obx obsessed

You woke in the narrow confines of your off-campus apartment, sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains you had chosen for your ethereal quality, casting the room in a forgiving glow. It made even the cluttered stacks of dog-eared novels and half-finished linguistics notes feel like the opening chapter of some delightful, meandering adventure.

Humming a barely remembered tune, you padded across the creaky floorboards in oversized socks, brewing a cup of early grey while mentally rehearsing your seminar presentation on the fluidity of emotional lexicons in modern prose. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror earned an approving wink.

Not bad.

You gathered your scattered belongings, laptop brimming with annotations, textbooks, and stepped out into the crisp air.

The drive started splendidly, windows cracked to let in the breeze that carried hints of blooming lilacs and distant lawnmowers. The old sedan had its quirks, unreliable but endearing. It had faithfully ferried you through countless late-night library runs and spontaneous road trips-

Today, though, as you turned onto the quieter residential street shortcutting toward Briar University, the engine began to falter. A sputter here, a hesitant cough there.

You coaxed it gently at first, patting the dashboard like a finicky old friend.

“Come now. Don’t do this to me."

But fate, ever the mischievous author, had other plans.

The car gave one final, theatrical shudder and fell silent altogether, coasting to a stop along the curb of a tree-lined street dotted with handsome houses. You simply sat there, blinking at the dashboard as if it might apologize and restart on its own.

No. No, no, no. You had a presentation. You could not afford to be the girl whose car died dramatically on the side of the road.

A disbelief bubble of laughter escaped your lips first before the frustration took its place. You turned the key again and again, the clicks mocking you with their empty rhythm.

“You gotta be kidding me,” You groaned, leaning back against the headrest with a dramatic sigh that bordered on theatrical.

Your phone battery hovered at a precarious twenty percent, and the campus still beckoned from beyond the next hill, you allowed yourself a few minutes to simply feel it—the absurdity of the situation.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from that overwhelming rush of “why me, right now?” blended with a strange amusement at your own misfortune. You rested your forehead against the steering wheel.

The street around your felt curiously serene, those large houses suggesting a lively collegiate ecosystem you rarely brushed agains.

You could handle this. Call for assistance, transform the delay into an opportunity for people-watching or jotting down observations.

Before you could reach for your phone to summon roadside assistance—battery be damned—a knock sounded against the driver’s side window.

It made you jump so hard your knee slammed into the steering column.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” The words flew out of your mouth as you whipped your head around, eyes wide, one hand pressed to your chest as if that would calm the adrenaline surge. “What the actual fuck—”

Your heart was executing a fluttering pirouette as you swiped at your cheeks and smoothed the stray tendrils of hair framing your face.

Through the glass, a tall figure loomed, broad-shouldered and casually commanding, with a backward baseball cap taming dark, slightly tousled hair. Striking doe brown eyes met yours directly, carrying a blend of concern and easy amusement.

He wore a faded hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded from what you could only assume were hockey drills.

John Logan of all people.

He looked a little startled by your reaction but raised his hands slightly, trying not to spook you further. Even in your rattled state you registered that he was stupidly attractive up close.

Oh my god, he saw the forehead-on-wheel moment.

You cracked the window an inch, catching your breath.

“Sorry—shit, you scared the hell out of me. I didn’t hear you coming at all.”

He blinked at you, those striking eyes narrowing in concern and what looked like amusement. You’d seen him around campus before, usually surrounded by the rest of the hockey crowd, but never this near.

Never while you were mid-meltdown with tear tracks probably still visible on your cheeks.

“No worries. Didn’t mean to give you a cardiac event."

You let out a watery giggle, trying to slow your racing pulse.

“That’s… an apt nomenclature for it.” You immediately winced, heat rushing to your face. “I mean—yeah. It just died. Stopped working. Sorry."

Logan’s eyebrows rose, that half-smile deepening as he tilted his head.

Logan’s eyebrows rose, that half-smile deepening as he tilted his head. “Nomenclature? Damn. You okay if I take a look, or do you want me to call it something fancier first?”

"...Take a look?"

Logan's grin twitched. "Yeah."

"At the car?"

"That's generally what breaks down."

"Right, but..." You frowned. "Why?"

For the first time, he looked genuinely confused.

"Because it stopped running?"

"No, I understand the sequence of events. Car dies. Tragic. Very moving." You pointed at him. "I'm asking why you are volunteering."

His eyebrows climbed. "Why?"

"You're a hockey player."

"Okay?"

"That's all I've got."

"That's all you've got?"

"And you're in some of my general education classes." You shrugged helplessly. "But none of that screams automotive expertise."

Logan stared at you for a second before shaking his head. “That’s not usually a disqualification for basic car knowledge. Pop the hood."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me."

"People who say 'trust me' are statistically responsible for a significant percentage of bad decisions."

He leaned one forearm on the roof of your car, ducking to meet your eyes better through the cracked window. "Pop. The hood."

You hesitated. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"Yes."

"Actually?"

"Yes."

You narrowed your eyes playfully. "Or in the way every guy who has watched three YouTube videos suddenly thinks he can rebuild an engine?"

Logan laughed outright.

"I know what I'm doing. I’ve been fixing cars since I could walk."

You hesitated, biting your lip as you searched his face.

“If you break it more, I’m going to cry in front of you, and that would be the ultimate humiliation.”

His expression softened, the cocky smirk becoming gentler.

“I won’t break it. Are you gonna keep interrogating me while your car stays dead?”

You let out a defeated huff, reaching down to pull the hood release.

“Sorry. Yes, please. That would be incredibly helpful."

Logan gave you a quick, reassuring nod, that smile still playing on his lips. “No problem. Sit tight.”

He moved to the front of the car as you watched through the windshield. He lifted the hood and propped it open as the morning light poured over him—faded hoodie stretched across a strong back, sleeves shoved up to reveal corded forearms dusted with faint scars and engine grease already smudging his skin.

The backward cap shadowed his eyes, but the sharp line of his jaw and the focused set of his mouth were impossible to ignore.

Oh. You swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of the warmth blooming in your body. That was… that was a fine man.

You hadn't voluntarily noticed a man in months—possibly years—and yet here you were, cataloging the exact width of his shoulders as if you were annotating a particularly attractive stanza.

Logan leaned over the hood, one hand braced on the frame as he studied the engine bay. His brow furrowed in concentration, a small frown of thought crossed his face as he reached in and touched something, his fingers moving with surprising dexterity.

He looked completely in his element

You pressed your cool fingers to your flushed cheeks, trying to will the warmth away. Thank God he was completely focused on the engine and not looking at you right now. If those doe-brown eyes turned your way while you were blushing, you’d probably dissolve into the driver’s seat.

You would not get flushed over random hockey players who looked like they could carry both the heroine and the entire third-act climax without breaking a sweat.

You moved in your seat, pretending to check your phone even though the battery warning was glaring at you. Anything to keep from openly ogling the hockey player currently saving your morning.

After a minute, Logan straightened, still leaning over the engine.

“Looks like your alternator belt is shot,” he called out, voice muffled by the hood. “It’s pretty frayed. That’s why she died on you.”

You leaned toward the open window, trying to sound normal. “Alternator belt, right."

He let out a low chuckle and wiped his hands on his hoodie, finally glancing over the hood at you. Your eyes met for a brief second, and your stomach performed an unflattering somersault worthy of a Brontë heroine.

Abort. Abort. Maintain dignity.

“Want me to call a buddy?” he offered, “He’s got a shop nearby. Could tow it and fix it cheaply. Save you the drama.”

You stared at him, equal parts grateful and mortified.

“You really don’t have to do all that,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear in a futile attempt at composure. “You’ve already done more than enough."

Logan’s grin returned, crooked and far too charming.

“I don’t mind." He pulled his phone from his back pocket, thumbs moving across the screen. “He owes me a favor anyway. I’ll have him swing by with the tow truck. Shouldn’t take long.”

You hesitated, pride and practicality wrestling in your chest. The seminar clock was ticking louder by the second.

"I’m not trying to be a charity case for the Briar hockey team.”

Logan glanced up from his phone, one eyebrow arched. “Did I say anything about charity?”

“No, but… you have that helpful-athlete vibe. It’s suspicious.”

“Suspicious,” he repeated, entertained. He leaned against the side of your car, arms crossed over his broad chest, the faded hoodie pulling tight across his shoulders. “You always this cynical?"

You looked away, pretending to check the time on your dying phone.

“I— linguistics major. We’re trained to question everything. Especially smooth-talking men with tool knowledge.”

Logan’s smile widened dangerously. “Smooth-talking. I’ll take it.”

You groaned, covering your face with both hands for a second. “I’m going to stop speaking now.”

“It’s cute.”

Before you could spiral about his casual comment, he pushed off the car. “You got somewhere to be, right?”

“Seminar. I’m presenting.” You winced.

“Tell you what,” he said, tilting his head toward the row of pretty houses across the street. “My place is right there. The third one with the shitty basketball hoop out front. You can wait inside, charge your phone, and grab some coffee. No pressure.”

You stared at him.

He shrugged, almost boyish despite the six-foot-something of pure athletic competence. “Or you can sit here and stress. Your call.”

The logical part of your brain screamed stranger danger. The rest of you—the part currently cataloguing the way his forearms flexed when he crossed them again—voted yes immediately.

You hesitated, fingers tightening on the strap of your bag.

“I appreciate the offer, but… I don’t know. I can wait out here. I don’t want to impose.”

Logan kept his respectful distance.

“I get it. Random guy invites you into his house after your car dies? Sounds like the opening to every cautionary tale your mom ever told you.”

You let out a surprised laugh, and some of the tension in your shoulders eased.

He continued, rubbing the back of his neck in a boyish way that somehow made him even more disarming.

“But here’s the truth: it’s just me and three other idiots right now. One’s in class, the others are probably still passed out. The door stays unlocked the whole time. You can leave whenever you want.”

He shrugged, that half-smile softening into something sheepish. You searched his face. There was no pushiness or over-the-top flirting. He seemed like a genuinely decent guy.

You exhaled slowly.

“Okay. Yeah. That sounds really nice. Thank you.”

Logan’s smile brightened, but he didn’t make a big deal out of your acceptance, simply nodding toward the third house across the street.

“Cool. C’mon.”

That was your cue. You finally pushed open the car door and stepped out into the crisp morning air, slinging your bag and laptop over your shoulder. Logan waited patiently on the sidewalk, hands back in his hoodie pockets.

He kept pace beside you as you crossed the tree-lined street, maintaining a polite distance—close enough to talk comfortably, but never crowding. The morning sun filtered through the leaves, catching on his backward cap. You tried (and mostly failed) not to notice how good he looked doing absolutely nothing.

As you reached the steps of the third house, he unlocked the door and held it open for you with an easy gesture.

“After you. Fair warning, it’s a hockey house."

The place was surprisingly livable, with a worn couch, a decent kitchen, and a living room that smelled like fresh coffee and laundry. Nothing smelled bad or screamed “frat hell.” It felt… normal.

Logan moved into the kitchen, “Phone charger’s right there on the counter if you need it. Help yourself. Coffee’s still hot, I made it before my run.”

He poured you a mug without asking twice and slid it across the island, black and simple. Then he stepped back, giving you plenty of space as he leaned against the opposite counter.

You wrapped your hands around the warm mug, feeling the last of your nerves settle. You took a sip of coffe purely to avoid looking at him.

Unfortunately, that only gave you more time to be aware of him. The problem wasn't that Logan was attractive, plenty of people were attractive.

The problem was that he was sitting three feet away from you, looking unfairly good while doing absolutely nothing.

"So."

You were busy trying not to stare at his forearms, a losing battle, if you were being honest. Your gaze darted away the second you realized where it had landed.

You looked up cautiously.

"So," you echoed.

A corner of his mouth twitched. "You know who I am."

You nearly choked on your coffee. "What?"

"You knew I played hockey before I said anything."

"Oh."

"That means you know my name."

"Yes."

The realization hit him at the exact same time it hit you. You knew his name, that he played hockey, that he lived in this house. You knew his teammates' names and that he'd scored twice in the championship game last year because half the campus wouldn't shut up about it.

Meanwhile—

You had never actually introduced yourself.

"But I don't know yours."

A horrified sound escaped your throat, causing Logan to bark out a laugh. "Holy shit."

You groaned. "Oh no."

"There it is," he said.

"There what is?"

"The look."

"What look?"

"The one where you realize something embarrassing."

You covered your face, pointing at him from behind your hands.

"You also never introduced yourself!"

His eyebrows lifted. "I didn't think I had to."

You could tell by his face that it hadn't occurred to him that an introduction was necessary because you'd already known exactly who he was.

Which should have been annoying.

You snorted, "That's a crazy thing to say."

Normally, it would've driven you insane.

Male athletes had a very specific brand of confidence that usually made your eyes twitch. Half of them on campus walked around like they were personally responsible for the invention of oxygen. Every conversation somehow circled back to their stats, their workouts, their game schedule, their importance to society.

You typically found it exhausting and pretentious. Yet somehow—

"It is?"

When Logan said it, it didn't sound like ego. It sounded like confidence.

Your brain should have filed him neatly into the same category as every other cocky athlete you'd met. Instead, your brain had apparently decided: this one's hot.

To save yourself, you gave him your name.

"That's a pretty name."

The compliment was such a ridiculously low bar that you hated yourself a little for getting flustered for the millionth time. Then again, the bar for men was historically buried somewhere beneath the Earth's crust.

You murmured a thank you into your coffee mug before your dignity could stage a protest.

Logan's grin widened. "You're a linguistics major, right?"

You blinked. "How do you know that?"

"You said it."

"Oh, right."

His smile somehow got bigger. "Oh?"

"I say a lot of things."

"I noticed."

Wonderful, you were being perceived. You hated being perceived, especially by attractive men who seemed to find your awkwardness entertaining instead of alarming.

Logan took another sip of coffee, still watching you over the rim of the mug. "Emotional lexicons."

"What?"

"That's what you were talking about when I walked up."

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"You heard me talking to myself."

A laugh escaped him and it sounded so nice it made it impossible not to smile back.

"You were sitting alone in a dead car arguing with your steering wheel."

You groaned so hard your soul nearly left your body. "Please stop."

"Wait," he said suddenly. His eyebrows pulled together. "What is your presentation about?"

You lowered your hands. "Linguistics."

"That's not an answer."

"It is technically an answer."

"No."

You laughed. "No?"

"No."

He pointed at you. "What specifically?"

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't stop smiling.

"The fluidity of emotional language in modern literature."

"Okay, say that again but like you're explaining it to a normal person."

"Wow. That was rude."

"It was honest." He looked genuinely curious.

You'd spent years explaining your major to people whose eyes glazed over halfway through the first sentence. Usually the conversation went:

What's your major?

Linguistics.

Oh cool. How many languages do you speak?

And then you had to spend ten minutes explaining that linguistics wasn't actually the study of learning languages.

You shifted on your stool. "It's basically about how people use language to communicate emotions."

His expression sharpened. "Like psychology?"

"Adjacent."

"English?"

"Adjacent."

"Made-up word science?"

"That one hurt."

His grin appeared immediately. "So basically yes."

You shook your head.

"I study how people choose words. Why certain phrases become popular. Why language changes. Why different people communicate emotions differently."

Logan nodded slowly. "Huh. That's actually kinda cool."

The sincerity caught you off guard. Everything about this man kept catching you off guard because you expected hockey-player responses, the typical disinterest.

Logan rested his forearms on the kitchen island. "So what do you wanna do with that?"

You srunched your nose in reply.

"What?" His forehead creased.

Somehow, you'd gone from talking about your dead car to discussing your future plans with a man you'd known for less than an hour, which felt oddly intimate.

You shrugged, tracing the rim of your mug with a fingertip as if the ceramic held the answers to your entire post-grad existential spiral.

“I’m not entirely sure yet,” you admitted, the words tasting surprisingly honest on your tongue. “Part of me wants to chase a PhD—dissect semantic shifts in emotional discourse across cultures, maybe publish something. The other part wants to teach, or write, or… I don’t know, help people find better ways to say the things they feel.”

Logan listened without that glazed, polite detachment you’d come to expect from most guys. His doe-brown eyes stayed on you, turning your words over in his mind instead of waiting for his turn to speak.

“That sounds important,” he said after a beat. “People suck at saying what they mean. Especially the important shit.” He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m better at hitting a puck than hitting the right words most days.”

You smiled into your coffee, warmth blooming somewhere behind your ribs that had nothing to do with the caffeine. He’s not performing humility, your brain noted.

“You seem pretty articulate for someone who allegedly only speaks hockey,” you teased lightly.

Logan’s grin flashed, “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll run out of big words. I save my limited vocabulary for important stuff. Like convincing pretty linguistics majors not to cry over dead alternator belts.”

Your cheeks heated instantly. Abort. Do not catalog the way he said ‘pretty’. You were level-headed enough to know this was probably standard charming-athlete protocol, but your traitorous heart did not.

“Flattery won’t fix my car,” you said, aiming for dry.

“Wasn’t flattery,” he replied simply, shrugging one broad shoulder. “Just stating facts.”

Oh no. He’s lethal.

Before you could spiral further into semantic analysis of that particular sentence, the low rumble of a tow truck sounded from outside.

Logan glanced toward the window. “That’ll be my buddy. I’ll go talk to him real quick—make sure he doesn’t overcharge you or anything.”

You nodded, watching as he headed out. The second the door clicked shut behind him, you let out a long, shaky breath and pressed your forehead against the cool kitchen island.

Get it together. You are a grown woman with a working knowledge of twelve linguistic frameworks. You are not going to develop heart palpitations because a hockey player has kind eyes and competent forearms.

Logan returned a few minutes later, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

“All set. He’ll tow it to his shop, replace the belt, and text you when it’s ready. Gave him my number as backup so you’re not stuck if anything goes sideways.”

You stared at him, gratitude and disbelief filling your chest. “Logan… seriously. Thank you so much."

Your phone buzzed on the counter, still low battery, but enough life left to show a text from your seminar group chat asking where you were.

Shit.

“I should get to campus,” you said reluctantly. “I’m already cutting it close.”

Logan straightened. “I can drive you. My truck’s out back. No big deal.”

You opened your mouth to protest—stranger danger, independence, etc.—but the offer felt so uncomplicated coming from him.

“If you’re sure,” you said carefully.

“Positive.”

The drive to campus was just as effortless as the conversation in his kitchen. Windows down, September air rushing through the cab, a quiet indie playlist humming low. You talked about everything and nothing—his upcoming hockey season, your hatred of semicolons in academic writing, the absurdity of off-campus parking.

By the time he pulled up near the humanities building, you felt giddy, a fizzy feeling you hadn’t experienced with a guy in years.

“Thanks again,” you said, unbuckling. “For everything. I owe you one. Seriously.”

Logan rested his wrist on the steering wheel, looking over at you with those warm brown eyes.

“You don’t owe me anything. But if you wanted to grab coffee sometime—when your car’s not actively trying to ruin your life—I wouldn’t say no.”

Your stomach did that stupid Brontë somersault again.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling before you could overthink it. “I’d like that.”