Into Another Mind

Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”

The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.

Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.

Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.

Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.

You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”

He smiled politely, “Hey…”

“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.

Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.

You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.

Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”

You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.

You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”

He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.

You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.

You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.

He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.

Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.

“Cash or card?” He asked.

You held up your metal black credit card.

Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.

“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.

He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”

You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“

Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.

He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.

+

A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.

He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.

“Hi, Logan!”

“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”

You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.

Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“

“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.

He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.

“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.

As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”

People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.

“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.

You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.

“Did you win?” You asked.

He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.

“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.

You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”

Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.

“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.

You smiled shyly and said, “You…”

His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.

He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”

“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.

He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.

You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.

He smiled at that.

He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.

“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.

“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.

“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.

“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.

Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”

His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”

Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”

Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”

Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”

His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.

+

Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.

By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.

But now he was noticing a pattern.

So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.

But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.

“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”

You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“

“No, she doesn’t.”

You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.

His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.

Yet, you did.

Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.

Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.

Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.

“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”

“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”

“You do?” You asked.

He nodded, “I do.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.

He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”

You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”

He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.

"Your left shoulder drops," he said.

You had looked at the penalty box. At the boy in it. At the hockey gear he was still wearing.

"Did I ask?" you said.

"No," he said. "But it does."

You had glared at him for a long moment. Then you had tried the sequence again with your left shoulder deliberately up and it had been better. Significantly better.

You had not told him that.

You had skated to the boards and looked at him.

"Why are you in the penalty box?" you said.

"Coach," he said, simply.

"What did you do."

"Argued a call."

"Was the call wrong?"

"Obviously," he said.

You had looked at him for another long moment.

"I'm (Y/N)," you said.

"Logan," he said.

Ten years later you were still talking.

one — the competition february, sophomore year

The thing about watching you skate was that it was completely impossible to be indifferent to.

Logan had been to enough of your competitions by now that he had developed what he privately considered a professional appreciation for figure skating, he understood the technical elements, the edge work, the difference between a clean landing and one that cost points. He had opinions about judging. He had once gotten into a fifteen-minute argument with Tucker about the scoring system.

He was, in other words, not watching you the way a normal person watched figure skating.

He was watching you the way he had been watching you for approximately five years without doing anything about it, which was with focused attention of someone who had accidentally learned the exact shape of their own feelings by observing them in a controlled environment and then never done anything with the information.

You were in the middle of your free skate program.

The arena was quiet, something that happen only when a competition in progress, a few hundred people all holding the same breath and you were in the center of the ice in a deep red costume that caught the light when you moved, and you were moving the way you always moved when you were doing this properly, like you were constantly sure of all the decisions and it was up to everyone else to accept it.

The triple axel was coming. Logan knew your program better than his own game tape.

He watched your set up for it and then you were in the air and rotating and landing clean, one blade, no stumble, the crowd exhaling around him in something close to relief.

Logan exhaled too.

You finished the program and stood in the center of the ice with your arms out and your chest heaving and your face doing something close to relief and the thin line with triumph.

He knew that face. He had photographs of that face going back five years.

Logan was completely gone.

After the scores were posted — first place, which was not a surprise to anyone who had been paying attention — Logan found you in the corridor outside the changing rooms, still in the costume, skates exchanged for boots, medal around your neck that you kept touching like making sure it was real.

You saw him and couldn't help but to smile.

"You came," you said.

"I always come," he said.

"I know." You were smiling the real one, not the competition smile, not the public smile. "How was the axel?"

"Perfect," he said. "Clean landing, good height, the rotation was exactly right."

"You sound like my coach."

"Your coach is correct."

You laughed and walked toward him and he opened his arms because that was what happened after competitions you walked into them and he held on and you smelled like the rink and some body lotion that he has been trying to steal for a long time, he had his chin on top of your head and everything was exactly the same as it always was.

Except that his heart was doing something extremely inconvenient.

"I have something to tell you," he said, into your hair.

"Mm?" You didn't move.

He had the words right there. Had been carrying them for approximately two years, which was when he had stopped being able to pretend to himself that what he felt was just friendship, had been practiced and ready and —

"You dropped your left shoulder in the step sequence," he said. "Third section. It cost you."

You pulled back and looked at him. "You can not be serious right now, Johnny."

"It's a small thing, but —"

"I just won," she said.

"I know. You also dropped your shoulder."

You stared at him for a long moment with a watchful expression.

"I hate you," you said.

"No you don't," he said.

"Maybe I do" you looked at him "No I don't," you confirmed.

You took his hand and pulled him toward the exit to find the others, and Logan walked behind you and thought about what he had almost said and hadn't. Logan had decided for once, to store away this information, maybe soon would come in handy.

two — the lazy day april, sophomore year

It was a Sunday in April, a Sunday that had decided to be warm for the first time all year, and you were lying on the floor of Logan's room with your legs up on his bed because the floor was cooler than the bed and you had been at the rink since six in the morning and every single part of you ached.

Logan was on the bed, technically reading something for class, practically staring at the ceiling.

You had been in this exact configuration approximately four hundred times over ten years. The comfortable silence of two people who had run out of things to say and were fine with that.

"My coach wants me to change the music for nationals," you said, to the ceiling.

"What's wrong with the current music?"

"She says it doesn't show enough range."

"What does she want instead?"

"Something more emotional apparently." You paused. "She used the word vulnerable which made me want to scream."

Logan made a sound that meant he was listening.

"I'm not un-vulnerable," you said. "I'm just — I show it differently."

"You show it on the ice," Logan said. "Anyone paying attention can see it."

You turned your head to look at him. He was still looking at the ceiling.

"That's a nice thing to say," you said.

"It's a true thing to say." He turned his head and looked at you. From this angle, floor to bed, you were looking at each other sideways, and there was something about the afternoon light coming through the window that was doing something to his expression, making it more open than usual, less managed.

"I've been thinking," he said.

"About what."

He looked at you for a moment. The open expression doing something more complicated.

"About —" he started.

Your phone went off.

The ringtone you had assigned to your coach, which you had made deliberately annoying so you couldn't ignore it. You grabbed it off the floor and sat up and mouthed sorry at Logan and answered.

Your coach talked for eleven minutes about the music change.

When you hung up Logan was reading again, or pretending to, and the afternoon light had shifted, and whatever the moment had been it had passed.

"What were you thinking about?" you said.

"Nothing," he said. "Doesn't matter."

You looked at him for a second longer than necessary.

Then you put your legs back up on his bed and went back to staring at the ceiling.

three — the boys september, junior year

The thing about you was that you were, objectively, extremely easy to be around.

Dean had arrived at this conclusion independently and over time, through the accumulated evidence of approximately a year of you being at various team events and group hangs and spontaneous Malone's trips, and it was not a controversial conclusion, Tucker had said the same thing, Garrett had nodded in agreement.

You were funny and direct and had opinions and didn't perform interest you didn't have, which was rarer than it should have been. You also had the unselfconscious ease of someone who had been comfortable on a competitive stage since you were fourteen, which meant you walked into rooms the same way you walked onto ice like you had already decided you belonged there.

Dean had been thinking about this for approximately three weeks when he cornered Logan after practice.

"Your figure skater friend," he said.

Logan looked at him over his equipment bag. "Her name is (Y/N)."

"Is she single?"

The locker room continued around them. Tucker was unwrapping tape. Garrett was checking his phone. Nobody appeared to be paying particular attention.

Logan's jaw did something.

"Yeah," he said. "She's single."

"Nice." Dean leaned against the locker with the easy confidence of someone who had made a decision. "Do you think she'd be open to —"

"She's focused on skating," Logan said. "Nationals are in February. She doesn't have time for —"

"I'm not talking about anything serious," Dean said. "Just —"

"She's busy," Logan said.

Dean looked at him.

Logan looked at his equipment bag.

"Sure," Dean said, slowly. "Right. Busy." A pause. "You sure you don't have a —"

"She's my best friend," Logan said. "Can you just — not."

Dean looked at him for a long moment with the expression of someone doing math.

"Okay," he said. "Sure."

He went back to his own locker.

Tucker caught his eye across the room and raised his eyebrows. Dean gave the smallest possible shrug, which in their particular shorthand meant: you are seeing what you think you're seeing.

Tucker looked at the ceiling briefly and then went back to his tape.

Logan texted you that night.

logan: what are you doing

yn: stretching. my hip flexors are staging a revolt. what's up

logan: nothing. just checking in

yn: at 10pm on a tuesday

logan: is that suspicious

yn: a little

logan: go stretch your hip flexors

yn: i am. you could come over and suffer with me

A pause. Longer than usual.

logan: be there in twenty

He showed up with food and sat on your floor and watched you stretch with the expression he sometimes had when he was thinking about something he wasn't saying. You didn't push. You had learned, over ten years, the difference between Logan processing something and Logan ready to talk about it.

You stretched your hip flexors.

He was quiet beside you.

It was, somehow, exactly enough.

four — the party november, junior year

Hannah had a very simple theory about Logan and you that she had shared with Allie approximately four months ago and had been collecting evidence for ever since.

The theory was: you were both completely in love with each other and were going to keep not doing anything about it until one of them finally cracked or they both graduated and went their separate ways, which would be a tragedy.

Allie's theory was identical, arrived at independently, and they had spent four months running what amounted to a covert observation project with no intervention component because, as Allie had said, correctly , very time anyone said anything to Logan he went quiet and every time anyone said anything to you, you laughed and changed the subject, and the only thing that was going to fix this was one of them actually doing something.

The party was in November, someone's house, the kind that happened naturally when enough people were in the same place with nothing specific to do. Allie and Hannah had come together. Logan and you had come separately and found each other within four minutes, which was, Hannah noted, always how it went.

You were in the corner of the living room now, in the configuration you always occupied at parties, close enough that yourshoulders touched, talking in the way you talked when you were somewhere loud, which was slightly lower and slightly more direct, leaning in.

"He's doing it again," Hannah said.

Allie, beside her, followed her eyeline. "The shoulder thing."

"He always does the shoulder thing when he's about to say something."

They watched. Across the room, Logan's shoulder had indeed done the thing, a slight forward tilt, the specific posture of someone turning toward something rather than standing beside it.

You were looking up at him with the expression you had when you were actually listening to someone, which was different from your polite listening expression and your processing expression and was reserved for maybe three people in your life.

"He's going to do it," Hannah said.

"He's not going to do it," Allie said.

"He's leaning in —"

"He never does it."

"There's always a first time —"

Someone across the room called Logan's name. Loudly. Urgently. Something about a game in the kitchen that required his participation immediately.

Logan closed his eyes very briefly.

Then he straightened up and said something to you — one second probably, or back in a minute — and went toward the kitchen.

You watched him go with an expression that lasted approximately two seconds before you reorganized it into something neutral.

Allie looked at Hannah.

Hannah looked at Allie.

"I'm going to lose my mind," Hannah said.

"Same," said Allie.

They looked at each other.

"We're not intervening," Allie said.

"We're absolutely not intervening," Hannah agreed.

They watched you drift toward the snack table looking slightly like someone who had been about to hear something and hadn't.

"We're not intervening," Allie said again, more firmly.

"Right," said Hannah. "Definitely not."

allie: okay so

hannah: i KNOW

allie: the shoulder thing

hannah: and her FACE when he left

allie: someone needs to do something

hannah: we said we weren't intervening

allie: i know what we said

hannah: allie

allie: i'm just saying

hannah: we are not telling them

allie: fine

hannah: fine

allie: ...fine

hannah: goodnight allie

allie: if they're still doing this at graduation i'm saying something

hannah: GOODNIGHT ALLIE

five — the almost january, senior year

You found out about the Dean thing entirely by accident.

You had been in the kitchen at the off campus house, making tea because it was January and you were cold and your coach had banned coffee during competition prep, and Tucker had come in and started making a sandwich and you had been coexisting peacefully until Tucker said, entirely unprompted and clearly without thinking:

"By the way, for what it's worth, I told Dean not to."

You looked at him. "Told Dean not to what."

Tucker looked at his sandwich. Then at you. Then at his sandwich again with the expression of someone who had realized, too late, that they had said something.

"Ask about you," he said finally. "Like — ask Logan if he could pursue you. I told him it was a bad idea."

You put down your tea.

"Dean asked Logan if he could pursue me," you said.

"Back in September. Logan said you were busy with skating." Tucker picked up his sandwich. "Which was — I mean, you are busy. But also —" he stopped. "I probably shouldn't have said anything."

"Probably," you said.

Tucker took a bite of his sandwich and left the kitchen with the energy of someone removing themselves from a situation.

You stood at the counter with your tea and thought about September and Logan showing up at your apartment at ten on a Tuesday for no reason, sitting on your floor, being quiet beside you in a way that had felt like something without ever becoming something.

She's busy, he had apparently said.

You looked at the doorway Tucker had disappeared through.

You looked at your tea.

Hm, you thought.

Logan found you twenty minutes later in the living room, already in his jacket, apparently on his way out.

"Hey," he said. "You good?"

"Fine," you said. "Where are you going?"

"Skate rental shop. I need new laces." He paused. "Do you want to come? We can get food after."

You looked at him.

"Sure," you said.

You got your coat.

one — the one time he did january, senior year.

The skate rental shop was quiet on a January afternoon, the mundane warmth of a place that smelled like rubber and old equipment, and Logan found his laces in approximately four minutes and then stood in the aisle for another ten not moving, which you had learned to recognize as Logan making up his mind about something.

You looked at a display of blade covers that you did not need.

"Tucker told me," you said, to the blade covers.

A pause.

"Told you what," Logan said.

"About Dean. In September."

The aisle was very quiet.

"She's busy," you said. "That's what you said, apparently."

Another pause. Longer.

"You were," Logan said. "You were in nationals prep."

"Logan."

"What."

You turned to look at him. He was looking at the laces in his hands with the expression he got when he was trying to decide something and hating that he had to decide it.

"Why did you say she's busy," you said. "Instead of — anything else."

He looked up. His jaw did the thing.

"Because," he started.

"Because why."

He looked at you. Really looked at you, the way he sometimes did when he thought you weren't paying attention, except you were paying attention and he knew it and he still wasn't looking away.

"Because it's you," he said. "And I couldn't just — I didn't want Dean to —" he stopped. Started again. "I didn't want anyone to."

The skate rental shop was very quiet.

"Okay," you said.

"Okay?" he said.

"That's — I needed to know that." You looked at the blade covers. You looked at him. "I also needed you to know that I'm not busy. I mean — I am. But I'm not. Not for — not for this."

Logan looked at you for a long moment.

"Not for this," he repeated.

"Not for you," you said, which was the more honest version, which you had decided to say because you were twenty-two and you had been doing this for five years and Tucker had accidentally said something in a kitchen and it was January and you were tired of not saying things.

The laces in Logan's hands had been thoroughly analyzed.

He put them back on the shelf.

"I was going to tell you after your competition," he said. "In February. Your sophomore year."

"You talked about my shoulder."

"I know," he said. "I know I did."

"And on the Sunday in April —"

"Your coach called."

"And at the party in November —"

"Dean," he said, simply, and you almost laughed.

"Five times," you said.

"Probably more," he said. "I stopped counting."

You looked at him. This person who had been in the penalty box when you were eleven and had told you your shoulder dropped and had come to every competition and had stood in a locker room in September and said she's busy when what he meant was something else entirely.

"So say it now," you said. "We're in a skate rental shop in January. There's nobody here. Say it now."

Logan looked at you.

"I love you," he said. Not dramatically just simply, the way he said true things, like it was information that had been waiting a long time to be delivered and was relieved to finally arrive. "I've loved you since you told me I didn't ask and then tried the spin again anyway. I love you and I'm sorry it took me this long."

The blade covers blurred slightly.

You reached up and took the lapel of his jacket in your hand.

"You talked about my shoulder," you said.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

"I'm going to bring that up for years."

"I know," he said. "I deserve that."

You pulled him down by the jacket.

He kissed you in the skate rental shop in January, between the blade covers and the laces display, with nobody watching and nothing to interrupt, and it was warm and unhurried and tasted like something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.

When you pulled back he had the expression you had been trying not to notice for five years — open and certain and entirely unmanaged.

"For the record," you said, "my shoulder doesn't drop anymore."

"It really doesn't," he said. "You've completely fixed it."

"I know," you said. "I'm very good."

He laughed and pulled you back in, and the skate rental shop continued to be entirely quiet around you, indifferent and perfect.

You told Allie and Hannah together, which was the only way to do it.

You had barely gotten the words out before Hannah made a sound that could only be described as vindicated, and Allie said I told you to Hannah at the same moment Hannah said I told you to Allie, and then they looked at each other and then at you and both started talking at the same time.

"The shoulder thing at the party —"

"In sophomore year when you called after the competition —"

"The thing in September with Dean —"

"We knew," Hannah said. "We have known for so long."

"How long," you said.

They looked at each other.

"Since the first time we saw you two in the same room," Allie said.

You looked at them. "And you didn't say anything?"

"We said we weren't going to intervene," Hannah said, with the dignity of someone honoring a commitment.

"You could have said something to me," you said.

"We said we weren't going to intervene," Allie said, equally dignified.

You looked at them both.

"I cannot believe," you said.

"You're welcome," they said, simultaneously.

Logan told the team at dinner.

Or rather, Dean asked where you were and Logan said she's coming later and Tucker said she's coming? is she — and Logan said yeah in the even tone that contained a lot of information, and Dean looked at Tucker and Tucker looked at Dean and Garrett looked at his food and the table continued exactly as it always had except that something had shifted in the specific, settled way of something that had always been heading here finally arriving.

When you got there Logan moved over without being asked and you sat beside him and his shoulder was warm against yours and everything was exactly the same as it had always been.

Except that his hand found yours under the table.

And this time he didn't let go.

allie: so

hannah: SO

allie: we called it

hannah: from the beginning

allie: the penalty box story is the most romantic thing i have ever heard

hannah: RIGHT

allie: eleven years old

hannah: her shoulder dropped

allie: her SHOULDER DROPPED

hannah: i'm going to think about this forever

allie: same

allie: we did good

hannah: we didn't do anything

allie: we observed supportively

hannah: that's true

allie: that counts

Dancing was not normally my thing but I have enough alcohol flowing through my veins that I forgot to care as my hips sway to the loud music. Which in itself is funny as I rarley drink. I guess that is what happens when you find your dynamic duo making out with the guy you've been crazy about for months. Dynamic duo, my ass. Friends don't make out with other friends crushes.

I try to tell myself it's not that deep as I make my way back to the crowded kitchen for more alcohol, pushing past the alarming amount of shirtless guys. Mostly everyone is some sort of drunk and common sense is starting to disapear all together. I barley make it out of the way of a couple attacking each others face and feel a body bump into mine.

"Wow you good?" Probably one of the sexiest voices I have ever heard says calmly. Turning, I see who I collided with.

John Logan.

"Y-yeah..sorry..was trying not to become that couples third."

A warm chuckle comes from him as he moved aside, providing me space to lean on the counter next to him. God, he was hot. "I don't think they would notice if you did."

A small smile grazes my lips. "No? Guess it wouldn't be that exciting then. I'll just stick to alcohol."

An amused smile grazes's his lips as he reaches into the ice next to him and grabs me a can "Here. Can is safer."

My chest tightens at that thoughtful gesture. "Thank you"

"Yeah, of course. I don't mean to pry but you look sad. Did something happen?"

I take a drink of the can IPA he gave me and think before I speak. "It's going to sound stupid."

"Tell me anyway." He said in a soft voice, moving closer, our bodies close to touching again as more people crowd the space.

"My friend and I came here together..she's my dynamic duo..and I walked in on her making out with this guy I've had a crush on for months. She knows about it too. I mean technically she did nothing wrong. We aren't dating-"

"Nope. Fuck that. That's not stupid. You don't have to be dating the guy for that to sting."

My shoulders move up in a quick shrug and I can feel Logans eyes trailing over my face as I take another drink. "Come with me."

"What? Where?"

"It's a surprise but I decided you aren't going to be sad the rest of the night over a guy who probably didn't deserve you anyways and a shitty friend." He says while giving me a charming smile.

I get butterflies in my stomach as I nod. "Fine just no killing me. This is stranger danger."

John chuckles as he takes my hand, guiding me out. "This is not stranger danger. We know each others first names from lit class."

"Everyone knows your name."

"Well that's even more reason not to kill you. If I did everyone would say you left with John Logan and I'd be fucked. I'm not a very good liar."

The laugh that comes out of me feels so natural, I barley remember I was upset five minutes ago. Logan leads me outside and down the road to an empty park. Then he leads me to a swing set, the swings moving slightly in the breeze.

"I thought maybe you could use some quiet and this is far enough that we shouldn't be able to hear the music or obnoxious drunk college students." He flashed a grin as he sat on one of the swings.

"Darn." I say as I sit in the swing next to him. "Seeing people barf in yards is a hobby of mine actually."

It's peaceful and comfortable. Banter is easy with him.

"Babe..I hate to break it to you but your hobbies are fucked up." He flashes me that damn grin again followed by his chuckle. "So..what's your biggest secret?" Logan asks out of the blue.

"You want to know my secrets now Logan?" I smile softly, looking at him.

"I want to know everything about you actually, just thought that was a good ice breaker." He grins "How about we start with your favorite color?"

I answer him and the night continued with random questions being answered, laughing at ridiculous jokes, me ranting about books I love and him telling me all about his hockey dreams.

Maybe I was drunk, maybe I was tired, but I could have sworn he was looking at me like I was important. Like no guy has ever looked at me before..

Yeah...definitely tired.

"You disappeared at the party." My friend Piper says as we sip our coffees on a campus bench.

"Yeah, I was having a bad night so Logan took me to a park for some quiet." I say nonchalantly as I scroll on my phone.

"Logan..John Logan? As in Briar hockey player.."

"Yes. I bumped into him when I went to get another drink and he could tell I was upset."

A sarcastic laugh sounds next to me and I look up at Piper.

"Yeah..right. And I fucked Dean Di Laurentis."

"I think he'd fuck anyone so I'm not sure why that would be a crazy thing." I turn to look at her "Do you not believe me?"

"It's just weird. I say you vanished and now you magically were with one of the most popular guys in school."

"So because you didn't see me..it's not real? You didn't even ask why I was upset."

"You can tell me why, just don't lie about who you were with."

I scoff. "You're unbelievable. I was upset because I saw you making out with Jack who you knew I had a thing for, now you're saying I'm a liar."

"You were never going to talk to Jack anyways. I mean I'm sorry if it upset you but you don't need to make up hanging out with a hock-"

"There you are." A deep voice interrupts Piper, who's eyes go wide upon hearing it.

I turn to see, of course, John Logan standing there with his killer grin. "Hi." I squeak out.

"I've been looking for you all day. You're surprisingly hard to find." He sits and puts his arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer. "So who is this?" He looks a Piper. "Let me guess, the "Friend" who was making out with the guy you liked."

"I-I-it was just a misunderstanding." Piper goes pale.

"Them being upset wasn't a misunderstanding."

"Well I just.."

"And I heard you saying you don't believe them."

I know I'm failing horribly at hiding my smile at this point. The reaction of Piper as Logan calls her out instantly perked my mood up.

"It was just-"

"Hard to believe that I'd spend time with them let alone be into them? Well I am." He squeezes my shoulder.

I look up at Logan in surprise until it clicks. He's just saying this to defend me against Piper because he's a good guy. That's all this is.

"I'm going to go." Piper stands and collects her things then walks away quickly. I never even glance at her.

Logan turns his attention back to me. "Sorry about that, she was just pissing me off."

I can't help but laugh at that. This man just showed up out of nowhere when I needed him, defended me against a mean girl, pretended to show interest in me and is now apologizing. "Are you serious?"

"What?" He furrows his brows.

"Logan you just saved my reputation and you're saying sorry?"

"......Maybe?"

A laugh leaves me again and I shake my head. After a few moments, Logan laughs with me.

"This isn't what I ordered." A voice says, the sharpness of it snapping me out of my own head.

"I'm sorry?" I say, looking down at the plate of food I just dropped off.

"This isn't what I ordered. I clearly said I wanted extra ketchup on the side and it's not there."

I look down at the grumpy, bald man sitting with a french fry gripped in his fist. "I'm so sorry sir, we'll get that fixe-"

"How damn hard is it to do ask I asked the first time?!" He raised his voice, not fully yelling but loud enough to get attention from other tables.

"Hey!" A voice I have come to know to well called out. Turning, I see Logan standing up from his chair, his friends looking at him both with confused and amused expressions. "They said they would fix it. What else do you want? Chill out."

I turn and give a small smile over my shoulder, mouthing a quick thank you before I turn back to the man in front of me. "Hockey players..am I right? I'm so sorry about this, it's our mistake, I'll get it fixed and get you a slice of pie on the house. How's that sound?"

"Well..I guess that's fair." The bald man nodded.

"Happy to do it." I flash him my customer service smile and go to get the missing ketchup and pie.

"You're so fucked." I hear the unmistakable voice of the one and only Dean Di Laurentis say as I pass the boys table. I pretend like I'm not paying attention as I get what needed for my customer, but my eyes keep drifting to Logan..

"What are you talking about? I was just being a good person..that guy was an ass. I'd defend anyone..."

"You probably would but this was different." Garrett added in a teasing tone.

"You guys are reading into things. Come on..back me up Tuck."

"Oh no. I definitely agree with them. You're whipped."

A smile grazes my lips as Logan lets out a loud sigh and glances my way. I pretend not to notice but my heart is racing, surely they are just kidding. Logan would never like me like that. Besides there has to be some flaw I haven't seen yet.

No guy is that..perfect.

I walk past the boys table and to my customer, trying to pretend I hadn't heard anything said between the friends. That part, I realized was easy, pretending not to feel Logans eyes burning into my back wasn't. I didn't feel tense, I didn't feel uncomfortable. I felt wanted and that scared me.

"You're crying." Logans gentle voice snaps my attention away from my phone and up to his worried expression. "What happened?"

"It's not what you think." A small embarrassed chuckle leaves me as I wipe my eyes quickly.

Logan tilts his head like a lost puppy, the concern showing more. "Did someone hurt you?"

"What? No. Logan." A small giggle leaves me

"Because I will fuck them up Y/N. I swear to god. Whoever made you cry-"

"Logan!" I laugh again.

Logan turns his head back to me, brows furrowed in confusion. "Then what is it?"

"Those were happy tears from a tiktotk I watched."

The look on Logans face is almost enough to send me into histarics. His brows rise so high I swear they are about to touch his hairline. "A tiktok. A tiktok made you cry?"

"Yes. Because humans can be sweet and cute when they want to be and when I get reminded of that, I get emotional. Sue me."

"Bab-" Logan clears his throat and pulls his eye contact away from me, shifting to my phone instead. "There is nothing wrong with being emotional over these things. I just thought someone upset you."

I can't help but blush softly at his words. I wipe the last stray tear clinging to my lash line and look over at him. "Would you actually care that much if someone did?"

"Of course I would." He looks at me, clear confusion on his face.

"No, I mean. I know you care because you're a good person and would care if anyone was crying but I just mean..you say it like you care about me personally. That I am crying." I ramble, looking down at my hands as I do.

"I do care because it's you." He almost whispers, his hand reaching for mine.

I lift my eyes to meet his that are already waiting for me. There is something unreadable about them. Something full of warmth and longing.

"You don't have to just say that."

"I'm not just saying it." He assures gently.

Our eyes search each others for a moment before my nerves get the better of me and I look away. Butterflies swirl around my stomach and I'm suddenly aware of how close we are. "Do you want to see the tiktok?"

Logan blinks back into himself and I can see the disappointment of the moment I ruined. He smiles anyways. "Of course. Show me the tiktok."

Panic takes over my breathing as I pace my dorm room. I'm trying to calm myself down, honestly. But everything in me is screaming something is wrong, I'm wrong. I don't know why I am the way that I am. I take things too seriously, get hurt over meaningless things and people find me annoying. I try desperately to tell myself it's not true but my brain says otherwise.

A knock breaks me from my internal breakdown and I open the door to see Logan standing there, almost looking shy. "Hey." he gives me a weak smile and leans in the door way.

"How...how did you find my dorm?"

"I saw one of your friends on campus and asked which building your dorm was in then I knocked on every door until I found yours." He's silent for a minute. "Okay that sounds way more creepy than I thought."

I can't stop the small giggle the leaves my lips. I already feel lighter and he just got here.

"I'm not creepy, I swear. It's just you weren't answering my texts and I wanted to see you. I felt like something was wrong." He looks at me, really looks me. "Hey, what's wrong?"

The gentleness in his voice makes me tear up again. "It's stupid."

"No, don't do that baby. I've got you just talk to me." He reaches up and gently wipes away a tear that escaped my lash line.

"It's just a bad day. I feel like I'm wrong. Like I'm too much or something. I can't really explain it."

Logan takes both my hands in his and kisses them. "It's okay to have a bad day. But I need you to listen to me." He loweres himself to look in my eyes. "You are not too much. You are not broken. You are not annoying or whatever else your brain is saying to you. You are perfect, there isn't a thing I would change about you. I admire, adore everything I have come to learn about you and I want to know more."

I look over his face, taking in ever detail on emotion. I know he is genuine but when I see the look in his eyes, I know he means every word.

"Are you tearing up again? Fuck no. Did I say something wrong?"

"No you silly man, you said exactly the right thing." A tearful laugh escapes me.

"Then why are you crying again sweetheart?"

"Because I have never had anyone to be here through this, to tell me what I need to hear...and mean it." A small laugh leaves my lips. "You knocked on every door until you found mine. How are you real?"

"I just missed you." He blushes a bit, squeezing my hands.

"Thank you."

"Thank you for what?" Logan looks over my face again.

"Everything. For make me feel better that night of the party, sticking up for me when that customer yelled at me, caring when you found me crying on campus and now. You've just always been there from me since we met."

"It's easy..I can't get you off my mind." He breathed out. He lets go of my hand and slowly reaches to my cheek. His palm cups it and his soft but calloused skin warms it. "You don't have to thank me, for anything."

"Well too bad. I want to." I lean into his touch. "So what can I do to pay you back."

A smirk grazes his lips and I instantly think maybe I should be scared. "You really want to know?"

"Oh god..on second thought..."

Logan chuckles softly. It's breathy and warm, all my nerves from before are instantly gone. "Come to my game on Friday and wear my jersey."

"That's it?"

"That's it baby." He presses a soft kiss to my head.

"Fine then. It's a Deal."

As promised I showed up to the game in Logans spare jersey. I felt a sense of pride knowing his last name was in big white letters on my back. Like I was his, he was mine and now we were telling the world.

I take my seat, an open one next to Hannah that is suspiciously close to the ice. I guess Logan arranged that too when he told me to sit by Wellsy.

"Y/N hi!" Hannah grins and moved her bag out of my chair. "I was so excited when Logan said you'd be coming."

"Hi." I smile. "Yeah he practically forced me." I tease as I sit.

"I wouldn't be surprised. He's been talking about you for almost a month now."

"What?" I blink and look at her.

"Oh..oh..I just mean that he." Hannah sighs and looks at me. "You know he likes you. Right? I mean really likes you."

"He's my friend, of course he likes me." I blush at her words.

"No, no. Don't do that. He like likes you."

"He's never said anything."

"Maybe he hasn't said it, but he's shown it hasn't he?"

I start replaying all our past interactions in my head after Hannah says that. It's true. He has. Every time I needed him, he showed up. Even if he got it wrong and I wasn't really sad, he tried to comfort me. He defended me against my shitty friend without hesitation, stood up for me when I had a rude customer, went to every dorm room trying to find mine. Even that very first night, he put my comfort first. He always puts me first.. "Holy shit" I breath.

"You see it now?" Hannah tilted her head with a glowing smile.

"Yeah. I think I've been blind, and an idiot. A blind idiot." I let out a shaky laugh. "He's been right in front of me this whole time and I pushed it away."

"Well, good news is you have tonight to fix that. You're here for him and that's already something."

"You're precious Hannah."

She grins widely. "So I've been told." With that she turns to the ice and waves at Garrett as he passes. Logan, who's not far behind him stops to give me a smile through the plexiglass.

Feeling brave, I blow him a kiss. Logan grins widely and pretends to catch it before skating after Garrett again.

"Oh you're so down bad." Hannah nudges my shoulder playfully.

We watch the game intently after it starts, I'm cheering so loud I'm sure my voice will be gone tomorrow. Just when I think I can't get any louder. Logan scores the game winning goal. I'm on my feet before I even think about, clapping and yelling Logans name proudly.

"Hell yeah, John Logan wins for the hawks. You can see the excitement." Jules says from the other side of me as they pan their camera to me. "Anything to say about it Y/N?"

"John Logan is a bad ass and I'm so proud of him!" I grin and turn to show off the back of my jersey, his name loud and proud. I'm grinning so wide and I want everyone to know..Logan is my person.

"You were amazing!" I yell as I ran towards Logan. He had just finished up in the locker room and met us outside. Garrett went to Hannah and from the corner of my eye I could see them embracing but I really just cared about getting to Logan.

He embraced me the moment we met, I could feel his joy radiating off of him. "I'm serious Logan. You were so so amazing. I'm so proud." I pull my face back so I could look up at him. He was already looking at me, with the softest eyes I've ever seen. Like none if this mattered if I wasn't there. Before I could think about it. I kissed him.

He melts into it quickly, his lips moving with mine. It's soft and gently but full of want. I spent so long talking myself out of this, saying he was just being nice, that he couldn't want me like this. Deprecating my value and worth because I was insecure.

But Logan..god Logan. Not once did he give up on me, not once did he make me feel like I was worth less. He's been steady, waiting for me to see how he wanted me.

Now I wanted to return the favor.

Logan moved a hand into my hair as he kisses me slightly deeper. I can feel his smile against my lips as we move together. Time seems to slow and all I focus on is him. I bring my hand up and play with the hair at the nape of his next, taking my time in the kiss. Nothing rushed. Everything perfect. It's minutes before we finally part, foreheads rested on each other.

Logan grins at me, his hand moving to cup my cheek. "Do you know how long I have waited for that?"

"Yeah..I think I just figured it out." I breath.

"I want you, all of you. I want to proudly say your mine and I'm yours."

"Do I get to keep wearing the jerseys?"

Logan lets out a warm chuckle. "You can have whatever you want baby, so long as I get to have you."

"I'm yours. Finally."

"Thank god." Logan breaths against my lips then kisses me again.

"That glare," Hannah clarified, bumping her shoulder against yours. "The one where you look at this party like it's something worth writing a thesis on. Relax, babe. It's Friday. Your debate briefs are done, just have fun."

"I am having fun," you said midly. "I just watched a guy try to open a beer bottle with his teeth and fail."

Hannah sighed, shaking her head, though a fond smile played on her lips. At the age of twenty, Hannah Wells was one of the few people at Briar you genuinely liked.

She was grounded, observant, and possessed the patience of a saint—which she needed, considering she was dating Garrett Graham, a man who took up entire too much oxygen in any given room.

Speaking of, your eyes tracked Garrett as he navigated through the sea of drunk undergraduates, making a beeline straight for Hannah.

"Hey, beautiful," Garrett said, sliding an arm around Hannah's waist and pressing a kiss to her temple that was too domestic for a frat party.

He looked over her head at you. "Thrilled as always to see you radiating sunshine."

"I try to keep the moral high, Graham," you replied dryly.

"Where's the rest of your circus?" Hannah asked, leaning comfortably against Garrett's chest.

"Dean is currently trying to convince two freshmen that he's investigating the economics of the campus weed supply for school purposes," Garrett said, sounding entirely unbothered.

"Tucker's in the kitchen making a charcuterie board out of Ritz crackers. And Logan's somewhere. Probably flirting his way into a girl's pants."

Logan.

That name alone felt like a minor inconvenience. He was perpetually restless, hiding an objective sharp mind beneath layers of obnoxious frat-boy humor.

He was the kind of guy who couldn't stop moving—tapping cups, spinning cups, drumming his fingers against tables. His main flaw, as far as you could tell, was his absolute refusal to be genuine for more than three seconds.

"Don't tell me he's right behind me," you said, detecting a sudden shift in the air behind your back.

"He's right behind you," a voice drawled near your ear.

The heat radiating off his chest was immediate, creeping through the thin fabric of your top. You turn slowly, tilting your head back to meet Logan's eyes.

He was tall, his broad shoulders practically blocking the strobe lights from the makeshift dance floor.

"Sweetheart," Logan said, a lazy, infuriating smirk curving his mouth. "You're at my house. Drinking my cheap beer. Looking aggressively judgmental. It's like my birthday came early."

"If it were your birthday, I would've brought a gift," you shot back. "Like a dictionary. Or perhaps a book on basic social etiquette."

Garrett snorted loudly, burrying his face in Hannah's neck to muffle his laughter.

Logan didn't flinch. Instead, he took half a step closer. He did this all the time—invaded personal space, trying to rattle people with his presence. He smelled like beer and an underlying male musk that was very distracting.

"A dictionary?" Logan feigned hurt, placing a hand over his heart. "I passed my comms paper last week. Got a B-plus. Care to issue an apology for implying I'm illiterate?"

"A B-plus?" You arched an eyebrow. "Let me guess. The prompt was a three-page analysis of team dynamics, and you just described the plot of The Mighty Ducks."

Logan's eyes darkened, a flash of genuine amusement sparking in the dim light. "First of all, it was Miracle. Have some respect for the classics. Second of all, my work was flawless. You're just mad because you actually study for that class and I can bullshit my way into the same bracket."

"You don't bullshit, Logan, you distract," you corrected, your voice dropping an octave as you leaned in just a fraction. Two could play this game.

"Your arguments have zero structural integrity. You win debates by being loud and charming, forcing the opposition to give up out of sheer exhaustion. It's a cheap tactic."

"If it works, it's not cheap," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a split second before returning to your eyes. "It's effective. You'd know that if you didn't argue like a politician who hates people."

"I don't hate people," you replied smoothly. "I just set high standards."

"Oh, snap!" A new voice interjected cheerfully.

You glanced sideways to see Dean materializing out of nowhere, dragging a very tired-looking Tucker behind him.

"Look who it is," Dean grinned, tossing an arm around Logan's shoulders and gesturing wildly at you with a solo cup. "Briar's premier academic terror."

"Hello, Dean. Did you solve the economic crisis of the campus weed supply?"

Dean blinked, genuinely taken aback, before pointing a finger at Garrett. "You told her? That was supposed to be a covert op, Graham!"

"You were shouting it at two freshmen in the kitchen!" Tucker sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked at you apologetically. "Good to see you. Sorry about... all of this."

Logan let out a low huff of laughter, stepping closer again. His arms brushed yours, sending an unbidden, sharp thrill of heat straight up your spine.

"So what are we aggressively debating tonight?" Dean asked eagerly, looking back and forth between Logan and you like you were a tennis match.

"Last week it was the geopolitical implications of Batman. Which for the record, you won. Logan sounded like an idiot."

"I was making a valid point about vigilante infrastructure," Logan protested loudly. "And I'm not doing this again. I was just pointing out that she hates fun. She thinks sports superstitions are dumb."

"I didn't say they were dumb," you corrected, turning your body fully toward Logan. "I said they were pathetic. Tapping a hockey stick against the post does not appease the 'hockey gods.' It's just you, a grown man, relying on magic because you can't shoulder the burden of a random outcome."

The entire circle went dead silent.

Even the thumping bass of the track seemed to fade into the background as Garrett, Dean, and Tucker all stared at you in horror. Superstitions in a hockey house were effectively a religion.

You had basically just walked into the Vatican and insulted the Pope.

Hannah covered her face with her hands. "Oh, God."

Logan didn't look mad. If anything, the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth grew sharper.

"Say that again," he dared you, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a flush of heat creeping up your neck.

"I don't repeat myself for the stubbornly ignorant," you whispered back, holding his gaze fiercely.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Logan was overwhelming up close, the scent of his cologne curling into your lungs. He was staring at you like you were a puzzle he firmly intended to break apart.

The physical awareness between you was suddenly deafening. The rise and fall of his chest, the slight flex of his jaw, the way his thumb rubbed absently against the seam of his jeans.

It was heavy, heated, and entirely inappropriate considering you were fundamentally incompatible.

"You guys flirt like divorced parents," Dean announced loudly, shattering the tension.

You stepped back instantly. "I'd rather die, Di Laurentis."

"Seriously," Garrett chimed in, leaning against the wall with a delighted grin. "The sexual tension is ruining my high. Just make out already so Logan stops acting like a rabid dog every time you walk into a room."

"I do not act like a rabid dog," Logan snapped. He glanced at Garrett before shooting a defensive look at you. "And for the record, I don't flirt with her. Having a civil conversation with her is like trying to pet a cactus."

"A cactus?" You crossed your arms. "Your metaphors are weak as shit."

Logan stepped into your space again. "My metaphors are elite. You couldn't handle dating me anyway. I'm exhausting."

"Please," you scoffed. "I'd win."

Logan blinked, momentarily thrown off-balance. "You'd... win dating me? That doesn't even make sense."

"It means," you said, stepping right up into his space. "That if we dated, I would be completely unbothered. You, on the other hand, would crack in a week. You need vaildation too much. The moment I didn't laugh at your stupid jokes, your ego would implode."

"Is that right?" he asked, his voice dropping into a dangerously smooth register.

"That's a hypothesis," you whispered, holding his stare. "Backed by evidence."

"Alright, that's it," Garrett shouted, clapping his hands together like a referee ending a play. "Bet."

You tore your eyes away from Logan to look at Garrett. "What?"

"I'm calling the bluff," Garrett announced, stepping into the center of the circle. "Two months."

"Garrett, no," Hannah warned, grabbing his arm. "This is such a bad idea. They'll kill each other."

"No, let him speak," Logan interrupted, his eyes never leaving your face. There was a reckless, arrogant light in his gaze now. "What are you proposing, G?"

"A fake relationship," Garrett declared grandly. "Two months. Exclusive. Here are the terms: You two have to publicly pretended to be wildly, obnoxiously in love. You go to parties together. You sit in the cafeteria. You do all the gross couple shit."

"Absolutely not. You're the one to talk about fake relationships, Graham," you said immediately.

"Let him finish," Dean rubbed his hands together like a villain. "This is getting good."

"If you quit early, you lose," Garrett continued, counting on his fingers. "If you make it obvious to anyone outside this circle that it's fake, you lose. And the most important rule: whoever catches feelings first, loses."

Logan let out a bark of laughter. "Catch feelings? For her? I'd rather drink bleach."

"The feeling is mutual," you shot back smoothly.

"Excellent," Tucker said mildly, folding his arms. "Then this should be effortless for the both of you."

"If you both survive two months without losing," Dean added hastily, clearly inventing the stakes on the spot, "the three of us will cover Logan's share of the rent for the semester. And for the lady... we'll pay for your prep courses for the LSAT."

You froze. LSAT prep courses were expensive. You had been working extra shifts at the campus library just to save up for the basic packages.

Your secret, the one you closely guarded beneath your tailored clothes and sharp remarks, was that you constantly, exhaustingly stressed about money. Your parents weren't footing your tuition like the rest of the kids in this house.

You glanced at Logan.

He looked entirely unbothered, practically vibrating with the arrogant certainty that he could beat you. He probably thought it would be easy money. He probably thought he could charm his way through two months of fake dates, annoy you into quitting, and walk away victorious.

"Two months," you verified. "Exclusive public dating. Must appear convincing. Catching feelings results to an automatic forfeit."

"Those are the terms," Garrett confirmed, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Babe," Hannah whispered, leaning into your ear. "Do not do this. Logan is an idiot, but he's a very aggressively charming idiot. You're voluntarily putting yourself in the line of fire."

"Hannah," you murmured back, eyes fixed on Logan. "I'm going to ruin his life."

You stepped forward, extending your hand toward Logan.

"Deal."

Logan looked at your outstretched hand for a moment. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then, slowly, he reached out and wrapped his calloused hand around yours. His palm was warm, rough from years of handling a hockey stick, and the sheer size of his grip swallowed your hand completely.

The moment your skin made contact, a violent, unexpected jolt of heat shot straight up your arm, setting low and heavy in your stomach. Logan's eyes snapped up to yours, widening just a fraction as if he had felt the same shock.

"Two months," Logan murmured, his voice suddenly sounding lower, rougher than it had a moment ago. "Try not to fall in love with me."

"Don't worry, Logan," you said, stepping back, desperately ignoring the tingling warmth still radiating across your skin. "I prefer men with actual reading comprehension skills."

As you turned away, dragging Hannah toward the kitchen to refill your beer, your mind was racing. You had a 3.9 GPA. You had destroyed professors in debates. You were composed, rational, and immune to college boy bullshit.

What are you doing with your life?

What happens after you agree to a fake-dating bet with John Logan is not a smooth, cinematic transition into romance. It is a controlled massacre of your entire existence.

By Monday morning, Briar University had done what Briar always did with total campus chaos: it weaponized it into gossip.

The exact moment you knew your carefully, ordered, highly academic life had collapsed was when you walked into your first class. Three people you had never seen before in your life turned in perfect, horrifying unision said, "Hey, Logan's girlfriend."

You didn't correct them. Not because it was true, but because correcting them would imply that you cared enough to use your vocal cords. And you absolutely refused to give the entire hockey house the satisfaction of knowing they've got you riled up.

Logan was waiting outside the lecture hall. As soon as he saw you, he pushed the wall with a lazy smirk. "Morning, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that in daylight. I feel like I'm being slaughtered."

"That's the whole point," he replied easily, not missing a beat.

Before you could step past him, he moved directly into your personal space. Logan didn't understand the concept of a normal human boundary.

Or, more accurately, he understood it perfectly and just liked seeing you try to calculate the physics of how much trouble you'd get into for shoving him into the nearest trash can.

He held out a coffee cup. You paused. "...Is that for me?"

"No, it's an experiment. I'm conducting a study on what happens when your cold, robotic, cynical heart accepts a basic act of human kindess. Do you melt? Do you hiss? I need to know."

You snatched it from his hand with a glare. You took a sip, fully prepared to criticize his taste, but stopped mid-swallow. It was exactly how you liked it.

You hated that he knew that. You hated that he had apparently paid attention to your order exactly once three weeks ago and cataloged it away.

By noon, your little arrangement has entered phase two.

When you sat down in the crowded dining hall with your laptop open, ready to get some actual work done, Logan didn't take the empty seat across from you.

He slid right onto the bench next to you. His thigh pressed casually against yours, the heat of his body radiating through his jacket. He acted like it was completely accidental, totally ignoring the fact that your entire nervous system was actively trying to exit your body through your ears.

Dean slid into the seat across from you a second later, immediately grinning like a hyena. "Oh, this absolute disgusting. Look at you two. You're doing the couple lean already. My stomach is turning, I love it."

"We're not leaning," you said, stiffening your posture until you were straight as an ironing board.

Logan immediately leaned his entire upper body weight into your shoulder, resting his chin almost directly on your collarbone to look at your laptop screen.

"What are we studying, baby?"

You shifted away, your face burning.

He followed.

You shifted back toward the edge of the bench.

He followed again, nudging his shoulder against yours with a quiet chuckle that vibrated right against your side.

"If you don't move three inches to the left," you whispered to Logan, "I'm going to stick this fork in your knee."

"Threatening me with bodily harm?" Logan beamed, completely unbothered. "Write that down, G. It's out one-week anniversary."

By the second week, the cracks in your defense strategy started small. Annoyingly, frustratingly small.

The real issue was Logan remembering things. Not grand, cinematic, romantic things. That would've been easy to ignore. It was worse. It was the mundane, everyday things.

On Tuesday, a freak afternoon thunderstorm hit right as your statistics seminar let out. You stood in the lobby of the building, staring gloomily at the pouring rain, fully prepared to ruin your favorite shoes and your mood.

Then the heavy glass doors swung open, bringing in a gust of cold air, and there was Logan. He was soaking wet, his hair blasted blasted by the wind, holding out a massive umbrella.

"What are you doing here?" you asked. "Don't you have practice?"

"Canceled," he lied smoothly, though you knew for a fact hockey practice was never canceled unless the arena literally froze over from the outside.

"C'mon, I'm not letting your stuff get damaged. I'd never hear the end of it."

On Thursday, after you spent six straight hours in the computer lab and forgot that human beings require food to stay alive, he casually walked past your desk.

Without saying a word, he dropped a bag of chips, a sandwich, and a protein bar right on top of your keyboard. He didn't even linger for a thank you; he just flashed you a smile and kept walking.

Then he started walking you home from the campus library. Every single night.

"You don't have to do this, you know," you told him one chilly night. "I'm perfectly capable of walking without security."

"I know," he replied simply, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

That was it. No cocky comeback. No punchline to ease the tension. Just complete, unbothered certainty. And that was the exact problem. John Logan didn't do anything without intent.

Later that weekend, the hockey house threw a massive party that you were forced to attend to 'keep up the act.' You were standing with Logan by the crowded kitchen island when Dean loudly announced to a group of girls.

"Just so you all know, Logan hasn't even looked at anyone's way ever since she came. The man is practically a monk."

The girls laughed, looking at Logan expectantly, waiting for him to play along or make a joke.

Logan didn't deny it. He didn't even laugh. He just took a slow sip of his cup and said, "No time. I've been busy."

And he looked directly, intensely at you when he said it.

The heat in his gaze made your face feel like it was on fire. You came very, very close to throwing your cup of beer straight at his beautiful, stupid forehead. Almost.

By week three, the rest of the house began to notice that something was seriously off with the atmosphere.

It wasn't that you were acting like a couple in public (That was the literal objective of the bet). The actual problem was much worse: it was starting to look real when absolutely no one was watching.

Hannah cornered you in the kitchen on a Sunday afternoon while you were trying to make tea.

"You're aware you're softening, right?" she asked, leaning her hip against the counter and eyeing you.

"I am not softening," you said keeping your voice entirely flat and monotone.

Hannah gave you a long, knowing look that made you want to crawl under the floor. "You're not losing the bet," she said quietly, her tone softening. "But something's happening."

She patted your shoulder in a way that felt entirely too sympathetic and walked away before you could come up with a brilliant counterargument to save face.

The following week was the week everything completely shifted, because Logan stopped performing.

The flirting didn't disappear, but it changed into something unrecognizable. There was less showmanship, less playing to the crowd. He stopped making the rest of the campus his audience.

Instead, he started making you his sole focus.

One chilly Friday night, he walked you back to your dorm after a grueling study session that had left you wishing for a quick death.

"You don't have to come up to the door," you said. "I have my keys anyway."

"I know."

But he didn't move. He just stood there, his breath turning to white mist in the cold night air. His dark hair was slightly messy from the wind, and he looked incredibly human.

The silence stretched between you, growing longer and heavier by the second. Usually, this was the part where he'd make a sarcastic comment, flash his signature grin, or try to steal a fake kiss to get a reaction out of you so he could tease you about it.

But he just looked at you.

Then quieter than you'd ever heard him speak, Logan said, "You ever think about what happens after this?"

You frowned, "We win. Obviously. You and I get the satisfaction of annoying the boys and not pay for anything. Life continues exactly as it did before we started this."

"That's not what I meant."

You studied his face. The streetlights threw sharp shadows across his jawline. He wasn't smirking, or teasing, he looked incredibly still. It made your stomach tighten in a way that you really, really did not appreciate.

"I don't think about the after," you said carefully, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan nodded once. Like that was a completely acceptable answer. Like it was for now.

"Goodnight," he said softly, turning to walk down the path toward his car.

Naturally, the first real breakdown happened during a completely stupid, unromantic moment.

It was a Thursday night in the absolute deepest basement of the campus library. It was past 2:00 AM. Your notes looked like ancient hieroglyphics, your brain felt like wet cement, and your very last remaining nerve was hanging on by a single, fraying thread of caffeine.

Out of nowhere, a familiar shadow fell over your messy desk. Logan slid into the wooden chair directly across from you. He looked entirely too awake for two in the morning.

“You look like you’re about to commit a felony,” he said, eye-level with your massive stack of textbooks.

“I am studying.”

“That’s worse.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling a massive headache blooming behind your eyes. “Why are you even here, Logan? Don't you sleep?”

He reached out and lightly tapped the edge of your open laptop. “Because Hannah told me you haven’t eaten anything since lunch. And because you’re stubborn.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

“I’m just highly focused. It’s an adrenaline rush.”

“You’re going to pass out on a public desk and some freshman is going to steal your notes.”

“I said I’m—”

The words caught in your throat. Logan reached across the table, his large hand wrapping around the top edge of your laptop, and gently but firmly closed it shut.

“Come on,” he said.

It wasn't a command. He wasn't teasing your or trying to be funny. His voice was just filled with a quiet, undeniable certainty that completely disarmed me.

You stared at him, your stubbornness trying to flare up one last time. “I’m not done.”

“You are for tonight,” he said. He paused, looking at you with an expression that was so soft, so genuinely sweet, it scared me more than any test ever could. Quieter, he added, “I’m not asking.”

And for some horrific reason, that was what broke you. It wasn't him trying to control the situation; it was the fact that he was disguising genuine, protective care as control. My throat felt tight.

Once you got outside into the cool, crisp night air, he pulled a warm, wrapped breakfast sandwich out of his jacket pocket—he must have gone to the 24-hour diner down the street—and handed it to you.

“You’re really not supposed to be good at this,” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly.

“At what?”

“Whatever this is. Being nice. Taking care of me. It’s messing with everything”

Logan leaned his back against the brick wall of the library, looking down at you with a soft, steady expression. “I’m not trying.”

And that, right there, was the ultimate problem. He wasn't trying to act like a good boyfriend for the bet. He just was.

By week six, Garrett called an emergency house meeting. In the hockey house, a formal house meeting meant disaster was not just imminent—it had already arrived, unpacked its bags, and moved into the guest room.

“You guys are failing,” Garrett announced, pointing a finger at you and Logan from across the living room coffee table like a disappointed coach.

“We are literally not failing,” you shot back instantly, crossing your arms defensively. “Everyone on campus thinks we’ve been dating for a month and a half. The dean literally asked me how Logan was doing yesterday.”

“You’re not winning, though,” Dean corrected, leaning over the back of the couch with a piece of leftover pizza in his hand.

Tucker nodded from the armchair, not looking up from his phone. “There is a distinct difference between surviving and winning.”

Logan leaned back in his seat, looking completely unbothered as he stretched his long legs out across the rug. “We’re fine. The bet is intact. No one doubts us.”

Hannah didn’t speak at all. She just sat in the corner armchair, watching the two of you with a look that made you incredibly nervous.

Garrett stood up and started pacing, pointing between the two of you. “You’re supposed to be acting. That was the deal. Fake dating. But right now, Logan looks like he’s thinking way too much about what he's doing, and she looks like she’s actively trying not to look at him. It’s weird. The vibe is off.”

“I don’t think,” Logan scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s against my brand.”

Without thinking, your brain completely bypassing your filters, you blurted out, “He absolutely thinks. He thinks more than all of you combined. He’s incredibly observant, and just because he doesn't shout his thoughts doesn't mean he's empty-headed.”

The entire room went dead silent. Garrett stopped mid-pace. Dean froze with the pizza halfway to his mouth.

They all stared at you. Then you realized what you had just done: you had just fiercely, reflexively, passionately defended Logan John’s honor in front of his best friends.

That was entirely new. That was not in the script. You hated myself a little bit in that moment, your cheeks burning a bright, undeniable crimson.

It was exactly eleven forty-five on a Friday night, which meant there were fifteen minutes left on the clock.

Fifteen minutes until the wager expired. Sixty days of holding hands in public corridors, sixty days of leaning close enough to share breath but never a kiss, and sixty days of you telling yourself you were fundamentally immune to John Logan.

The bass of the off-campus house party rattled through the worn wooden floorboards, vibrating against the soles of your boots. Red and purple strobe lights sliced through the humid, crowded room, illuminating the exact moment Logan broke through the throng of sweaty bodies.

He moved with that infuriating, effortless grace he always possessed—broad shoulders easily parting the crowd, his dark leather jacket slipping past red plastic cups and uninhibited dancers.

His eyes were locked on you from across the room. There was no trademark smirk tonight. No lazy, arrogant tilt to his jaw. He looked deadly serious.

Your heart did a violent, terrifying stutter against your ribs. Don't lose your nerve. 

The bet had been simple: fake date for two months to get your respective meddling friends off your backs, and whoever caught feelings—whoever tapped out first—lost. It was an exercise in ego. A test of pure, stubborn willpower.

He knew exactly where to touch your lower back to make your breath hitch. You knew exactly how to angle your neck when he whispered in your ear so that he would lose his train of thought. It was mutually assured destruction disguised as a joke.

But as he stopped right in front of you, the joke was violently dead.

He took your hand, wrapping his large, warm fingers around your wrist, and pulled you out of the kitchen. You followed blindly, letting him navigate you down a narrow, shadowed hallway away from the crush of the party. The noise muffled slightly, swallowed by the heavy coats piled on a nearby bench.

Logan turned to face you. The shadows carved sharp angles into his cheekbones. His chest was rising and falling a little too fast, his dark eyes entirely devoid of their usual playful challenge. He took a single step into your space, trapping the air between you.

"Time's almost up," he murmured, his voice a low, rough scrape against the thrumming music from the other room.

"I know," you breathed. Your throat felt incredibly dry. You fought the urge to step back, but the wall was already pressing against my shoulder blades. "You ready to concede?"

"No," he said flatly. Then, his gaze dragged down to your mouth, heavy and dark and starving. "I'm ready to change the rules."

Your logical brain told you that you should find a flaw in this plan. Your old survival instinct told you to run away before you got hurt.

But instead, you looked up into his eyes and said, “This is probably going to ruin our entire reputation for being sensible.”

Logan smiled, that beautiful, real smile that didn't have a hint of a smirk in it, his eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Probably.”

He squeezed your hand tightly, pulling you just an inch closer until your chest was pressed against his jacket. “Worth it?”

You looked at him. Really, truly looked at him—the boy who brought you umbrellas in the rain and remembered how you took your coffee.

You ignored the loud music behind him, the crazy bet behind you, and all the overthinking in your own head. For the first time in two solid months of calculating every move, you didn’t care about the outcome.

“…Yeah,” you whispered, reaching your free hand up to grip the lapel of his jacket. “Definitely worth it.”

Logan exhaled a massive breath, like he’d been holding it underwater for weeks, a look of pure relief washing over his face. “Good,” he said.

And this time, when he stepped closer and leaned his head down, you didn’t move away at all—you reached up to meet him halfway.

The second your lips touched, a violent, desperate shockwave tore through you. It wasn’t a soft, exploratory first kiss. It was an absolute collision.

Logan groaned, a deep, helpless sound in the back of his throat, and immediately dropped his hands to your hips, hauling you flush against his hard body.

He kissed you like he was starving. Like the last two months had been a physical torture he was finally allowed to end. His tongue swept into your mouth, possessive and hot, tasting every corner while his hands gripped your waist tight enough to bruise.

"Baby," he breathed raggedly against your lips, peppering hot, frantic kisses down the corner of your mouth to your jaw. "Christ, I've wanted to do this since week one."

"Then why didn't you?" you gasped, letting your head fall back against the wall as his lips dragged down your neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin.

"Because you're stubborn as hell," he growled, biting lightly at your collarbone. "And I needed you to be sure. Let's get out of here. Now."

There was no conversation. No goodbye to your friends. You practically sprinted out the back door, stumbling into the sharp chill of the autumn night. His hand was locked in yours, pulling you toward his car parked down the block.

The entire drive to your apartment was a blur of thick, agonizing tension. Logan kept one hand on the steering wheel, his knuckles white, while his right hand rested heavily on your thigh.

His thumb dragged slow, torturous circles against the denim of your jeans, sending jolts of heat pooling directly between your legs.

By the time you shoved your way through your front door, the final remnants of restraint shattered.

The heavy wooden door hadn't even clicked shut before Logan pinned you against it. His mouth crashed down on yours again, deeper and dirtier this time.

He tasted like desperation. Your hands scrambled at the zipper of his jacket, shoving the cool leather off his broad shoulders so it dropped uselessly to the floor.

"Fuck, baby," he mumbled roughly, his hands already sliding up under the hem of your sweater. His large, warm palms met the bare skin of your stomach, and you threw your head back with a sharp gasp. "Tell me to stop if this is just the adrenaline."

"Logan," you said, your voice shaking with pure need. "If you stop right now, I'll never forgive you."

He let out a low, feral sound that sent a shiver straight down your spine. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the hem of your sweater and pulled it over your head, tossing it aside.

You stood before him in a bra, chest heaving, entirely exposed to the searing heat of his gaze. Every muscle in his jaw feathered as his eyes took you in.

"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice thick, his hands trailing down your sides. "You have no fucking idea what it's been like. Pretending I wasn't obsessing over you. Holding your hand and having to let it go."

"Show me, then," you challenged softly, your fingers reaching for the buttons of his shirt.

He didn't need to be told twice. He stripped off his shirt with brutal efficiency, revealing a broad chest and a torso cut with hard lines of muscle.

You barely had a second to appreciate the view before he was backing you down the short hallway into yout bedroom. The mattress hit the backs of your knees, and you tumbled down into the comforter, Logan following you down instantly.

His weight settled over you, caging you in, heavily masculine and exquisitely overwhelming. He kissed you again, his thigh parting your legs as his hips pressed flush against you.

Even through the layers of denim between you, you could feel exactly how hard and thick he was for.

A desperate, wet heat flooded your panties. You arched blindly against him, seeking friction, and he groaned into your mouth.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he rasped, his warm breath fanning over your collarbone.

His hands moved with practiced, urgent purpose. He unclasped your bra in a single deft motion, sweeping the lace aside to expose you.

The cool air hit your flushed skin for only a second before Logan lowered his head. His mouth closed over one hard peak, hot and wet, his tongue laving the sensitive center while his teeth scraped lightly.

A loud, embarrassing whimper tore out of your throat. Your hands dove into his hair, gripping tightly as a heavy, twisting coil of pleasure tightened deep in your belly.

He suckled you unapologetically, drawing hard enough to make stars burst behind your eyes, while his hand moved lower, fumbling with the button of your jeans.

You tore at each other’s remaining clothes. It wasn't graceful; it was chaotic, driven by two solid months of pent-up starvation.

"You're perfect," he breathed, tracing a path down your stomach with one long finger. He followed the trail with a string of open-mouthed kisses, lower and lower, until he reached the juncture of your thighs.

Before you could brace yourself, he settled between your legs, hooking your knees over his shoulders.

"Logan—" you gasped, reaching for him, but he just smirked—a dark, wicked version of his usual smile.

"I have two months of making up to do," he murmured against you. "Keep your hands in the sheets, baby.”

And then his mouth was on you. He found my clit instantly, his tongue sweeping over the sensitive bundle of nerves in a long, relentless drag.

Your back arched completely off the mattress. You screamed his name, your fingers twisting violently into the heavy fabric of the sheets as he devoured you.

He knew exactly what he was doing. He was thorough, patient, and ruinously skilled. He alternated between deep, rhythmic laps and tight, focused flicks of his tongue, teasing you right to the edge and then backing off just enough to make you beg.

"Please," you sobbed out, thrashing helplessly against his mouth. "Logan, please baby, I need—"

"I know," he soothed, sliding two thick fingers deep inside you while his mouth continued its assault.

you were completely dripping for him, embarrassingly slick, but he only seemed emboldened by how wrecked you were.

The orgasm hit you like a freight train. It ripped through your body in violent, shivering waves. You cried out, legs clamped tightly over his shoulders as you broke apart under his mouth.

You were still gasping for breath, chest heaving, when Logan rose over you. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, his dark eyes dilated with pure, predatory need.

He settled his weight back between your thighs, propping himself up on his forearms. He nudged the blunt, hot head of his length against your heat, stopping right on the verge.

He looked down at you, his expression softening into an aching vulnerability that made your heart hammer in your throat.

"I need you to know," he said, his voice entirely wrecked in the quiet room. "Before I do this. You have to know it wasn't a game to me. Not for a single goddamn second."

Tears stung the corners of your eyes at the raw sincerity in his tone. "I know. It wasn't a game to me either."

He let out a broken breath, leaning down to press a deep, bruising kiss to your mouth. As your lips locked, he drove his hips forward, burying himself fully inside you.

You both cried out. He was massive, thick and blazingly hot, stretching you open and filling every empty ache you hadn't let yourself acknowledge.

"Okay?" he whispered, his hips instinctively trembling against yours.

"Don't wait," you begged him, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist to lock his hips to you. “Don't hold back anymore."

That was the only permission he needed. Logan began to move, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in to the hilt with a heavy, wet slap of skin on skin.

He established a deep, punishing rhythm. Every thrust was accompanied by a harsh grunt, his hips snapping forward to hit the deepest, sweetest spot inside you over and over.

Your nails dug half-moons into his back, your hips rising off the mattress to meet him halfway, desperate for deeper friction.

"Fuck," he ground out, the pace accelerating. The bed frame let out a heavy rhythmic squeak, echoing the wet sounds of your bodies colliding. "You feel—god, you feel better than I imagined."

"John… baby…” you whimpered, the syllables falling from your lips entirely broken.

He shifted his grip, sliding one hand under your hips to angle you perfectly against him, while his other hand reached between your bodies. His thick thumb found your swollen clit, pressing down right as he drove deep inside.

The pleasure was too dense, too sudden. You let out a sharp cry, your head thrashing on the pillows as the second orgasm rushed up your spine.

"That's it," he praised hoarsely, his grip tightening violently on your hips. "Come for me. Let go."

You shattered around him, your walls clenching tightly over his cock. The sensation tipped him right over his own edge.

Logan let out a deep, guttural shout, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he drove completely to the hilt. His entire body went rigid, cording with strain as he pulsed deep inside you.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the ragged tear of your breathing. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel the vibration echoing in his chest, pressed completely flush against yours.

Slowly, the adrenaline ebbed, leaving a sprawling warmth in its wake. Logan pressed a soft, damp kiss to the side of your neck before gently rolling to the side, pulling me flush against his side.

He wrapped a thick arm around your waist, tucking your head securely under his chin. His hand smoothed down the messy tangle of your hair, his thumb beginning a slow, possessive stroke along your spine.

"So," he murmured, his voice rumbling pleasantly beneath your ear. The tension was gone from his shoulders, replaced by a profound, immovable contentment. "I tap out. You win."

You tilted your head up, resting your chin on his bare chest to look at him. His dark hair was a ruined mess, his lips were swollen, and his eyes were soft and incredibly bright in the dim light of the bedroom.

The smug arrogance of his fake dating persona was completely burned away, leaving only the real boy underneath. The one you were hopelessly, irrevocably in love with.

"I don't think either of us actually lost, Logan," you said softly, tracing the line of his jaw.

A lazy, brilliant smile finally spread across his face, lighting up the corners of his eyes. "Yeah," he whispered, pressing his lips firmly against your forehead. "I think you're right."

You lay there in the quiet aftermath of the storm, the neon digits on his nightstand clock finally flipping past midnight.

Day sixty was officially over. The wager was dead and buried. And as his fingers gently laced with yours in the dark, tying your hand to his, you realized the terrifying truth.

The fake romance was easy. Now you had to wake up tomorrow, walk out into the real world, and start playing for keeps.

The hockey house was always, somehow, loud. Loud in that pre-party way on a Friday night that made your head spin and bring a giddy smile to your face. The warm-up stage, if you will. Everyone half-distracted and talking over each other while deciding what the night was actually going to become.

Which was exactly why Dean had decided it was the perfect time to ruin your life.

“No seriously,” your brother insisted from across the kitchen island, pointing his beer bottle at you like he was presenting a business proposal to investors instead of actively setting his sister up on a date, “this guy is perfect for you.”

You stared at him flatly and leaned on your elbows, the stool you were sat on tipped dangerously.

“Every time you say that, I suffer.”

“That’s because you keep picking emotionally unavailable weirdos.”

Everyone partially ignored Dean, he was always doing this- offering to set you up with the next eligible bachelor that he had scouted in his classes, or mutual friends, one time he set you up with one of his ex-hookup’s hookup. That one didn’t go as well as the majority of your brother’s matchmaking pursuits.

From the couch, Logan’s ears perked up and he choked slightly on his drink; he glanced around hoping nobody noticed, and it didn’t seem like they did.

Except Garrett.

Garrett glanced up from his phone, eyes moving from Logan to you and then back to Logan again with the expression of somebody who had just noticed a bomb underneath the dining table.

Your eyes flicked to Logan, a secret twinkle in them before you steeled and ignored him. Dean, fortunately for you didn’t even notice and continued talking.

“He’s pre-law,” he said proudly.

Logan rolled his eyes and scoffed before he could stop himself. He didn’t even recognise the noise that he made, but he stilled when he felt the group’s eyes on him.

Allie frowned from where she sat cross-legged on the floor. “Why did you react like that?”

Logan shrugged quickly, leaning further back into the couch cushions beside Tucker. “I didn’t.”

“You literally scoffed.”

“I breathed.”

“That was a judgmental breath.”

“It’s pre-law,” Logan muttered, finger running along the rim of his beer bottle.

Dean narrowed his eyes immediately, “What’s wrong with pre-law?”

Logan took another sip of his drink like he hadn’t just entered the conversation voluntarily. “Sounds evil.”

Tucker barked out a laugh from beside him. “Bro, weren't you considering law for a bit?”

“We don’t about that dark time of my life,” Logan muttered, he nodded silently as the yeasty alcohol slipped down his throat- his eyes flicked to you but he refocussed on the conversation at hand.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to stop yourself smiling.

The two of you had agreed on the secrecy together.

Mostly because your friends were all deeply nosy and incapable of minding their own business for longer than six consecutive minutes, but also because you and Logan had somehow slipped into dating without fully meaning to and then panicked slightly once you realised how serious it had become.

Now here you were.

Four months deep into a relationship that you couldn’t reveal, unless you wanted to bring about the next Dean-meltdown. The last one almost ended with him moving to Australia and making a life with the kangaroos. 

Which meant that every time somebody tried setting one of you up with another person, you both had to sit there pretending it was completely normal.

You liked to think that you had been handling it significantly better than Logan.

“All I’m saying,” Dean continued, oblivious to the psychological warfare occurring three feet away from him, “is that he’s smart, he’s tall, he cooks-”

“That’s manipulative,” Logan interrupted.

The room went quiet.

You looked at him.

Dean looked at him.

Even Hannah slowly lowered her phone.

“What?” Dean said eventually.

Logan blinked once like he had only just realised he’d spoken aloud.

“What?” he repeated.

“You think cooking is manipulative?”

Logan shifted slightly in his seat. “Sometimes.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Neither does pre-law.”

Allie turned fully toward him now, deeply suspicious. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, “You seem weirdly invested.”

“I’m not invested.” He quickly replied. 

Garrett spoke without looking up from his phone.

“You wanna explain why you’re reacting like a divorced father who just found out his ex-wife is dating again?”

Tucker physically folded over laughing.

Logan pointed at Garrett immediately. “See? This is why nobody likes you.”

“People love me.”

“Your own girlfriend looks tired.”

Hannah snorted into her can of coke and ran her hand through her boyfriend’s hair, who was staring daggers at Logan until he melted into her touch.

You looked away before you snorted at Logan’s antics, which probably in hindsight wasn’t the best idea, because the second your attention drifted away- you could feel him boring holes into the side of your face, like he was trying to telepathically communicate his annoyance across the room.

Your phone buzzed against the counter and you grabbed it quickly before someone noticed the way you grinned to yourself, biting down on your lip you checked the notifications; even though you already knew who it was.

Hockey boy 💗 stop smiling at dean about another guy before i lose my mind

Across the room, Logan stared at his own phone with the deeply concentrated expression of someone trying not to commit homicide.

You typed back carefully, intentionally slower so as not to alert your brother- who was now chattering with his girlfriend across the room. 

You: you are being unbelievably dramatic rn

Hockey boy 💗 he said the guy cooks

You: so…do you?

Hockey boy 💗 yeah but i do it sexier

You physically had to cough to disguise the laugh that escaped you.

Hannah looked over instantly.

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nothing.”

“You just giggled at your phone.”

“I did not.”

“You literally did.”

Dean pointed at you accusingly. “Wait. Is there already another guy?”

You jumped so hard that your knee hit the island and you hissed. Logan had sat up straighter, fast enough that it alarmed Tucker, who was sunken into the couch next to him.

“No,” he said immediately.

The entire room turned toward him.

A beat passed.

Logan slowly leaned back again, cringing and half hoping the universe would grant him reprise in the deepest black hole it could create.

“I mean,” he added poorly, “how would I know?”

Garrett finally looked up fully now, staring directly at Logan with open fascination, his eyes widening as he properly studied the both of you. His mouth popped open in an O shape.

Your heart launched into your throat as you met the captain’s eyes, half pleading that he was as slow as his stereotype allowed him to be. But before Garrett could elaborate further, Dean steamrolled right over the moment.

“Whatever,” he said dismissively, already pulling out his phone again, “look at this guy and tell me I’m wrong.”

He shoved the screen in your direction, you squinted and slumped forward, hitting your older brother with a dead look.

You hated how attractive the man was.

Tall. Dark hair. Nice smile.

One of those annoyingly clean-looking corporate boys that somehow always smelled expensive.

Before you could stop yourself, your eyes flicked instinctively toward Logan. If there was a bigger mistake you could've made, it would be murder. Because he was already looking at you, his eyes inquisitively blinking between you and Dean.

Waiting.

You raised one eyebrow slightly, teasing him and Logan narrowed his eyes immediately. Then, because apparently self-preservation had abandoned him entirely tonight, he muttered,

“He looks like he moisturizes too much.”

Dean stared at him, baffled that this was coming from the same man who probably owned 500 different types of skincare. What Dean didn’t know is that each time a new product would pop up on his sink, it was actually yours. 

“All humans should moisturize.”

“Not that much.”

“John,” Hannah said slowly, “you own more hair products than me.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Logan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“It just is.”

“You are such a fucking hater,” Tucker wheezed.

Logan looked genuinely offended, looking at the group, whipping around like a broken spinning top, “I’m not a hater.”

“You’re beefing with a man none of us have met.”

“I’m not beefing with him.”

“You called his face moisturized in a derogatory way.”

Logan rolled his eyes and slumped again, tapping at his phone. Yours buzzed against your thigh- it seems secrecy had flown out of the window tonight. Four months of perfect sneak-ins, disguised dates and unknown sleepovers flushed away.

Hockey boy 💗 if he touches you im transferring schools

You stared at the text for a full three seconds before looking up, Logan was already messing with his hair absently, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at absolutely nothing.

God.

He was unbelievable, you tried not to gape at him while tapping on your phone,

“He wants to meet tonight?” You ask Dean, feigning interest as you squinted at the phone over the lip of your cup. 

Dean perked up and texted this guy, Ethan, Evan? You didn’t care, “He says…” Dean held the room still with his hands outstretched, “He’ll be over in an hour!” Your brother jumped triumphantly into Beau, who had missed the entire debacle when he disappeared into the toilet.

That gave you the perfect window to meet Logan’s gaze, which had flared considerably. You shrugged and winked at him, biting your cheek when he blushed and huffed, turning away to down the rest of his drink. 

You managed to escape upstairs under the guise of getting ready for this date- far away from Tucker, who had gotten into the habit of critiquing your outfit choices like he was one planned ensemble away from Vogue.

You slipped into the bathroom, starting to wash your face with products that Logan had shamelessly claimed as his, just so you could keep more of your stuff over on his shelf. 

You towel dried your face when the door to the bathroom cracked open with a dull knock. You didn’t turn around immediately, mostly because you already knew who it was.

“Baby.”

There it was, you huffed, hands barely pausing their circular movements of rubbing moisturizer into your skin. You glanced over bemused with the puppy act that Logan was currently playing at the doorway. That tone is exactly the tone he used on you when he was not happy about what your secret relationship brought along with it- it was low, annoyed in a way that immediately made warmth crawl up your spine despite your best efforts

Adjusting one of your earrings in the mirror and pressing your lips together with a new layer of lipgloss, you watched him click the door behind him and lean against it- bashfully looking at you from below his eyelashes

“You know following me upstairs while I’m getting ready for another guy is objectively making this situation weirder.”

He crossed his arms over his chest as you adjusted your skirt.

“Another guy,” he repeated flatly.

You met his eyes through the mirror.

Your boyfriend looked deeply unimpressed by the entire concept of tonight, which was slightly ironic considering he’d spent the last few months allowing Allie to continuously set him up with girls under the assumption he was still hopelessly into Hannah.

“You’ve literally gone on three dates this month,” you reminded him.

“They barely count.”

You turned around fully then, eyebrows lifting. “One of them took you mini golfing.”

“She talked about her ex for forty minutes.”

“That’s still a date.”

“It was psychological warfare.”

You snorted and planted your hands on your hips, your resolve barely holding when his eyes softened slightly at the sound, that was part of the reason you both worked. No matter how irritated he got, no matter how jealous or grumpy or territorial he became, there was always this underlying tenderness to him around you that completely gave him away if you paid attention for long enough.

And you were always paying attention to him. 

His gaze dragged over you slowly now. Taking in the dress, your hair, the shimmer of your lipgloss that he interrupted the application of. Your eyes widened when his jaw tightened

“Oh my god,” you laughed quietly, shaking your head, “you’re actually jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You compared his moisturizer usage to shooting puppies.”

“He looks slippery.”

“That is not a real critique.”

“It could be.”

You laughed again, properly this time- Logan’s expression immediately worsened, as if he couldn’t believe that you were going to look like that for a guy that wasn’t him.

“You look too pretty for this,” he muttered.

Your stomach flipped, your laugh settling to a soft smile. Logan always spoke like that, somehow injecting sincerity into everything he said even when he was irrationally possessive.

You tried very hard not to melt visibly.

“Well unfortunately,” you said lightly instead, stepping closer to him, “our friends are insane and think you’re still in love with Hannah.”

“I haven’t liked Hannah in like 6 months.” Your eyebrows lifted slightly with a grin

“6 months?”

Logan realised his mistake immediately.

“Don’t do that,” he warned.

You cheekily bit your tongue, “Do what?” 

“That thing where you look smug.”

“I’m not smug.”

“You’re literally smirking.”

You were doing the mental maths, because if Logan stopped liking Hannah almost 6 months ago.. Well. 

You’d started sleeping together six months ago and got together two months after that.

Interesting timeline.

Your boyfriend stepped closer before you could weaponize that information further, hands finding your waist automatically like muscle memory. Like he physically couldn’t stand within arm’s reach of you without touching you somehow.

“You better not actually like this guy,” he muttered.

You blinked once. Twice. Then brought your arms to his shoulders- comfortingly rubbing the soft flannel

“John Logan,” you said slowly, “are you trying to establish rules for a date I didn’t even want to go on?”

His hands tightened slightly against your waist.

“No.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“You’re literally pouting.”

“I don’t pout.”

You reached up immediately and pressed your thumb against his lower lip, his eyes darkened. 

“There,” you whispered sweetly. “That. That’s pouting.”

Logan grabbed your wrist before you could pull away, dragging you flush against him in one smooth movement that made your breath catch embarrassingly fast.

“You think this is funny,” he said quietly.

“A little bit.”

“That’s concerning.”

“You’re being insane.”

“I’m being reasonable.”

“You called him slippery.”

“He is slippery.”

You dissolved into laughter again, forehead dropping briefly against his chest. Logan exhaled heavily above you, one hand sliding up your spine slowly - exposed from the cutout of your dress. His fingers curled at the back of your neck.

“Don’t let him kiss you,” he murmured.

You tilted your head back immediately and grinned at him- as if you would ever consider the ridiculous idea.

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“I mean it.”

Your amusement faded slightly then, into something gentler that settled underneath your expression, beneath all the jealousy and dramatics and weird comments about moisturizer, you knew what this actually was.

Logan wasn’t angry, he was scared. Not of you cheating- you’d threatened him enough that you’d need to be held at gun point for the thought to even breach your mind. He was worried that someone better would come along, someone more charming, someone who was a part of your world. The world that Dean and you shared along with the ultra elite trust-fund babies.

Your expression softened.

“You know I’m yours, right?” you asked quietly.

The change in Logan's face made your chest hurt ever so slightly- he sighed and dropped his forehead against yours,

“Yeah?” he asked softly.

You swallow away the knot in your throat and kiss his nose, “Yeah.”

Logan smiled at the feeling of your lips on his face, grinning at the triumphant look on your face. And for a second, neither of you moved, just basking in the feeling of each other's closeness. Then his hand slid properly into your hair and he kissed you, and just like every time this man kissed you, your knees felt weak and you leaned into him.

His mouth moved against yours slowly at first, careful and lingering and familiar enough to make your sigh slightly before he deepened it with the quiet sort of desperation that always seemed to sneak into him around you, you hum softly into his mouth, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie.

“John,” you whispered when he kissed down your jaw.

“Hm?”

“If you leave a mark on me before my date I’m actually going to kill you.”

Logan kissed your neck again deliberately then started nipping at the skin purposefully, you whacked his head, groaning when he soothed over the stinging skin with his tongue.

“You asshole.”

“You said no marks,” he murmured smugly against your skin, “these are just... friendly reminders.”

You were seconds away from shoving him when Dean’s voice suddenly echoed up the stairs.

“HEY!”

You gasped and jumped apart violently, his hands tightened on your waist and you could feel his heartbeat thumping wildly below your hand.

“IS MY SISTER READY YET OR IS SHE MAKING THIS GUY WAIT ON PURPOSE?”

Logan inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut . You bit down on your smile and turned to fix your makeup, your lipgloss smudged to your chin and all over his mouth. You usher him towards the mirror to wipe it off.

Then Dean yelled again,

“AND LOGAN WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GO?”

The two of you stared at each other, a short moment of silence passed, then you both had to stifle laughs against the other, your mouth pressed into his shoulder as he cradled your head and pressed a hand to his lips. 

Logan dragged one hand down his face. “I hate everyone in this house.”

“You live here.”

“Don’t remind me.”

You grinned and reached up, gently fixing the collar of his shirt where you’d wrinkled it. His eyes softened again immediately and he smoothed out your hair,

“Go on your stupid date,” he muttered, rubbing away the last of the lipgloss from your chin.

“You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You followed me upstairs.”

“I was stretching my legs.”

“Through my tonsils?”

Logan rolled his eyes and kissed your forehead

If you were to be objective about the situation your brother had put you in- you’d have to say that he did an annoyingly good job. You’d never tell him that of course, you’d prefer to use Logan’s pliers to rip your teeth out individually. 

But the guy sitting across from you was genuinely perfect on paper.

Ethan was funny in that easy, socially polished way corporate aspirants somehow always were, where every joke sounded rehearsed enough to land properly but natural enough that you couldn’t call him out on it. He opened doors without making a huge deal out of it, remembered details from previous conversations Dean had apparently told him about you, and somehow managed to make expensive restaurants feel casual instead of pretentious.

Worst of all. He was genuinely attractive. You could think of at least 5 of your girlfriends who would happily take the inconvenience out of your hands.

Dark hair slightly messy in that intentional way rich men cultivated, broad shoulders underneath a fitted black sweater, stupidly nice hands that looked like they belonged in a watch advertisement.

You hated how much Dean would enjoy being right about this.

“And then Di Laurentis told me,” Ethan laughed lightly, leaning back in his chair, “that if I hurt you he’d apparently feed my body to the hockey team.”

You snorted into your drink. “Yeah, that sounds like my brother.”

“He’s weirdly intimidating for a guy that owns that many tank tops.”

“He weaponizes confidence.”

Ethan grinned and held eye contact with you while he sipped from his whiskey glass. And you stumbled into the same feeling you had been experiencing the entire evening, everytime Evan smiled- your brain automatically compared it to Logan.

Ezra’s smile was clean, polished and pristine. You’d go as far as to say it was pretty under most lighting.

You couldn’t help the comparison. Logan’s smiles made your stomach flip and consciousness flutter in a way only he could manage. Split lips after hockey games- stretched into victorious laughter, crooked smirks when he was about to say something unbelievably annoying and your favourite, the devastatingly soft grin he got only around you, like his entire body was tuned to your reactions. 

Your throat dried and you worked hard to keep an uncomfortable grimace at bay.

“So,” Eli said, resting his chin against his hand slightly, “Dean says you practically live at the hockey house.”

You nearly choked on your drink.

The statement itself wasn’t inaccurate, you did spend a lot of time at the house. But if Elijah knew how much of that time you’d spent in John Logan’s bedroom, you’re pretty sure he would evaporate on the spot.  

“Yeah.. They’re my brother’s teammates, we all just ended up becoming friends,” you said carefully.

“You and Logan seem close.”

Your heart skipped once at the mention of his name and you fought against the natural instinct to bite back a smile, instead you kept your expression neutral with the kind of effort that deserved academic recognition.

“Logan?”

“Yeah.” Everett shrugged lightly. “He looked like he wanted to kill me earlier.”

You laughed too quickly, waving off the notion that Logan would be anything but jealous.

“He’s just weird.”

Eric nodded thoughtfully, studying your face in a way that made you send an impromptu prayer up to God that he wasn’t putting the badly veiled pieces together, then he grinned and shrugged.

“I figured.”

The waiter arrived then, setting down your desserts while Edward thanked him politely. You mentally facepalmed, again, this guy was objectively perfect. But you had to stop yourself from recoiling away when his hand brushed yours, gentle and hesitant across the table.

Your mind flashed back to the most recent date Logan took you on, a small, independent coffee shop outside of the Briar locality- away from prying, gossiping eyes. He had grimaced as he paid for your drink and stifled his love for it when you made him take a sip, your hands were intertwined the entire time, a carefree momentum settled in your conversation whilst he played with the rings on your fingers, openly, unabashedly. 

The memory hit you so suddenly you almost laughed. Dean had hit gold with this guy, you could read Erik like an open book, and the entire time he had been nothing but sweet, smart at points and attentive nearly the entire length of the date. Your friends would probably start planning a big, upper-east side wedding by next week.

But still your mind drifted back to the only man you could see yourself marrying, and how much he would absolutely hate this restaurant. The excess of cloth napkins would make him tense, the dim lighting irritating him enough to make his entire face scrunch up and the lack of fries would be considered diabolical. 

But you knew, with absolute certainty, that if you wanted to dine in a restaurant like this, he would suffer an eternity in these four walls if it meant he was with you.

Your phone buzzed against your lap, breaking your chain of thought. 

Hockey boy 💗: Are you home yet?

You stared at the carousel of messages prior to this, and the timestamps

9:14 PM. 9:26 PM. 9:41 PM. 9:57 PM.

Four separate messages.

Your lips twitched helplessly, all of them were as performatively nonchalant as the others.

Hockey boy 💗 If this Egbert guy touches you, I'm keying his daddy’s jeep. 

Hockey boy 💗 Don’t ask how i know this but his linkedin is not very impressive- not good enough to date my girl that’s for sure. 

Hockey boy 💗 I miss you.

Ethan noticed immediately, the way your eyes softened and a huff made your lips part in a ghost of a smile.

“Boyfriend?” he asked casually.

Your head snapped up.

“What?”

He smiled, cocking his head slightly, “You’ve checked your phone every five minutes since we got here.”

Heat crawled up your neck instantly and you furrowed your brows in apology,

“No,” The lie felt bitter on your tongue, but you silenced your phone and set it down face first on the table.  Eran hummed like he didn’t fully believe you, but thankfully let it go.

The rest of the date shifted slightly after that, not awkward since poor Edmund hadn’t let the clarifying moment put a dent in his enthusiasm. It just meant that his hand hadn’t touched yours since you replied to Logan.

You wanted to apologise to him, to say that it wasn’t working out for any reason that didn’t involve Logan. But you opted for polite, self-explanatory silence on the matter. Letting Edwin slip on your jacket for you and engaged in a cursory side hug that made you both cringe a little, but it was easier than explaining to him that instead of his simple affection, you wanted the idiot currently losing his mind back at the hockey house over a pre-law major named Elton.

Logan would honestly rather take a hundred slapshots straight to the ribs without pads than listen to Dean brag about what a 'good guy' he’d set his sister up with.

It started with a passing comment, then a phone lighting up on the coffee table which led to Dean half-paying attention to the loud conversation being had in the living room while scrolling. This cumulative, slow motion train crash in front of Logan’s eyes, meant he had gone suspiciously quiet in the midst of the heated debate between Allie and Tucker and was now focussing on his friend who was grinning like a Cheshire cat at his phone.

Dean eventually spoke, stretching back into the couch like he owns it, a triumphant look spread across his face. The group quietens when they notice the smug expression, which either meant he was about to announce something gross or he was going to be an ass about being right. 

“She just got dessert,” he casually reports, looking around the room, like a king would look at his subjects- pompous and on the highest horse possible.

Logan does not respond immediately. He just leans forward slightly, fiddling with the loose thread fraying from the cuff of his sleeve, when he does decide to grace Dean with an answer- it takes everything in him to keep his voice steady and flat in a way that should come across as disinterested. 

“That’s nice.” His tone was clipped, a stark difference from his usual charismatic demeanor. The rest of the group makes up for his lack of enthusiasm, the girls giggled and congratulated Dean on finding such a catch, the guys laugh and speculate that in the dating world- getting dessert is equivalent to a perfectly timed, public, flash-mob proposal. 

Logan prayed for it to end there. It normally would’ve, Dean hadn’t said anything that would invite continuation. You had ordered dessert and that meant Logan would need to become a world class pastry chef as soon as possible. Case closed. Goodnight. 

“And he says she’s laughing a lot.” 

A badly stifled suffering sigh escapes Logan’s lips, his body briefly pauses, as if it had forgotten how to act normal and instead decided to shut down.

He recalibrated, ignoring the ugly, curling sensation that lurched in his stomach and instead, rather stiffly, managed to say,

“Good for her,” he says. Perfect. His voice was still intensely calm, still controlled and his answer invited no follow-up.

Across the room, Tucker glances up from his seat with the vague expression of someone who is only half following the conversation but is starting to sense that the topic was sprinting full speed down an unexplored path . Hannah leans toward Allie, lowering her voice.

“Why is he talking like that?” she asks.

Allie glances between them. “Like what?”

Hannah thinks for a second, “Remember the time he walked in on you and Dean?”

Allie sighs dreamily at the memory, obviously not remembering the avoidant, distasteful tone that Logan had adopted for the rest of that night.

“Ohhhh,” Allie nodded slowly, the specifics hazy in her mind, but she could clearly remember Logan looking like he would let Garrett shave off the outer layer of his eyeballs with his skates.

Dean hears this and instead of doing the smart thing for everyone in the vicinity, he contributes to the analysis,

“That’s what it is!,” he snaps his fingers and points at Logan, who glanced at the perky blonde out of his periphery and slapped his outstretched fingers with his palm. 

Garrett in the middle of the exchange has stopped pretending entirely that he is not listening. He doesn’t dare react, but his attention splits between Logan and Dean regularly, as if he was the first to picture something that everyone else had not yet realised. 

Dean’s phone vibrates in his hand, “Oh,” he says after a moment, like he is remembering another detail. “He also says she’s really pretty when she’s concentrating.”

Logan exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, and finally looks down at his hands as if the table in front of him has suddenly become more interesting than anything else in the room, focussing more on the worn out grain and the used fibres of the carpet beneath it. When he speaks again, his tone is still even, but it takes slightly longer to form the sentence.

“That’s… nice.”

Hannah slowly sits up a little straighter, her brows knitting together in mild confusion rather than concern.

“Am I crazy,” she mutters, “or does this feel weird?”

“You are always slightly crazy,” Tucker replies automatically but he shares the same, puzzled look.

“That is not helpful.”

Allie is also watching Logan, like she is trying to decide whether this is something she is allowed to comment on or whether it falls into the category of things that will resolve themselves without intervention.

Garrett still says nothing, opting to sit with his discovery in unparalleled superiority. 

The room continues as if it is trying to behave normally around something that it does not fully understand yet. Dean scrolls again, far too unaware of the pressure building in the man beside him.

“Oh,” he adds, like he has found another harmless detail. “She keeps fixing her hair when she laughs.”

Logan stills, properly this time. A eerie calm settles over his body, because he was internally cursing himself for being in this situation, damn his friends and their nosey tendencies and damn you for being the sister of his teammate.

He ruminates on the choices that brought him here today, coming to the conclusion, that he'd rather be trapped in an endless, no-whistle bag skate at five AM than endure these idle, cheerful updates. A bag skate ended eventually. This felt like it never would.

But Tucker leans slightly toward Hannah and whispers, “Is he doing okay?”

Hannah whispers back, “I think we are all missing something.”

Allie does not take her eyes off Logan, morbidly fascinated at the fact that the world’s most suave person, had his lips pressed against his hands and had managed to end up with a raincloud over his head in the middle of July. “Something is definitely happening.”

Garrett shifts against Hannah, still choosing to be an idle spectator in Logan’s ruin, but even he could muster up a sympathetic grimace when Dean chose to continue the narration. 

Logan finally cuts in.

“Can you stop reading that out loud.”

Dean looks up, “Why?”

A pause.

“Just tired. Honestly, I’d rather coach put us through a three-hour gauntlet drill right now than hear any more details about your sister’s love life. It’s weird, man.”

Dean’s eyes widened by a fraction, “Woah, is everything alright?” He looks genuinely concerned and that just makes Logan want to run into a wall at full speed. Because the whole room was staring at him, blinking like a flock of owls that were studying their latest choice of prey.

He scratches the back of his neck, hoping that nobody notices the nervous tick, “Sorry..” Logan grabs his hoodie as he takes his leave, “My coursework has been killer lately, must not be getting enough sleep. My bad man.” He pats Dean’s shoulder once and moves towards the staircase.

The entire house seemed to be suspended in awkward confusion- and Logan was prepared to add homicidal undertones as he reached the top step and Dean’s voice fluttered after him,

“Allie-cat what kind of girls have you been setting him up with? Maybe I should take over his matchmaking”

Logan groans and flops into his bed the minute the door creaks shut behind him, too dejected to glance up when his comforter vibrates beneath him.

The window is not the traditional avenue to enter a room, you realised that throughout the entirety of your senior year of highschool. It always requires a small negotiation with physics, a bit of careful balance, and the kind of confidence that suggests you have done this before and will probably do it again.

Which you admittedly have, given that you had memorised the best notches in the brick to wedge your foot into and where not to grab unless you wanted to end up face to face with a view directly into your brother's window.

When you finally reach your destination and fiddle with the window enough to coax it open, a soft creak permeates in the summer breeze- which you immediately curse because you had dedicated a solid 20 minutes to convince yourself that you were being quiet and the window very clearly disagrees.

You pause with your knee digging into the frame, listening as your heartbeat hammers in your ears. The night answered you, a dainty chirp of a cricket paired with the whirring of traffic further away in the city made you relax, continuing your journey into the room.

Inside, the lighting is low in a way that makes everything feel softer than it probably is in reality.

A desk lamp glows in the corner, throwing warm light across the room, and Logan is sitting on the edge of his bed like he has been doing exactly that for a while without moving very much at all.

Logan looks up when he hears your pants replace the faint buzz of the house, he doesn’t startle- just rushes over as silently as possible to grab your waist before you nosedive into his bedside table.

“Woah.” He steps back whilst keeping his hands firmly planted on your waist, watching you topple slightly on your heels, “What are you doing here?”

You look up at him, your lips downturning in a confused smile, “Hello to you too,” a peck to his lips interrupts your answer, “You said you missed me, so I'm here.”

The dress you had on stretches in tandem with your movements, stepping out of his loose hold to flop onto his bed- which protested slightly with a pained squeak, “You could say the feeling was mutual” You grinned up at him, leaning back onto your hands in the process.

He purses his lips, trying to hide a smile- which he does worryingly well. The neutrality in his eyes makes your spine rigid.

“You used the window,” he says, glancing at his curtains that now flitter along the wall.

You blink at him. “Yeah… Like I’ve done since we started hooking up”

Logan exhales through his nose, but it doesn’t fully commit to being a sigh.

“You could’ve used the door,” he clarifies.

“I didn’t want to wake anyone,” you reply, finally swinging your leg onto the duvet leaving your heel to topple uselessly to the floor with a dull thud. 

Logan stays where he is for a second longer, watching you like he is trying to decide whether to stay where he is or act like a normal person and come closer. You match his gaze cheekily, shrugging off your bag while taking the room in, “God I love your room baby, it's so you.”

He stands up from where he was leaning against his desk, and crosses over to you in that slightly controlled way he gets when he is pretending he is not emotional, while very obviously being emotional in a quiet, annoyed-at-himself kind of way.

“You were gone longer than you said,” he mutters.

You pause mid-unzip of your dress.

“I said I’d be out for a bit.”

“That is not a time.”

You finally look at him properly.

There it is, a signature Logan pout. You’d gotten used to every version of them, since he knew how to use his artillery- but this one wasn’t one that sat well with you, it buried its way into your chest and blossomed into a pang of anxiety.

“Oh my god,” you say mainly to yourself, pushing up so you could stand chest to chest with him, inspecting his face.

Logan barely tilts his head to meet your scrutiny, “What?” he asks, like he already knows he is about to lose this conversation.

You shake your head, “You’re pouting.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“You are absolutely pouting.”

“I’m not-”

He stops mid-sentence, watching your hands come up to his face and gently squish his cheeks just enough that his expression breaks in a way that is immediately unfair to him.

“There,” you say softly. “That one.”

His brows knit together.

“This is not-”

You lean in and press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He pauses.

You do it again, slightly higher this time, like you are correcting the unhappy crease of his lips. His hands hover for a second like he is deciding whether to be annoyed or affectionate and then, predictably, choose neither and both at the same time as they settle lightly at your waist.

“I don’t like it,” he says finally.

You hum.

“What part?”

His eyes flick to yours properly now.

“The part where you go out with someone else and come back smiling like it’s normal.”

You blink once, then your expression softens in a way that is very deliberately not taking him seriously, even though you absolutely are.

“Logan,” you say, gently.

He looks at you like he is bracing for impact, the undeniable pain of defeat, of losing you to the suave guy who apparently was very focussed on your dessert choice. You lean your forehead against his chin. 

“I was thinking of you the whole time,” you say simply, biting the inside of your cheek when you feel his shoulder drop just a fraction. 

His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter.

“That’s not fair.”

You smile.

“Why?”

“Because I had to be normal about it in front of everyone,” he mutters.

You laugh softly at that, genuinely amused now, and he immediately looks offended by your amusement, which only makes it worse.

“You were not normal about it,” you say.

“I was.”

“You were sitting here brooding like a Victorian man in a tragic novel.”

“I was not brooding.”

“You were brooding.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, but you cut him off by pulling him closer by the front of his hoodie. His protests die unspoken on his lips, as they always do whenever you pull that move.

“There,” you say, softer now, kissing his cheek, then his jaw, deliberately unhurried. “Better?”

Logan exhales, arms coming up to wrap around your shoulders, pressing you tightly against him.

“You’re distracting,” he murmurs into your hair.

You snort against his neck, “That’s kind of the point.”

A short pause takes over the conversation, a lull in his displeasure as you dig your fingers into the plush material that stretched over his back.

Then, Logan sighs and very quietly, in the dark of his room admits, “I didn’t like imagining you laughing at someone else’s jokes.”

You pull back slightly just to look at him, hes looking down at nothing in particular, half of his face glowing a soft amber in the pool of light spilling out from his lamp, the other half hides in the shadows- he turns his head fully into the darkness when you cup his cheek and rub placating lines with your thumb against his stubble. 

“Oh,” you whisper. “You were jealous, jealous.”

“I was not-”

He stops, because you kiss him again a quick, gentle press of your lips against his- barely anything but enough to make him smile slightly and shake his head.

“You’re annoying,” he says again, but there is no heat in it.

You hum, watching how his caramel curls wrap around your fingers as you brush your hand through them. 

“You likeeeee me.” You tease, your voice barely a hushed whisper, “Baby, I don’t even have a way to contact that guy- he could tell I wasn’t into the date.”

Logan blinks at you, “Wait, what?”

“I mean- I made him swear not to tell Dean, but I think it was somewhere between me replying to you every five minutes and the fact I flinched when he tried to hold my hand” You bite your lip sheepishly, “Great guy though! I might have a friend for him.”

He finally smiles properly, small and unwilling, like it slipped out by accident, “Yeah? He can date all your friends,” His hands press against your spine, curving you into him at last. 

Logan ghosts his lips over yours, turning his head out of the shadows and back into the light. Your fingers hover over his jaw, studying the new look in his eye- a twinkle of affection that makes you melt completely into him as he whispers into your mouth, “as long as he doesn’t dare to look at you.”

𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

You woke up to the morning light personally burning your eyelids open, which probably serves you right for not bothering to shut the curtains last night. But you were slightly pre-occupied, which was evident at the string of clothes that littered the floor, you blinked sleepily whilst tracing the journey the different articles went on, leading up to the bed. 

Your bra and his shirt were intertwined by his desk while your dress lay pooled at the foot of the bed along with his sweatpants and boxers, the only thing you couldn’t account for were your underwear. 

Strange.

The birds chirped in a messy orchestra by the window, the sharp sound made you groan and stretch lazily, wincing at the delicious ache that licked down from your thighs to your toes and up through your arms. The perpetrator of these pains was still sound asleep, tucked into your shoulder with an arm flung over your bare middle, fingers twitching slightly as you rubbed your eyes and intertwined your legs with his beneath the covers. 

Logan mumbled into the pillow, or your hair, perhaps both since he was face first into the area that had been taken over by the thick fan of wispy strands, “g’morning baby,” His hands tightened on your waist, holding you still as you looped your arms around his neck. He pecked your shoulder, then the curve of your neck and ended up stifling a deep laugh against your jaw when you smacked his arm.

“I will literally snap in half if you start something mister.” You scolded softly, your words not matching your actions entirely, since your fingers had began to scratch his neck softly, grinning when he all but purred at your touch. 

“I didn’t hear you complaining last night.” He mumbled, play-biting your dewy skin. You had wiped up the obvious mess in a sleepy haze, but the dampness of sex still clung to your pores like a condensation on a can. 

You gasped theatrically and flipped the pair of you over, so you were now resting your face on his sternum, “I don’t think you would've heard much since you had me pressed into the pillow.” Your fingers traced the splattering of hair that tickled your face,

Logan smirked down at you, stroking your hair, “Once again I fail to hear a complaint.”

“You-”

“YO LOGAN!” The both of you jumped at the interruption.

“Shitshitshitshitshit” you began whispering hurriedly, your gaze whipping around the room for possible escape plans that involved leaving the premises immediately. 

It was not looking good to say the least, since Logan would probably prefer to get caught than for you to consider sneaking out of his window sans clothes. 

Dean pounded on the door, “HAVE YOU SEEN MY SISTER AROUND? I WANTED TO ASK HER ABOUT THE DATE.”

Logan groaned and was close to petulantly kicking his legs like a toddler reminded about their bedtime, “Dean I think I have more knowledge about bird sphincters than I have about your sister or her sex life.”

You gape incredulously at him and mouth, “Bird sphincters?”

Logan silently stutters and shrugs his shoulders, his hands settling on your bare hips,

You heard Dean thump his head against the door, jiggling the handle but the lock held well against his attempts, “WELL ADAM HASN’T SAID ANYTHING HAPPENED AFTER THE DATE, SO IT MUST'VE GONE BADLY.”

A beat passed where you and Logan stared at each other, “His name was Adam?”

The locations expand. The cramped, freezing backseat of your Toyota Corolla. The spacious, cologne-scented cab of his pickup. Your dorm room at Northeastern, whenever your roommate is conveniently away visiting family or out partying. Everywhere and anywhere you can find a locked door and ten minutes of privacy. 

The only boundary, the one strict, unspoken rule you both adhere to, is the off-campus house Logan shares with Garrett, Dean, and Tucker. That is enemy territory. That is a step too far. 

Tonight, however, you have home-ice advantage. 

Briar just crushed their out-of-state rivals, and Logan played out of his mind, netting two gorgeous top-shelf goals. He arrived at your dorm an hour later, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline, smelling of body wash and the crisp winter air. 

Now, the adrenaline has bled out of him, leaving a heavy, sated exhaustion in its wake. 

You are lying tangled in the sheets of your twin-sized dorm bed, your head resting comfortably on Logan’s bare chest. The room is dark, illuminated only by the amber glow of the streetlamps filtering through the blinds. Logan’s hand rests on your bare hip, his thumb slowly tracing lazy, absentminded circles against your skin. His heart is beating a steady, rhythmic thrum against your ear. 

It’s quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that makes it dangerously easy to let your guard down. 

“You were incredible tonight,” you murmur into the warm skin of his chest, pressing a soft kiss right over his heart. 

Logan chuckles, the sound vibrating through his ribs. “I had decent puck luck. And the defense was practically handing me the neutral zone. But thank you. I aim to please.”

“I’m serious,” you say, shifting slightly, pulling yourself up on your elbows so you can look down at his face. His dark hair is a messy, sweat-dampened halo against your white pillow. His sharp jawline is relaxed, his eyes soft and heavy-lidded. “I looked at your stats.”

Logan’s thumb stops moving on your hip. A subtle, almost imperceptible tension tightens the muscles of his stomach beneath you. “My stats?”

“Your draft year stats,” you clarify, your voice quiet but firm. “Logan, you scored seventy-eight points that season. Your plus-minus was off the charts. You were easily a second-round pick. Maybe third, at worst.”

“Stats don’t mean everything,” Logan deflects, his voice dropping an octave. He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to distract you. “NBD. No Big Deal.”

“Don’t do the acronym thing,” you warn gently, catching his wrist and pressing his hand flat against the mattress. “Even if you pulled your name from the draft, why hasn’t an NHL team snapped you up as an undrafted free agent? They do it all the time. Guys with half your talent get signed. But you haven’t even gone to a development camp.”

Logan stares up at you, the easy, charming facade completely stripping away, leaving behind a raw, tired vulnerability that breaks your heart. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the dim light. 

“Because I can’t,” he says simply. 

“Why not?”

Logan sighs, a long, heavy exhale that seems to carry the weight of the entire world. He shifts, pulling you down slightly so he can wrap both arms securely around your waist, burying his face in your hair for a moment before he speaks. 

“My dad was supposed to run the family business,” Logan begins, his voice quiet, almost a whisper in the dark room. “Logan & Sons. It’s a mechanic shop back home. Been in the family for three generations. But my dad ... he’s not exactly reliable.”

“Garrett said he has a drinking problem,” you offer softly. 

“That’s putting it mildly,” Logan laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. “He’s a fall-down, blackout drunk. Has been since I was a kid. When I got the scholarship to Briar, everything was falling apart. The shop was going bankrupt. My dad was completely useless. I was going to turn the scholarship down. Stay home. Run the shop.”

You feel a sharp ache in your chest. You look at this guy — this funny, sarcastic, wildly talented guy — and realize just how much he’s been carrying underneath the jokes. 

“But you didn’t,” you say. 

“No,” Logan shakes his head against the pillow. “My older brother, Jeff, stepped in. He had a great job, a life he was building, but he quit. He moved back home to run the shop and keep an eye on the old man so I could come to Briar.”

Logan pauses, his grip on your waist tightening slightly. “We made a deal. Jeff puts his life on hold for four years so I can play college hockey and get a degree. But the second I graduate? We swap. I go back, take over the shop, take care of our dad, and Jeff gets his life back. He gets to go free.”

The silence in the dorm room is deafening. You stare at him, processing the sheer magnitude of the sacrifice he’s making. He is willingly walking away from a multi-million dollar NHL career, from a dream he is actively living, out of a misplaced sense of duty. 

“Logan ...” you breathe out, the injustice of it making your blood boil. 

“It is what it is,” Logan says, offering you a tight, forced smile. “It’s fair. Jeff sacrificed for me, I sacrifice for him. End of story.”

“No,” you say, your voice suddenly hard. You push yourself entirely out of his arms, sitting back on your heels near his waist. The sheet pools around your hips, leaving you completely exposed to the cool air of the room, but you don’t care. 

Logan frowns, reaching a hand out toward you. “Y/N-”

“No, Logan, listen to me,” you interrupt, leaning over him, your eyes blazing. “You do not owe that man your life.”

Logan flinches slightly, dropping his hand. “He’s my dad.”

“I know exactly what it’s like to have a monster for a father,” you say, your voice trembling with a fierce, protective anger. “You know what my dad was. You know what he did to me, to Garrett, to our mom. Being a father is a biological fact, not a lifelong debt.”

Logan stares at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “It’s not just him. It’s the shop. It’s Jeff.”

“So sell the shop!” You practically shout, mindful at the last second to keep your voice down so you don’t wake the RA next door. You lower your volume, leaning closer, your hands pressing flat against his chest. “Sell it. Let it burn to the ground. Take the NHL contract, take the signing bonus, and give half of it to Jeff to start whatever business he wants. Why do you have to go back to a dead-end town to run a failing shop for a man who clearly doesn’t give a shit about either of you?”

Logan looks entirely taken aback. His eyes are wide, searching your face as if he’s looking for the punchline, but you are deadly serious. 

“It’s family legacy,” Logan murmurs weakly, though the conviction in his voice is entirely gone. 

“It’s an anchor,” you correct him fiercely. “Logan, you are brilliant on the ice. You are a star. You deserve to see that become a reality. You don’t have to set yourself on fire just to keep your father warm.”

Logan closes his eyes, a heavy shudder running through his large frame. He brings a hand up to drag over his face, completely overwhelmed. He’s spent the last three years perfectly resigned to his fate, perfectly compartmentalizing his impending doom, and you have just ripped the walls completely down. 

“I can’t,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I gave my word.”

“You made a bad deal,” you counter, softening your tone. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, your fingers combing gently through his hair. “I’m not saying you have to screw your brother over. I’m saying you have other options. Better options. You just have to be brave enough to take them.”

Logan opens his eyes, looking up at you. The raw, desperate affection in his gaze makes your breath hitch. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

“It’s why I’m a good center,” you smile softly. “I don’t let the play die.”

“I’ll ...” Logan swallows hard, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw, the line of your collarbone. “I’ll think about it. Okay? I can’t promise anything else right now, but I will think about it.”

“Promise me you’ll actually think about it,” you demand, holding his gaze. “Promise you won’t just bury this the second you leave this room.”

“I promise,” Logan says, and you can hear the sincerity ringing crystal clear in his deep voice. 

The heavy, emotional tension in the air hangs between you for a moment longer. You look down at him, taking in the broad expanse of his chest, the heavy muscles of his arms, the faint, silver scars scattered across his collarbone from years of taking hits on the ice. He is so incredibly strong, yet he’s letting himself be completely vulnerable with you. 

A fierce, possessive kind of affection swells in your chest. You want to take all the heavy burdens he’s carrying and completely erase them, even if it’s just for the rest of the night. You want to remind him exactly how good it feels to just exist in his own body, entirely for himself. 

“Good,” you whisper, a slow, wicked smile curving onto your lips. 

You slowly slide backward. 

Logan’s breath catches in his throat as your knees drag down the sides of his hips. You catch the edge of the white duvet cover and pull it up over your head, plunging yourself into the warm, dark cocoon of the bed, right between his legs. 

“Y/N,” Logan gasps, his hands instantly dropping to his sides, his fingers gripping the fitted sheet. 

You ignore him, crawling further down. The heat radiating off his skin under the heavy duvet is intoxicating, mixing with his masculine scent. You settle between his thighs, the muscles in his legs instantly tensing against your ribs. 

You reach out, your hands flattening against his lower stomach, feeling the sharp, defined ridges of his abs clenching under your touch. You press open-mouthed kisses along his hip bones, taking your time, letting your lips drag against his sensitive skin. 

Logan lets out a ragged, trembling exhale above the covers. The mattress shifts as he tilts his hips up into your touch, completely at your mercy. 

You trail your hands lower, your fingers wrapping around his thick, heavy length. The second your skin makes contact with him, Logan lets out a choked, desperate curse. 

You lean down, flicking your tongue out to taste the salty, musky skin at the tip before taking him completely into your mouth. 

The sound Logan makes is a guttural, wounded moan that vibrates straight through the mattress. You hear the rustle of the sheets above you as his hands completely let go of the bed, diving under the covers to find you. His large, calloused fingers tangle instantly into your hair, gripping the strands tightly, though he doesn’t push you down. He just holds on like he’s drowning and you are the only lifeline he has left. 

You set a slow, torturous pace. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, swirling and sucking with a deep, deliberate suction that makes his hips snap upward involuntarily. 

“Holy fuck,” Logan breathes out, his voice cracking entirely. “Y/N. Sweetheart.”

You slide your hands down to cup his heavy, warm base, your thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there while you take him deeper into your mouth. You love the contrast of this. Out in the real world, Logan is the untouchable hockey star, the guy with the easy grin who deflects everything, the guy who carries the weight of his family’s failure on his broad shoulders. 

But right here, hiding under the sheets of your dorm bed, he is completely unraveling. 

You increase your pace, your mouth working rhythmically, creating a tight, wet friction that is driving him completely insane. You can feel the rapid, frantic pulse beating against your tongue. You drag your teeth lightly — just enough to tease — against the underside of his shaft, and Logan’s entire body violently arches off the mattress. 

“Don’t—fuck, don’t stop,” he begs, his grip in your hair tightening almost painfully as his hips begin to thrust up to meet your mouth. 

He is losing whatever control he had left, his movements becoming erratic and desperate. You accommodate him perfectly, swallowing his harsh, rhythmic thrusts, letting him set the pace as he chases the high. The musky, intoxicating taste of him fills your mouth, the heat under the covers becoming stifling, thick with the scent of sex and sweat. 

“Look at me,” Logan commands suddenly, his voice a harsh, breathless rasp. 

He tugs firmly on your hair, pulling the duvet down just enough so you can see his face. 

The sight of him makes your own core throb with a sharp, answering heat. Logan’s head is thrown back against the pillows, his neck arched in absolute agony. His chest is heaving, completely slick with sweat, every single muscle locked tight. His eyes are blown wide, his pupils dilated so completely that his irises are barely visible in the dim light. 

He looks down at you, watching your mouth slide over him, and a dark, primal sound rips from his throat. 

“You are going to kill me,” he groans, his hips snapping upward with a brutal, punishing force. 

“Let me,” you dare him, your words muffled against his skin. You drop your head back down, taking him as deep as you possibly can, swallowing his moan entirely. 

Logan shatters. 

His body goes completely rigid, a massive shudder wracking his large frame. He cries out your name, a loud, broken sound that completely fills the small dorm room. He holds you tightly in place, his hips pinned upward as wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure crashes through him. 

You continue to use a gentle suction, milking every last drop of his climax, swallowing him completely. He tastes salty and rich, an incredibly intimate reward for completely breaking down his walls. 

Slowly, the violent tremors wracking his body begin to subside. His hips drop back down against the mattress heavily, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged gasps for air. 

You pull back slowly, licking your lips, before crawling back up his body. 

Logan’s eyes are closed, a look of utter devastation and absolute peace painted across his handsome features. As you settle back onto his chest, he wraps his arms around you instantly, crushing you against his sweaty skin with a desperate, terrifying strength. 

He presses a fierce, bruising kiss to the top of your head, burying his face in your hair. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Logan whispers, his voice still shaking with the aftershocks of his climax. “But I swear to God, Y/N, I am never letting you go.”

You wrap your arms around his torso, holding him just as tightly, ignoring the lingering threat of Garrett, the complicated mess of his family, and the terrifying reality that you are falling entirely, deeply in love with your brother’s best friend. 

“Good,” you whisper against his skin. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

***

You are officially a terrible person, a liar, and a fraud. But as Logan drags his open mouth down the sensitive column of your neck, you decide you really, truly do not care. 

It has been exactly three months and twelve days since that rainy night in Logan’s truck. Three months of sneaking around, of perfectly timed lies, of stolen glances across crowded rooms while Garrett remained blissfully unaware. You’ve mastered the art of the secret relationship. 

Tonight’s masterpiece? Faking a debilitating stomach bug. 

Your roommate had looked at you with deep pity before heading out to dinner. You coughed weakly, clutching your stomach, and promised her you’d just sleep it off. The second the door clicked shut behind her, you were texting Logan. Ten minutes later, he was slipping through your door, locking it behind him, and dropping his duffel bag to the floor with a heavy, hungry look in his eyes. 

Now, the dorm room is suffocatingly hot, the air thick with the heavy scent of sweat, expensive cologne, and sex. The blinds are drawn tight, the only light coming from the small desk lamp in the corner. 

Logan is a heavy, solid weight pressing you deep into your mattress. He’s completely bare, his broad, violently muscled chest slick with a sheen of sweat. You are tangled beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back to pull him as close as physically possible. 

“You’re beautiful,” Logan rasps, his voice a dark, jagged sound that vibrates against your collarbone. 

“Stop talking,” you manage to gasp out, your hands sliding up the slick, hot skin of his back to grip his broad shoulders. “Just please, Logan.”

Logan chuckles against your skin, a rough, devastating sound. He shifts his weight, rising up slightly on his forearms to look down at you. His dark hair is completely disheveled, hanging in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, drowning out the color of his irises entirely. The raw, predatory hunger in his gaze makes your heart hammer a frantic rhythm against your ribs. 

He aligns himself perfectly, his hips cradled securely between your thighs. He doesn’t hesitate. With one long, smooth, devastating push, he sinks completely inside you. 

You cry out, the sound muffled entirely by Logan’s mouth as he swoops down to capture your lips. The kiss is deep and frantic, his tongue mimicking the slow, agonizing stretch of his body filling yours. You are stretched so perfectly, filled so completely, that a violent shiver wracks your entire frame. 

He is quite literally balls-deep, the heavy slap of his hips meeting yours echoing sharply in the quiet room. 

“God, Y/N,” Logan groans into your mouth, tearing his lips away to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He begins to move. 

The pace he sets is punishing. There is no slow buildup tonight, no teasing restraint. It is raw, desperate, and entirely unhinged. Every thrust is impossibly deep, drawing a high, breathy moan from your throat that you can’t even try to suppress. Your nails drag down his back, leaving faint, pink crescent moons in his skin. 

The mattress squeaks rhythmically under the violent force of his movements. Logan’s hands find your hips, his large, calloused fingers digging into your skin, anchoring you to the bed as he dominates the space. 

“Logan,” you sob, throwing your head back against the pillow, your eyes fluttering shut. “I’m going to-”

“I know, sweetheart,” he grunts, his thrusts turning jagged and erratic as his own control begins to snap. “Come on. Let it go.”

You are completely lost to the storm. The tight, spiraling coil of heat in your lower stomach is pulling tighter and tighter with every heavy slide of his body. You arch up to meet him, matching his desperate, punishing rhythm. You are seconds away from shattering. Logan is right there with you, his jaw clenched tight, his entire body going rigid as he prepares to find his release. 

And then, the sound of a key sliding into the lock of your dorm door echoes like a gunshot. 

The heavy deadbolt clicks. 

The door swings open. 

“Hey, kiddo, Cammi told me you were dying, so I brought-”

Garrett’s voice fills the room. 

Everything happens in a fraction of a millisecond. 

Logan freezes entirely, his body locking up mid-thrust, still buried impossibly deep inside you. You freeze beneath him, your eyes snapping open in absolute, paralyzing horror. 

Garrett stops dead in the doorway. 

The plastic grocery bag in his hand — heavy with chicken noodle soup, a two-liter bottle of ginger ale, and a box of Saltines — slips from his fingers. It hits the linoleum floor with a sickening, wet crash. The plastic container of soup bursts open, sending hot broth splashing across the floorboards. The ginger ale bottle rolls lazily toward the edge of the rug. 

For a single, agonizing second, the universe completely stops spinning. 

Garrett is staring at the bed. At his best friend. At his baby sister. Tangled together in a mess of bare skin and heavy breathing. 

The color drains entirely from Garrett’s face, leaving him a sickly, ghostly pale. And then, the shock violently transforms into pure, unadulterated, murderous rage. His face flushes a deep, dangerous crimson. The veins in his neck bulge against his skin. 

“What the fuck?” Garrett roars, the sound shaking the very walls of the dorm room. 

Chaos erupts. 

Logan violently scrambles backward, pulling out of you so fast you gasp. He practically falls off the side of the narrow bed, desperately grabbing for his discarded sweatpants on the floor. 

You scramble backward against the headboard, frantically pulling the thin white duvet up over your bare chest, your hands trembling so violently you can barely grip the fabric. 

“Garrett!” You scream, your voice cracking with sheer panic. 

But Garrett isn’t looking at you. He is looking at Logan. 

With a guttural, animalistic snarl, Garrett lunges across the room. He clears the distance in two massive strides, his hands curling into tight, white-knuckled fists. Logan is only halfway into his sweatpants, entirely off-balance, when Garrett grabs him by the throat and slams him brutally against the cinderblock wall. 

“Garrett, no!” You shriek, scrambling out from under the covers. 

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Garrett bellows, drawing his right fist back, preparing to shatter Logan’s jaw into a thousand pieces. 

Logan doesn’t even raise his hands to defend himself. He just stands there, pinned against the wall, taking it. He looks entirely resigned to his fate, his eyes locked onto Garrett’s furious face. 

You don’t think. You just move. 

You launch yourself off the bed, entirely uncaring that you are wearing nothing but a frantically grabbed bedsheet wrapped haphazardly around your body. You throw yourself directly between them, pressing your back flush against Logan’s chest and throwing your hands up to shove hard against Garrett’s shoulders. 

“Stop it! Get away from him!” You scream, your voice tearing painfully at your throat. 

Garrett’s fist stops mere inches from your face. 

He freezes, staring down at you. His chest is heaving violently, his eyes completely wild. He looks down at your bare shoulders, at the white sheet clutched desperately to your chest, and then over your shoulder at Logan’s pale, terrified face. 

The raw, physical betrayal hitting Garrett is palpable. It’s like watching a building collapse in real-time. He steps back, his hands dropping to his sides as if he’s been burned. 

“Y/N,” Garrett whispers, his voice cracking, entirely devoid of the rage from a second ago. Now, it just sounds broken. “What ... what is this?”

You swallow a massive lump of panic, tears springing to your eyes. “Garrett, please. Just give us a second. Let us put some clothes on. Please.”

Garrett looks between the two of you, his jaw clenching so hard you can hear his teeth grinding together. He looks nauseated. He takes another step back, kicking the empty ginger ale bottle out of his way. 

“Two minutes,” Garrett bites out, his voice a terrifying, deadpan monotone. “You have two minutes. And then I am coming back in here, and if you lie to me, Logan, I am going to end your fucking life.”

Garrett turns on his heel and storms out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force to rattle the hinges. 

The silence he leaves behind is suffocating. 

You let out a harsh, jagged sob, dropping your face into your hands. Your knees finally give out, and you slump down onto the edge of the mattress. 

Logan is beside you in an instant. He pulls his sweatpants up, tying the drawstring with shaking fingers, before grabbing an oversized hoodie from the floor and pulling it over your head. He helps you guide your arms through the sleeves, his touch incredibly gentle despite the sheer panic radiating off him in waves. 

“Hey,” Logan whispers, crouching down in front of you, gripping your knees. His face is pale, a faint red mark forming on his throat where Garrett grabbed him. “Look at me, sweetheart. Look at me.”

You drop your hands, looking at him through blurry, tear-filled eyes. “He hates me. He hates us.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Logan says fiercely, though his own voice is shaking. “He’s shocked. He has every right to be pissed. I broke the one rule he gave me.”

“We both broke it,” you sniffle, grabbing a pair of sweatpants from your dresser and hastily pulling them on. 

Logan stands up, running both hands through his messy hair, pacing the small stretch of floor. He grabs his own shirt, pulling it over his head. “I’m not going to let him blame you. This is on me. I’m the older guy, I’m his best friend. I should have ...” 

Logan cuts himself off, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not sorry. I can’t even lie and say I regret it.”

You look up at him, your heart aching. “Me neither.”

The door handle rattles angrily. 

“Time’s up,” Garrett’s voice barks from the hallway. 

“Come in,” Logan says, squaring his broad shoulders, stepping deliberately in front of you as if to shield you from the blast zone. 

Garrett walks back into the room. He pointedly ignores the puddle of spilled soup on the floor. He looks at Logan, and the utter disdain in his eyes makes you flinch. Garrett crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the closed door. 

“Talk,” Garrett demands. “And it better be the absolute, unvarnished truth.”

Logan exhales slowly. “It didn’t start the way you think it did, G.”

“Oh, really?” Garrett spits, his tone dripping with venom. “How did it start, Logan? Did you slip into her DMs? Did you corner her after a game? Did you look at the one person in this world I told you to protect and decide you wanted to screw her instead?”

“Garrett, stop,” you say sharply, stepping out from behind Logan. You refuse to let Logan take the entire firing squad alone. “He didn’t do any of that.”

Garrett’s eyes snap to you, the betrayal flaring up again. “Then how, Y/N? Because from where I’m standing, my best friend has been sleeping with my baby sister behind my back for God knows how long.”

“Since the first night of the season,” you say quietly. 

Garrett’s brow furrows in confusion. “What? The first night ... you went out with your team.”

“Exactly,” Logan interjects, his voice calm, trying to de-escalate the vibrating tension in the room. “We were both there. I walked away from the guys to get a drink. I saw a girl on the dance floor. I went up to her. We ... we hooked up.”

Garrett’s eyes widen slightly. “In the club?”

“In the bathroom,” you clarify, a hot flush of shame creeping up your neck, but you refuse to break eye contact with your brother. “We didn’t know who each other was, Garrett. It was dark. We didn’t exchange names. We didn’t talk about schools. It was just a random hookup.”

“A random hookup,” Garrett repeats, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He looks at Logan. “You didn’t know it was her?”

“I swear to God on my life, G, I had absolutely no idea,” Logan says fiercely, stepping forward, his hands held out pleadingly. “If I had known, I never would have touched her. You know me.”

“Do I?” Garrett laughs bitterly. “Because if that’s true, when did you figure it out? The diner?”

“Yes,” you answer for him. “Outside your locker room, when you introduced us. That was the first time we realized.”

Garrett stares at you both, processing the timeline. The anger in his eyes slowly, painfully shifts into a deep, profound hurt. “So, at the diner ... when I sat there, pouring my heart out to you guys. When I begged you, Logan, to treat her like a sister. To protect her. You sat there, looking me dead in the eye, having already fucked her. And you promised me.”

Logan physically recoils as if Garrett just punched him in the gut. He closes his eyes, a heavy shudder running through him. “I know. I know, G. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I felt like absolute scum.”

“You are scum,” Garrett snaps. 

“Garrett, that’s not fair,” you plead, taking a step toward your brother. “We tried to stay away from each other. We really did. But we couldn’t. It just ... it happened. And it kept happening. It’s not just a physical thing anymore. I care about him. A lot.”

Garrett looks at you, his protective instincts warring violently with his sense of betrayal. He sees the absolute sincerity in your eyes. He sees the way you stepped in front of Logan’s body to protect him from the punch. You aren’t just some puck bunny Logan is using. You’re in deep. 

Garrett drags a hand down his face, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He looks at Logan, who is standing completely still, waiting for the verdict. 

“How long?” Garrett asks, his voice entirely drained. “How long has it kept happening?”

“Since the night her car broke down,” Logan answers quietly. “Three months.”

“Three months,” Garrett shakes his head in disbelief. “You’ve been lying to my face for three months. Sitting in our living room, drinking my beers, playing video games, pretending nothing was going on.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Logan says earnestly. “I brought it up a hundred times, but we knew how you’d react. We knew you’d lose your mind. I didn’t want to ruin the team. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“Well, congratulations,” Garrett says coldly. “You managed to do both.”

“Garrett, please,” you beg, tears finally spilling over your lashes, tracking hot and fast down your cheeks. “Don’t do this. Don’t cut him off. Don’t cut me off.”

Garrett looks at you, seeing the tears, and his harsh exterior finally cracks. He has spent his entire life trying to protect you from getting hurt, from crying. The fact that he is the one causing it right now, even if he feels justified, breaks him. 

He walks over to you, wrapping his large arms around you and pulling you into a tight, suffocating hug. You bury your face in his chest, sobbing quietly. Garrett rests his chin on the top of your head, glaring dagger at Logan over your shoulder. 

“I’m not cutting you off, kiddo,” Garrett whispers into your hair. “I could never cut you off. You’re my sister.”

He pulls back slightly, keeping his hands firmly planted on your shoulders. He turns his head to look directly at Logan. The atmosphere in the room instantly shifts from a broken family to a deadly serious warning. 

“But you,” Garrett points a thick, accusatory finger at Logan. “Sit down.”

Logan immediately drops into the desk chair in the corner of the room, looking up at Garrett with wide, cautious eyes. 

“You listen to me, John Logan, and you listen to me very carefully,” Garrett begins, his voice low, deadly, and completely devoid of any brotherly affection. This is the captain speaking. This is the fiercely protective older brother who survived a monster. 

Logan nods tightly. “I’m listening.”

“You and I are going to have a very long, very painful conversation about trust and friendship later,” Garrett says, his eyes boring into Logan’s. “But right now, we are talking about her.”

Garrett points to you. “You know what we went through. You know the hell our father put us through. You know how hard it is for her to trust guys, how hard it is for her to let anyone in.”

“I know,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting to you, softening entirely. 

“I don’t give a shit about your daddy issues. I don’t give a shit about your family mechanic shop, or the deal you made with your brother, or how much you hate yourself for giving up the NHL,” Garrett continues, ruthlessly utilizing the deepest, darkest secrets Logan had confided in him over the years. Logan flinches at the casual weaponry of his secrets, but he takes it. 

“If you make her your emotional punching bag,” Garrett snarls, taking a step closer to Logan, looming over the desk chair. “If you use her to escape your own miserable reality, and then you drop her when things get too hard ... I will not just punch you.”

Garrett leans down, his face inches from Logan’s. “I will systematically destroy your life. I will break both your legs so you can never step foot on the ice again. I will make sure you wish you had never met me. Do you understand?”

The room is completely silent, save for the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner. 

Logan doesn’t look away. He doesn’t cower. The cocky, charming boy from the Briar team is completely gone, replaced by a man who knows exactly what he wants and exactly what it costs. 

“I understand,” Logan says, his voice steady, entirely lacking the fear Garrett was trying to instill. He looks up at his best friend. “But you’re wrong about one thing, G.”

Garrett narrows his eyes. “Oh?”

“I’m not using her to escape,” Logan says fiercely, standing up from the chair. He is an inch taller than Garrett, and right now, he uses every bit of that height to stand his ground. “She is the only real thing in my life. I love her, Garrett.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. You gasp, your hands flying up to cover your mouth. He has never said that to you. Not in the dark of his truck, not in the quiet of his bed. He chose to say it here, to your brother, facing down a firing squad. 

Garrett stares at Logan, completely stunned. The anger deflates entirely, leaving him disarmed. He looks at Logan’s resolute face, then looks over at you, seeing the absolute awe and adoration radiating from your tear-stained eyes. 

Garrett sighs, running a hand through his hair, looking suddenly incredibly exhausted. “You’re an idiot, Logan.”

“I know,” Logan agrees softly. 

“And you,” Garrett points at you, though there is no heat behind it anymore. “You’re grounded.”

“I’m in college, Garrett,” you laugh, a wet, watery sound. “You can’t ground me.”

“Watch me,” Garrett mutters. He looks at the spilled soup on the floor, the puddle of chicken broth soaking into the cheap dorm rug. He groans. “I bought that soup for nothing. You aren’t even sick.”

“I have a slight headache,” you offer weakly. 

Garrett rolls his eyes. He looks at Logan one last time, offering a slow, reluctant nod. It isn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it is an acceptance of the reality. 

“Clean up this mess,” Garrett orders Logan. “And then get the hell out of here. I don’t want to see your face for at least forty-eight hours.”

“Got it, Cap,” Logan says, the relief in his voice palpable. 

Garrett walks to the door, pulling it open. He looks back at you, a small, tired smile on his face. “Call me tomorrow. We are having lunch. In public. Where everyone can see your hands.”

“Okay,” you nod. 

Garrett leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. 

The silence returns, but the suffocating tension is completely gone. Logan stares at the closed door for a long second before his knees practically give out. He leans heavily against the desk, letting out a massive, shaky breath, dragging his hands down his face. 

You walk over to him slowly. You reach out, wrapping your arms around his waist from the front, resting your cheek against his chest. His heart is still racing. 

Logan immediately wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you so tightly it aches. 

“You love me?” You whisper against his skin, the words feeling incredibly fragile. 

Logan pulls back just enough to look down at you. His eyes are bright, filled with a terrifying, absolute certainty. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. 

“I love you,” Logan says, his voice completely clear. “More than hockey. More than anything. NFD.”

You let out a watery laugh, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “No Freaking Doubt.”

“Exactly,” Logan smiles, the familiar, charming smirk finally returning to his handsome face. He looks over your shoulder at the massive puddle of chicken soup on the floor. He sighs. “Now, where do you keep the paper towels?”

***

The roar of the crowd inside the TD Garden is a living, breathing entity. It vibrates through the concrete floors, rattling the expensive plastic of the seats in the lower bowl, and humming straight into your bones. 

“I’m just saying,” Dean shouts, leaning over Tucker to make himself heard over the deafening noise of the arena. “That jersey is a literal crime against the sport of hockey. If the purists see you, they will drag you out of here and burn you at the stake.”

“It’s a masterpiece,” you shout back, smoothing your hands over the front of the heavy fabric. 

You are wearing a custom-stitched abomination. The left half is a black and gold Boston Bruins jersey with GRA and the number 4 across the back. The right half is stitched directly down the middle, featuring GAN and the number 2. It is incredibly ugly, utterly confusing to the casual fan, and the most prized possession in your entire closet. 

Tucker adjusts his glasses, looking at the jagged seam running down your spine. “It’s structurally unsound, Y/N. The tensile strength of that thread is fighting a losing battle against the heavy-weight polyester.”

“Shut up, Tucker,” you laugh, your eyes completely glued to the ice. “Just watch the game.”

It is the final game of the regular NHL season. The Bruins have already clinched their playoff spot and secured the top seed in their division. In a brilliant, strategic move to rest their battered veterans before the grueling post-season begins, the coaching staff called up their newest, youngest prospects to fill out the roster for the night. 

To let the young guns show exactly what they can do. 

Down on the ice, the game is tied 2-2 against the Panthers in the third period. And right in the middle of the offensive zone, weaving through professional, fully-grown NHL defensemen like they are training cones, is Logan. 

Your chest swells with an overwhelming, suffocating amount of pride. 

The last twelve months have been an absolute whirlwind of chaos, triumph, and sheer, stubborn willpower. You hadn’t let Logan back down that night in your dorm room. You forced him to see his own worth, and slowly, painfully, he had unraveled the heavy chains of his father’s legacy. 

He had driven back home with Garrett for backup. He and his older brother had sat down and finally, honestly talked. They sold Logan & Sons to a commercial developer who wanted the land. It wasn’t a fortune, but Logan aggressively fought for Jeff to keep every single dime of the meager profit so he could start his own life. The hardest part had been their father, but with the money from the sale, they finally checked the old man into a long-term, specialized rehab facility. 

For the first time in his entire life, Logan was free. 

And he played like it. Free of the crushing weight of his future, Logan had absolutely dominated his senior year at Briar. He and Garrett had led the team all the way to the Frozen Four, culminating in a spectacular, nail-biting victory to win the NCAA National Championship just three weeks ago. 

And then, the phone rang. Undrafted, overlooked, but undeniable — the Boston Bruins offered John Logan an Entry-Level Contract. 

Now, he is here. Earning his ice time. 

The puck cycles around the boards. Garrett, wearing the black and gold like he was born for it, digs the puck out of the corner with a vicious check that sends a Panthers defenseman crashing to the ice. Garrett doesn’t even look, he just knows. He fires a blind, spinning backhand pass straight across the slot. 

Logan is exactly where he needs to be. 

He doesn’t stop the puck. He doesn’t stickhandle. He drops to one knee and one-times the shot with the devastating, explosive power that has haunted goalies all year. 

The puck goes top-shelf, completely blowing past the goaltender’s glove, pinging off the crossbar, and burying itself in the back of the net. 

The goal horn absolutely shatters the air. The red light flashes. The TD Garden erupts into pure pandemonium. 

You jump to your feet, screaming so loudly your throat instantly burns. Dean and Tucker are out of their seats, too, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you as the crowd completely loses its mind. 

Down on the ice, Logan throws his arms in the air, a massive, blinding smile breaking across his face. Garrett is the first one to reach him, tackling his best friend into the glass. The rest of the line swarms them, a massive pile of black and gold celebrating the rookie connection. 

“That’s my boyfriend!” You scream at the top of your lungs, not caring who hears you. “And my brother! Those are my boys!”

“Absolute filth!” Dean yells, high-fiving a random stranger in the row in front of you. “Did you see those hands? The Briar boys are taking over!”

The final five minutes of the game pass in a blur of frantic defense, but the Bruins hold the lead. When the final buzzer sounds, securing the 3-2 victory, you feel tears hot and heavy in the corners of your eyes. 

He did it. They both did it. 

***

The tunnel underneath the TD Garden smells like millions of dollars of athletic equipment, sweat, and cheap champagne. You, Dean, and Tucker are waiting by the family and friends barricade outside the Bruins locker room. 

The heavy double doors swing open, and a wave of massive, suited-up men begins to filter out. 

Garrett spots you first. He is wearing a sharp, dark blue suit, his hair still damp from the showers. He looks completely exhausted, sporting a fresh cut on his chin, but he is glowing with sheer adrenaline. 

“Get over here!” Garrett grins, bypassing the barricade and wrapping you in a massive, bone-crushing hug. 

“You were amazing,” you laugh, squeezing him back just as fiercely. “That pass was unreal, G.”

“Hey, I just put it in his wheelhouse,” Garrett says, pulling back and ruffling your hair affectionately. “He had to do the hard part.”

Garrett turns to fist-bump Dean and Tucker, launching immediately into a breakdown of the defensive pairings. 

You look past Garrett’s shoulder, and your breath completely stalls in your chest. 

Logan walks out of the locker room. He is wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit, a crisp white shirt completely unbuttoned at the collar, and no tie. He looks older, sharper, completely transformed from the college boy in the messy hoodies. But when his eyes lock onto yours, the incredibly soft, reverent expression on his face is exactly the same. 

He drops his duffel bag entirely. He doesn’t say a word. He just walks straight up to you, wrapping his large hands around your waist, and lifts you completely off the floor. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne. 

“You did it,” you whisper against his skin, your voice shaking with emotion. “You’re in the NHL, Logan.”

Logan presses a hard, lingering kiss to the side of your head before setting you back down. He doesn’t let go of your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He looks down at you, his eyes scanning your face before dropping to the absolute monstrosity you are wearing. 

A slow, highly amused smirk spreads across his face. 

“Sweetheart,” Logan drawls, his voice a low, raspy rumble that instantly makes your stomach flip. “I love you with my entire heart. But that jersey is a profound tragedy. AFT. Absolute Fucking Tragedy.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, slapping his chest lightly. “It represents my dual loyalties. I couldn’t pick just one of you for your debut.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” Garrett chimes in, though his lips are twitching. “Even if my side is clearly the superior half.”

“Debatable,” Logan shoots back effortlessly. He looks down at you again, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate line over your hip bone, right through the heavy fabric of the jersey. His eyes darken significantly, the adrenaline of the game bleeding seamlessly into a different, much heavier kind of hunger. “You ready to get out of here?”

You look at the tight clench of his jaw, at the raw heat burning in his eyes, and you instantly know exactly what he needs. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, your voice dropping an octave. “Take me home.”

***

Logan’s new apartment in the city is a sleek, modern high-rise with massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Boston skyline. But tonight, you couldn’t care less about the view. 

The second the heavy front door clicks shut behind you, locking the world outside, the remaining shred of Logan’s restraint violently snaps. 

He drops his keys onto the console table, grabbing the lapels of your ugly, half-and-half jersey, and pulls you flush against his chest. His mouth crashes down onto yours with a desperate, bruising force. You gasp into his mouth, your hands immediately flying up to tangle in his damp, dark hair. 

The kiss is explosive. It is loaded with the pent-up tension of the last year, the sheer relief of his father’s rehab, the triumph of the National Championship, and the blinding reality of his NHL debut. Every single emotion he has been bottling up is pouring directly into you. 

“Logan,” you moan against his lips, tasting the faint, lingering salt of his sweat mixed with the sharp mint of his gum. 

“I need you,” he groans, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your core. “Right now. I need you right now.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. His hands grip the bottom hem of the jersey, pulling it up and over your head in one fluid motion, tossing the expensive, custom-made fabric carelessly onto the hardwood floor. 

You are left wearing a small, black lace bra and your jeans. Logan’s eyes sweep over your body, completely blown wide with lust. 

“My turn,” you breathe, reaching for the lapels of his charcoal suit jacket. 

You push it off his broad shoulders, letting it join your jersey on the floor. Your hands move frantically to the buttons of his crisp white dress shirt. You manage to undo three before your patience entirely runs out, and you just grip the fabric and pull. Two buttons pop off, pinging sharply against the floorboards, but neither of you cares. 

You push the shirt off his arms, leaving him entirely bare from the waist up. His chest is heaving, the heavy, defined muscles of his torso rising and falling rapidly under your touch. You press your palms flat against his hot skin, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach. 

Logan lets out a harsh, jagged breath, his hands dropping to the waistband of your jeans. He pops the button and pulls the zipper down, sliding his large, warm hands inside the denim to grip the bare curve of your hips. 

With effortless strength, he lifts you entirely off the floor. 

You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, your ankles crossing behind his back. Logan walks you backward through the apartment, his mouth devouring yours the entire way, until your back hits the cool plaster wall of the hallway. 

He pins you there, his body a solid, immovable weight against yours. The heavy friction of his slacks grinding against the soft denim of your half-undone jeans is maddening. 

“You have no idea,” Logan mutters against your neck, his lips blazing a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jawline and over your collarbone. “You have no idea what you do to me. You saved my life, Y/N.”

“You saved yourself,” you whisper, arching your neck to give him better access. 

“No,” he counters fiercely, biting down gently on a sensitive spot just below your ear, sending a violent shockwave of pleasure straight to your center. “I was drowning. I was perfectly content to drown. And you pulled me out.”

His hands slide around to cup the back of your thighs, lifting you slightly higher against the wall. The angle is agonizingly perfect. 

“Show me,” you challenge him, your voice shaking with pure, unadulterated need. “Show me, Logan.”

His eyes flash with a dark, primal heat. He sets you back down on your feet just long enough to ruthlessly strip the rest of your clothes away. You kick your jeans aside, stepping out of your underwear, leaving you completely bare. Logan makes quick work of his slacks and boxer briefs, his eyes never leaving your face. 

The second he is free, he crowds you back against the wall. The sudden, intense shock of his hot, bare skin pressing flush against yours draws a loud gasp from your throat. 

Logan reaches down, his calloused fingers sliding between your thighs. He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t prep. He knows exactly how ready you are. He finds your center, his thumb pressing firmly against your most sensitive spot, and you completely shatter before he even truly begins. 

“Logan!” You cry out, your knees buckling entirely. 

He catches you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist to hold you up as the violent wave of the orgasm rips through you. You sob into his shoulder, your muscles clenching uncontrollably around nothing, desperate for the solid weight of him. 

“I’ve got you,” Logan murmurs, his voice thick and rough. “I’ve always got you.”

He waits for the tremors to subside before shifting his grip. He parts your thighs with his knee, aligning himself perfectly at your entrance. He looks down at you, the raw, desperate devotion in his eyes making your breath completely stall in your lungs. 

“Mine,” Logan whispers, the word a fierce, undeniable claim. 

“Yours,” you agree instantly. 

He pushes inside you in one long, devastating thrust. 

The sensation is entirely overwhelming. You throw your head back against the wall, a loud, broken moan escaping your lips as he fills you completely. Logan groans deeply, resting his forehead against yours, his chest heaving as he takes a second to simply feel the incredible, suffocating tightness of your body wrapping around his. 

“You feel incredible,” he breathes out, his voice shaking. 

“Don’t stop,” you plead, your hands sliding up to grip his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. 

Logan pulls back almost entirely before driving forward again, setting a slow, agonizingly deep pace. The hallway is entirely silent save for the heavy, wet slide of bodies and the ragged, desperate sound of your synchronized breathing. Every thrust is precise, deliberate, completely burying himself inside you. 

The friction against the wall is intense, the cool plaster a stark contrast to the boiling heat of his body. 

“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan commands, his voice a harsh rasp. 

You comply immediately, lifting your legs to wrap securely around his waist, locking your ankles together. The change in angle allows him to hit perfectly, impossibly deep. 

The slow, torturous pace vanishes. Logan’s restraint completely snaps. 

He grips your hips with bruising force, his thrusts becoming frantic, punishing, and entirely unhinged. He is completely lost in you, chasing the high, pouring every ounce of the night’s adrenaline directly into your body. You cling to him, matching his desperate rhythm, your moans bouncing off the walls of the quiet apartment. 

“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a hard, bruising kiss against your pulse point. “I’m going to-”

“Me too,” you sob out, the second climax building with terrifying, blinding speed. “Logan, please.”

He thrusts deeply, pulling out, and driving forward one final, devastating time. 

A harsh, jagged cry tears from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid, his muscles locking tight as he finds his release. He holds you flush against the wall, completely pinning you in place, taking the full brunt of your own explosive orgasm as it crashes over you simultaneously. 

You completely melt against him, your vision literally going white around the edges. 

For a long time, the only sound in the hallway is the frantic, hammering rhythm of your hearts and the ragged gasps for air. Logan’s face is still buried in your neck, his heavy weight supported entirely by his own legs as he holds you up against the wall. 

Eventually, slowly, the reality of the apartment seeps back in. 

Logan carefully lowers your legs, sliding out of you with a soft, wet sound, keeping one arm securely wrapped around your waist so you don’t collapse onto the floor. Your knees are trembling so violently they feel like water. 

He leans his forehead against yours, looking down at you with an incredibly soft, sated expression. 

“Wow,” you breathe out, letting your head loll back against the wall. 

Logan chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your chest. He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen lips. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. Before you actually pass out in my hallway.”

He sweeps you up into his arms, carrying you effortlessly into the massive master bedroom. The city lights of Boston filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft, amber glow over the massive king-sized bed. 

He sets you down on the soft sheets, pulling the heavy duvet up over your bare body before crawling into the bed beside you. 

You instantly curl into his side, resting your head on his bare chest, your hand flattening over his heart. He wraps a heavy arm around you, holding you close, his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your bare shoulder. 

“Are you happy?” You ask quietly, looking up at him in the dim light. 

Logan looks down at you. He thinks about the heavy, suffocating pressure of his dad’s failing business. He thinks about the guilt of watching Jeff put his life on hold. He thinks about the terrifying moment he almost walked away from hockey forever. 

And then he thinks about the moment the puck hit the back of the net tonight. He thinks about Garrett tackling him against the glass. He thinks about you, wearing that ridiculous, beautiful half-and-half jersey, screaming his name from the stands. 

“I’m more than happy,” Logan whispers, the absolute truth of it ringing crystal clear in the quiet room. “I’m exactly where I am supposed to be.”

He shifts, pulling you up slightly so he can look you directly in the eyes. The cocky, sarcastic facade is completely gone. There is only John Logan, the man who finally got his life back. 

“I love you, Y/N,” Logan says, his voice thick with emotion. “You gave me the courage to fight for my own life. And I swear to God, I am going to spend the rest of my life fighting for you.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You smile, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his jaw. 

“You don’t have to fight for me, Logan,” you whisper against his skin. “I’m already yours.”

Logan smiles, that bright, devastatingly handsome smirk that first caught your attention in a dark, sweaty Boston bar over a year ago. He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, sweet, impossibly tender kiss. 

“HEA,” Logan murmurs against your mouth, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You laugh softly, running your hands through his messy hair. “Happily Ever After?”

You had spent the first several months of your relationship aggressively indifferent toward hockey. Perpetually confused, even. The first time Logan ever tried explaining icing to you, you had stared at him in complete silence before saying,

“That genuinely sounds like a lie you all collectively agreed to tell freshmen.”

You still kind of stood by that, because hockey was, in your objective opinion, absurd.

It was freezing. Violent. Loud enough to rearrange your internal organs. Men willingly hurled themselves across ice wearing knives on their feet while crowds screamed over what looked, to you initially, like a cursed little crumpet. The fact that Logan not only participated in this willingly but genuinely loved it remained one of the great mysteries of your relationship.

But every time someone tried explaining rules to you, it somehow became less understandable and every game clip Logan showed you always ended with men punching each other while commentators spoke about it like it was a weather update.

However, the longer you dated him, the more hockey stopped feeling like just a sport and started feeling like another language Logan spoke. And the thing about loving Logan was that eventually, inevitably, you started wanting to understand every version of him.

Not because he demanded it, in fact he was so unbelievably accommodating to your icy indifference with his sport.

He never once complained when you skipped games, wouldn’t even think to pout when you chose studying over away game road trips and barely blinked when you accidentally called a puck a ball once, something that nearly sent Tucker into cardiac arrest.

He just smiled gently every time you asked questions, explained things patiently without a care in the world and kissed your forehead whenever you came to post-game parties even though you didn’t understand half the conversations happening around you.

That alone made you want to understand the things that made his eyes light up.

At first you noticed things, the long list superstitions before games. Ranging from a ‘sex ban’ 48 before a game to a suspiciously secret tradition involving all four of the boys and an egg. It was the little things too, the way Logan got quieter on game days, more focused- how he’d spend the evening before carefully taping his stick.

You noticed how his entire body language changed on the ice during one of the live-streams you kept playing in the background, confidence settling into him differently there than anywhere else.

So, slowly, secretly, you started learning.

It began accidentally.

One night Logan had fallen asleep half sprawled across your bed, dead to the world in the way only he seemed capable of being, especially after practice, and you had ended up watching game highlights on your laptop while he snored softly into your shoulder.

At first it was purely observational, you’d watch these men shout and scream across the ice- you’d flinch when the plexiglass walls would lurch and heave as fans slammed their hands against it.

Then it became mildly educational, to the point where you found yourself googling,

“what is forechecking hockey”

followed immediately by,

“difference between forechecking and offensive pressure???”

And since that night you finally discovered something about yourself, your brain did not know how to engage with things casually.

Once you decided to learn hockey, you learned hockey with the intensity of someone preparing for a final exam. You made notes. With headings.

You watched game analyses while brushing your teeth, recognising penalties while making breakfast- sometimes before the commentators would even announce them. 

At one point you spent forty straight minutes trying to understand defensive formations in the shower and accidentally gave yourself a headache.

Which was what led to Hannah eventually finding you sitting cross-legged on the apartment kitchen floor at midnight surrounded by colour-coded sticky notes while muttering about neutral zone pressure.

She had simply stared, worried that if she moved, the scene would turn into a cheap horror chick-flick. You looked up slowly, energy drink in one hand, flashcard in another.

“Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You were absolutely going to say something.”

“I was actually going to ask why there’s a diagram of a hockey rink on your flashcards.”

You glanced down.

“…this does seem excessive now that you mention it.”

Hannah sat beside you eventually, still visibly fighting laughter.

“You know you could just ask Logan this stuff, right?” She grabbed a stack of flashcards, eyes widening when she saw just how detailed they were, how far gone you were in the world of hockey.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because then he’ll know I care.”

Hannah blinked.

“He’s your boyfriend.” She blinked at the look you gave her, like the fact had close to no bearing on what you'd said, ”Does that mean you're studying hockey in secret?”

“Yes.”

“That counts as caring.”

“No, this is research.”

And after that it became a deeply embarrassing problem.

Because miraculously, Garrett Graham had somehow become your reluctant hockey tutor. Mostly because he made the mistake of answering one text at 2 am. Which led to another. And another. Until suddenly Garrett’s phone was buzzing at ungodly hours with notifications popping up, like:

Hannah’s friend #2

Is a power play momentum shift tactical?

Garret had looked at his girlfriend, who ushered him to answer, glad that you were finding interest in the game. Begrudgingly, entirely for her benefit, he replied:

what the fuck happened to you

Or even worse, when you had asked him:

Hannah’s friend #2

What does it mean when Dean says Logan's defensive positioning is sexy?

Garrett, unfortunately, answered. In detail. Which made you make Hannah promise never to mention defence positions in a room with you or Garrett ever. This also happened to be the time that she caught you watching breakdown videos in the apartment kitchen and nearly cried laughing when she realised you were taking notes.

“Do you have colour coding?” she asked, horrified.

You looked up from your laptop defensively, pausing the analysis that was blaring through your airpods.

“It helps me retain information.”

“It’s hockey.”

“It’s important to him.”

That shut her up.

Mostly because your voice was disgustingly sincere. And because, objectively, it was kind of adorable how dedicated you were.

So naturally, Hannah started helping too. And with Hannah came Allie, who explained penalties with the exhausted patience of someone teaching a medieval peasant how taxes worked.

And slowly, the sport began untangling itself into something understandable. Not fully understandable, that would take eons and perhaps steroid adjacent studying-enhancement drugs. But it was enough

Enough that when Briar’s first major home game of the semester rolled around, you found yourself standing outside the arena wearing one of Logan’s hoodies beneath your coat while your stomach buzzed strangely with anticipation.

Logan, meanwhile, looked deeply suspicious.

“You know,” he said slowly as the two of you walked toward the entrance together, his hockey bag slung over his shoulder, “you don’t actually have to stay the whole game.”

You gasped dramatically.

“John Logan,” you placed a hand against your chest, “how dare you.”

“You fell asleep during SportsCenter last week.”

“It was midnight.”

“It was seven thirty.”

You ignored that.

Instead, you grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and tugged him slightly toward you through the cold, “I’m supporting my boyfriend,” you informed him firmly.

Logan’s expression softened immediately at the way you called him your boyfriend, with enough conviction that made him blush and hide a giddy smile.

“You already support me.”

“No, I need to support you everywhere,” you corrected seriously. “That includes here. Athletically”

“That doesn’t sound grammatically correct.”

“It probably isn’t.”

He laughed quietly then, leaning down just enough to kiss your forehead before the team called him over. Logan squeezed your hand once, letting you peck his cheek and whisper a, “good luck” against his skin. 

He jogged up to boys who had watched the interaction with teasing smiles, some of them were hollering behind you both.

You rolled your eyes at their antics, refocussing your attention to Logan, who had looked back to you momentarily, “You’ll text me if you get bored?”

You rolled your eyes, and shooed him away with a flap of your hand. The other one had been looped through Allie’s elbow- who was dragging you towards the main entrance of the arena.

“I’m not going to get bored.” You called back.

Logan looked unconvinced and shook his head while watching you stumble through the doors with your friends.

Because up until this point your understanding of hockey had mostly consisted of:

Logan looked hot playing it.

Skates seemed like something that should be banned for public health reasons.

Everybody was always weirdly sweaty.

But tonight was going to be different.

Tonight, you knew things.

Like zone entries.

And power plays.

And something called cycling the puck which still sounded vaguely culinary but you were getting there.

The arena itself was overwhelming in a way you hadn’t fully anticipated. Everything felt louder inside.

The lights reflecting off the ice so brightly it almost hurt to look at directly, music blasting through speakers between plays, the constant scrape of skates carving against the rink like someone sharpening knives directly beside your ear.

And the students.

Dear god, the students.

Briar hockey fans behaved less like spectators and more like emotionally unstable addicts. Every hit was treated like a personal attack. Every save triggered screaming intense enough to register the game as a spiritual gathering of some sort. You sat wedged between Hannah and Allie, clutching a hot chocolate you kept forgetting to drink because every thirty seconds something else happened on the ice.

“Okay wait,” you said during warmups, already squinting analytically toward the rink, “why are they all skating in circles.”

Hannah didn’t even look up from her phone. “They’re warming up.”

“But why are they humping the ice?”

Allie snorted beside you.

“They’re hockey players.”

You were about to ask for elaboration, but the jab fell limp on your tongue. Allie looked up at your gaping mouth and followed your glassy eyes, Logan had skated past the glass.

Logically, obviously, you knew your boyfriend played hockey.

You have seen photos. Kept live streams on in the background of your life. You had sat through enough post-practice cuddling sessions to know exactly how broad his shoulders got underneath all that padding.

But seeing him on the ice in person felt different.

Like the version of Logan you knew off the rink - warm hands, sleepy morning voice, constantly stealing your fries - had fused with something faster and more dangerous.

He skated backwards effortlessly while talking to Garrett, helmet tucked beneath his arm, hair damp already from warmups and curling slightly at the edges.

Then his eyes found yours through the glass. He grinned at your face and mimed for you to close your mouth. You shook yourself out of the stupor and furrowed your eyebrows, along with flashing him a polite middle finger- you ignored the way a smile broke through your mock-annoyance when he blew a kiss at you with a cheesy wink. 

“Oh,” Hannah said beside you quietly, watching your expression change. “Allie I didn’t realise we were in a danielle steel novel.”

Allie pinched your cheek affectionately and stuck her tongue out at you when you harrumphed and whacked her hand away.

“I’m literally sitting here.”

“No,” Allie corrected, “you’re in loooove.”

You rolled your eyes and focussed back on the ice, “Unfortunately.”

The game started before they could bully you further.

And, in your defence, when the puck dropped you really tried to behave like someone who was allowed within 500ft of social settings, someone who just casually attended sporting events. 

It lasted maybe six minutes.

Because once the first hockey stick slapped the little disc across the ice, everything became movement, and anything static got flung to the boards

Everything was fast, sharp, constantly shifting movement that made your brain feel like it was trying to keep up with something half a second ahead of reality. And it didn’t take long for you to stop thinking about looking calm, collected like someone who was not about to have an emotional breakdown over line changes.

Somewhere around the first big defensive turnover, you heard yourself say, involuntarily,

“Oh that was actually a really clean zone exit.”

Allie turned slowly toward you.

“…what did you just say?”

“I don’t know,” you replied honestly, eyes still on the ice, you slowly turned to face her- slightly horrified but mainly interested at the chemicals firing in your brain, “but I think I meant it.”

Logan got his first assist of the night not long after, a sharp interception, a quick pass, and Dean finishing it off in a blur of movement that sent the arena detonating into noise.

You were on your feet before you realised.

“THAT TRANSITION WAS INSANE,” you yelled immediately, gripping Hannah’s sleeve. “LIKE THAT WAS ACTUALLY PERFECT SUPPORT THROUGH THE NEUTRAL ZONE-”

Hannah blinked at you.

“…you’re speaking hockey now.”

“I HAVE BEEN LEARNING.”

Down on the ice, Logan had already turned.

And he was staring, which, considering the fact that Briar hockey games operated somewhere between collegiate sporting events and active war zones, was probably not ideal.

But he couldn’t bring himself to snap out of it, all he could do was stare up at you like his brain had temporarily stopped functioning in all areas except affection.

Garrett skated past him mid-celebration, “She knows what neutral zone support is now?” he shouted, hands cupped around his mouth in a way that looked damn near comical with the huge, padded gloves and slow motion sliding on the ice that came with his question.

Logan didn’t answer, just shook his head and skated over to his friend, grinning like you had personally rearranged his entire understanding of love.

By the second period, Logan realised something was very, very wrong. In the best possible way.

Mostly because every single time he glanced toward the stands, you looked aggressively invested. You were leaned so far forward in your seat that you practically looked ready to physically enter the game yourself. Reacting before goals even happened,

“Oh he’s got space-”

“WAIT THAT’S A TWO-ON-ONE-”

“That’s a bad line change, right? THAT’S A BAD LINE CHANGE-”

Allie slowly slid away from you like she was afraid you might combust, bracing particularly hard when you stood up so fast, you nearly took out the person in front of you.

“OFFSIDE-” you shouted confidently.

There was a pause.

Then Hannah leaned forward slightly, squinting to see the referee’s hand gestures

“…that wasn’t offside.”

“Oh.”

You sat back down immediately.

“Never mind.”

At one point, Dean made a clean hit near the boards and you stood up so fast your drink nearly launched into orbit.

“THAT WAS SUCH A GOOD FUCKING FORECHECK!”

Your voice carried over to the ice, somehow louder than the majority of the audience combined and Logan nearly missed a pass. The slip up got him benched for a cool-down until the third period. He turned toward the stands so quickly that Tucker barked out a laugh from beside him on the bench.

Because what in the ever loving God had happened to his girlfriend?

“Oh my god,” Tucker wheezed, “she learned hockey.”

Logan stared up at you, eyes wide in disbelief. You were still standing, pointing excitedly at the ice while talking animatedly to Hannah.

“NO BECAUSE DID YOU SEE THE ZONE ENTRY?”

“What did you do?” Tucker asked, genuinely curious.

Logan shoved him lightly.

“I don’t know.”

“You created this.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You made her care about our weird little ice game.” He put the apt description in quotation marks, a direct quote of what you said in passing to Tucker.  

It wasn’t even that you understood hockey perfectly now, in fact half the time you were still wrong.

You kept yelling “offside” at moments that were very clearly not offside, you confidently called icing before the puck had even crossed the line. But you were evidently trying. For him. And every single time Logan looked at you tonight, you looked so genuinely excited to be there that something warm and helpless kept blooming in his chest.

It got worse in the third period.

Briar was up by one, Eastwood was getting frustrated and the arena was quiet, almost vibrating with anticipation- every hit was louder, every pass sharper and every second stretched tighter as the clock counted down. 

You watched with bated breath, hands clasped tightly in front of your face, Logan was everywhere and nowhere, to the point where it was hard to keep track visually and you had started listening for the crisp sound of his skates across the ice.

For every blocked shot of his, you sucked in a victorious breath. He kept the puck moving with such speed, that you were surprised the little shit hadn’t broken in half yet.

Then it happened.

A clean breakout.

A pass that sliced through two defenders like it wasn’t even there.

Dean finished it clean.

GOAL.

The arena exploded.

Students screaming, pounding against the glass, bodies surging to their feet in waves of blue and gold while the team slammed into each other near the boards.

You grabbed Hannah and actually shook her.

“I KNEW THAT WAS COMING-DID YOU SEE THE READ-THAT WAS SO CLEAN-”

Hannah laughed breathlessly, 

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about anymore!”

Players poured onto the ice, helmets came off, teammates yelled over each other while music blasted through the speakers loud enough to vibrate through your chest. And through all of it, Logan’s eyes immediately found you.

You looked ecstatic, jumping up and down wildly hand in hand with Hannah and Allie, who were just as excited, maybe even more given the sheer amount of energy you had. You brought both hands over your mouth when you caught him looking up at you, your entire face lit up, “THAT ASSIST WAS INSANE, BABY!” before immediately dropping them again so you could start clapping wildly.

Dean folded over laughing.

Garrett looked seconds away from tears.

Logan, meanwhile, felt something dangerously close to heart failure. Because you sounded so proud, like it would take a natural disaster and a half to make you believe that he was anything less than incredible. 

And the second you saw the team filling off the ice you were moving, actually, more like sprinting. 

Through the crowd and down the stairs, moving so fast that you could barely hear Hannah yelling something behind you that sounded vaguely like “DON’T BREAK YOUR ANKLE.”

Logan was just stepping off the ice when you reached him, one second he was pulling off his gloves and the next you had jumped into him without hesitation, he barely caught you in time, laughing breathlessly as your legs wrapped around his waist and nearly sent both of you crashing backward into the wall.

“You were actually insane tonight,” you blurted immediately, still half shouting over the noise. “Like your forecheck was disgusting and your gap control was SO tight-”

Logan froze slightly mid-laugh, his eyes turning thoughtful as he pushed your hair out of your face and cupped your cheek,

“…my what?”

You pulled back just enough to look offended.

“Your gap control.”

“Since when do you say gap control?”

“John,” you gasped dramatically, “I have been studying.”

From behind him, Garrett’s voice carried over immediately.

“I wouldn’t really count it as studying, but she has become one of us.”

Logan didn’t even turn around, “Shut up.” He was staring at you, completely and entirely enamoured.

You began your rambling again, barely noticing the painfully soft look in his eyes,

“No wait because explain the power play rotation one more time because I SWEAR that guy cross checked you in the second period and the refs just ignored it-”

Logan kissed you mid sentence, genuinely unable to help himself- you just looked unbearably cute in his arms chattering about hockey like you hadn’t spent the majority of your relationship painfully sitting through his explanations, entirely fuelled by the fact that you love him enough to go through the torture.

His hand cupped your jaw while he kissed you hard enough to cut you off, you made a startled sound against his mouth before immediately melting into it anyway, laughing softly when he finally pulled back.

His forehead dropped against yours.

“You watched hockey videos for me?” he asked quietly, you blinked and bit your smile.

“…maybe.”

“How many?”

You hesitated which made Logan narrow his eyes.

“How many?”

“Enough that Garrett started sending me links voluntarily.”

Garrett pointed aggressively from nearby.

“I’m like her hockey gandalf- or yoda.”

“You’re built like yoda”

“You’re legit hanging off of your boyfriend right now.”

You stick your tongue out at Garrett and laugh when he makes a disgusted face- tucking Hannah under his shoulder.

You turn back to Logan, who looks genuinely overwhelmed by the information, and smile softly, your hands sliding up into the damp hair curling at the back of his neck.

“I just wanted to understand it,” you admitted quietly. “Because you love it.”

“You watched hockey for me,” he repeated, still awestruck by how casually you were telling him about it- as if it was something so purely instinctual for you to do. You shrugged at him.

“That’s insane.”

“You’re insane for playing this game,” You corrected.

He laughed and pressed his forehead against yours for a second like he needed to reset his entire nervous system.

“You were cheering for me,” he said softer.

“Of course I was.”

Something in Logan’s expression completely gave out after that, and you swear you felt his knees shake just enough for you to kiss him again.

“Oh, we’re so never hearing the end of this,” Garrett muttered in the background, you barely registered Dean and Tucker murmuring affirmatives next to him.

The group had split off momentarily, Allie and Dean had disappeared long before the others- and it was a polite mystery as to where and what they were doing. One that would not be solved anytime soon.

The rest of you had disintegrated momentarily, the boys going to change out of their equipment while you and Hannah hung back, chattering about whatever suited you in the moment. That was until Garret swooped through and plucked her away, letting you know that in a few minutes you’d all be heading to Malones for some drinks, and Logan was waiting at his truck for you.

The parking lot outside the arena was still buzzing when you found him.

Not in the loud, electric way it had been inside-no screaming, no thundering bass of music bleeding through speakers, no collective roar of thousands of people losing their minds over a puck and some ice and a group of boys who looked like they were half animal, half adrenaline.

Now a certain quiet had settled around you, like the world had finally exhaled after holding its breath for ninety minutes.

The kind of quiet that made you suddenly aware of your coat not being warm enough and the faint sting of cold air against your cheeks, and the way your heartbeat still hadn’t quite realised it was allowed to slow down just yet.

Logan’s truck sat a little off from the main crowd, headlights off, frost beginning to gather along the edges of the windshield like lace. He was leaning against the driver’s side when you approached, his gear messily packed into the Briar brand gym back that he had slung over his shoulder, his hair was freshly curled- probably from the shower, after which he had worn a pair of sweatpants and one of your favourite hoodies of his.

His head lifted when you got close enough, instantly turning off his phone as his expression shifted. Like whatever else he was holding in his face-adrenaline, exhaustion, residual competitiveness-just softened and made room for you without even trying.

“Hi,” you said, slightly breathless, like you had run more than you actually had.

His mouth tilted like a child who had just discovered a major secret,

“You were talking about gap control,” he said immediately, his expression was gleeful as you groaned, embarrassed by what your adrenaline made you do a few hours ago.

“I said it twice.”

“Four,” he corrected easily.

“It was relevant,” you insisted, stepping closer until there was barely any space left between you and the cold metal of his truck at your back.

Logan huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, trying not to make it obvious how much he enjoyed this exact version of you. Then his hand found your belt loop without hesitation, pulling you in with a kind of ease that seemed to become second nature for him.

You melted into him instantly, like your body had been waiting for it without telling you.

Cold air on your skin, warm him everywhere else.

It never stopped feeling slightly unfair how easily that balance worked.

“You were really good tonight,” you said again, softer this time, like the words were refusing to stay inside you.

His eyes searched yours, flicking between them as a slow, bashful smile spread onto his face.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, looking up at him properly now.

“Yeah.”

There was a beat where neither of you really moved, like the space between you had tightened into something neither of you wanted to break first. Then he leaned down and you met him halfway.

Logan kissed you with a certain permanence, a sweet, saccharine kind that made you feel like honey would start dripping from your pores. His hand tightened slightly at your waist, thumb pressing absentmindedly there as if he needed to confirm you were still solid, still real.

When you pulled back, you didn’t go far, just hovering over his mouth as your mingled breath turned into pristine white puffs in the cold November air.  His forehead hovered against yours, “You actually learned all that stuff,” he murmured, like he still couldn’t quite compute it.

You gave him a look.

“I did.”

“And why would you do that?”

It wasn’t teasing, not fully. There was something softer underneath it now, like he was genuinely curious as to why you went to all the trouble. You shrugged slightly, fingers fiddling with the edge of his sleeve, feeling the worn fabric beneath your fingertips.

“Because you care about it,” you said simply. “And I like when your face does that thing when you’re explaining it.”