on the hockey team and he rejected you like a coward… only to write you 22 letters later, ignore your silent treatment, and confess everything to you in the rain like he’s in a Nicholas Sparks movie. Because of course, talking like a normal person is too hard, but declaring eternal love while soaking wet is totally reasonable.

warnings: Prepare yourself for some angst with a happy ending, fueled by heavy pining and absolute emotional constipation. This story features miscommunication (but make it dramatic) and, yes, literal kisses in the rain. Expect Logan being a simp in denial, lots of crying in aprons and on shoulders, and friends who consistently give much better advice than the main characters actually listen to. Fair warning: you will experience severe secondhand embarrassment, endure excessive dramatic monologues, and encounter plenty of swearing along the way.

a/n: hey guys, I’m back! I hope you like it. You have no idea how fucking much I love kisses in the rain. Sending you a kiss — I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. xoxo

part one.

'Cause all I know is we said, "Hello" And your eyes look like comin' home All I know is a simple name And everything has changed

(Guys, you lost me.)

I don’t know what to do with this. With all this love I have for him. I don’t know where to put it now.

The world kept spinning like nothing had happened. And I hated it a little for that.

Every morning I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror of my room with that question stuck somewhere inside me, unanswered, with nowhere to go. Love doesn’t disappear just because you want it to. It doesn’t work like that. There’s no switch, no drawer where you can stash it and lock it away. It was just there, huge and useless, taking up space that no longer had anyone to belong to.

When was the last time I actually slept?

I couldn’t remember.

I wasn’t trying to be dramatic, but fuck, not talking to him had hit me hard.

I washed my face with ice-cold water until my cheeks burned to bring down the swelling, then I put on concealer under my eyes and a little blush so I wouldn’t look so dead. War paint, I told myself. As if calling it that turned it into something that required courage instead of just the small, sad act of trying to look like a functional person.

Today I finally decided to leave my cave—my incredible, comfortable bed—to dignify myself with going to work. One of the perks of your mom being the owner is that she really doesn’t care if you miss work. I think she’s even at peace when I’m not at the café. It must be exhausting to see me moving around like a ghost in an apron.

The walk was twelve minutes. Janis was still at the car wash, so I had no choice. I usually didn’t mind walking, but now I couldn’t stand those twelve minutes alone with my thoughts. Before, I’d spend them with music or my phone in my hand, answering Logan’s messages like a dumb teenager. Now I just wore the headphones without playing anything. Just the dead weight of them as an excuse for no one to talk to me. So I could be, for those twelve minutes, exactly as broken as I was before having to pretend I wasn’t.

I’d been replaying the same moments all weekend. The feeling of his lips against mine. His big, warm hands closing around my hips. The way he looked at me right before he kissed me, like he’d been holding back for years. The hoarse sound that escaped his throat when I kissed him back. Everything played on loop, sharp, cruel, perfect.

And then came the memory of the next morning. His voice in the kitchen.

“I fucked everything up.”

“I need you to leave.”

I shook my head and picked up my pace, as if I could leave the memories behind on the sidewalk.

“The only thing I learned that night,” I muttered, dropping my forehead onto the table with a dull thud, “was that I should’ve stayed home.”

We were sitting at one of the outdoor tables in the central courtyard at Briar, under a sun that felt way too cheerful for my mood. I had a coffee that had already gone cold between my hands. Sarah was nibbling on an apple with a bored face, and Alison was stirring her chocolate milkshake with a straw while listening to me repeat the weekend story for the thousandth time.

Sarah let out a snort and ran her hand down my arm in a caress that was supposed to be comforting but mostly looked like she was holding back laughter.

“What if he’s gay and just hasn’t realized it yet?” she whispered mischievously, leaning toward me.

Alison let out a short, dry laugh.

“Men,” she said ironically, clinking the ice in her drink. “Tell them you love them and you’ll never see them again. They disappear faster than my patience on a Monday morning.”

“God, my life sucks,” I lamented, letting out a pitiful groan against the cold wood of the table.

The silence lasted barely two seconds before Sarah leaned in closer.

“For God’s sake! You’re twenty-two years old, what do you know about life?” she exclaimed, though her voice had that protective tone she always used when she saw me like this. “You’re beautiful, smart, and never apologize for feeling things, for setting boundaries, or for having ambitions, babe. Got it?”

I lifted my head enough to look at her. Sarah had that kind of confidence I envied with all my soul: short hair, sharp gaze, and a tongue that could destroy male egos in less than ten words. Alison was the same, only more cruelly funny. Both of them were like a man’s ego put into the bodies of beautiful, fearless women. The exact opposite of me right now.

“Besides,” Alison continued, pointing at me with her straw, “if John ‘Eat Me’ Logan is dumb enough to let you go after you told him you loved him, then fuck him. There are more guys at Briar. Most of them are worse, but at least some know how to use their mouths for something more useful than babbling excuses.”

I tried to smile, but it only came out as a crooked grimace. I knew they were saying it to cheer me up. I knew their words came from a good place. But none of that took away the weight I felt in my chest.

“Who needs therapy when I have you guys? Hooray…” I said in a tired but sincere voice.

But then I saw him.

Logan was walking along the path that crossed the courtyard with that stride of his I knew by heart—not too fast, not too slow, that way of moving that had always felt somehow inevitable. Tucker was beside him talking about something, hands in his pockets, and Logan had his head slightly tilted toward him with no expression at all.

And then he looked up.

I don’t know if it was instinct or bad luck, but his eyes went straight to mine. Without searching. Without hesitation. Like he already knew exactly where I was before he looked.

His brown eyes locked onto mine.

And I saw everything on his face in the space of a second: the impact of finding me there, the tension that rose up his jaw, something that could have been relief or pain or probably both at the same time. He had dark circles. A tight line between his eyebrows that I hadn’t seen before, or maybe I had and just didn’t know what it meant at the time.

Now I did.

He stopped dead.

Tucker took two more steps before realizing and turning around. I saw the exact moment he processed the situation—his eyes going from Logan to me and back to Logan—and something in his face closed off with an expression that wasn’t exactly pity but was too close for my comfort. Logan watched me with a mix of pain, regret, and something else I didn’t dare name. He took an involuntary step toward our table, like his body reacted before his brain. Tucker, beside him, noticed immediately and grabbed his arm firmly, stopping him.

Logan didn’t even look at him.

His eyes moved quickly over mine, my mouth, the line of my jaw, scanning my expression with an urgency that almost hurt.

He didn’t even like me. Why was he torturing me like this?

His lips parted slightly and then closed. I could see him working inside, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers briefly clenched into a fist and then opened. His entire posture was a question. Almost a plea.

Give me something. Anything.

I felt my heart rise to my throat and stay there, huge and inconvenient, pulsing with a force that I’m sure showed on my face.

No. I’m not going to be the one who does it this time.

I can’t be the one again.

I looked away with effort, breaking the contact like I was tearing off a piece of my own skin. I lowered my head and tightened my fingers around my coffee cup until my knuckles turned white.

“I’m not taking the first step,” I whispered, more to myself than to them, though the words came out loud enough.

“Bravo girl, Bravo” Sarah said proudly, giving me a gentle pat on the back. “Let him crawl this time.”

----

J.L

I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands, feeling like my chest was going to explode. In my head, the same image played on loop without stopping: the way her eyes filled with pain. And then she looked away. Like looking at me burned her. Like I was something she could no longer stand.

Like I was something she could no longer stand.

The three of them looked at me in silence. It was weird seeing the guys so quiet. Disturbingly weird. Normally Dean would’ve already said some shit to lighten the mood, but even he didn’t dare. Garrett had his arms crossed and his jaw tight, staring at the floor. Tucker was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking at me… with a lot of pity.

How fucked up was I?

“…I ruined everything,” I muttered, my voice hoarse.

Dean let out a dramatic sigh and threw himself onto my bed like it was his.

“Yeah, we already know that. The question is: what the hell are you going to do about it?”

I stayed quiet for a long time. The knot in my throat was choking me. I ran my hands through my hair, pulling harder than necessary, as if the physical pain could organize the chaos inside me.

“I’m in love with her,” I admitted almost angrily. “I love her eyes… fuck, I love the way she looks at me like I’m someone decent. I love her hair, the way it falls in her face when she’s focused. I love her smile when she hears the stupidest thing that comes out of my mouth… like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her.” My voice was shaking by the end. I stood up without really knowing why. I needed to move, I needed to do something with my body because if I stayed still I was going to explode. I stood in the middle of the room like an idiot. “She confessed everything to me… and I told her I couldn’t. What kind of son of a bitch does that? After what happened that night?”

Dean, for the first time in a long time, didn’t make a joke. He just looked at me seriously.

“Bro… you’re really fucked.”

Garrett moved.

He’d been silent the whole time, staring at some point on the floor, and that silence from Garrett was what had me the most nervous since they arrived.

He leaned forward. Looked straight at me.

“So what are you going to do now? Because avoiding her and looking at her like a lost puppy isn’t working.” He said it without cruelty, but without softening it either. “Listen to me, Logan. You’re a mess, I know. But you can’t go dump all of this on her at once.” He paused, choosing his words. “She’s hurt. Really hurt. If you go now and tell her everything you’re feeling, she’s going to think it’s pity or that you’re confused. You have to take it slow… but don’t drag your feet. Do it right. Approach her little by little. Start by asking for forgiveness. Be honest, but gentle. Give her room to breathe.”

Garrett continued:

“You know where she works. You should go. Not like an ambush, just you. Order a coffee, sit down… and talk to her. On her turf. No pressure.”

Tucker pushed off the wall. He nodded slowly.

“Fast, but careful. Show her with actions that it wasn’t a mistake.” His voice was calmer than Garrett’s, quieter, but just as firm. “That she wasn’t a mistake.”

-

-

-

I stood in front of the café door for almost ten minutes, hands in the pockets of my jeans, my heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted to get out. The smell of fresh coffee and sweet bread reached me from inside, but it didn’t calm me. It did the opposite. It reminded me of her. Of her hands moving with that calm motion behind the counter, of how she bit her lower lip when she focused on making a latte.

Breathe, Logan. Don’t fuck this up again.

I pushed the door open and the little bell sounded way too loud in my ears. There weren’t many people. A couple of occupied tables and her behind the counter, cleaning the espresso machine. She was wearing the black apron she always wore, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail with some strands falling in her face. God… she looked beautiful.

I approached the counter with heavy legs. She looked up for a second, her eyes passing over my face without stopping, like I was just another customer. No surprise. No pain. Nothing. Just cold indifference.

Ouch. I deserve that.

“A black coffee, please,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. 

She nodded without meeting my eyes and turned toward the machine. Her shoulders were tense. I knew that body language. She was holding herself back.

Say something, John. Now.

“…I need to talk to you,” I murmured, lowering my voice so only she could hear. “Alone. Please.”

She didn’t respond. The sound of the espresso machine filled the silence between us. She served the coffee with precise movements, placed the cup in front of me, and wrote something on the order slip like I hadn’t said a word.

“That’ll be four fifty,” she said, looking at a point over my shoulder.

“Hey… please,” I insisted, leaning a little over the counter. “Just five minutes. I know I don’t deserve even that, but…”

She took the bill I held out without brushing my fingers. She gave me the change with the same empty expression, like she was serving a stranger. Her eyes didn’t meet mine even once. It was worse than if she had screamed at me. That indifference was destroying me inside.

She’s hurt. Really hurt. Shit, Garrett was right.

“I understand that you don’t want to see me,” I continued, almost in a whisper. “But I can’t keep going like this. What I did… was shitty. I was shitty. I need to explain…”

“Here’s your change,” she cut me off in a neutral voice, placing the coins on the counter. Then she turned back to the machine and started cleaning again, giving me her back.

The knot in my throat tightened so much I thought I was going to choke. I stood there like an idiot, the coffee burning my hand and my chest on fire. I wanted to jump over the counter, grab her by the arms, and force her to look at me, to see everything that was eating me alive inside. But I couldn’t. Not after what I’d done to her.

I took the coffee and sat at one of the tables in the back, where I could see her. I wasn’t moving from there. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for as long as it took.

I’m not giving up on you. Even if you ignore me. Even if you look at me like I no longer exist. I’m going to prove to you that you weren’t a mistake. That you never were. That you’re the only thing I want in this fucking life.

-

-

-

“Hey, kid!”

A strong, decisive voice snapped me out of my sleep. I blinked, confused, my cheek stuck to the table and a trail of drool that didn’t even embarrass me. The café was empty. The chairs were already up on the tables and the main lights were off. Only the dim light from the counter remained.

In front of me was her mom. And fuck… she was just as pretty as her daughter. The same expressive eyes, the same way of tilting her head when she was half amused and half serious, the same hair falling softly over her shoulders. Seeing her was like seeing a more mature, confident version of her. It hurt my soul.

“What, you think this is a hotel?” she said in a half-mocking, half-annoyed tone. “You’ve been sleeping there for like three hours, drooling on my table. We closed a while ago.”

I sat up quickly, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, my face burning. I looked around desperately.

“Did she… already leave?” I asked, my voice thick.

She let out a soft, almost maternal laugh and shook her head while picking up a rag.

“My daughter left a while ago. She said she had things to do.” She looked at me for a second longer, with that warmth she’d always had toward me. “You okay? You look… tired.”

Ma’am, I’m trying to prove to your daughter that I’m not a complete son of a bitch.

“Yeah, I’m… I’m fine,” I lied, standing up. My neck hurt like hell. “I just wanted… to talk to her for a bit.”

She pointed at the door with the mop. “Come on, out. I have to open early tomorrow and I’m not leaving you here as decoration.”

I got up unsteadily, still half-asleep and with a sore neck. I tried to keep some dignity, but it was hard with the table mark on my cheek and my hair a mess.

She took the mop and gave me a gentle but firm push toward the door, like she was shooing out a big, clumsy dog that didn’t want to leave.

“Ma’am, I just—”

“Out, out,” she cut me off playfully, opening the door. “I open early tomorrow and I’m not tripping over you drooling on my tables. I don’t know what happened between you and my daughter, but I hope you can fix it soon. It kills me to see her walking around like a ghost. Good night.”

The cold of the night hit me as I stepped out. The door closed behind me with that cheerful little jingle that now sounded like mockery.

I stood there on the dark sidewalk, running my hands over my face.

How pathetic. Ugh.

---

“Hi…” The low, close voice startled me so much I let out a small scream and nearly dropped the cup from my hands. I spun around, heart hammering in my throat.

Tucker took a step back and clutched his chest with one hand, eyes a little wide.

“Fuck… you scared me,” he muttered, breathing deeply, clearly surprised by my reaction. “Got a minute?”

I didn’t answer. Instead I stood there, pressing the cup against my chest like a shield. My pulse thundered in my ears.

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, uncomfortable, and looked down for a second before speaking. “I’m sorry,” he said simply, with that calm but heavy voice. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

I looked at him in silence. Tucker had always been the quietest. Seeing him here apologizing squeezed something in my chest.

“It’s not your fault, Tucker,” I answered quietly, forcing a weak smile. “Really. You didn’t do anything. You don’t have to apologize for something that wasn’t your responsibility.”

He frowned slightly, like he didn’t fully agree, and still insisted, but before he could say anything I beat him to it:

“It’s okay,” I added, trying to sound firmer than I felt. “I’m fine. I don’t need anyone carrying this. Not you… not anyone.”

What a huge lie. I’m not fine. Nothing is fine. But what else can I say?

Tucker nodded slowly, still with that pitying look I hated so much. He stayed one more second, like he wanted to add something, but in the end he just murmured:

“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly. “Don’t lie to me.”

Crack.

I couldn’t hold it anymore.

The knot that had been tightening in my throat for days, weeks, broke all at once. Tears flooded my eyes and I started crying uncontrollably, right there. Everything came out in a shaky, broken torrent.

“I really… I really didn’t want to like him,” I sobbed, covering my face with one hand. “I didn’t want to, Tucker. I tried not to… but it just happened. And now I miss him so much it hurts to breathe. I miss his stupid voice, the way he looks at me… I miss feeling safe with him. But he told me he couldn’t and… and I had to walk away. I needed to walk away. I don’t know how to keep pretending I’m okay when everything reminds me of him. He’s been coming nonstop, leaving these stupid letters I haven’t even bothered to open, and fuck, it complicates everything when I see him on campus… I’m drowning. I regret going to that stupid party. I regret confessing my feelings. If only… if only I’d held back a little.”

The tears kept falling, soaking my cheeks and my apron. I felt pathetic, exposed, but I couldn’t stop.

Tucker walked around the counter without saying anything. His steps were quiet, steady. Suddenly his arms wrapped around me carefully, pulling me against his chest in a warm, protective hug. I tensed for a second, but then I collapsed against him, crying harder into his sweatshirt.

“Shh… it’s okay,” he murmured against my hair, rubbing my back with slow, comforting strokes. “Cry as much as you need. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

I felt pathetic. I admit I really tried not to cry, but I just couldn’t hold it back anymore.

When will this suffering end?

I had to rip it out by the roots.

Maybe not right now. When I’m ready.

“Eight days!?”

They said it at the same time. Both of them. With the same incredulous face that made the lady at table three look up from her newspaper and stare at me like I was the problem.

“Shh, lower your voices.” I leaned on the counter with my arms crossed and waited for the echo to fade. “Eight days in a row,” I confirmed, lowering my voice.

Alison and Sarah were sitting on the high stools in front of the counter, their half-finished milkshakes in front of them and that look on both their faces that meant they weren’t letting me out of this conversation easily. The café was quiet at that hour, only four tables occupied and my mom in the kitchen making muffled clattering noises from the back. It was the kind of afternoon I normally liked. Calm. Manageable.

Until they showed up.

“And what does he do?” Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow while pointing at Logan’s table with her straw.

“He writes.”

“He writes?” Alison repeated, like the word didn’t quite fit, looking at me with a “Seriously?” face.

“He sits down, takes out paper, and writes. At first I thought he was studying, taking notes, whatever. Something normal.” I grabbed the rag from the counter and unfolded it, wiping the drops of chocolate Sarah’s straw had left. “But then on the third day he slipped a folded letter into the tip jar when he left.”

Both of them looked at the jar. It was there in its usual spot next to the register, completely innocent.

“In the tip jar?” Sarah pointed out, still not believing it.

“In the tip jar.”

“Why there?”

“Because I was giving him the silent treatment and every time he tried to talk to me I found something super urgent to do in the kitchen.” I folded the rag. Unfolded it. “So he stopped trying and found another way.”

Alison turned her stool slightly toward Sarah. Then looked at me.

“And what do the letters say?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t know.”

Silence.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Alison said slowly, her voice showing that something didn’t add up.

“That I haven’t opened them.”

“None of them?”

“None.”

Alison stared at me. Then at Sarah. Then back at me.

“How many letters total?” she asked, and something in her tone told me she was already bracing for the answer.

I wiped a part of the counter that was already perfectly clean.

“Twenty-two.”

The silence lasted exactly two seconds.

“Twenty-two,” Alison repeated, toneless.

“Sometimes he leaves me three in one day. He sits, writes, folds the paper, puts it in the jar, and starts again. Like he always has something more to say.”

“But why?” Sarah frowned, not in judgment but with the genuine confusion of someone trying to solve a puzzle. “I mean, what’s the point of him writing you letters if he’s the one who told you no?”

“Exactly what I keep asking myself.”

“And you have no idea what they might say?”

“None.” I shrugged, though the gesture came out a little forced. “Maybe it’s an apology. Or he wants us to stay friends and doesn’t know how to tell me in person. Or he just feels guilty and this is how he’s dealing with it. I don’t know.”

“Or maybe,” Alison said finally, measuring her words, “they say something that has nothing to do with any of those things?”

“Alison.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well, don’t say it.” I grabbed the rag again. “He made it pretty clear where things stood. The letters will be what they are, probably something I don’t need to read, and when I get the courage I’ll open them and that’s it.”

Sarah rested her chin on her hand and looked at me with that calm of hers that always felt slightly destabilizing.

“Do you have them on you?” she asked.

Of course I had them on me. I’d been carrying the wad folded in my apron pocket since Monday, but I had no explanation that made me look good. I took them out and placed them on the counter between the two milkshakes.

Alison and Sarah looked at them.

“Can we take a look?” Alison asked.

I glanced sideways at the table in the back. Logan was sitting with Dean Di Laurentis, a ridiculously hot blond who had always seemed almost unfairly attractive. They both had muffins they’d ordered a while ago in front of them. Logan was saying something with his elbows on the table and Dean was listening, leaning back in his chair with that half-smile of his, like he found the world generally entertaining. Neither was looking at me.

I shrugged.

“Whatever you want,” I said, and turned to clean the coffee machine. “They’re probably just apologies or something. I don’t think they’re a big deal.”

I heard the rustle of paper unfolding.

Silence. More silence.

The kind of silence you notice because there should be some comment and worryingly there isn’t. There should’ve been an “aw how sweet” or “look at his handwriting” or anything, but there was nothing, and that nothing started to itch somewhere I tried to ignore.

I turned around.

Alison had the letter in her hands and an expression I’d never seen on her. It wasn’t exactly surprise. It was something quieter, deeper, something that had settled on her face while she read and hadn’t moved when she stopped. Her eyes were still fixed on the paper.

“Oh,” she said.

Just that.

Oh.

Oh?

She passed the letter to Sarah without looking at her, pointing to a specific spot with her finger. Sarah read. I saw the exact moment she reached that part because her shoulders dropped a centimeter, she let out a very slow breath through her nose, and then she looked at me with an expression that was half tenderness and half something pretty close to “oh, sweetie.”

“This…” she started.

“What?” I said.

“This is pretty…”

I leaned over the counter without realizing it.

“Pretty what?”

The two of them looked at each other like accomplices and let out a small laugh.

“Give it to me,” I said.

Alison picked up the letter from Sarah’s hands.

“No.”

“Alison.”

“Nope.”

“Come on, it’s probably just a long apology—”

“It’s not an apology.” She said it without thinking and then closed her mouth like she’d said too much. Sarah pinched her.

I stayed still for a moment.

“What do you mean it’s not an apology?”

“Nothing, forget it.”

“Alison, if it’s not an apology then what—”

“When you’re ready you’ll read it and that’s it.” She leaned on the counter with a firmness that left no room for negotiation. “And don’t look at me like that, I’m serious. This is something you have to read alone and at the right moment, not here in the middle of your shift because we pressured you.”

“But I didn’t even want to know—”

“And now you do, right?”

I shut up. She was right. Damn it, she was right, because ten minutes ago I was perfectly convinced those letters were probably some elaborate apology or a request to stay friends and I didn’t need to read them to know they’d hurt anyway. And now I was leaning over the counter with my heart doing weird things because Alison had said “it’s not an apology” in that voice and—

A shadow fell over the counter.

The three of us looked up at the same time.

Dean Di Laurentis was standing on the other side of the counter. He didn’t say anything. He simply reached out, took the letter from Alison with a calmness that left no room for argument, grabbed another from the stack still on the counter, and placed them in front of me with startling ease.

I looked at him.

He held my gaze for a second, nodded slightly like he’d just done the most reasonable thing, then turned his head toward Alison.

And winked at her. Slowly. With total and absolute premeditation.

And he walked back to his table with his hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just dropped a grenade, leaving calmly.

The silence he left lasted exactly three seconds.

Sarah and I looked at each other.

Alison’s cheeks were flushed. Alison, who had once told a guy trying to hit on her at a party that his technique was conceptually deficient. Alison, who in the three years I’d known her had never lost a millimeter of composure in front of any male human being.

She had flushed cheeks.

She picked up her milkshake. Took a long, absolutely deliberate sip while looking out the window.

“Don’t even think about it,” she muttered.

Sarah opened her mouth.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” Alison repeated without looking at her, with a calmness that didn’t match someone with cheeks that color.

Sarah closed it. But no one could wipe the smile off her face.

I looked down at the two letters in front of me on the counter. White paper, folded in three, nothing written on the outside. Just the paper. And underneath all of that, that phrase spinning nonstop: it’s not an apology.

If it wasn’t an apology, then what was it?

I didn’t want to know. Lies. Yes, I did.

It was past midnight. I was sitting on the floor of my room in my pajamas, with the twenty-two letters spread out on the rug around me in roughly chronological order of when Logan had left them in the tip jar. They formed a semicircle that completely surrounded me. From the outside it probably looked pretty bleak, but there was no one watching so it didn’t count.

I’d taken them out of the drawer where I’d been saving them one by one, with that weird mix of care and denial that didn’t make much sense if you analyzed it. I’d organized them. I’d been staring at them for a while, convincing myself that as soon as I opened them I’d find something manageable. An apology. Maybe several apologies, one per letter, with different wording because Logan had always been that meticulous when he wanted to be. Something that would hurt a little but that I could fold back up, put in the drawer, and move on with my life.

It’s not an apology.

Damn Alison.

I picked up the first letter.

I held it for a moment without opening it, fingers on the fold of the paper, staring at it like I could read through it. Logan had spent eight days sitting in the café writing things I didn’t understand why he needed to write.

He had told me no. He had chosen to reject me. Those were concrete, verifiable facts and there was no reason for any of this to mean something different from what I had already assigned it.

No reason.

I unfolded it.

Logan’s handwriting was exactly as I remembered, a little careless at the edges with some words crossed out and rewritten.

I read the first line.

I froze completely. This can’t be real.

“Oh, shit,” I said out loud.

Hockey.

I wasn’t really into hockey until I met Logan. Before, it was just that sport they showed on TV that my dad sometimes watched and that I completely ignored. Noise, ice, guys crashing into each other at speeds that made no sense. I didn’t get the appeal.

Now I know exactly how many points the team needs to advance to the next round. I recognize the plays. I can tell for sure when a referee is calling too many penalties and when a defenseman is being deliberately dirty. Which says a lot—and nothing good—about what John Fucking Logan does to a person’s critical judgment.

I sighed and sank deeper into my seat.

The stadium smelled of popcorn and that weird mix of sweat and excitement that exists in sports venues. The stands were full, Briar colors everywhere, and the noise was that constant, dull kind that after a while just becomes pressure. Sarah was gripping her soda cup with both hands like it was the only thing anchoring her so she wouldn’t lose her mind, while Alison had been taking pictures of a certain player wearing number sixty-six for twenty minutes.

Meanwhile, I just couldn’t stop looking at player number twenty-two.

You’re an idiot.

My conscience scolded me. We’ve hurt each other and I’m still sighing and staring at him like an idiot. Why can’t feelings have an off button? What’s the point of loving him if he doesn’t feel the same about me?

“You okay?” Alison leaned toward me with genuine concern that, in the three years I’ve known her, had never once fooled me.

“Perfect.”

“Sure,” Sarah said from my other side, without taking her eyes off the ice. “That’s why you have that face.”

I didn’t answer because I didn’t have a response that didn’t incriminate me. Technically, it was the idiot with number twenty-two skating on the ice who had unfinished business with me. Though “unfinished business” was a very generous way to describe a situation that basically boiled down to: I had made the huge mistake of feeling things I shouldn’t, he had told me he simply couldn’t (or didn’t want to) be with me, and since then I’d been trying to disappear from my own life as discreetly as possible.

I shouldn’t have come.

I knew it since this morning. I knew it the exact moment I opened the reminders app to see what I had pending and found “Briar Game — 8pm” marked in red. I’d written it down weeks ago, in another life almost, when Logan and I were still whatever we were before I ruined everything by being honest. And then, without meaning to, without looking for it, with that masochistic tendency I have and should probably work on with a professional, I went to the messages.

Just to see. Just to remind myself why what happened was the right thing.

And there it was, among three unanswered messages I had left on read with absolute cowardice. One that simply said: Hope to see you tonight.

The message that made me want to check my reminders list and the reason I was here tonight.

I should have ignored it. I should have stayed home with a movie, a pack of cookies, and some dignity intact.

Instead here I was, in the stands at Briar’s stadium, flanked by Alison and Sarah who were pretending—not very effectively—not to monitor me every thirty seconds, with my stomach in knots and my eyes fixed on one spot on the ice so I wouldn’t keep unconsciously searching for number twenty-two.

Because I was searching for him. That was the worst part. That despite everything, despite the days avoiding him and the speeches I’d given myself and the times I’d repeated that I was fine, my eyes found him on their own. Like they had their own memory. Like no one had told them the memo.

Logan skated well. That was the fundamental problem—that he was really good and knew it without being arrogant about it, and when he moved on the ice there was something about him that settled, that relaxed.

I looked away.

The scoreboard was two to one in favor of Briar and the atmosphere had that electricity of the final minutes of a close game. Alison had put her phone down and was standing without realizing it. Sarah was muttering something under her breath.

And then it happened.

Logan intercepted the puck in the offensive zone. He dodged the first defenseman with a turn that seemed physically impossible, the second with an acceleration that made the whole crowd collectively hold its breath, and shot.

Score.

The stadium exploded.

I stood up with everyone else. I clapped without thinking. Alison grabbed my arm screaming something I couldn’t hear over the shouts. Sarah whistled with her fingers in her mouth.

Then Logan raised his hockey stick.

He turned toward the stands with a smile—that smile I knew by heart and that right now was doing damage to me that had no name—and I saw it before I could prepare myself.

He pointed at me. What the fuck is that supposed to mean.

Straight. Unmistakable. With his arm extended and his eyes locked exactly where I was standing, like there weren’t three hundred other people in the stadium, like there was no chance he was pointing at anyone else, like he wanted to make sure there was absolutely no doubt.

The stands made that collective sound. That “oooh” people make when they smell drama from afar. And the commentator, the damn commentator, didn’t miss the moment:

“Looks like one of our favorite guys had his heart stolen tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t cry all at once, girls—there are still more players on the ice—”

Heat shot up my neck to my ears in about half a second.

Alison let go of my arm.

Sarah turned her head toward me very slowly, still looking stunned at what had just happened.

They both looked at me. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. And thank God they didn’t.

“No,” I said.

I grabbed my jacket from the seat. I put it on wrong, one arm inside out, and fixed it with more violence than necessary. My stomach was in a tight knot, my cheeks were burning, and my ears were ringing. I needed to get out of there.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I lied.

“Sure,” Alison said, glancing sideways at Sarah, who returned a worried look.

Neither of them made a move to follow me.

I went down the stands almost tripping twice, dodged three groups of people still celebrating, pushed the exit door with both hands, and the cold air hit me in the face the second I stepped out. Honestly, it was a relief. I needed that hit. I needed something to remind me that it was real, that I was real, that what had just happened inside that sweaty, noisy stadium had also been real.

He had pointed at me. In front of everyone. What the fuck.

I’m overthinking this.

I shouldn’t let it affect me. I shouldn’t let it break my decision to stay away from him.

I closed my eyes for a second and the commentator’s voice came back like a horrible echo: “Looks like one of our favorite guys got shot by Cupid tonight, don’t cry ladies—”

I wanted to die. For real. Not metaphorically. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole and not even spit out the bones.

I started walking fast. Then faster. The parking lot was dark and the streetlights made those blurry orange spots that multiplied on the wet asphalt, and I was only thinking about getting to the car, getting inside, and crying with dignity where no one could see me. I had parked Janis in the fifth circle of hell because I arrived late and there were no spots nearby, so when I finally found her I was going to be completely soaked.

Good. Perfect. Great. And it was raining.

Not just raining. Pouring. Like the entire universe had decided that tonight wasn’t humiliating enough and needed a little more drama. The water soaked my hair in seconds, ran down my neck, my shoulders, got into my shoes. Good. Perfect. Great.

I kept walking.

I had spent entire days convincing myself that what we had was just a friendship I had misinterpreted, that I had seen things where there was nothing, that when he told me no—when he simply told me he couldn’t give me what I wanted—it was the most honest truth anyone had told me in a long time. I had forced myself to accept it. I had forced myself to keep functioning.

And then he scored and pointed at me. Son of a bitch.

“Wait!”

I stopped.

I didn’t want to have stopped. It was a reflex, a betrayal by my own body recognizing that voice before my brain could tell it no, to keep walking, to pretend to be deaf, to die a little.

I turned slowly.

Logan was running toward me. With his hair completely stuck to his face and still in his team uniform darkened by the water, and his eyes—God, his eyes—searching for me with an urgency I didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. Didn’t want to understand.

Wait.

Did he just leave his game? Just to talk?

“Stop,” he said when he reached me, breathing hard. “Please, stop.”

I looked at him. I tried to make my face say nothing. I tried to be a wall. I swear.

“Logan.” My voice sounded calmer than I felt. That was the only miracle of the night. “Seriously, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to apologize or explain anything, okay? It was me. I misread things, I was stupid, and—” I swallowed. “And when you told me about Hannah and I felt this bad, that was my problem. Not yours. So really, seriously, you can go back inside and—”

“For God’s sake, shut up.”

I blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“Shut up.” He didn’t say it cruelly. He said it with something like desperation, jaw tight, eyes bright, rain running down his face like it didn’t exist. “Don’t regret anything. Please. Don’t.”

“Logan, I just—”

“I realized too late that she wasn’t you.” His skin was wet from the rain too (obviously), and one drop hung from the tip of his nose, about to fall. His brown eyes traced my face, moving over my eyes, my cheeks, and my mouth, before he said in a hoarse voice:

“I ruined everything.” He ran a hand through his soaked hair, a nervous, desperate gesture, like he didn’t know what to do with his own body. “I didn’t want Hannah. I never did. I just wanted someone to love, someone to spend the rest of my days with, and I was such an incredibly idiot, so completely blind, that I didn’t realize the person I actually loved was standing right in front of me.”

“Logan, stop—”

“It’s you.”

Oh God. My heart stopped. Literally. I swear it stopped.

“Stop—”

“And if your feelings are still the same, if you still love me, then right now—” his voice cracked a little there, just a little, but I heard it, I heard it clearly over the rain—“right now I’m telling you I want to spend the eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours, the five hundred and twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes of every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days with you.”

The rain was starting to get heavier. The parking lot lights became orange and white spots behind him and I didn’t know if what was running down my cheeks was water or tears and honestly it didn’t matter anymore because no one was going to notice anyway.

“Don’t pity me,” I said, and my voice was no longer calm. “Don’t. You don’t have to—” I bit my lip. I was nervous, mostly because I really wanted to tell him how I felt and what I wanted. I took a deep breath and he cut me off instantly.

“Every single one,” he continued, like he hadn’t heard me, or like he had heard me perfectly and decided to ignore it. “No exceptions. No conditions. If I stay quiet, if I let another day go by without telling you that you’re the only thing that has made constant sense, I’m going to spend the rest of my life unable to forgive myself.”

“Stop, Logan, seriously, stop—”

“And I’m not going to let you give this story that ending.”

He took one step closer. Just one. But I felt it in my chest like he had closed miles.

“Nor will I allow myself to give our story an ending.” His voice had something broken and something completely certain at the same time and I didn’t understand how those two things could coexist. “A story that hasn’t even begun and that I’m already anxious to know the next chapter of. I’d rather die tomorrow knowing I loved you than live a hundred years wondering what it would’ve been like to be with you.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

“Even it would be an honor if you broke my heart. Over and over, as many times as it took. Because even broken, even in pieces—” he paused and looked at me, and in his eyes there was something I had never seen before, something I recognized because it was exactly what I had felt all these months—“my heart would come back to you. Thirsty. Without conditions. Without holding anything back.”

My hands were shaking.

“I’ve always been a better person when I’m near you.” He said that lower, almost to himself, and it was what hurt me the most because I believed him. I believed him without wanting to. “And that’s something I haven’t told anyone until now. Because my heart is yours. Not from today. From way before I had the courage to admit it.”

He closed the last few feet between us.

“Forgive me. I’m asking you please.”

I shook my head. I tried to articulate something coherent.

“Don’t… don’t do this to me.” It came out broken, fuck. “Don’t do this to me now that I had already… that I had already…”

“What do you want me to do?” he cut in, and there was something urgent in his voice, something bordering on a plea. “Do you want me to pull the fucking moon down for you? I’ll become an astronaut for you. Tell me. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”

The rain pounded my shoulders.

“But I love you,” he said. “And that’s not going to change.”

I don’t know how long I stood there without saying anything. It could have been ten seconds or ten years and neither would have surprised me. I only heard the rain and my own breathing and the beating of something I had been trying to kill for weeks by ignoring it.

It was still there.

Stubborn. Damn stubborn heart. Damn body that doesn’t listen. Damn it.

I threw myself at him, wrapped both arms around his neck, and pressed my lips to his. The smell of his cologne mixed with the rain and completely intoxicated me. John froze for a second, motionless while my mouth was pressed against his. I thought, too late, that maybe he didn’t.

Shut up. He literally just bared his heart to you.

But then, as if lightning had struck him, John took a breath and cupped my face with his hands. He was kissing me back. I was kissing John Logan and he was kissing me. I went from being scared and breathless to a fire burning inside me in an instant.

John tilted his head and kissed me the way John was supposed to kiss—wild, and sweet, and entirely too confident in himself, all at the same time. He knew exactly what he was doing when his big hands slid into my hair, but it was the shudder in his breath and the slight tremble in his hands that drove me crazy. The fact that he had lost control as much as I had.

John pulled me even closer until we were pressed together, chest to chest. For the first time in my life, I understood why people said they could forget where they were, and he gave me a little bite on my lower lip, and then I touched his face, felt the rigid solidity of his jaw, and he kissed me like it was his job and he wanted a raise. He made a sound when I sank my fingers into his hair, like he liked it, and I wished it would keep raining like this forever, and never stop. Until he said my name, until he whispered it against my lips three times, I didn’t come back to reality.

“Huh?”

I opened my eyes, but my vision was unfocused.

Logan laughed. Softly, with his forehead almost resting against mine, his thumbs still on my cheeks, he laughed in that way of his that crinkled his eyes and that I had secretly collected for months like they were worth something.

They were. God, how much they were worth.

“Your name,” he said, his voice still hoarse. “I was calling you by your name.”

“Yeah.” I blinked. “I know. It’s just…”

“What?”

I looked at him. With his hair completely soaked and stuck to his forehead and that expression on his face I had never seen and now couldn’t stop looking at. The rain kept falling on both of us with that absolute indifference water has, that doesn’t distinguish between the most important moment of your life and any other Tuesday.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Look,” I said, “I’m not… I mean, I’m not good at this. At saying things. The important things, I mean, the ones that really…” I made a vague gesture with my hand that meant nothing concrete. “You just told me a bunch of really big things and I’ve spent weeks convinced that this was all in my head and that you didn’t… that there was nothing and…” I breathed. “And right now my brain is completely fried and the words aren’t coming out in the right order.”

Logan didn’t say anything. He just looked at me.

“But I love you,” I blurted out, all at once, without elegance, without the firm voice I would have wanted. “I mean, I love you a lot. Too much, probably. For longer than I think is smart to admit out loud. And I tried to let it go, I really did, but it turns out I’m pretty bad at letting go of things that matter to me and you matter to me an amount that frankly seems excessive for my own well-being and—”

“Hey,” Logan said.

“What?

“Shut up.”

And he kissed me again. And for the first time I was glad I had parked Janis so far away.

.

.

.

Summary: John Logan can flirt with anyone for fun, but the second y/n ties his hockey jacket around her waist, it starts feeling dangerously less casual. Between stolen touches, teasing confessions, and a growing inability to keep their eyes—or hands—off each other, one night at Malone’s turns into the beginning of something neither of them is prepared for.

wc: 2870

Pairing: John Logan x Reader

A/N: I was going to split this into two parts but then changed my mind. Formatting is kind of everywhere. Not edited.

part 1 | part 2

in which a year has passed since you last saw john logan. you’re a freshman at briar now and desperately hoping to avoid seeing him, but when your roommate convinces you to come to a party with her, all those carefully constructed walls and plans of yours come crashing down.

pairing: john logan x f!reader

series summary: You and John Logan are childhood best friends. You share the kind of emotional intimacy only two people who have seen each other grow up can have, but now you’re no longer kids, you’re college students and trying to navigate the complex time between childhood and adulthood. Before joining John at Briar U a year after him, you were convinced your silly crush had faded, but now that you’re back in his orbit, you’re no longer so sure. You try your best to remain just friends, but watching him turn from the boy down the street to the big man on campus is harder than you thought. And you’re not sure how much more you can take of watching him overlook you time and time again.

contains: friends to enemies (sort of) to lovers, no use of y/n (logan calls reader by nickname: birdie), angst, pining and yearning, drunk logan, flirty garrett graham, sweet grace ivers

author’s note: i know the timeline and stuff is off from the books/show, but i’m taking creative liberties ok?? i love my girl hannah, but for the sake of the plot, we’re going to pretend like she doesn’t exist rn lol

You spent the first few weeks of your freshman year at Briar U completely dedicated to your studies.

You attended no sporting events, no parties, you hadn’t even gone on a single date since moving away from your hometown with a population of about 5,000 where you knew everyone. You were a model student…but as far as your social life went, it was sorely lacking.

It was Friday night and you were sat on your bed in your dorm room, your English Lit essay pulled up on your laptop while you had your oldest sister on the phone. You had already called your other sister who you were closer to in age, but since she was now a senior at a college across the state, her Friday night was likely being spent doing something age appropriate and fun.

“Birdie,” your sister sighed, the nickname having caught on to just about everyone you knew once John started calling you it. You’d loved it up until about a year ago. “As much as I love talking with you, shouldn’t you be doing something illegal and potentially life threatening, like getting plastered at a frat party?”

You picked at the comforter beneath you, the white fabric worn and fraying slightly from age. “Why would I want to do that when I can talk to my delightful older sister? Whom I love and miss?”

“Maybe because your sister is not delightful, she is boring and married and her bedtime is now nine PM on a Friday,” her deadpan makes you chuckle lightly, though the pathetic nature of your call was not lost on you. Even your roommate had plans tonight, and she was just as dedicated to her studies and quiet as you were.

“I mean, sleep is my favorite activity.”

“You’re eighteen, Bird.” You feel yourself shrink a bit when her tone borders on reprimanding. “You’re supposed to be going out and getting drunk and failing all your classes.”

“I cannot believe the perfect child is actually telling me this right now.”

“Oh please.” You can hear her eye roll through the phone. “I was nowhere near perfect. And the only reason why it may have seemed that way was because Mom and Dad never let me get away with anything. You’re the baby. Live it up. It’s your birth right.”

You snort. “You can’t just live vicariously through me.”

“I don’t need to. I had my time.”

You gasp dramatically. “Are you telling me Mom and Dad’s golden child actually broke the rules?!”

Her silence is pointed.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“Birdie.” The seriousness of her voice makes you pause, knowing you likely won’t enjoy where this is going. “We both know why you’re really avoiding having a social life. Don’t let him take your college experience from you.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” you reply primly, though it’s a stupid lie.

“I get he hurt you, but you’re letting him win. Why does he get to have all the fun? Why do you have to be the uncomfortable one? Be inconsiderate and go rub the fact that you’re young, hot, and not weighed down by him anymore in his pretty little face.”

It’s your turn to sigh now, knowing she’s probably right. The problem was, you were still weighed down by him. It had been over a year since last coming face to face with him and you still replayed that night in your head like it was scene from a horror movie.

Your judgement had never been solid when it came to John Logan, and you had decided space was the best cause of action. And the only side effect was your complete and utter loneliness.

The only person besides your family that you regularly talked to nowadays seemed to be your roommate, who coincidentally was walking through the door right this moment.

You sister must have heard the door to your dorm open as well because she shouted on speakerphone, “Grace, convince her to go out!”

Your sweet roommate immediately smiled, somehow managing not to be intimidated by your obnoxious sisters. You attributed her kindness—and her repetitive assurance to you that she enjoyed talking to them—to her being an only child.

One of the first times she had walked in to find all three of you on a facetime call together, it had ended with her wide eyed and with a look that resembled a kid at the zoo who just watched the animals do something funny.

“How do you all talk at the same time and still hear each other?” She had asked.

You laughed and gave a shrug. “With practice,” you replied.

“Grace, don’t listen to her.” You were smiling, but something in her expression gave you pause. “What?”

“Well…I was actually coming to ask you something.”

“Get her laid!” Your sister yelled before you hung up on her, throwing your phone over toward the end of your bed and closing your laptop.

“You know that the Maxwell-DiLaurentis party is tonight right?” You nod. Just about everyone on campus knew about Beau and Dean’s birthday party they threw every year. People practically killed to be invited. “Well…I was invited by this guy I’ve been seeing. And I really wanna go, except…it’s a costume party and the theme is famous duos. He’s already matching with a friend, and I can’t show up alone.”

“Grace.” You send her a look. If it had been another party, any other one, you might have taken the risk. But everyone—even those like yourself who had no social life—knew that Dean Di Laurentis lived in a house with three of his hockey teammates, one of them being none other than John Logan himself.

“I know, I know. I just don’t have anyone else to ask. Please.” She came over to grasp both of your hands, her blue eyes shining as she pouted. “Please.”

You don’t know if it was your sister’s earlier words or the desperate expression on your roommate face, but you caved and agreed.

Grace squealed with delight and tackled you onto your bed, hugging your neck so tight you were having trouble breathing. You told her so to get her to sit back up and let you free, her face luminous with happiness before you spoke again.

“What are we gonna wear though?”

“Oh,” was all she said.

-

The theater department was going to actually kill you if you didn’t replace these costumes before the Midsummer Night’s Dream production in a few weeks.

You were banking on the fact that little to no other theater kids would be in attendance to notice the various gold and silver outfit components you had borrowed and were using to make Grace and you vaguely resemble the sun and moon.

You could always count on there being copious amounts of body glitter, but you had truly lucked out on there being beautiful, fairy-like outfits as opposed to just the usual sweaty and smelly animal costumes and matching bin of broken and wonky ears and tails. You were this close to having to come dressed as a makeshift Winnie the Pooh and Piglet.

The only downside to choosing these beautiful, ethereal costumes was the glitter now covering the front seats of your old Honda Pilot the two of you drove up in. It was also in your bra, your hair, and somehow in your eyelashes. Beauty is pain and all that.

You and Grace arrived at the Maxwell Cape Cod estate about an hour and a half late, thirty minutes of that spent merely trying to find a parking spot, but it didn’t seem as though either of you had missed much of the fun. Cars were still lining the street while the windows and doors were open and loud music came pouring out.

You were wobbly on your heels as the both of you made your way up the front steps toward the door. There was already someone throwing up in the bushes, a hot dog to be exact, while the hamburger held her hair back.

Poetic, you thought.

The inside was even nicer than the outside, the house easily the biggest you had ever been inside—so nice in fact that the solo cups littering the mahogany wood and marble counter tops felt sacrilegious.

Your eyes scanned the crowd looking for one face in particular, but mercifully, you didn’t find him.

The sun to your moon took your hand and led you through the crowd of people toward the kitchen to find drinks, Grace likely just as skilled as you were at pumping a keg since the cup she handed you was about seventy percent foam. But you drank. You smiled. You danced.

It was the first time since coming to college that you felt like you lived. It was glorious. For a moment or two.

Then, you saw him.

In the corner of the kitchen, hidden amongst the chaos of his teammates all taking shots, was John Logan dressed—wait for it—like a bird.

He hadn’t seen you yet and you took the opportunity to watch him like you would if he were a stranger you were just meeting. You took in his toned arms, his perfect and soft looking hair, the curve of his lips and the light in his eyes.

You knew that even if you hadn’t grown up beside him, if you met him tonight, laughing with his friends and completely oblivious to how beautiful he looked, you would still fall in love with him. Your feelings for John felt as inevitable and devastating as a rising tide, just as susceptible to his pull as a sea shell in the current.

Funny how you seemed to dress up as each other.

When Grace turned to tell you she would be right back, you took that as an opportunity to slip away, knowing she was likely off to find the guy she had been talking to as of late.

You walked up the stairs to explore a little, also in search of a bathroom.

After using the first one you found, you peeked into a few of the bedrooms, finding little in them save for a bed and nice furniture.

“They hide the valuables in a safe downstairs.” The deep rumble of the stranger’s voice was so close you felt as though you jumped a mile in the air, clutching your chest as you whirled around the face whoever had caught you snooping.

You recognized him immediately, as you’re sure anyone attending Briar would.

Garrett Graham.

“Jesus Christ, you scared me.” You took a few steps further into the bedroom to put some more space between you, his tall form seeming to loom over you in the doorway. “I wasn’t…”

“Snooping?” He guessed correctly.

“Well, I was, but it was purely out of…decor fascination. Big wallpaper fan. I’m not trying to steal any faberge eggs or whatever.” You both laugh at your awkwardness, watching him inch closer into the room with you.

“Big wallpaper fan, huh?” His smirk is intimidating, and you can only imagine how other guys feel when he’s out on the ice holding a large stick and on skates that add a few unneeded inches.

“Why are you in here?”

“I followed you,” he confesses simply.

“Oh.” Your eyebrows furrow. “Well, that’s not creepy at all.”

He laughs. “I noticed you.” He shrugs, then walks towards the dresser against the wall and inspects some of the random trinkets atop a doily. “You’re in my Psychology class right?”

“Yeah,” you reply reluctantly, not expecting him to have recognized you. You usually sat toward the back, a few seats down from a kid who perpetually had his butt crack showing out of his pants. You didn’t really participate much either, not unless you had to.

“Thought so. I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.” He turns to lean against the dresser now, the wood creaking under his weight.

Of course he hadn’t seen you around before, seeing as you were a freshman. Although, to his credit he probably isn’t expecting that since freshman aren’t usually in a level 200 class, but you took a college level course in high school, hence your premature attendance.

“What are you supposed to be? A vampire?” You ignore his obvious attempt at flirtation. “Did you come with a werewolf or a clove of garlic?”

He snorts. “No. I’m a magician. My rabbit’s around here somewhere.”

“Where’s your wand?” You ask, cocking your hip and crossing your arms.

“Not all magician’s use wands.”

“Then where’s your hat?”

“Not all magician’s wear hats.”

“The shitty ones, sure.” When he laughs, you realize this is one of the first interactions you’ve had with a guy where you haven’t been completely stuttering over your words. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s Garrett Graham and the idea that he might actually be flirting with you for any reason other than getting in your pants seemed extremely far fetched.

It felt fun to flirt. It felt good to be desired, even if it was just for a little while.

“We can’t all be the moon,” he tells you, his eyes scanning over your body. You keep eye contact until you find you can’t anymore and then move toward the picture frames on the wall across from you.

“What do you want, Garrett Graham?” You ask without looking at him.

“Your name, for starters.”

You recognize only two of the faces in some of the pictures along the wall. Most of Beau Maxwell, a few of a younger Dean Di Laurentis, one of the two of them standing on a dock and holding up a fish they had caught.

“I find it hard to believe you didn’t come here with someone. Are they somewhere waiting for you?” You turn back to face him, your back now against the wall. “Is your rabbit waiting? Are you late for a very important date?” His face scrunches in confusion, obviously not catching your Alice in Wonderland reference. You find you’re disappointed.

“I never said I didn’t have a date.”

“Well, then why are you up here talking to me?”

He stays where he is for a second before he pushes off the dresser, your breath coming quicker the closer he gets.

When he stands in front of you, he runs his fingers over your bare shoulder, collecting some of your silver body glitter and then looking at it now stuck to his finger tips.

“Because I go after what I want. And when I saw you dancing downstairs I realized I wanted you.”

His intensity almost makes you laugh. You roll your lips into your mouth to keep from doing so.

“You couldn’t have been very popular on the playground,” you whisper into the small space between you.

He laughs lightly. “Are you gonna tell me your name?” He whispers back.

“Birdie?” Before you can decide whether or not to offer it to him, the voice you’d been dreading hearing all night echos from the hallway.

Garrett moves away and reveals a furious looking John, his eyes snapping back and forth between you and Garrett.

“Shit,” Garrett curses, looking back at you. “You’re Birdie?”

You look between him and John confused before realizing Grace, your roommate, the sun to your moon, is holding John’s hand and staring at you wide eyed from over his shoulder.

“Grace?” John suddenly remembers she’s there when you call her name and lets go of her hand to allow her more room in the doorway. She looks just as confused as you.

“What the fuck’s going on here?” John asks, stepping further towards Garrett who is now holding his hands up like he’s surrendering.

“Dude, I had no idea who she was.”

“And who is she exactly?” You question bitterly, hating that they’re talking about you without actually acknowledging you.

“I should go.” Garrett moves to duck out, but you reach out to grab his arm and hold him there.

“No. Why does it matter if we’re in here together? We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“Birdie.” John looks at you then, his dark eyes pleading like he’s in pain. “You know why you’re off limits.”

“Off limits?” You repeat incredulously. “No, John. Actually, I don’t know why you have deemed me off limits.”

He scoffs and looks around the room at you, then Garrett, then Grace like one of you will help him. When no one does, he says, “C’mon, Bird. You’re like a…like a sister to me.”

You stare at him for what feels like an hour, watching his throat bob like he’s choking on the lie. You hope he does.

“A sister?” You repeat again, like you can’t believe it.

You storm out of the room before he can say anything else.

-

You spend the rest of the party by the pool out back, watching the glitter slowly melt off your legs and disappear into the light blue water. There’s a couple making out on the diving board while two others float in the water with their clothes on, their faces illuminated by the pool lights.

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting out here before Garrett comes to join you, his pants rolled up to his knees so he can stick his feet in. You both stare at the water ahead of you.

“Sorry about earlier,” he tells you as he swings his legs gently, the water lapping against the tile on the sides.

“For which part? You almost kissing me or for witnessing me embarrass myself?”

“For talking about you like you weren’t there. For Logan talking to you like that.” You had forgotten that everyone here calls him ‘Logan’ instead of his first name. It seems sort of fitting, he doesn’t seem like John here. Your John, at least.

“How much has he told you?” You ask as you use your finger to try and guide an ant away from the edge of the pool.

“Not much. At first, basically nothing.” You don’t look at him, but you listen intently. “He was in a funk when he first got here last year. He seemed distracted. Sometimes he’d start sharing some story and would falter on your name, get real sad all of a sudden. He almost lost his spot on the team. When coach threatened him, I finally got him to open up a little about what was going on. He didn’t go into details, but he told me he messed up, lost his best friend. He never once said anything that made it sound like you were more, but I knew. Just the way he talked about you. That’s why I reacted the way I did. I knew how badly it would hurt him if I made a move on you.”

You swallow thickly. “I’m not a toy.” Your voice is weaker, stringier than you hoped it would be. “He can’t just keep me on a shelf because he doesn’t want anyone else to play with me.”

“You’re right,” he agrees. “But I think mostly he just misses you.” Just then, Logan stumbles by with a beer bottle in one hand and a red solo cup in another. He doesn’t look at you, just walks toward the property line that’s lined with trees in lieu of a fence. “Exhibit A.” Garrett motions towards his friends retreating form with a tense chuckle.

He then pats your shoulder and stands to leave you alone along the pool wall. You think to stay there with your feet in the cool water, but as you notice John clumsily trying to climb one of the trees out ahead of you, you decide to intervene.

As you walk closer, you notice that the tree is too small and clearly too weak to handle his weight, but nevertheless, he seemed determined to try.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” you advise once you’re close enough for him to hear.

He freezes mid-climb at the sound of your voice, his hands still gripping the wood and his foot still propped against the trunk as he turns his head to look back at you.

“What are you, the tree police?” He grumbles sloppily. You snort at his poor attempt of a dig.

“No, me of all people, I am not the tree police.”

“Then join me. Let’s climb a tree together and talk. Like we used to.” His foot slips out of its hold in the base of the tree and he stumbles forward. You move quickly to grab him, steadying him with your hands on his bare arms. His skin is cold to the touch.

“I don’t think there will be any tree climbing tonight, big guy.” You gentle guide him away and luckily he comes with you.

”You’re no fun,” he complains before dropping to the grass beneath him rather ungracefully and then sitting criss-cross. His big brown eyes stare up at you like he’s waiting for you to join him and you find it hard to resist, as always.

With an eye roll and a sigh, you sink to the ground across from him. He curls his finger at you in a ‘come hither’ motion, but you turn down his silent request to get you closer with a shake of your head. His arm drops to his lap with a disappointed thump and then takes it upon himself to scoot closer and lay down beside you. You distract yourself by picking strands of grass and tying them into knots.

You can feel him playing with the ends of your hair as he lays behind you, staring at your back. Your scalp tingles at the sensation.

“Where’s Grace?” You ask, hoping to ruin the moment.

“Inside. Mad at me. Like everyone else.” His voice is soft and tired and not at all the ammunition you needed.

So you lay back to join him, hoping that with you side by side he’d stop touching you. Of course, he makes sure to scoot close enough for your shoulders to be touching.

You lay like that quietly for a while, the only breaks in silence when he decides to point out random constellations or shapes he sees in the clouds. It’s nonsense, of course, but you still nod like it’s truth.

”I don’t know what it is about you that always gets me to talk,” he says into the quiet night. You try to focus on the stars whose shine is diluted through the haze of clouds or the itchiness at your bare thighs as they press to the damp grass. Anything except the low rumble of his voice, made even deeper by his drunken sleepiness. “I don’t talk like this with anyone else. Ever.”

”Maybe you should,” you supply lightly, trying to diffuse the growing tension between you.

He blows a raspberry and shakes his head lazily. “Nah. It’s not the same.”

”Because you need trees around in order to spill your guts?” You joke.

His arm nudges yours playfully, your skin a tad tacky in the New England humidity, despite the cold. “No. It’s you.”

You dare to look over at him and find he’s already watching you. You then resist the urge to scoot closer as the dew from the grass soaks into your dress and the chill raises goosebumps on your arms. You sit up to curb the temptation.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” His voice is so quiet you wonder if maybe you imagined it. You turn around to look down at him. “I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” you tell him as you turn back to resume your picking at the grass.

“I just miss you.” He tugs at the ends of your hair again in jest. “I miss seeing you every day. I miss living down the street from you. I even miss your mom’s god awful broccoli casserole.”

“Hey,” you turn around again, laughing despite yourself. “She tries.”

“She should stick to cookies,” he advises wisely.

“You’re probably right.” You chuckle lightly and imagine the warm chewiness of a fresh chocolate chip cookie from your mom.

“I still think about when you brought me some when I was sick with the flu a few years ago.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t tell Jules you had them and when they found out they were pissed at both of us.”

“They wouldn’t have been pissed if you hadn’t told them,” he reasons.

“How was I supposed to know you ate the entire tin in one sitting?”

“Because you know me. You know me better than anyone.” His eyes are soft. He’s giving you that look, the one that melts you down to your shoes.

Sometimes you find yourself tracing over his features and trying to remember which ones changed and how since he was ten. You do the same thing now, your eyes catching on the stubble along his jaw and wondering what it would feel like under your hands.

“I like the way you look at me,” he whispers. Your breath feels stuck in your throat suddenly, but you swallow and try to breathe.

“How do I look at you?” You tentatively ask, knowing you probably won’t like the answer he gives, but having to ask anyway.

He sits up, his face much closer now than you anticipated it being. He’s not looking at you when he replies, but your lips. “Like I’m worth something.”

He leans in slowly like he’s about to kiss you, and for a moment you’re frozen just watching his slightly parted lips get nearer to yours. But you pull back, and his alcohol-ridden brain is slow to process that you’re no longer right in front of him and moving to stand.

You wipe at the grass on your dress, praying there aren’t any stains that will need explaining when you bring it back in tomorrow, and nervously wring your hands out as you gather yourself before speaking.

“I’m not your mirror, John.”

His face crumples at this, his arm reaching out towards you. “Birdie, that’s not—“

You step further out of his reach. “I’m also not something you can use when you need to make yourself feel better. I’m a person.”

“I know—“

“I can’t be in your life if you’re going to keep jerking me around like this. One minute I’m your friend, and then I’m like your sister, and the next you’re trying to kiss me. Make up your mind. I’m not the little girl I once was. I won’t sit around waiting for any scraps you might drop on the floor.”

He stares up at you, his mouth opening and closing like he’s searching for the words but can’t find them. You can’t decide if you’re disappointed or grateful that he remains silent.

“Goodbye, John.”

And once again, when you turn to leave, he lets you.

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