Maybe it wasn't the best of ideas to invite him over to your place. You were trying to even the score here. You'd been to his place already when he picked you up from the airport and helped you break free from your cast. So in your head you thought it would only be right for him to see the inside of your place.

You should have listened to anything else but your head.

Truly.

Because really all you have to show for your life since graduating med school and coming out here to Pittsburg is the degree hanging on your wall. A very fancy looking crock pot which you were gifted by the sweet lady next door. And all the bare essentials which make a home.

Fridge. TV. Bed. Toilet paper.

The fridge is half full almost all the time with leftovers or things that have most definitely gone stale or rotten. The TV is either never on or playing in the background while you catch a nap or do something else in another room. The bed, another laugh, is basically like sleeping on a gym mat but you shouldn't complain because at least you have a frame.

And the toilet paper is really the best thing here because its two ply and it doesn't get stuck and clog the toilet. Which you hated when you used to share a place with two other people who didn't know that you couldn't use that much three ply if you didn't want to be best friends with a plumber or the super.

You don't know how tonight is going to go. Every time you see this man in plain clothes your brain kind of rewires. Its weird. You used to think of Brendon and just see those purple scrubs. Now you think of him and you see tight short sleeve shits and his grey Mercedes and his very small and cute dog.

In literally a week he will no longer be your boss.

And so this, tonight, can't really go past that. Even if you want it to. Even if you have been silently wondering about it for the past twelve weeks. Waking up in what you thought were cold sweats, but were actually just regular sweats, from dreams about being all alone with him.

Theres a crisp knock on the door.

----------

"What?" he asks.

You shake your head and slide your plate over to the side of the table. Willing yourself to look away from the spectacle of man in front of you.

The fork and knife clink together as you do. Reminding you that you hadn't thought to put any light music on in the background for moments like this. Moments when the two of you were somewhat done talking and just wanted to sit.

"I can-"

"Do you-"

Both of you start talking at the same time. You look over at him and laugh a bit to yourself. He shakes his head, but he can't stop the smile forming on his face.

"You're still technically my boss, you know." you start.

He rolls his eyes, "For six days and a couple more hours."

You also like the fact that he's counting down. In your head you can't wait until there's no professional line between the two of you. Sure, he'd still be your superior if you kept working at PTMC. But you know, due to all the hot gossip, that many people have found a work around for that.

"Means I can't order you to help me wash the dishes." you joke lightly.

He doesn't however take it as joke. He's up faster than you can speak against it. His big hands grabbing the plates and stacking them up on one another with precision. It makes a thought cross your head when you see it.

Brendon walks over to the kitchen. You can hear him start the sink. That's when you get up from your seat. Practically fly out of it. You sprint over to where you had last put your phone. It was sitting on the coffee table near the couch.

You tap, tap, tap away on it. Trying to find something, anything to play. What type of music does Brendon Park listen to? You have given it thought before but you didn't have to prove it then. What if you put on heavy metal and he gets scared?

"Uh...what type of music do you like?" you try to ask very casually.

The distance from where you are and where he is in the kitchen isn't that far. You know he heard you. But he doesn't answer. So you take your phone and softly pad all the way over to him.

You see that the dishes are almost done. He's left the wet plates and utensils on the left side of him. God he looks so big in your kitchen. He could probably-nope. You can't do that. He's still your boss.

So, you set your phone down and do what any good host would do. You grab the towel that's folded on the oven handle and begin to dry.

"I was asking what type of music you like." you try again.

"I heard you."

You look at him exasperatedly, "And you didn't answer?"

He turns to look at you now. Theres a softness to his face. One that you know the hospital hardly ever sees. Maybe a few of the patients that he likes and keeps up with. And now...you.

"I don't wanna listen to music. I wanna talk to you." he says confidently.

You almost blubber at that like a damn fool. It makes you turn back around to face the wet forks and knives. It's hard to imagine that he was controlling himself this whole time. Then your mind begins to wonder, how long has he been keeping this in?

To get yourself going again you start drying the forks. You can see him out of the corner of your eye faced away from you now. He turns off the sink.

"As long as you wanna keep talking to me." he adds.

"Yeah."

"Yeah..." he trails off.

The first thing Logan said when he caught you staring was not even a word.

It was a laugh.

Low. Breathless. Almost mean.

He was on the floor by the foot of the bed, shirt off, sweat running down the centre of his chest, fists planted against the hardwood because apparently regular push-ups were too gentle for whatever stupid hockey-boy conditioning routine he’d decided to put himself through at eleven at night.

Knuckle push-ups.

Because of course.

Because John Logan couldn’t just be hot in a normal, manageable way. No, he had to drop low with his back flexing, shoulders wide, forearms corded, biceps tightening every time he lowered himself until his nose nearly brushed the floor. He had to breathe through it, slow and controlled, jaw set like it didn’t cost him anything.

And you, idiot that you were, had forgotten to pretend you were reading.

Your book was open in your lap. Upside down because nuance and subtlety were flung out the window around the time when his shirt also was tugged off.

Logan noticed on rep thirty-two.

His eyes flicked up first, then his mouth curved, “really?”

You blinked, “what?”

He pushed up again, arms locking, knuckles white against the floor, “book’s upside down.”

You looked down, “shit.”

He laughed, dropped once more, then held himself there, body hovering inches above the floor, biceps full and tense and completely unfair, “You staring at me?”

“No.”

He pushed back up, his breath barely affected- only slightly deeper, more controlled in sharp puffs. His smirk when he returned to his starting position could only be described as horribly cocky, “liar.”

“I was thinking.”

“About my arms?”

You shut the book.

Logan’s grin got worse.

That was twenty minutes ago.

Now your back was on the mattress, your thighs over his shoulders, and Logan’s arms were locked around your legs like he was proving a point with his entire body, “You wanted to stare?” he murmured against your inner thigh, “Stare.”

You could not. That was the problem. Your head was tipped back, one hand twisted in the sheets, the other locked in his hair while his mouth moved over you like he had all night and no intention of letting you survive it. His biceps pressed hard against the backs of your thighs, flexing every time you squirmed, every time his grip tightened to drag you back down to him.

“Logan,” you breathed.

He hummed. The vibration hit your clit and made your hips jerk.

His hand slid up, palm flattening low on your stomach, “stay.”

“Can’t.”

“Mhm,” another slow lick, “you can.”

Your thighs shook around his head.

He loved it. You could tell he loved it by the way he smiled against you, by the way his fingers dug into your skin, by the way he kept making these low, pleased sounds that blurred into you more than words, “Mmm. There?” he asked, mouth still wet against you.

You nodded too fast.

His hand smacked lightly against your hip, “words.”

“Yes.”

He kissed your clit, soft enough to be cruel, “yes, what?”

You tried to glare down at him, but his mouth opened over you again before you could form anything coherent, tongue dragging slow and flat, and the glare dissolved somewhere pathetic, “yes, there.”

His eyes flicked up, “Good girl.”

Your whole body clenched.

He felt it, “yeah?” his voice was rough now, a little wrecked around the edges, "you like that?”

“Shut up.”

He laughed against you.

You nearly came from that alone.

“Mean,” he murmured, “for someone who was looking at my arms like she wanted to bite me.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” He shifted one arm higher, bicep bunching beside your thigh as he pressed you open with his shoulder, “you were sitting there all quiet, squeezing your legs together.”

Your face went hot, “logan.”

“What?” He kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, “you think I don’t notice?”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, “please.”

That did something to him.

His mouth stopped teasing. The next lick was firmer, slower, right where you needed him, and your breath broke into a soft, useless sound.

“There she is,” he said.

“Lo.”

“Mhm?”

“More.”

He groaned like the word hurt him. Then his arm shifted from your thigh, hand dragging down, two fingers pressing against you, slicking through the mess his mouth had made. He circled once, twice, watching your face the entire time.

“You’re soaked.”

You whimpered. His fingers pressed in slow, your back arched.

“Fuck.”

He smiled, but it was not smug anymore. It was hungry. Blown out. Like he had started this to tease you and ended up ruining himself with it too.

“That’s it,” he murmured, “take ’em.”

Your hand flew from his hair to his bicep, nails digging into the hard muscle there as his fingers curled inside you, “oh-”

He made another sound, almost a growl, and buried his mouth against you again.

It was filthy.

Wet.

Loud.

His tongue worked your clit while his fingers fucked into you, steady and deep, and you clung to his arm like it was the only thing keeping you anchored. The muscle flexed under your hand with every movement, hot and solid and so absurdly strong that your brain, already useless, managed only one thought.

Bite.

You did, mouth against the thick curve of his bicep, teeth sinking in lightly because you could not help yourself.

Logan froze.

For half a second, everything stopped. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.

His mouth was wet. Chin shiny. Eyes dark enough to be dangerous, “did you just bite me?”

You released him slowly, “maybe.”

He stared. Then he laughed, low and disbelieving, and the sound made your stomach drop, “you’re fucking unbelievable.”

“You said I wanted to.”

“I was joking.”

“I wasn’t.”

Something snapped in his face.

Pure, awful heat.

His fingers curled harder inside you, and your mouth fell open, “you wanna bite?” he said, voice low, “fine. Bite.”

“Logan-”

He pushed his arm closer to your mouth and lowered his head again, “go on.”

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

His mouth touched you, “bite me while I make you come.”

The sound that left you was embarrassing. He hummed like he liked it and went back down, you bit him again when he did, harder this time.

His groan vibrated straight through your clit.

“Oh my God.”

“Mm?” he hummed, still working you open on his fingers, “that good?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, yes, f- Logan.”

Your hand locked around his arm, mouth pressed to his skin, teeth scraping every time his fingers hit that place inside you that made the room tilt. He kept his pace brutal and perfect, tongue circling, sucking, flicking, then flattening again when your hips started to buck.

You were babbling now.

Not words, not properly.

Just little sounds and broken pieces.

“Lo- yes- there, there, please-”

He pulled his mouth away for one breath, “for me?”

You nodded frantically.

His fingers stopped.

You nearly sobbed.

“Say it.”

Your eyes opened, wet and furious, “for you.”

His face softened for one second.

Just one.

Then his mouth was back on you, and he curled his fingers again, and you were gone.

Your orgasm hit hard, messy, thighs clamping around his head, teeth pressing into his bicep as you came with a muffled cry against his skin. Logan held you through it, arm flexed under your mouth, fingers still moving in slow, dragging strokes while his tongue worked you until you were shaking too hard to keep biting.

“Lo,” you gasped,” too much.”

He stopped instantly. Pulled back.

Pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh, then another, softer, right beside the first.

Your chest heaved. He crawled up your body like he had all the time in the world, mouth wet, hair wrecked from your fingers, a faint red mark blooming on his bicep where your teeth had been.

You stared at it.

He caught you, “seriously?” he said, breathless.

You reached for his arm again.

He caught your wrist and pinned it gently to the pillow beside your head, “no.”

You blinked up at him, “no?”

“You’re cut off.”

“But-”

“You bit me while I was eating you out.”

“You told me to.”

“I know,” His mouth brushed yours, and you tasted yourself on him, “that’s why I’m hard enough to die.”

Your gaze dropped.

He laughed into your mouth, “yeah,” he muttered, “now you notice.”

You lifted your hips against him, and his laugh broke into a groan.

“Baby.”

“Mhm?”

“Don’t start unless you want me to finish.”

You smiled, still dazed, still clinging to his wrist. Then you turned your face and kissed the inside of his bicep.

Logan closed his eyes, “fuck me,” he breathed.

“What do you mean?” You try to ask innocently, leaning forward to run your fingers across his shoulders and through the hair at the nape of his neck. 

Your distraction doesn’t work. If anything, his frown deepens.

“What’s going on?” He stares you down and you falter. Something must show on your face because his brows furrow and his hands reach for you. When one slides up your back and across your shoulder blade, you flinch. 

Brendon pulls back like he’s burned you. The look on his face is hurt and suspicious, and when he speaks again, his voice is far rougher than normal, each syllable drawn out. “What’s wrong?” 

Tears well up unbidden in your eyes, and you fluster at the burning in your waterline. Your head shakes, frustration with yourself bubbling up. “You weren’t supposed to find out!”

That makes things worse. Now, his face turns dark and he’s reaching for you again, sliding off the couch to stand and look at your back.

“Did someone hurt you?”

“No!” You turn to stop him from lifting your shirt and seeing your skin, but he flawlessly follows your movement, not allowing you out of his grasp. “No, I promise no one hurt me.”

“Then what?” 

You sigh, your shoulders dropping in defeat. Your wring your hands in front of you and Brendon stops, looking at you and allowing you to answer in your own time. 

“I got something for you.” You finally admit, voice smaller than it should be. “But… I didn’t want to show you until it was ready.”

“You… got me something that’s on your back?”

You nod, and reach down to lift your shirt, turning your back toward him again. There, right on the back of your shoulder, is a new tattoo, still covered with the clear wrap from the tattoo shop. 

The design is of two sharks: a nurse shark for you, and a great white for him. Still swollen with freshly injected ink. 

“Honey…” The pet name is enough to have your eyes burning again, and you bite your lip in anticipation of him saying more. 

When he doesn’t, you ask shakily, “Well, do you like it?”

He pulls your shirt down gently over the wrap before his hands move to cup your cheeks. He places a long kiss to your lips, and by the end of it, you’re smiling. 

“I love it.” He tells you, and there’s a soft tenderness in his eyes that always makes your stomach flutter. You lean forward to kiss him again, and his hands slide into your hair to pull you closer, kissing you harder. He pulls away first, and you press your forehead to his, the tips of your noses bumping. 

“I love it.” He repeats, and then, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Bren.” 

He smiles for just a moment before shaking his head, pulling back and meeting your gaze. “You were going to try and hide it until it was healed?” 

You shy, giving a slow nod, “I was going to try. You figured me out in less than three hours…”

He scoffs, pulling you to lean against him again, but careful of your shoulder. 

“What?” You ask at his scoff. He gives you a side eye.

“Did you really think I’d be able to keep my hands off of you until it healed?”

°˖✧✿✧˖°

"What are you so happy about?" you chided. You were at the bottom of the staircase, two solo cups with something strong, one in each hand.

Logan pressed a hand to his chest in mock surprise. "Offering me a drink? What's the occasion?" He gasped, hand to chest. "Did someone die?"

You fixed him with a flat look. "In your dreams, hockey boy." You shoved the cup at him hard enough that some of it sloshed over the rim. He accepted it and leaned against the wall as he took a sip.

"Tucker asked me to give it to you. I'm just the messenger. Don't read into it."

"Sure," he took another sip, eyebrows furrowed in serious thought. "You know, you could've just asked Tucker to fuck off and bring it himself?"

"I could've," you agreed. "But then I wouldn't have gotten to watch you be wrong about something, and that's basically my, like, favourite hobby."

He tilted his head. "Funny. I thought your favourite hobby was pretending you don't stare at me at games."

You laughed incredulously. "You are so full of yourself."

"Right." He pushed off the wall and fell into step beside you, completely uninvited, because that was just what Logan did. Took up space like he was entitled to it. And as much as you pretended to be annoyed, you really, really weren't.

"And it has nothing to do with the fact that I look incredible in gear."

You turned to look at him slowly. "You are genuinely insufferable, you know that?"

Slowly, the crowd trickled down, shoulders slumped, and eyes started to droop. By 2 am, most people were passed out from exhaustion, alcohol, or both.

Logan finally headed up to his room, feeling accomplished that he got to have it all for himself. He changed out of his denims and into some comfortable sweatpants. His shirt was almost fully off when his door opened.

"Hey, mind if I— Oh shit." You slapped a hand over your eyes.

"What the fuck," Logan said, less a question and more a general statement of grievance at the universe. He yanked his henley down over his head and turned around. "Why are you in my room?"

"Garrett said I could crash here." You lowered your hand cautiously, confirming the situation was PG again.

"Crash here." He stared at you. "In my room."

"In your room," you confirmed, like it wasn't your ideal choice of a sleepover either.

"Garrett." He said the name the way someone might say black mould or tax audit. "I'm going to kill him."

"Incredibly valid," you said. "But maybe after? Because I genuinely have nowhere else to go."

He crossed his arms. The henley was dark green and soft-looking and you were absolutely not noticing that. "Garrett's room."

"Hannah's there."

"Right. Dean's?"

"Allie's in there, and I am not mentally strong enough to know what's going on behind that door." He just sighed.

"What about Tucker?"

You gave him a look. "There are five people in that room. I counted. Someone's sleeping in the bathtub, Logan, I am not going in there."

He considered his options, staring at the ceiling.

"And before you ask, both couches are occupied." You leaned against the doorframe and hated that you were about to do this. "Dude, I will sleep on the floor. I'm not even asking for the bed. Just— floor space. And a tiny little pillow."

Logan gave you a once-over as he considered.

You were still in your party clothes— some soft-looking sweater that had ridden up on one side where it'd gotten caught on your hip, dark jeans that were probably uncomfortable as hell at this point. Your hair was a mess, with strands falling around your face. You had that specific kind of tired that came from too much socialising and not enough sleep, your eyes a little glazed, your shoulders curved inward like you were trying to make yourself smaller.

You looked exhausted, vulnerable in a way he had never seen you before. You dragged your sweater down by the hem, suddenly self-conscious.

Something in his chest did something he didn't like.

"Do you have anything to change into?" he caught you off guard. Wow, okay. He did not have to do that. His back was already turned to you as he started rummaging through his closet.

"Oh? Um, no, no, I don't."

After about a minute, he threw a t-shirt and some pants in your direction. "Here."

You caught with the grace of a drunk person at 2 AM, trying to prove they had hand-eye coordination. Immediately after you caught it, he turned around, facing the wall. You stood there for a moment holding his clothes.

They smelled like him. Something clean and warm and distinctly so Logan that made the whole thing feel somehow you'd never felt before. You tugged your sweater over her head and stepped out of your jeans, suddenly very aware that he was maybe five feet away and actively not looking, which somehow made it feel more intimate than if he had been.

"Done," you said, after a couple of minutes, and your voice came out quieter than you meant.

Logan turned around slowly, like he was giving you time to object or change your mind. His eyes did this thing where they swept over you. He took in the sight in front of him. You, in what he'd never admit was his favourite t-shirt that he owned, standing in front of him, looking up at him, all tired and soft like you belonged there, in his room, in his clothes.

His jaw tightened.

"You're not sleeping on the floor," he said, and it came out rougher than he meant because he was already annoyed at himself for caring. He pulled back the covers on the side closer to the wall and nodded at it with all the warmth of a government official. "Take the bed."

"Where are you going to sleep?"

"Also, the bed." He said it flatly, daring you to make it weird. "It's a queen. We're adults. Stay on your side, and we'll both survive the night."

"Yes, sir," you said, with as much dignity as someone could muster while wearing someone else's sweatpants. He looked at you as if he were studying you, which wasn't doing you any favours.

You wanted to argue. You really did. But the bed looked soft and inviting, and you were so tired, and his clothes were warm, and some part of you, the part you that you would vehemently deny existed if anyone asked, didn't actually hate the idea of him being there.

"I know I'm in your bed and all, but if you snore, I am smothering you with a pillow."

"Noted." He was already pulling back his side of the covers. "If you steal the blanket I'm throwing you out."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

You got in without looking at him. He got in without looking at you. There was an unspoken agreement. We say nothing, do nothing, and we fall asleep.

You both stared at the ceiling. For a long time. The only sounds either of you could hear were the soft hum of the AC, leaves rustling and crickets from outside, and each other's breathing, which oddly put you at ease.

He knew you were awake. You knew he was awake. And it was getting increasingly hard to just lie there doing nothing next to a fully conscious person in the vicinity of your personal space. You decided to break the silence. Might as well.

"So, uh, how have you been?" You immediately winced. Why was that the ice-breaker you decided to go with, Jesus Christ.

"You know we don't have to make small talk. We can just sleep like, you know, regular people."

"I know, it's just— I am not used to extended periods of silence, and it is way too quiet in here, and if we don't keep talking, I think we will hear some things from Dean's room that we can never unhear for the rest of what will be our tragically short lives. So, what I'm getting at with way too many words than necessary is please keep talking to me."

He looked at you for what felt like forever before bursting into laughter.

"You know," Logan said eventually, still looking at the ceiling, "most people would've just said they were scared of hearing Dean."

"Dude, I am scared of hearing Dean."

"Fair."

You smiled despite yourself. The silence settled again, but it wasn't awkward like before. Logan volunteered this time.

"You looked like you were having fun tonight."

You turned your head slightly toward him, smirking at what he was implying. "Is that your way of asking if I was talking to anybody?"

"No," he scoffed, which came out less nonchalant and more defensive.

"Oh, it absolutely is."

"It's not."

"You are so obsessed with me," you teased, to which he just stared at you, deadpan. He knew you couldn't see it in the dark, but you could feel his eyes on you, and that made all the difference.

"No, you're right. I am deeply obsessed with you," he replied, voice devoid of any emotion.

You grinned into the darkness and hugged your pillow tighter. Why this revelation made you feel all warm and sappy, you were in no hurry to find out. You decided to keep pressing his buttons because it was surprisingly easy and fun to get on his nerves.

"Wow, you're terrible at this."

"At what?"

"Small talk, subtlety, all of it, really."

He snorted at that. "Good thing I wasn't trying."

That sent an unexpected flutter through your stomach that you promptly ignored because you were not giving John Logan, self-proclaimed frenemy, the satisfaction of making you blush.

"So," you said carefully, "how was your game last week?"

"You were literally there?" he said in a tone that bordered on incredulous.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"You remember?"

"Of course, I do. You sit in the same section every single game."

Heat crawled up your neck faster than you could process. What did he mean he remembered?

"Wha— No, I don't!" you defended.

"Sure, you do."

"I don't."

"You absolutely do."

"You are making things up."

"You wore that ugly yellow beanie—"

Your jaw dropped. "It is not ugly. You take that back!"

"It looked like a highlighter."

"It was cute!"

"It was bright enough to guide ships through fog."

You shoved his shoulder, and Logan laughed. He actually laughed, and it wasn't the smug grin he usually wore. Not the annoying smirk that made you want to throw things at him. Not that knowing smile that made your skin crawl.

And suddenly you understood why people liked him so much. You noticed how he was effortlessly charming, how he cared very loudly, not thinking twice about the consequences or what others thought. You paid attention to the fact that he absolutely did not have to let you sleep in his bed, let alone entertain you or put up with your bullying talking.

Which was deeply unfortunate for you specifically, because now you couldn't stop smiling.

The conversation just drifted after that. There was no more arguing just for the sake of arguing, no more trying to best one another at whatever imaginary rivalry you had going. You just... talked. Classes, shitty professors, first relationships, last relationships, friends, family, home, everything, really.

Eventually, the room grew quieter. The words started to slow. At some point, you rolled onto your side. He did too. Eventually, your replies became single words. Then hums. Then nothing at all.

The last thing you remembered was hearing him say your name. It was way too soft and filled with... something you had no energy to unpack. He said it like he was making sure you were still awake. You weren't.

—

Morning arrived far too soon. Pale golden rays of sunlight crept in through the gaps in the curtains that swayed slightly from the AC. The light painted lazy strips across the room's hardwood floor, climbing over the dresser, the rumpled blankets, and eventually right across Logan's face. He frowned in his sleep and buried his face deeper into the pillow like that would somehow stop the sun from existing.

The first thing you noticed was warmth. The second thing you noticed was that the warmth was breathing. What the hell?

Your eyes flew open. Oh. Oh no.

Somehow, at some point during the night, every promise about staying on your respective sides of the bed had completely failed. One of Logan's arms was around your waist. Your face was buried against his chest. One of your legs was thrown over his. You were practically sprawled on top of him.

For a solid five seconds, your brain simply stopped functioning. Then all the memories came back. The party. The bed. The talking. The sleeping. The fact that you were currently cuddling Logan. Mortification hit you like a freight train.

This wasn't even the side of the bed you went to sleep in. You froze.

Unfortunately for you, Logan chose that exact moment to wake up.

"...Morning." His voice was rough with sleep, deeper than usual, and it travelled right through your body in a way that had you reeling. You considered launching yourself through the nearest wall.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. Logan made the mistake of looking down. You looked up at him, and immediately looked away again. "Oh my God."

"Yeah," he replied, like he had accepted his fate.

"Oh my God."

"I know."

You carefully untangled yourself and scooted backwards at approximately the speed of light. The movement made Logan grimace. You frowned.

"You okay, dude?"

His expression somehow became even more uncomfortable. Then realisation hit. Your eyes widened. His eyes widened. The silence that followed could've killed a Victorian child. Finally Logan dragged both hands down his face.

"Before you react," he said, staring firmly at the ceiling, "this is a perfectly normal, biological thing."

You immediately covered your face.

"Oh my God."

"It's literally just biology."

"I know it's biology."

You sat up, way too flustered to react like a normal person. He immediately sat up as well and grabbed your pillow, using it to protect what little dignity he had left. "Okay, then."

"I'm very aware, it's normal, i know."

"Good."

"Why are we having this conversation?"

"Yeah, I don't really know."

Another horrifying silence. You groaned. "I was basically sleeping on top of you, I'm sorry."

"It's alright, I'm sorry for... enjoying it too much?" he tried to manage, but let's be honest, that only made it worse.

"Nope."

"Yeah, that wasn't it."

"This is probably not helping."

"Definitely not helping."

You dropped your face into your hands.

"Fantastic."

"Fan... tastic."

It was silent for another lifetime before Logan decided that he had to protect his honour.

"In my defence, you were practically sleeping on top of me."

"Okay, in my defence, I don't remember doing that."

"You were using me as a weighted blanket," he argued. A laugh escaped before you could stop it.

The pillow shifted. Logan looked at you. You looked right back at him. And somehow the whole situation became so ridiculously awful that it wrapped right back around to funny.

You started laughing. Logan held out for maybe ten seconds before he cracked. "Wow, you're laughing at me right now?"

"No," you tried, but it came out as a high-pitched something that barely sounded like a word.

"Wh— you are!"

"I'm laughing at the situation."

"The situation is me living through the worst morning of my life."

"The situation is you getting a raging boner from basic human contact!"

"You and I have very different definitions of basic human contact."

That only made you laugh harder. Then the two of you were sitting there laughing like idiots over absolutely nothing.

A few minutes later, once the crisis had officially passed, you stood and gathered your things. Neither of you quite met the other's eyes.

"Well," you started.

"Well."

"We never speak of this."

"Oh, hell no."

"This goes to the grave."

"Absolutely. Scout's honour."

"You were not a Boy Scout."

"Not even close to the point, by the way."

You levelled him with a look before you continued. "If Garrett finds out, I move to another country."

"If Garrett finds out," Logan said darkly, "I'm killing him."

You nodded. "Call me if you need an alibi."

That pulled another laugh out of him, a sound that you were growing to enjoy more than you cared to admit. You glanced at him. He glanced at you. Something softened in his eyes that you were trying hard to convince yourself wasn't really there.

"So..." You shifted awkwardly. "Thanks."

"For what?"

You looked down at the oversized shirt hanging off your frame.

"The room, the clothes, the bed, everything really."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, don't— don't mention it."

The smile that appeared on your face felt impossible to stop. For the first time in a long time, neither of you had a sarcastic comeback ready, which was probably a much bigger problem than either of you realised.

Immediately after you left, he fell back against the mattress and scrubbed a hand over his face. His pillow and sheets still smelled like you, and it didn't bother him as much as he'd expected to.

He was staring at the ceiling in disbelief. Logan, who was aggressively a morning person, who loved waking up early for practice and catching the sunrise, had slept through four alarms. This was the best night's sleep he had had in ages. Fuck.

As he pushed through the front door of the hockey house, the familiar scent of stale pizza, laundry detergent, and whatever Tucker had cooked earlier greeted him. He kicked off his shoes near the entrance and rolled his neck, already mentally planning his evening. That's when he noticed you and Garrett sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen island, textbooks spread across the countertop.

Dean slowed, not because Garrett was studying, that wasn't unusual lately, but because Garrett looked utterly miserable. "Jesus," Garrett groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Remind me again why you want to pursue a career in this?" His eyes narrowed at the open psychology textbook like it had personally offended him. "Not memorizing the difference between operant conditioning and classical conditioning isn't the end of the world, G."

Dean couldn't help smiling. Somehow, whenever you were around, the house felt lighter. Before either of you could react, he crossed the room and made a beeline toward the kitchen island. Garrett spotted him first, a knowing smirk immediately tugged at his mouth, one which Dean blatantly ignored it. You barely had enough time to look up before all six-foot-two of him folded himself around you.

One arm slid around your shoulders, the other wrapped around your waist as his face buried itself in your hair as he let out a long, exhausted groan. "If you're having trouble distinguishing classical and operant conditioning, just make flash cards," You advised Garrett, as though you weren't currently trapped beneath an oversized hockey player. "Handwritten ones. They always helped me."

Without even thinking about it, your fingers slipped between Dean's where his hand rested against your stomach. The gesture was entirely unconscious. Dean's tired brain barely registered it, but Garrett's definitely did. "Are we not going to address the overgrown golden retriever currently hanging off your shoulder?" Garrett questioned, motioning toward Dean.

In response, Dean didn't move, in fact, his hold only tightened around your waist. You rolled your eyes at both their antics. "Are we not going to address the fact that you're here 'studying' on a Friday night because you refuse to admit your feelings for Hannah and couldn't stand the thought of her going out with Justin tonight?" The reaction was immediate, Garrett immediately went red, really red.

His jaw clenched as he snapped his attention back to his notes with exaggerated concentration. "Your girl is disturbingly insightful, Di Laurentis." He muttered which made you scoff as you playfully nudged his shin with your foot from across the table. “Damn straight she is.” Dean’s answer came instantly, low and smug, with a kiss pressed to your forehead that you unconsciously leaned into which made Dean's stomach do something profoundly embarrassing.

For a few moments, only the rustle of paper and the hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen. Then you reached across the counter and squeezed Garrett's hand, your expression softening. "Hey, G," You muttered softly as Garrett's eyes slowly lifted to meet yours. "For what it's worth, I don't think Hannah likes Justin nearly as much as you think she does." Garrett squeezed your hand back, hope flashing across his face before he could hide it.

Dean watched the exchange quietly, body still wrapped around you. He didn't notice the way his thumb kept tracing small absent minded circles against your waist. He did notice that when you smiled at Garrett, he felt oddly jealous of his best friend for getting that look. And for the first time in a very long time, Dean couldn't help but wonder if maybe his attachment to his childhood "friend" wasn't quite as platonic as he'd always pretended it was.

2. Self-Care Day with Summer

Safe to say Dean had a shitty day.

All he wanted now was you. He wanted to kick off his shoes, collapse onto his bed, and bury himself in your arms while your fingers lazily carded through his messy hair. He wanted your soft voice filling the silence, your hand rubbing slow circles across his back until the tension seeped from every tight muscle in his body. The guys would never let him live it down if they knew, but Dean really couldn't bring himself to care.

As he pushed open the front door of the hockey house, the familiar sounds of shouting commentators and button mashing greeted him. Logan and Tucker were planted on opposite ends of the couch, controllers gripped tightly in their hands as they battled it out on the TV. An empty pizza box sat abandoned on the coffee table, surrounded by half-empty Gatorade bottles and crumpled napkins.

Dean barely spared them a glance, his eyes immediately sweeping areas where you'd probably be. The kitchen, empty. The dining room, nothing. No backpack tossed over one of the chairs. No oversized sweatshirt draped over the counter. No mug of tea you'd inevitably forget to finish. "Looking for your girl?" Logan's amused voice pulled him from his search. Without taking his eyes off the television, a knowing smirk spread across his face.

Dean didn't even bother correcting him anymore. "You seen her?" He asked, already craning his neck toward the hallway as if you might magically appear. Logan shrugged one shoulder. "She was here with Wellsy earlier. Upstairs probably." That was all Dean needed. He took the stairs two at a time, each step creaking beneath his weight. His exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as he headed straight for his bedroom.

"Y/N?" He called, knocking lightly before twisting the doorknob. The room was empty, bed neatly made, and the hoodie you'd stolen from him last week was nowhere to be found. Dean frowned. Without even realizing what he was doing, his phone was already in his hand, your contact pulled up from muscle memory. His thumb hit the call button before he had a chance to even think twice.

The phone rang twice before: "Hi, Dicky!" Dean physically recoiled. "What the hell— Summer?" His eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "What are you doing with Y/N's phone?" An exaggerated scoff crackled through the speaker, he could practically see Summer rolling her eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, Dicky," Summer huffed. "She doesn't belong to you. She was my friend first."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, a fresh headache blooming almost instantly. "Just give her the phone, Summer." He heard muffled voices, the sound of the phone changing hands, and then: "Hi, Dean." It was amazing what two simple words could do. The knot between his shoulder blades loosened. His jaw unclenched. The lingering frustration in his body eased just from hearing your voice. A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

"Babydoll," He murmured, unable to hide the relief in his voice. "Where are you? And why on earth are you with my hellion of a sister?" Your soft laugh drifted through the speaker, warm enough to make him wish you were standing beside him instead. Somewhere in the background, Summer barked an offended, "Dick." You laughed harder before finally answering. "She called me this morning after my eight a.m. class. She was having a bad day, so I drove into Manhattan to spend the day with her."

"You drove all the way to Manhattan?" Dean blinked. "Of course I did, Summer needed me." His heart did that stupid thing it always seemed to do around you. You hadn't hesitated. Summer needed someone, and you'd simply gone. No complaints. Just packed your things and made the drive because someone you cared about asked. There was another shuffle on the other end before Summer snatched the phone back. "Retail therapy works wonders, Dicky," She announced proudly.

"She'll be all yours tomorrow, but today?" Summer continued, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. "Today she's mine. Love you. Bye!" Seconds later, the line went suddenly dead. Dean stared down at his phone for several long seconds before letting out a disbelieving laugh. Of course Summer would steal your phone. Of course she'd hang up before he could get another word in.

But none of that was what stuck with him. What lingered was the realization that the second his sister admitted she was struggling, you'd dropped everything and driven nearly four hours just to make sure Summer didn't have to be alone. No hesitation. No expectation of anything in return. Just because that's who you were. Dean had always known you had the biggest heart of anyone he'd ever met. Today, though...

Today, he caught himself wishing he was more than just a friend.

3. The Injury

"Let her through! She's with the team!" Garrett's authoritative voice cut cleanly through the chaos surrounding the arena tunnel, commanding enough that even over the frantic chatter, blaring arena speakers, and the lingering roar of thousands of fans filing toward the exits, everyone nearby turned their heads. However, you barely heard him. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly in your ears it drowned out almost everything else.

"I'm the captain of this team," Garrett interrupted sharply, stepping between you and security. "She's family." The guard hesitated only a second before stepping aside. The moment the path cleared, your feet carried you forward before your brain had a chance to catch up. Garrett fell into step beside you, one steady hand settling against the middle of your back as if he could feel the way your entire body trembled.  

"How is he?" Your voice barely sounded like your own. Garrett's jaw tightened. "The medic thinks he'll be out at least two weeks." His expression darkened. "Mild concussion and a fractured ankle." Hot fury ignited beneath your ribs. Not at Dean, but at the player who had recklessly swept his stick between Dean's legs. You'd watched it happen. There'd been no attempt to play the puck. It was just a cheap shot.

A dangerous one.

Your hands curled into fists as the replay flashed through your mind all over again. "He keeps asking for you," Garrett continued, his tone softening. "Won't let anyone get a word in." Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched. "He's being more annoying than usual," Garrett added with a tired sigh. "Logan and Tucker are about five minutes away from knocking him unconscious themselves."

That definitely sounded like Dean. "I should probably go micromanage before they make good on that threat." Garrett chuckled under his breath and pulled open the door to the medical room. The sight waiting on the other side nearly made your knees buckle. Dean sat propped awkwardly on the examination chair, his hockey pants and jersey still on, shoulder pads discarded in a heap beside him.

His normally perfect blond curls were damp with sweat and flattened where his helmet had been, several loose strands sticking out in every direction. A medic knelt beside him, carefully supporting his injured ankle while a PT intern shined a light into his eyes, checking his pupils. Logan and Tucker both stood on each side of him, still wearing their jerseys, neither looking remotely interested in getting changed until they knew Dean was okay.

"Garrett went to get her, just wait." Logan reminded him patiently, keeping a firm hand planted on Dean's shoulder the second he tried to stand again. "Let the medic finish checking you out, man." Tucker coaxed like the mother hen he was. Dean opened his mouth, ready to argue then his eyes found yours. It was almost eerie, like he'd sensed you before you'd even stepped through the doorway.

The tension visibly drained from his shoulders. Relief flooded his features so quickly it made your chest ache. "Babydoll..." He breathed, every ounce of stubbornness disappearing. "Thank fuck." He sank back into the chair, extending both hands toward you without an ounce of hesitation. "C'mere... please." There wasn't a universe where you wouldn't. You crossed the room in two quick strides.

The second your fingers slipped between his, Dean gripped them like a lifeline. Like he'd been holding himself together by sheer force of will until you walked through that door. Your eyes immediately began searching him. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. Fresh bruising already blooming beneath one eye. A split lip. The ugly swelling around his ankle. "You scared the hell out of me, Dean." You whispered, your voice catching despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

Dean's thumb swept absentminded circles across the back of your hand. Whatever pain medication they'd given him had softened the hard edges around his eyes, leaving him wearing a crooked, hopelessly boyish smile that somehow made him look younger. "How's your head?" You asked gently, your free hand lifted almost on its own, brushing one stubborn blond curl away from his forehead before tucking it back into place.

Your fingertips lingered there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, wanting the reassurance that he was really here. Dean leaned unconsciously into your touch. "Never had any complaints, babydoll." He punctuated the line with an exaggerated wink. An audible chorus of groans filled the room. "Oh my fucking God." Logan muttered, eyes rolling. "He's concussed and still flirting." Tucker complained, rubbing both hands down his face.

You felt heat instantly flood your cheeks, but ultimately chose to ignore it. "Oh, you're absolutely fine." You huffed, rolling your eyes as you tried to tug your hand free. Only Dean wasn't having it. His fingers tightened around yours and with one gentle pull, he drew you closer until you stood between his knees, your bodies only inches apart. The teasing grin he'd been wearing slowly faded.

Something quieter settled over his features, something almost fragile. His thumb continued tracing slow circles across your knuckles, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were here. That he could still hold your hand. "Thanks for being here." The words came quietly. Without the usual confidence. Without a joke to soften them. Just plain, raw honesty. You didn't even have to think about your answer.

Your other hand rose to cup his cheek, brushing over the rough stubble beginning to grow along his jaw. "There's nowhere else I'd be." Dean's breath caught. Those five simple words landed somewhere deep inside his chest, slipping past every wall he'd spent years carefully building. He'd spent so long convincing himself that what he felt for you was just harmless, a silly crush that would eventually go away.

But watching you burst through security with tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. Feeling your hands check every bruise like you could somehow erase the pain. Hearing you tell him there was nowhere else you'd rather be. It unraveled him. The feeling he'd been trying so desperately to bury came rushing back all at once, stronger than ever. Because for one terrifying moment on that ice, he'd thought he might open his eyes and not get to see you looking at him like he was the only person in the room.

4. Tucker’s Deathbed

Dean: Might wanna stay away tonight, Tuck’s got one hell of a cold.

Respectfully, there was no way in hell you were listening to that text. Your psychology paper on stress sat half-finished on your laptop, several journal articles scattered across your desk, but they could wait another night. Tucker couldn't. Besides, you knew exactly why Dean had texted you. He wasn't trying to be controlling, far from it.

He knew how often you caught whatever bug was going around campus, and the last thing he wanted was for you to spend the next week sniffling and miserable. It was sweet, but it was also completely futile seeing as your mind was already made up. You quickly shoved your laptop shut, gathered your keys, slipped your feet into your sneakers, and headed out the door before you had the chance to think twice about it.

Ten minutes later, you were pulling into the familiar driveway of the hockey house. The porch light cast a warm glow over the worn wooden steps, and the second you let yourself inside, the usual atmosphere felt...off. There was no music blasting from Logan's room. No laughter echoing through the halls. No Tucker humming while experimenting with whatever recipe had caught his attention that week.

Closing the front door behind you, your gaze immediately landed on the couch. "Oh, sweet Tuck." Your voice softened into something almost maternal. Tucker looked absolutely miserable. He was cocooned beneath two thick blankets despite the thermostat being turned up, curly hair sticking out in every direction, cheeks flushed an unhealthy shade of pink. A mountain of crumpled tissues littered the coffee table beside half-empty glasses of water and an abandoned mug of tea that had long since gone cold.

Setting your purse onto the nearest chair, you crossed the room quietly until you stood beside the couch. Your hand found his forehead with featherlight pressure, careful not to startle him awake. The warmth beneath your palm made you hiss. His skin was damp with sweat, far warmer than it should've been. He cracked one sleepy eye open before lazily batting your hand away with all the strength of a disgruntled toddler. "You're gonna get sick, Y/N." He mumbled, voice rough from congestion.

"Have you taken anything? Eaten?" You asked, purposely ignoring him. A weak shake of his head made you frown as he burrowed farther beneath the blanket until all you could really see was the top of his head. Without another word, you disappeared into the kitchen. Opening cabinet after cabinet, you smiled when everything was exactly where you'd expected. If there was one thing Tucker took almost as seriously as hockey, it was cooking.

Rolling up your sleeves, you got to work. Butter melted with a quiet sizzle before onions, carrots, and celery joined the pot, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of sautéing vegetables. Garlic followed moments later, its rich scent curling through the house. You shredded leftover rotisserie chicken Tucker had prepared earlier in the week, added handfuls of fresh herbs from the windowsill, poured in the homemade stock, and let everything simmer low and slow.

Nearly twenty minutes later, the soup bubbled gently on the stove, filling every room with warmth. Which was probably why the front door swung open. Logan stepped inside first, Garrett followed, and Dean came in last. All three stopped dead in the entryway as the unmistakable scent of homemade chicken noodle soup drifted toward them. Dean's gaze found you almost instantly, it was second nature nowadays.

You stood at the stove in one of Tucker's aprons, sleeves pushed to your elbows as you stirred the soup with practiced ease. Something deep in his chest squeezed painfully the more he looked at you. God, you looked like you belonged there. Like you'd always belonged there. His stomach flipped at the domestic image. The thought came so naturally it almost scared him. He could picture this years from now: Coming home after practice. Finding you in a kitchen making dinner, scolding one of the guys for skipping lunch.

It was such a simple fantasy, one he had absolutely no business imagining. "I thought I told you to stay home." Dean's voice carried equal parts exasperation and concern as he crossed his arms against his chest. "Last I checked, none of you know how to cook," You replied matter-of-factly while ladling soup into bowls. "Tuck needs homemade soup not whatever sodium-packed excuse for soup you three would've heated up from a can." Their silence spoke volumes.

Oh how you loved being right.

You slid two steaming bowls across the island toward Garrett and Logan who were openly salivating. "Sit and eat." Both men obeyed immediately, neither needed to be told twice. "You're my favorite person ever." Logan declared, already reaching for a spoon. "I've been saying that for years," Garrett chimed in, grinning as he accepted the bowl. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Dean watched the exchange in silence, eyes never leaving you as he watched you carry another bowl into the living room. You crouched beside Tucker, placing the soup carefully on the coffee table before setting cold medicine and a bottle of water beside it. "There we go." Your fingers brushed his forehead once more. "A little less warm." Tucker managed the weakest smile imaginable before taking a tentative bite.

Within minutes he looked noticeably more alive. Color slowly returned to his face as warmth spread through him. Dean, however, couldn't stop watching you. Couldn't stop noticing how naturally you slipped into caretaker mode. You remembered everyone's favorite meals. You always noticed when one of them skipped breakfast. You always looked after them without ever expecting anything in return.

It was simply woven into who you were.

"Serious question." Logan's voice pulled everyone's attention back toward the dining table. You looked up, brows furrowing and mentally preparing for what Logan was about to say. He pointed his spoon toward you. "Why has literally nobody wifed you up yet?" Your eyes widened, heat creeping up into your cheeks as you blinked at him processing his words. A nervous laugh escaped as you simply shrugged one shoulder instead of answering.

Thankfully, Logan accepted your non-answer. "Wild." He muttered before returning his full attention to the soup in front of him. You let out a quiet breath of relief, completely missing what happened across the room. Tucker slowly lifted his gaze as Garrett did the same, both men turning towards Dean in perfect synchronization. Dean was already glaring at them, if looks could kill both hockey players would already be six-feet under.

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling and Tucker looked seconds away from bursting out laughing despite the gruesome cold. Because they both knew. They'd watched Dean stare at you from the second he'd walked through the front door. Watched his eyes follow every movement you made. Watched the way his expression softened whenever you smiled his way.

Logan, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation unfolding beside him, happily shoveled another spoonful of soup into his mouth. Dean barely noticed, because despite his two smartass friends smirking at his obliviousness, his attention had drifted back to you. Back to the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you rinsed dishes. Back to the quiet hum you made under your breath while cleaning Tucker's kitchen.

Back to how effortlessly you took care of people you loved.

You were a catch. Dean had always known that. He'd known it long before anyone else started noticing. Long before Logan blurted it out over dinner. The problem was, other people were starting to realize it too. And someday, someone was going to look at you the way Dean already did. They'd flirt with you. Take you out. Learn your coffee order. Memorize the little wrinkle that appeared beside your nose whenever you laughed.

Most importantly, they'd get to call you theirs. The thought alone lodged itself beneath his ribs like a skate blade carving into fresh ice. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. You were his childhood best friend. He should've been thrilled if someone made you happy. Instead, all he could think was: I hope they don't. And that terrified him far more than any hockey game ever could.

5. The Male Gaze

"Hey, Y/N, is it true that Archer Beckett asked you out?" The question left Beau's mouth so casually you'd think he was asking you about the weather. Dean, on the other hand, nearly inhaled his beer. He coughed violently, setting the bottle down with a little more force than intended as carbonation burned the back of his throat. Beside him, Garrett didn't even attempt to hide his grin, his shoulders already beginning to shake with silent laughter.

Across the table, you took another leisurely sip of your piña colada, completely oblivious to the internal crisis unfolding three feet away. "He did." You confirmed, shrugging nonchalantly. Dean's entire body went rigid, his jaw locked so tightly he could feel his molars grinding together. Archer Beckett, of course it had to be Archer fucking Beckett. The lacrosse captain had been circling you for weeks like a damn shark.

Every time Dean turned around, Archer was "coincidentally" showing up wherever you happened to be, outside the psych building, in line at the campus coffee shop, even at Malone's after games. Dean had noticed, he noticed everything when it came to you. "What'd you tell him?" Hannah wondered from across the table, tucked comfortably beneath Garrett's arm.

Dean sat a little straighter without realizing it, every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for your answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Garrett and Beau exchanging identical shit-eating grins. Again. Lately they'd been doing that a lot. Assholes. You swirled the straw around your drink absentmindedly before answering as though the conversation couldn't possibly be less important. "I told him I wasn't interested."

Dean forgot how to breathe. Relief washed over him so suddenly it nearly made him dizzy. It came in one overwhelming wave, loosening the knot in his chest before he'd even processed why. His shoulders relaxed and the death grip he'd had on his beer bottle eased. A part of him, a part he'd spent months trying very hard to ignore, felt absurdly, ridiculously happy.

"The guy's relentless," Garrett observed, lifting his beer toward his lips. "I'm honestly surprised he backed off that easily." Dean caught the smug smirk Garrett aimed directly at him over the rim of his bottle. The silent message couldn't have been clearer: You hear that, Di Laurentis? She turned him down. Make your move, idiot. Dean responded by silently mouthing, I'm going to kill you to which Garrett's grin only widened.

Thankfully, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent death threats being exchanged across the table. "I need another drink." You stood, gathering your empty glass before pointing toward the bar. "Anyone want a refill?" Everyone but Hannah declined. Dean opened his mouth to offer to go with you, but the opportunity disappeared before the words reached his tongue because you were already weaving through the various crowds of people toward the bar.

His eyes followed instinctively as they always did. He watched as you smiled at Allie the second you reached the bar, leaning comfortably against the polished wood as the short brunette reached over the counter to squeeze your hand before beginning your drink. Dean couldn't help smiling too. "Dude, you're so whipped." Beau's voice yanked him back to reality. Dean managed to drag his gaze away from you just long enough to glare murderously at his best friend.

"At least pretend you're listening to us instead of staring at her like she hung the moon. You've watched her walk to the bar like four times already, man." Garrett interrupted, amusement dancing across his face. Dean scoffed at Garrett's words, opening his mouth to rebuttal before Hannah held her hand up stopping him. "Dean, at least try to hide it better." Hannah teased, smiling far too knowingly.

"Wellsy, don't encourage them." Dean groaned dramatically. "I'm not encouraging anything." Hannah's smile only grew. "I'm just observing." Dean rolled his eyes dramatically before looking back toward the televisions mounted behind the bar. Or at least, that was his intention. Instead, his attention landed on you again, watching as your eyes were fixated on Shane Hollander as he carried the puck through the neutral zone while Ilya Rozanov shadowed him stride for stride on the television screen.

Dean smiled despite himself, only you would get distracted by hockey while ordering drinks. Then he noticed them. Three guys at the opposite end of the bar. One of them glanced your way, then another. A fourth turned completely around in his stool. Dean's smile vanished instantly. They weren't watching the game, they were watching you. His grip tightened around his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white.

One of them, a tall brunette with an easy grin and far too much confidence nudged his friend before climbing off his stool. Dean's pulse immediately picked up as he watched the guy walk straight toward you. "I just love it when he gets territorial." Beau snickered as Hannah immediately elbowed Garrett in the ribs hard enough to earn an exaggerated grunt, though the smile she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress betrayed her.

They'd all noticed. Of course they did.

Dean didn't bother with them, his gaze was solely on you, stomach twisting unpleasantly. He had absolutely no right to feel possessive. You weren't his girlfriend. Hell, you weren't even remotely close to being his. You could flirt with whoever you wanted. Accept drinks from whoever you wanted. Go on dates with whoever you wanted. The thought alone made something ugly twist low in his stomach.

Jealousy.

Because it wasn't just that he didn't want Archer Beckett asking you out anymore. He didn't want anyone asking you out. He didn't want another guy making you laugh. Didn't want someone else memorizing your coffee order. Didn't want someone else bringing you flowers during finals week because they knew you were stressed. Didn't want someone else being the person you instinctively reached for.

He didn't want to be just your best friend anymore. He wanted to be the man sitting beside you. The one whose hand you'd reach for beneath the table. The one you'd kiss goodnight. The one you'd introduce as yours. Thankfully, after a few gruesome minutes which really seemed like decades, he watched as the brunette returned to his friends a few moments later. Empty-handed; no longer smiling and head hung low. Only then did Dean realize he'd been holding his breath.

You followed shortly after, balancing two frozen piña coladas with practiced ease, once again, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis currently unfolding inside Dean's head. "What'd he want?" The question escaped before Dean could stop it. You slid Hannah's drink across the table before answering. "Oh," You shrugged, hand waving dismissively as if it was no big deal. "He wanted to buy me a drink, but I told him my boyfriend was waiting for me."

Silence.

Dean stared, his brain stopped functioning altogether.

"Boyfriend?" He echoed weakly. You looked at him as though the answer was obvious, a tiny smile tugged at your lips. "I knew he wouldn't question it if I pointed at you." Dean's heart slammed against his ribs. You'd said it so naturally, so effortlessly. As if pretending Dean was yours had come as easily as breathing. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers wrapping gently around his forearm, the simple touch nearly undid him.

"You don't mind, do you, Dean?" You looked almost worried, like the possibility of upsetting him genuinely bothered you. Across the table, Garrett looked ready to burst into laughter. Beau had outright stopped pretending to hide his grin. Even Hannah pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Yet, Dean barely noticed. He was too busy imagining what it would've felt like if your words had actually been true. My boyfriend. God, he wanted to hear you say that again.

Not as an excuse, not to get rid of some random guy at a bar, but because you meant it. The realization settled over him with startling certainty. He wasn't just protective. He wasn't just attached because you'd been friends forever. He wasn't just comfortable around you. He was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with his best friend. And judging by the three idiots trying and failing not to laugh across the table, everyone seemed to know it before he did.

He swallowed hard, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before forcing himself to smile. "Course not, babydoll." You smiled back, satisfied with his answer, completely unaware that the tiny lie had just shattered what was left of his resolve. Because the truth was, Dean minded more than he could ever admit. Not because you'd called him your boyfriend, but because he wasn't. God, he wanted to be. More than his next championship. More than hockey. More than anything.

+1 The Hat Trick

The sharp November air nipped at your cheeks the second you stepped out of the car, your breath curling into soft white clouds as you made your way toward the entrance of the Briar arena. Even after countless games, countless Friday nights spent wrapped in Briar blue, there was still something magical about hockey nights.

The bright arena lights reflected against the freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, music boomed through the speakers as students flooded into the stands. Your eyes immediately searched for one player in particular. Dean, it was always Dean. The knot that had lived in your stomach for the past two weeks loosened the moment you spotted number sixty-six gliding effortless laps around center ice during warmups.

He was back. After the concussion and the fractured ankle. After countless days of sitting beside his bed while he complained about being benched, insisting he was "perfectly fine," and begged you to sneak him out of physical therapy. The team medic had finally cleared him that morning. Watching him skate again should've filled you with relief. Instead, your traitorous brain decided to notice how his practice jersey stretched across his shoulders every time he leaned into a stride.

How the muscles in his thighs flexed beneath his hockey pants as he dug his edges into the ice. How one damp blond curl escaped beneath his helmet while he stretched against the boards. You tore your eyes away with an embarrassed cough. Absolutely not. There was a hockey game to watch, not Dean Di Laurentis looking unfairly attractive while doing literally anything. Beside you, Hannah caught the direction of your gaze, hiding a knowing smile behind her cup of hot chocolate.

Thankfully, the referee's whistle echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the game before she could say anything. The opening puck drop snapped your attention back where it belonged. The first period against Harvard flew by in a blur of hard checks and blistering speed. Dean looked like he'd never left the lineup. He was everywhere. Breaking up passes through the neutral zone. Winning puck battles along the boards. Setting crushing screens in front of Harvard's goalie.

Even when he wasn't scoring, he dictated the pace every time his line hopped over the boards. Midway through the first period, Garrett intercepted a sloppy pass just inside Briar's blue line.Without hesitation, he banked the puck off the boards toward Logan, who exploded down the right wing with Tucker keeping pace on the opposite side. The three connected like they shared one brain.

Logan faked a slapshot which allowed for Tucker to intercept, cleanly sliding the puck into the goal. The red light flashed, the goal horn erupted, and the arena exploded. You shot to your feet along with Hannah and everyone else, cheering until your throat burned. Dean was the first one to reach Tucker, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before shoving his helmet affectionately.

By the middle of the second period, Logan buried one of his own after Dean fought through two defenders behind the net to feed him a perfect no-look pass. A few minutes later Tucker struck again on the power play after Garrett rifled a shot from the point that bounced straight onto Tucker's stick. Everything Briar touched seemed to turn into goals tonight. The chemistry between the four upperclassmen was almost unfair to watch.

Every pass landed tape-to-tape. Every line change happened seamlessly. Every player seemed to know exactly where the others would be before they even got there. At the end of the second period, Briar held a comfortable 3-1 lead against Harvard. "Dean is going to lose his mind when he sees you in his jersey tonight." Hannah leaned closer with an unmistakably mischievous smile, which made a blush climb up your neck as you instinctively glanced down.

Dean's navy blue jersey hung almost to the middle of your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely. You'd borrowed it from Beau after he'd insisted Dean deserved a little 'extra motivation'. "He hasn't even noticed." Hannah smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Trust me babe, he'll notice." Before you could ask what that cryptic statement meant, the buzzer sounded meaning that the third period had officially began.

Harvard came out desperate. Every shift became increasingly physical as the numbers of the clock counted down. Bodies slammed into the glass hard enough to make the boards rattle. Unfortunately, the referees' whistles remained suspiciously quiet. You hated when games turned like this, knowing that the desperation made players reckless. Halfway through the period, Dean carried the puck through the neutral zone with impossible speed.

One defender challenged him, luckily Dean was able to effortlessly slip around him effortlessly only for a second to step up. Dean toe-dragged the puck between the man's skates. The crowd collectively rose to its feet, only before he could shoot, a Harvard defenseman drove him shoulder-first into the plexiglass. Your breath caught as the impact thundered through the arena. Dean, however, bounced off the boards, somehow maintaining possession before spinning away from another defender.

He never even looked shaken, instead he cut toward the slot. Garrett anticipated the play perfectly. One crisp pass was all it took for Dean to snap a wrist shot through the two defenders. The net rippled as the goal horn blared yet again. You were already on your feet before you realized you'd moved. Dean pointed toward the student section as his teammates swarmed him in congratulatory helmet bumps. For one irrational second, you could've sworn he was looking directly at you.

When you finally sat back down, Hannah's grin could've powered the entire arena. "Told you." You shoved her shoulder, which only made her grin widen. "Oh, shut up." Only, you were smiling too hard to sound annoyed. Barely ninety seconds later, Dean struck again. Logan forced a turnover at center ice and immediately passed to Garrett. In response, Garrett threaded a pass between two Harvard sticks that had absolutely no business making it through.

Dean picked it up in stride, one fake forehand made the goalie drop in anticipation to which Dean calmly pulled the puck back to his backhand and slid it between the goalie's pads before anyone could react. Another goal and another explosion from the crowd. Your hands hurt from clapping, voice embarrassingly hoarse yet you couldn't find youself to care. The scoreboard now read 5-1 which in turn made Harvard's frustration boil over.

With just over two minutes remaining in the third period, one of their forwards blindsided Logan long after he'd dumped the puck in the net. Gasps echoed around the arena as Logan crashed awkwardly into the boards. Dean was halfway across the ice before Logan even climbed back to his skates, Garrett and Tucker followed immediately after seeing Dean shove the Harvard player backward with enough force to send him stumbling several feet.

Luckily, the freshmen on Briar's bench dragged the upperclassmen away before punches started flying. One minute remained. The arena buzzed with nervous anticipation despite Briar's lead, your lip was caught between your teeth watching as Garrett and Dean wordlessly communicated with one another. No words were exchanged. Years of playing together had made communication almost instinctive.

Garrett stole the puck near Briar's blue line and Dean was there in an instant, already alert. Garrett feathered a perfect stretch pass through the neutral zone. Dean caught it in stride without breaking rhythm. One defender remained, shifting left as the the defenseman followed. Dean snapped the puck back right through his own skates, slipping around him with breathtaking ease. The goalie lunged. Dean, however, waited until the last possible second lifting the puck cleanly beneath the crossbar.

The red light flashed and the horn sounded. For a heartbeat, the arena went completely silent, then every single person inside exploded. "A HAT TRICK BY #66, DEAN DI LAURENTIS!" The announcer's voice echoed through the building. Without thinking you threw your arms around Hannah, the two of you laughed as you nearly toppled into the row in front of you, hugging each other while the entire team tackled Dean beneath an avalanche of helmets and gloves.

Six-two. Final. Dean Di Laurentis. Hat trick.

You'd never been prouder. By the time you and Hannah reached the tunnel, your heart was still racing, body buzzing with adrenaline. Players filtered through in small groups, laughing loudly as they relived every goal. Garrett appeared first and Hannah didn't hesitate. She practically flew into his arms, you couldn't help but beam as Garrett caught her effortlessly, spinning her once before pressing a kiss against her forehead before dipping down and pressing one to her lips.

Then, Dean walked through. His helmet had disappeared somewhere during the celebration, blond curls damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed from exertion. When his eyes caught yours, everything ceased to exist. The coaches. The teammates. The reporters. The noise. There was only you. In two quick strides he was right in front of you. One second there was a few feet separating the two of you and the next, his hands were around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the concrete.

A startled laugh bubbled from your lips as your feet left the ground. Instinctively, your arms wound around his neck, fingers brushing against the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He held you impossibly close, burying his face against your shoulder for the briefest moment as his heartbeat hammered wildly against your chest. He'd just scored a hat trick. The arena had chanted his name. Thousands of hats had rained onto the ice. Yet none of it compared to this. None of it compared to having you in his arms.

You melted into his embrace without hesitation, holding him just as tightly. "That was amazing!" You laughed, pulling back just enough to cup his flushed cheeks between your hands. Your eyes sparkled with so much pride that it stole what little breath he had left. "A hat trick, Dean! I'm so fucking proud of you." Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him with so much unfiltered admiration. Maybe no one ever had.

His eyes drifted downward before he could stop them and his breath caught. You were wearing a jersey, but not just any Briar jersey. His. His last name stretched proudly across your shoulders, and the white number on the front rested directly over your heart. Something inside his chest squeezed so painfully he almost winced. It really shouldn't have affected him the way it did. It was just a jersey. Just fabric. Except, it wasn't. Seeing his name on you awakened every selfish, possessive thought he'd spent months trying to bury.

It looked right. Far too right.

"You're wearing my jersey." The words escaped almost reverently. Your gaze followed his before a rosy blush crept across your cheeks. "Oh." You smiled sheepishly, smoothing the front of it with your palms. "Beau practically insisted. He claimed it was good luck since you guys are only two games away from another Frozen Four." Yet, Dean barely registered your explanation. His thoughts were spiraling too quickly. His jersey. Your smile. The way you'd waited for him in the tunnel instead of celebrating with everyone else.

The way you'd hugged him before anyone else had the chance. The way you'd looked absolutely radiant cheering for him from the stands. His mind replayed every moment from the last few months in painful succession. You showing up with homemade soup when Tucker got sick. Driving hours just because Summer needed a friend. Holding his hand while the medic checked him over after his injury. Calling yourself his girlfriend just to get another guy to leave you alone.

Every forehead kiss he'd lingered on a little too long. Every hug he'd held a few seconds longer than necessary. Every excuse he'd made just to have you close. He'd spent months convincing himself that wanting you around all the time was normal. That missing you after only a few hours was normal. That getting irrationally jealous every time another guy looked at you was normal. Only it wasn't. It had never been normal. He couldn't keep pretending anymore, he wouldn't.

"Dean?" Your voice was soft, tinged with concern now that he'd gone completely quiet. Your thumb brushed gently across his cheek. "You okay?" His eyes found yours again. God. How had he been so blind? He was so unbelievably in love with you it almost hurt. A helpless laugh escaped him as he shook his head once, mind made up. "Fuck it." Before doubt had a chance to creep back in, he surged forward and captured your lips with his.

The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. As if he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn't. Instead, your surprised gasp melted into a smile against his mouth before you kissed him back with equal certainty. Every ounce of fear he'd carried for months dissolved in an instant. His hands slid more securely around your waist, holding you like he'd dreamed about doing for far too long.

Not because he was afraid you'd disappear, but because after wanting this for what felt like forever, he couldn't bear to put even an inch of distance between the two of you. Your fingers disappeared into his blond curls, gently scratching at his scalp as your tilted your head deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against his. Dean nearly melted. The one thing he'd imagined over and over whenever his feelings became impossible to ignore. The reality was infinitely better.

When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved very far. Your foreheads rested together, noses brushing. His eyes searched yours almost nervously, as though waiting for someone to tell him he'd imagined the whole thing. Instead, you smiled completely enamored. "Took you long enough." You whispered, your lips brushing his as you stole another quick kiss simply because you could. Dean let out a breathless laugh. "You mean," He searched your face in complete disbelief. "We could've been doing this the whole time?"

A sheepish grin spread across your face as you nodded. Dean stared at you for a long moment, then groaned dramatically. "God..." He dropped his forehead against your shoulder. "I really am such a clueless bastard." You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "It's okay, I still love you." Dean practically tackled you into another kiss, finally hearing the words he'd been waiting for months to hear without knowing it. "God, I fucking love you too, babydoll." He muttered against your lips.

Finally. Finally. Finally.

Off to the side, Hannah bumped Garrett's shoulder with a knowing grin. "See you guys at Malone's?" Dean didn't even glance in their direction. "Sorry, Wellsy." His answer came automatically, one hand absentmindedly tracing circles against your back. "I've got a lot of lost time with my girl to make up for." Because, now that Dean had you, there was absolutely no way in hell he was letting you go anytime soon.

You hadn’t come around to changing it. And if you’re really being honest—something you only do on Wednesdays at 4 pm with your therapist—you hadn’t changed it because you hoped that you wouldn’t have to.

You hoped that maybe keeping him as your hockey boy meant that he’d come back into your life and stay that way.

Now, as the sky continued to rumble and weep above, you prayed that Logan’s generosity was not limited to your relationship. And tonight, you were going to test that.

The phone rang three times before the call connected.

“Hello?” His voice was raspy, laced with more perplexity than anything else.

You closed your eyes. You hadn’t heard his voice in a year. “Hey, Logan?”

He could hear the faint yet rhythmic thuds of rain hitting your car window through the speaker. You had gone back inside your car to make this phone call.

“Is everything okay?”

He sounded concerned. That’s good, you thought. That means he cares.

You took a deep breath, “No, I…I’m not okay. My car stopped working and I’m stuck in the middle of this rain storm.”

“You’re in Hastings?” He asked.

You swallowed. “Boston.”

The line went so quiet you had to check your screen to make sure you hadn’t been disconnected.

Then, “You’re here in Boston?”

You bit your bottom lip, “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Boston Common.”

You heard the soft metallic jingle of keys and your heart skipped a beat at the implication. You almost wanted to take it back, undo this call, pretend it never happened.

“Listen, Logan, I don’t know where you live. You could be miles away from where I am, but I didn’t know who else to call—”

“I will be there in 10 minutes. Do not leave your car, alright?”

Your heartbeat spiked. For a moment, you felt like a selfish monster—making him leave his home, reopening a chapter in his life he might’ve wanted to close, clawing your way back in on your terms. Logan had always been too kind for his own good.

He called your name softly and you snapped out of it.

“You hear me?” He repeated.

“Yes, I won’t leave my car.”

“And lock your doors.”

You pressed the button on your car door.

After he hung up, you did nothing but stare out your window. You put the windshield wipers to tedious work, watching as they slid water across the glass in futile efforts.

You didn’t notice the time passing. And you certainly didn’t notice Logan’s figure until his knock on your window made you jump out of your skin.

You quickly unlocked and pushed your door open. Logan was drenched. His cotton t-shirt clung to his torso, catching the ridges enough to leave an imprint of his abs. Droplets of rain dripped from his brown locks, falling and sticking to his forehead. He looked like a vision.

Logan helped you out your car, guiding you with a strong arm behind your back—not touching—towards his jeep. He opened the passenger door and made sure you settled inside before closing it and going around to his side of the car.

You were breathing heavily, still recovering from the heavy downpour. When Logan got in and shut the door behind him, you looked over.

He threw his head back to push the wet strands of hair out of his face. When he turned to face you, you felt a dip in your stomach.

“I’m really sorry,” you said right away.

He held his hand up to stop your apology. “Are you alright? Did you leave anything important in your car?”

You shook your head. Phone, wallet, keys. All tucked safely—albeit sodden—in your deep coat pockets.

He shifted the gear out of park mode and drove the two of you away from the street.

The car ride was silent. The ambience of the outside storm filled enough gaps that should have been packed with conversation.

God, when was the last time you had a conversation with Logan?

It must’ve been junior year for you. He had just moved to Boston after being drafted by the Bruins, got a place of his own, playing hockey professionally like he always wanted. And you were back at Briar, studying hard, doing long distance with him, sharing dreams whenever he came to visit you on campus.

“It needs to be a loft apartment.”

“Why a loft?” Logan furrowed his brows.

“Fun downstairs, cozy upstairs,” you replied.

He smiled and nodded along, “Okay.”

“With floor to ceiling windows, so we can always have a view.”

His arms wrapped around you, “And what view is that?”

“Fenway Park.”

Logan rolled his eyes and buried his face in your neck, making you squeal. “You baseball brat! I can’t believe you’re choosing that over hockey.”

The stubble on his handsome face made you ticklish, squirming in his hold. “I never even heard of the Bruins before I met you!”

He gasped in mock betrayal, “Oh you’re gonna pay for that, Red Sox masshole!”

Your laughter filled the air as Logan attacked your neck with kisses and tickles.

It had been going so well.

Until it wasn’t.

Long distance was hard. It wasn’t gracious or patient, not easy on fragile hearts such as yours. It wasn’t the type to harbor kindness that saved you from the rain despite everything.

No, it was cruel, and you never wanted your love for Logan to be that. He was a rising star in the hockey world. He deserved so much. So much more than a college girlfriend who lived away, more than FaceTimes every night and short weekend trips whenever your schedules aligned—like the sun and moon trying to meet.

You blinked out the passenger window when Logan drove onto a familiar freeway. “Wait, why are we—”

“I live down the block.”

You finally tore your gaze out the window and towards him for the first time since he started driving. Logan’s eyes remained steady on the road ahead, his grip on the steering wheel unwavering.

You didn’t say anything else as he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, or when the two of you walked into the lobby where the doorman greeted Logan with ease, or when you took the elevator upstairs to the 21st floor where he lived.

When he unlocked his door, he held it open for you to step in first. You entered with hesitant steps, like an elephant finding home inside a mouse’s hole in the wall. You pulled your coat off—now damp thanks to his car heater—and hung it up on the coat rack.

Logan’s apartment was beautiful. Polished with exquisite furniture—from the fine leather couches, to the shiny marble island, even the brick veneer fireplace in the living room. The deeper you ventured in, the more you were left in awe.

The floor to ceiling windows.

Your footsteps paused as you reached the far end of the room. You peered out the glass, coming face-to-face with the same Fenway Park the pair of you just drove by on the way here. The one you almost asked Logan about.

You turned around and met his eyes. He stood behind the couch, holding onto the cushions to keep him upright.

Your eyes glanced to the side of the apartment, where the floating staircase led to his quaint upper deck bedroom. Your eyes flicked back to his.

An unspoken exchange lingered between you.

“How’d you know where my car was?”

Logan pursed his lips before shrugging, “I just looked for the blue Toyota Camry.”

You nodded, “Of course you did.”

Logan walked over to his open kitchen, pulling out a bottle of something. “Reliable car,” he remarked.

You let out a huff of amusement, “Oh, for sure. Except when it’s pouring, right?”

Logan popped open the cork, “Cars don’t like water. They’re like cats.”

You sauntered your way into his kitchen. “Wish I knew that before I bought it.”

“I told you that when you bought it.”

Right. Logan had been the one who accompanied you to the dealership when you finally saved enough money to put a payment down for a car. He had spoken to the salesperson, checked out everything, told you all that you needed to know about cars. He was the reason you got a Camry because he said it wouldn’t let you down unless you let it down.

Perhaps that applied to more than just cars.

He held out a glass of wine towards you. You accepted it with a grateful smile, taking a sip.

Logan watched you over the rim of his own wine glass. “I’d give you the house tour but…this is pretty much it.”

“No, it’s nice,” you responded, looking around.

He nodded, “I’m glad you think so.”

Neither of you were willing to acknowledge his influence on your car preferences and your influence on his architectural choices.

You cleared your throat, “Thank you. Really. For saving me. You didn’t have to.”

Logan tilted his head, “No, I kinda had to.”

Your smile faded away.

He leaned against the kitchen island, “I told you if you ever had car troubles, I’m your guy.”

Your guy.

“Yeah, I know.” You replied. “I just…I wasn’t sure if you still meant that. After…everything.”

Logan looked away, finding sudden interest in the ceiling chandelier. “I’m gonna change out of this,” he pointed to his clothes.

You nodded, putting your glass down.

“You’re welcome to stay.” He told you, meeting your eyes once again. “We can go get your car in the morning—if it isn’t still raining—and I’ll fix it up for you.”

You wanted to decline his benevolent offer. Why was he so nice to you after you broke up with him? You didn’t deserve this—

Logan tugged you by your hand, his touch was electric after all the time apart. “C’mon, let me get you a change of clothes, too.”

He led you upstairs to the loft bedroom. The room was warmer, literally and figuratively. It wasn’t as chic as the downstairs, but definitely more homey.

Logan pulled open his dresser drawer and took out a t-shirt and pair of boxers. “These should still fit you,” he commented as he tossed them over to you.

You held them up. It was your favorite shirt of his, the one you always stole because of how soft the fabric felt. And the boxers, they had hockey sticks on them, something you bought him for his birthday one year.

He pointed to the en suite bathroom, “You can change in there, wash your face, whatever you want.”

You watched him for a moment as he pulled out his own change of clothes. Your mouth ran out of apologies and words of gratitude, so you simply nodded and made your way inside his bathroom.

By the time you stepped out in his apparel, Logan had already dressed in a fresh set of sweatpants sitting low on his waist and a white wife beater.

He paused when he saw you, needing to reintroduce the image of you in his shirt and boxers, as though it were a long-lost language he once spoke fluently.

He cleared his throat after a moment, “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, Logan, it’s your place.” You argued.

“It’s fine, you’re my guest—”

“No, really, you should—”

“I insist—”

“But I—”

“Babe.”

You both froze when the word slipped out Logan’s lips so effortlessly. Your eyes met in a loaded exchange, but at least it got you to shut up about the bed. He cursed himself internally for allowing that to happen, and even more so when it felt so right doing it.

Logan let out a sigh and picked up a pillow and blanket, “Just…sleep on the bed. Please.”

This time, you didn’t shoot out a retort. You simply observed as Logan went down the stairs with his bedding.

You tried.

You really did.

But sleep would not find you no matter how many times you tossed and turned on Logan’s smooth sheets. Your mind replayed memories of him instead of dreams.

“Why are you doing this?” Logan’s voice was equal parts exasperation and anguish.

You sniffled, “Logan, I want what’s best for you. That’s all I want.”

“You’re what’s best for me!”

“No, I’m not—”

“You don’t get to decide that!” He held your arms with a desperate grip. “I’ve been making hard decisions my whole life. And this? You? It’s the easiest choice I ever made; it’s the only one I know that’s right.”

“You’ll change your mind, you’ll meet so many wonderful people in Boston. And I don’t want you to resent me for keeping you.”

“Resent you?” He repeated. “I love you. You’re it for me, baby. Don’t you get that?”

You sat up on his bed, your heart beating faster than normal. When you stood up and leaned forward on the loft’s railing, you spotted Logan sitting by the tall apartment window, staring out into the nighttime view.

“Since when do you like baseball?”

Logan turned his head and saw you at the bottom of the staircase. He huffed, “Boston brainwashed me.”

You smiled and sat across from him, your knees brushed against each other but neither of you pulled away. You followed his gaze out the window and towards Fenway Park.

“You been to any of their games?”

“One or two,” he answered.

“You a Red Sox fan now?” You teased.

“I have to be or else I’d get beat up on the streets,” Logan quipped.

You chuckled quietly. “What a waste of real estate.”

His expression sobered. He fiddled with his fingers before looking at you. “I only got this place because it’s what you always wanted.”

Your eyes darted to him.

He shrugged like the confession was helpless, inevitable, even. Logan wasn’t ashamed nor did he regret it.

“Logan,” you called softly.

“What do I have to do to show you that I want this? That I want us.”

Your chest tightened, “Logan.”

“It’s been a year, baby. I haven’t seen anyone else. I can’t. They’re not you.”

“Logan—”

“And you can try to tell me that this is what’s best for us, or whatever bullshit mature answer you have, but I won’t buy that. Nothing you say will change how I feel about you. I meant what I said when I told you that you were it for me.”

You kissed him.

He wouldn’t shut up if you hadn’t.

Neither of you complained.

Logan groaned against your lips like you were the first drop of rain in the midst of a drought. His hands buried themselves into your hair, pulling you closer until you settled onto his lap.

You found purchase on his broad shoulders, bringing your chests flush together. Your fingers tips brushed against the hairs on the nape of his neck, remembering what it felt like to tug on them.

As if he could read your thoughts, Logan pulled back enough to ask: “Please, baby, can I eat you out? I haven’t tasted you in so long.”

You must’ve looked pathetic when you nodded so quickly.

Logan pushed you to lay on your back. He lifted your shirt up enough so he could admire your bare chest. The sound that escaped him was even more pathetic than your eager consent.

His lips latched onto one of your nipples, flicking the bud and wetting it with fervor. His free hand kneaded your other breast with ample attention.

Your breath came out in shaky puffs. You closed your eyes and sighed, “Fuck, Logan.”

Your voice went straight to his groin. He switched to the other breast and showered it with the same affection.

You blinked down at him in a daze, weakly tugging at his top. He sat up immediately and pulled it off his frame, chucking it aside. Your eyes wandered over the bare expanse of his torso. His defined pecks and abdomen, the blooming bruises he earned from hockey slowly fading into yellow-green patches.

You didn’t have time to admire him in the way he deserved because Logan impatiently hooked his restless fingers under his boxers that you wore.

“Raise your hips for me, baby.”

You complied without hesitation. When your bottom half was left exposed, Logan sat back on his haunches and stared. His eyes glazed over with a subtle sheen and you almost worried that he’d start crying.

“You’re unfair,” he mumbled with softly arched brows. He reached down and propped your legs over his shoulders.

You cried out when his tongue slid between your folds in a tantalizingly slow glide. You weren’t sure if the sound you heard came out of your own mouth or Logan’s.

“Tastes better than I remember,” he said.

His lips left a small peck on your clit before he sucked on it. Your hips flinched upwards, but Logan’s strong arms held you down.

“Reactive, huh? Did you miss my mouth?”

You huffed, “Yes.”

He smirked. So smug.

“Yeah, I bet you did. I can tell.” His fingers swiped against you and gathered your slick.

“You’re so wet for me.”

“Don’t tease.”

Logan’s smile widened. He leaned forward so his face hovered over yours. “I can do whatever I want, baby. I earned it.”

Fuck was he right.

He devoured you. He left your legs shaking and heart racing. His tongue prodded your hole so skillfully, just the right amount of pressure that made you yank at his hair.

“Right there,” you gasped out.

Logan doubled down on his ministrations. His hands lifted your ass up so he could bury his face deeper between your thighs.

Your eyes rolled back, “Baby, I’m close.”

Baby.

Logan hadn’t heard that name of endearment from you in a year and it made him grind down on his erection to relieve some tension.

“You’re so pretty when you’re about to cum,” he said, admiring the view of you. He could always tell when you were close to finishing.

He dove back in, rapidly shaking his head from side to side, resulting in a crude squelching noise to echo in the air. You shrieked, arching up towards him.

“Let me have it, angel. I need it. I deserve it.”

His words were enough to send you over. When you came, you both let out a moan. Logan held you through it, working his tongue to ride out your wave of pleasure. You had to shakily push his head away when it became too much to bear.

Logan threw his head back and sat down. You both panted, forcing air back into your lungs, holding eye contact. When your gaze dragged downwards, you spotted the dark stain on the crotch of his sweatpants.

Your eyes widened.

Logan let out a small chuckle.

“It’s been a while,” is what he said.

“Since you ate a girl out?” You queried.

His adam’s apple bobbed, “Since I came.”

The room went quiet.

The thought of Logan being celibate since the two of you broke up did dangerous things to your heart. It weaved precarious hopes that you feared would blossom into something neither of you could promise.

Logan pulled one of your legs into his lap and started caressing your foot. He stared down at your skin, allowing the moment to settle. You watched him, biting your lip in thought.

“Let me take care of you,” you offered.

“It’ll take a while,” he said.

Your eyes automatically glanced between his legs.

Logan let out another amused laugh that faded into a deep sigh. His expression shifted into something more thoughtful as he looked at your face.

“Come back to me, baby.” He murmured.

Your heart ached at the pleading tone.

“We can live here,” he gestured around the apartment. “Sleep in our loft, have dinner on the kitchen island, make love on the couch, look out at Fenway Park at night…”

That was the life you wanted with Logan.

It was perfect.

He was perfect.

He did everything perfectly.

And you had let your fears ruin that.

But not anymore.

You reached for his hands and pulled him closer. Your foreheads rested against each other. He closed his eyes for a second before looking deep into yours.

“You’ll have to go to every Red Sox game with me,” you whispered.

Logan’s chuckle came out sounding like a breath of relief. He nodded slowly.

“Whatever you want,” he murmured.

You tilted your head, “You. I want you.”

Logan squeezed your hands, “You have me.”

And that was the easiest decision you ever made, too.

Tucker didn’t notice it at first. Not really.

Y/N was good at making it seem normal, good enough that most people wouldn’t think twice. She had routines, excuses that sounded casual, timing that almost worked.

It was only after she stayed over one night and slipped out of his bed early that something started to sit wrong in the back of his mind.

She was in his kitchen already when he woke up, hair slightly messy, pulling her shoes on like she was racing the clock.

“I’m gonna grab something on the way,” she said quickly, already halfway out of the house.

Tucker leaned against the doorway, still half-asleep. “You’re not eating here?”

“I’ll get a sandwich at Starbucks,” she replied, like it was nothing. Like it was already decided before he even asked.

“Which one?” he asked, mostly out of habit.

“Just… whatever’s fast,” she said, checking her phone.

And then she was gone.

Tucker stood there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the empty doorway, before brushing it off. People skipped breakfast sometimes. People were busy.

But then lunchtime came.

They were sitting together between classes, Y/N leaning against the back of the bench while Tucker played with her hair.

“So,” he said lightly, “how was your sandwich?”

Y/N didn’t look up right away. “It was good.”

“Yeah? What’d you get?”

A pause.

“A breakfast sandwich,” she said.

“What kind?”

Another pause, just a fraction too long.

“Um… I don’t remember. It was just quick.”

Tucker nodded slowly, but something shifted in his expression. Not suspicion exactly. Just attention sharpening.

“Right,” he said, like it made sense.

Y/N smiled faintly and changed the subject immediately.

He let her. But he didn’t un-notice it.

—

After that, it became a pattern he couldn’t ignore even when he tried. She’d say she ate before seeing him. She’d push food around on her plate during shared meals.

She’d suggest splitting things, always splitting, always leaving room on her side of things.

—

The first time Tucker really changed something was at a team dinner.

Everyone had piled into a loud restaurant after a game, the kind of place where plates came out oversized and nobody thought twice about ordering too much.

Y/N sat beside him, shoulders slightly tense, eyes flicking over the table.

Tucker noticed. He leaned in a little. “Wanna share?”

She blinked at him. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he said simply. “I want to.”

A few moments of silence followed. As if y/n was weighing around her choices. Then she nodded.

So when the food came, Tucker naturally divided it without making it a moment. He kept talking the entire time, about the game, about some ridiculous thing one of his teammates had said, about anything that wasn’t the table in front of them.

He filled the space. Kind of in a way that he wanted to distract her. Just so she didn’t have to carry the silence alone.

Every time she tensed slightly, he would steer the conversation somewhere lighter, somewhere farther away from the food itself, like gently redirecting a current.

At some point she realized she was eating without really tracking it. Without looking how much food she had consumed and how much more she was allowed to. She was more focused on the conversation that Tucker had mapped. The one that steered her away from calories, worried expression and her racing mind that kept shutting her off and making even the smallest bite bring nausea and disgust.

And the second she noticed, her body went rigid. However, Tucker didn’t pause.

“So then he tries to act like he didn’t fall,” he continued, gesturing vaguely across the table, voice steady, casual. “But he’s literally lying on the ice—”

A couple teammates laughed. The moment passed without ever being named. Y/N’s shoulders slowly loosened again.

After a few seconds of staring at the food again and trying to focus back on Tucker she had succeeded pushing the doubt again and taking another bite.

—

It wasn’t until much later that y/n told Tucker about her ED.

It happened in the quiet of his apartment, lights low, the world outside reduced to distant traffic sounds. She was curled beside him on the couch, not looking at him when she spoke.

“I’m not really… good with food,” she said finally.

Tucker turned his head slightly. He didn’t interrupt. A long pause followed, like she was deciding whether to continue.

“I just…. sometimes it’s hard,” she admitted, voice smaller now. “And I don’t really know how to explain it.”

Tucker exhaled slowly through his nose, thinking. He did not reacting too fast, because he did not want to fill the silence with the wrong thing.

“Okay,” he said quietly. Then he gently squeezed her hand, “Just know that I'm here for you no matter what. And I love you, okay.” He gently grabber her chin and made her look at him. He planted a small kiss on her lips as reassurement and added, “We'll navigate this together, at your pace. You never have to feel alone with it."

That was it. Not confusion. Not pressure. Y/N finally smiled and chuckled a little as she put a strand of her behind her ear. She looked away then back at him, like she expected more. He met her eyes.

“I’m gonna have questions eventually,” he added honestly. “But you don’t have to answer all of them right now.”

Her expression softened a fraction.

Then he shifted slightly, resting his arm along the back of the couch like nothing had changed.

“What helps?” he asked.

It wasn’t said like a solution needed to be found. More like he was trying to learn a language he didn’t speak yet.

—

The next morning was a pancake morning.

Y/N came out of his bedroom slowly, pausing when she saw him at the stove. The smell of butter and sugar filled the kitchen.

Tucker glanced over his shoulder. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she said, but there was something cautious in it again.

He noticed the way her eyes flicked to the counter.

So he didn’t comment. He just plated the pancakes when they were done and set them down casually on the coffee table instead of the kitchen table.

Then he picked up the remote.

“I’ll put on something to watch. Is that okay?” he asked.

Y/N hesitated. She expected a lecture about how important it is to eat and get nutrients and all that stuff that she also knew, but didn’t have the strength to do. After snapping back to reality y/n nodded, “Yeah, sure.”

“Perfect,” he said, sitting down. He turned the TV on. The room filled with soft animation and ridiculous background music. Something harmless. Something that didn’t ask anything of her. Y/N stayed standing for a moment longer than necessary, then slowly sat beside him. The pancakes sat between them. Unmentioned. Unwatched. Just there.

Tucker leaned back like he had all the time in the world. “This guy is clearly going to make a terrible decision in like… five minutes.”

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh despite herself.

A few minutes passed. Neither of them looked at the plate.

Then, almost carefully, Y/N reached over and took a bite. Tucker didn’t move. Didn’t look. Didn’t acknowledge it. He just kept watching the screen like the show was the most important thing in the universe. Of course with a glimpse he saw y/n willingly reach for the pancakes and choose breakfast after thousands of times searching for excuses to miss it.

Inside his chest, something tightened sharply, something bright and sudden, but he kept his face completely steady.

“Oh,” he said casually, as the comic relief character tripped over absolutely nothing, “this guy is definitely about to lose his job.”

Another bite.

Then another.

Y/N’s movements were cautious at first, like she was waiting for something to happen. For a reaction. For attention. For pressure.

But nothing came.

Only Tucker’s voice, easy and warm, filling the space between silence and thought.

At one point she glanced at him, uncertain.

He didn’t meet her eyes. Just shifted slightly and said, “I kind of like this show. It’s not too drama-intensive and the main character is too funny.”

That got a real smile out of her. And with it, another bite.

By the time the episode ended, most of the pancakes on y/n’s plate were gone.

Y/N looked down at the plate like she was bracing for something.

Tucker stood up, stretching slightly. “I’m making more coffee.”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

He walked into the kitchen.

The second he was out of sight, he stopped for half a second, gripping the counter just lightly. A grin broke through before he could stop it.

Tucker was in delight. Of course he noticed the small steps y/n took towards betterment today. Of course he was more proud than ever. But putting too much pressure on her on the first time was something he could never allow himself to do. So he celebrated the victory within himself, in the kitchen, with a joyous expression on his face.

Then he returned to his casual self, still burning inside from delight, but unnoticeable outside. He poured the coffee like normal, and came back like nothing in the world had shifted at all.

Because for her, it hadn’t needed to become a moment. It just needed to feel possible. And for the first time that morning, it did.

“Logan shut up, I’m trying to watch.” Tucker says throwing pop corn at his head. Hannah laughs. It was your idea to have a Twilight marathon.

“Honestly, it’s a valid reaction.” Hannah says to Logan as Bella stares into the distance as the months pass.

“I don’t know, that is not how I’d handle a break up.” Logan says shaking his head.

“Oh yes, and do tell us how the John Logan would handle a breakup?” Dean asks.

“I don’t know, not like that. Maybe some ice cream?” Logan says defensively. Dean scoffs, and you stifle a laugh as you curl into his side.

“Oh come on Dean, what would you do?” Logan asks rolling his eyes.

“If she dumped me,” he says, motioning to you with his head. “I’d respect her decision.” He says seriously. “Then I’d throw up.” He adds.

You laugh. “Oh baby.” You say sympathetically, laying your head on his shoulder. Logan rolls his eyes.

“Well, obviously that’s not happening anytime soon.” Logan says. You stick your tongue out at him.

“Never actually.” You say sassily. Dean sticks his tongue out at Logan too, before kissing your temple, which then leads to him kissing your lips. Which quickly transpires into him pulling you onto his lap, a full on makeout session starting on the couch.

“Okay, okay, get a room or watch the movie.” Garrett says. Hannah grabs a throw pillow tossing it at you while laughing.

“I’ve already watched the entire Twilight franchise, thank you very much.” Dean says, hauling you over his shoulder and heading up the stairs. You wave at your friends.

“Bye, bye!” You say. Dean smacks your ass.

“Please don’t be too loud, I’m trying to see if Bella will go to the wolf boy.” Tucker protests. You laugh.

To say you were busy was an understatement. As a small local baker, you didn't tend to get too many orders on a regular basis. But this week? Absolutely slammed for your business of one worker, yourself.

You started tackling orders at 6 a.m., briefly saying goodbye to Brendon as he kissed you on the cheek before leaving for his shift.

It’s now 10 a.m. and you're almost caught up on orders. Right now you’re working on a few apple pies. It’s not the worst thing but peeling and cutting apples? That’s the annoying part.

You’re scrolling through emails as you cut the apples, trying to manage orders while keeping up with the ones you’re working on.

One email snags your attention as you work

“Ten cakes for next weekend? Are they insane? That’s way too m–FUCK!”

Your mumbling turns into a scream as you glance down and see a deep gash in the palm of your hand, bleeding pretty bad.

“Shit, shit, sh–owww” you wince as you make your way to the sink.

I guess that’s what’s bound to happen when you cut an apple in your hand.

Brendon had warned you time after time to use a real cutting board and not sacrifice your hand as one.

Of course he’d eventually be right about this.

You find a clean dish rag and tightly wrap it around your hand as you turn off all the appliances before heading to the pitt.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You walk into the pitt nervously. You had never met anyone from the hospital and Brendon had kept you private from his work life. He just loved being able to unload the day’s stress in the safety of home, specifically in your arms.

You had been to the pitt a few times for friends, family, and a few injuries of your own. You didn’t really know who anyone was other than names and they definitely had no idea about you.

—-

After checking in you only sat in chairs for around 30 minutes before being called back. You sit on the bed and count to twenty in your head to try and distract yourself from the pain that’s now setting in.

“Good morning, I’m Dr. Langdon, what brings you in tod–oh!”

Your face warms in slight embarrassment. In your haste to make it to the hospital you didn’t check your appearance. One that consisted of being covered in flour, sugar and now some blood.

“Langdon, you know it’s rude to stare at our obviously injured patients.”

A man as you recognize as Dr. Michael Robinavitch ,or Robby, speaks as he follows Dr. Langdon in. You had seen him on the hospital’s website in the list of doctors when you had wanted to see who Brendon worked with.

The same voice draws your attention back.

“Good morning Miss…” he looks at your chart “Miss Park.”

You can tell he doesn’t make any connection to your husband.

“What brings you in today?”

You slightly lift your wrapped hand “Me vs. a knife and it's safe to say I didn’t win” you manage to say with a smile as a tear falls.

“Well, I hope you put up a fair fight.” Robby jokes to help ease your nerves.

He gently grabs your hand and unwraps the towel for a closer look.

You wince as it peels away and turn your head to the side.

“Sorry, sorry. Yeah, you got yourself pretty good here. It’s gonna require stitches unfortunately.”

You nod as you wipe your face.

“That’s fine. I should’ve known cutting things in my hand would end badly one day. My husband told me this would happen.”

Robby chuckles as he gathers the medical instruments.

“Smart man.”

——

The elevator dings as it makes it to the pitt floor and opens, revealing Brendon Park. He stalks towards the nurses station in search of information on a consult.

As he shuffles through some charts, he quickly glances up at the patient board and looks back down.

Suddenly his head snaps up and he reads the board again

‘Y/n Park’

The name makes his blood run cold and he moves quick towards the room listed, not even looking at the reason you’re there.

He comes to a halt at the doorway of your room. Robby is gathering supplies and Frank sits by the tray holding your hand out to examine it before numbing it.

“Get your hands off her.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Dr. Langdon or Frank, as Robby has also referred to him as, holds your hand out to look over it one more time before administering the numbing medicine.

He grabs the needle off of the tray and goes to inject it when a deep familiar voice grabs everyone’s attention.

“Get your hands off her.”

You look up towards the doorway and are met with the eyes of your husband.

Brendon stands there very still, frown in place, and eyes locked on you.

“Bren, I–” he cuts you off, repeating the same phrase to Frank.

“Get your hands off of her now.”

Frank looks over his shoulder as Robby looks at Brendon. “Park? What's going on? We didn’t ask for a consult. Nothing's broken.”

“Yeah Park,” Frank says as he turns back to you “This has nothing to do with you.”

Brendon’s eyes harden, as they shift towards Frank.

“She’s my wife.”

Everyone looks at each other. Then you. Then Brendon. Then back at you again.

“Your wife? You have a wife?” Frank questions in shock.

Brendon pulls out the ring attached to the chain around his neck.

“Shit” Frank mutters.

Robby steps forward “Look Park, you know the rule about working on family. You can be here but you can’t help.”

Brendon silently looks at you before nodding slightly.

“But only you or Abbot can do the stitching.”

Frank makes a face “Look I’m perfectly capable of—“

“No.” Brendon states firmly “She’s my wife and she gets the best care that’s available. You can put a bandaid on at the end if it makes you feel better but anything else is attending work. I won’t have anything less for her.”

He sits behind you on the bed and pulls you back against his chest.

“Hey baby.” you whisper over your shoulder.

He rests his chin on your shoulder and whispers to you.

“What happened, sweetheart? You okay?”

You laugh a little “I think I might take your advice on using a cutting board after today.”

“Cutting those damn apples in your hand, huh?” you feel him smile against your cheek.

You roll your eyes playfully “Yeah, yeah, yeah you were right, big guy.”

His hands come up to your face and gently wipe the last few tears away.

Your moment is interrupted by Robby grabbing your hand and administering the lidocaine.

Brendon holds you tighter when he hears you wince.

“Sorry, Mrs. Park” Robby cracks a half smile with you.

“No,” you smile. “I’m sorry about my husband and his oh so gentle words.”

That pulls a laugh from Robby. “No worries. He’s prickly because he cares. Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same if this happened to someone I loved.”

You blush as Brendon rubs your hip gently with one hand as he securely holds you around the waist with the other.

—-

Unbeknownst to you three, there's a small group at the nurse’s station watching the interaction.

“Who would’ve guessed the Park the Shark would have a wife. She looks like such a sweetheart too.” Trinity says to Dana as they both watch Brendon hold you.

“She is but him? What a fuckin peach.” Frank mutters with his head on his fist.

Trinity glances back at him with a teasing look

“You’re just mad because Park made you look like an intern compared to everyone else.”

“I’d say he’s husband material if you think about it. Very book trope coded” Samira says looking at the other two.

“Black cat x golden retriever.” Frank states.

“Mmmm, more like grumpy x sunshine. Only soft for her.” Trinity says.

They all three look at you and Brendon in the room.

“Yeaaaah.” they all agree in unison.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The warm sunlight shines through your bedroom curtains, waking your sleeping boyfriend.

Jack squints, slowly blinking as he goes to pull you closer but finds your side of the bed empty.

Today is usually your day off and you spend the greater part of the morning in bed with him before you lose him to the night shift.

He rubs his face and sits up, getting his prosthetic on and makes his way to the kitchen.

Your back is turned to him. You’re humming a song as you put together a bowl of oatmeal with fruits on top.

Jack dramatically huffs to get your attention.

Hearing the sound you look over your shoulder and see your pouty boyfriend standing at the hallway entrance. A slight frown on his face and sleep riddled hair in all directions as he stands there and stares at you.

“Can I help you, J?” you chuckle lightly.

He’s so cute when he’s dramatic.

“You could come back to bed with me? Why are you even up this early?”

He shuffles over to you and wraps his arms around your waist, laying his head in the crook of your neck. The scent of your body wash is fresh and potent.

“Well I was supposed to go to pilates class tomorrow but something came up so it was rescheduled for this morning instead.”

His arms squeeze tighter around you.

“Can’t you skip it? Stay with your amazing boyfriend for the morning?” he teases as he kisses along your neck.

“Jack nooo” you smile and turn in his arms.

“I gotta keep up with the classes. I know I won’t lose my progress from one class but I’m determined to be at every one. Missing one makes my body feel even more sore the next time I’m there.”

He grins at you.

“Pilates? Making your body hurt? It can’t be that hard. Don’t you just get on a yoga mat with those small weights? Like a fast-paced, glorified yoga class.”

Your eyebrows rise as a smile forms on your face.

“Glorified yoga?” You giggle.

“I mean if you really think about it sweetheart.” He muses.

“Okay Mr. Military” you pat his arm “come with me then.”

“Come with you?”

You nod your head as you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Mhm. Come with me. One class and if you still think it’s that easy, I’ll skip my next class to give you a real workout. In bed. Fair?”

He smirks “It’s a deal, sweetheart.”

“Alright J, get changed. We leave in 20 minutes.”

You kiss him briefly and then slide under his arm, grabbing your breakfast.

You smile as you walk away.

He has no idea what he’s in for.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You both had made it on time to the pilates studio.

Grabbing an extra mat and the equipment for class, you both make your way to the back of the room and get situated.

“Alright,” Jack says looking around “place is cute and shit. Now what?”

You hand him a pair of light dumbbells.

“Now is when you pray to make it through the class because you have no idea what you’re in for babe.” you say as you sit on your mat.

He sits on  his mat beside you.

“Sweetheart, I do yoga most mornings. I’ve been doing it for years. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” you shrug and take a sip of your water “famous last words.”

—-

“Keep moving Dr. Abbot! Keep pulsing!”

The voice of the class instructor echos above the beat of the music.

Jack’s legs tremble as moves. He's in a lunging position with a block under one foot and 3 pound dumbbells held out in each hand.

Youre in the same position and can’t help but grin as you look to over at him as he’s clearly struggling.

“You heard her baby, keep moving” you giggle

“Shut-” he takes a few laboring breaths “up” he finishes.

You shake your head with a smile as you keep pulsing along with the instructors directions.

“AAAAND DONE!” she yells loudly for the class to hear.

Jack lightly collapses on his mat, laying on his back with his arms stretched above his head.

“T-Thank god.” he barely gets out

You sit right up against him and rub his leg.

“You good J?” you ask with a smile “Still feel this is glorified yoga?”

He shakes his head.

“No. No. This isn't even close to yoga. This is hell for sure.”

A loud laugh escapes you at his dramatic description.

“You’re such a baby” you say as you dab a sweat rag against his face to help him cool off a little bit.

“Sit up babe” 

He grabs on to your hand to pull himself up and you hand him his water bottle.

Jack takes a long sip of his water.

“Never bring me back here.” he says while shaking his head

You rub his back as he catches his breath.

“Don’t like it Dr. Abbot?” you tease

“Fuck no sweetheart,” he lays back down on the mat 

“How about I make it up to you with some coffee and then a post-workout shower. You and me?”

His head lifts up with a smirk “I think I can be persuaded into these plans. Especially the last part.”

You smile as you pat his sweaty chest

“I expect nothing less.”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“It’s Block Party! You have to go!” Allie insisted, dragging you to your closet. You huffed an argument but she pretended not to hear it. “If Hannah’s coming, so are you.”

“Hannah doesn’t want to go either!” You reasoned, to which Hannah tried to offer an agreement.

“Hannah does want to go because it’s a chance to talk to Justin.” Allie cut in. “You are going because you never go out with us anymore. It’s one night, Y/N/N. It won’t kill you.”

“It might.” You mumbled but sighed in defeat. “Alright, fine. Go on then. Pick my outfit.”

Allie clapped in triumph and focused back on your clothes, flipping through hangers and voicing her internal monologue regarding the selection.

“You definitely need more going out tops.” Allie shook her head. “Remind me to take you shopping this weekend.”

“I don’t need going out tops if I don’t go out.” You countered.

“Or you don’t go out because you don’t have going out tops.”

“Whatever works, Al.”

After a few more minutes of her rummaging in your closet and drawers, she finally found an outfit she approved of. You changed and she insisted on doing your hair and makeup as well. You knew better than to fight her at that point.

When you and your friends got to the block party, it was in full swing. You had pre-gamed at your apartment so there was a light buzz in your head. You still didn’t want to be out but it wasn’t as bad as you were anticipating.

After a while of dancing with your friends, you needed to sit for a bit. You loved Allie and her sense of style, but she managed to pick the most uncomfortable shoes in your closet. They were definitely meant for sitting events, but you had to agree when Allie said they made your legs look nice and long.

“Any man would be lucky to be wrapped up in those legs.” She had commented when she saw your whole look put together.

You were looking around for an open table when your caught sight of the one person at Briar that you didn’t want to see.

“Fuck.” You whispered, quickly turning so your back was to him.

“What is it?” Hannah asked quickly.

“Remember that guy I’ve been complaining about?” You answered, trying to mask the instant annoyance that came from seeing him. “Behind me.”

You watched as Hannah looked over your shoulder, searching for a moment, then nodded in understanding.

“We can go if you want.” She offered.

“No.” You shook your head a little. “We came for you to finally make a move, so we’re not leaving until you do… I’m gonna get something else to drink cause I’m too sober to deal with this. If I get in trouble, I’ll call you.”

“Don’t hesitate, okay?” Hannah urged.

“Never do.” You flashed a smile before separating from your group.

You snuck through the crowd, keeping your eyes forward. You doubted he would recognize you just from the back of your head so you could at least make it to the drinks. Getting back to your friends would be a separate issue, but at least you’d have some more liquor in your system.

Once you got your drink, you swallowed a mouthful. It burned slightly and you sucked a breath in through your teeth.

“I thought that was you.” A grossly familiar voice came from behind you and you jumped.

“Hello, Eli.” You said tightly, eyes scanning the crowd for an out.

You didn’t care who it was. Allie, Hannah, you’d even settle for Justin.

“I thought you said in class that you weren’t going to come.” He continued.

“I didn’t talk to you about tonight in class.”

“I know. I heard you talking to-”

“You were eavesdropping.”

“A little, yeah.” He laughed, trying to appear embarrassed about it. You looked over at him, a slight curl in your lip. “You look great. Beautiful, even.”

You rolled your eyes and looked back to the crowd.

“Yeah…” You mumbled, not really paying attention.

Where were your friends?

“I uh, assume this outfit is courtesy of one, Miss Allie Hayes.” He continued. Without looking, you could feel he had taken a step closer.

“No, they’re my clothes.”

“I’ve never seen you wear anything like this.”

“Yeah, cause I don’t need a mini skirt for class. T-shirt and jeans work just fine…”

“And your ‘boyfriend’. He doesn’t mind you dressing like this?”

Your head snapped his way and he feigned innocence.

“You did say you were seeing someone. Didn’t you? Why are you here and not with him? Why isn’t he getting your drink?”

You shook your head and turned away again. Something about that man made your skin crawl.

Across the party, you saw a different group of familiar faces. Dean Di Laurentis, Garrett Graham, John Tucker, and John Logan. You stood a little straighter at the realization. You had the same class with Eli as you did with Logan. You had talked to him a few times, worked on projects and assignments before. He had even invited you to parties before. Not that you ever went.

You smiled slightly to yourself, mumbled a polite goodbye, then ducked away. You slipped through the crowd, narrowing avoiding spilling your drink as you ducked and dodged couples dancing.

Finally, you popped out on the other side and made it to the guys.

“Logan!” You called for his attention. He looked your way and smiled.

“Hey! I thought you weren’t coming.” He greeted.

“The girls dragged me out.” You nodded. “I hate to do this but I actually came over here for a favor.”

“Pause.” Dean cut in, pointing to you as his eyes raked up and down. Lingering on your legs. “Logan. Who is this?”

“Right, sorry. Guys, this is Y/N. We have Consumer Behavior together.” Logan introduced. “Her work has saved my ass on more than one occasion.”

“Dean Di Laurentis.” Dean bowed slightly and you had to laugh a little. “Nice to meet you.”

“I know who you are.” You shook your head with a laugh. “Everyone knows who you are, all four of you guys.”

“Which also means she knows what you’re up to.” Garrett told Dean, who was offering you a freshly poured shot.

“I’m not up to anything.”

Your eyes flicked to Logan in question and he gave a small shrug. Dean poured another and Logan took both small cups, holding the other one out to you. You accepted it, nodded in thanks, and tapped the two together in a toast before downing the liquor. You winced slightly and coughed, which earned a laugh from Logan beside you.

“Dude.” Tucker added. “You’re always up to something.”

“I resent that. Just because she-”

“I’m sorry but can this-” You gestured vaguely to Dean, handing the now empty cup back to him. “-wait? I need to borrow Logan.”

“Shit, yeah, my bad.” Logan laughed and gestured for you to go with him. You two walked a few feet away and then he faced you again. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his original drink. “What’s going on?”

“You know Eli from class?” You began, inching a bit closer as if you were telling a secret. You were a little convinced that Eli would pop up as soon as you said his name like some freaky version of Beetlejuice. Well, freakier version.

“Uh, yeah, a little. The guy’s a little…”

“Weird.” You filled in. “He’s fucking weird, Logan.”

“He bothering you?”

“I’ve tried being nice about it. He DMs my Instagram every other day. He likes my old posts. He comments on old posts. I’ve had to delete his comments and restrict his account. He won’t leave me alone. It’s like he thinks I’m playing hard to get or something.”

“You didn’t just block him?”

“I don’t trust that I can block him and he’ll let it go, not when we have a class together.” You confessed. “I’ve even tried telling him I’m seeing someone.”

“And he doesn’t care?”

“He doesn’t believe me! He said that I don’t have anyone posted, that I don’t go out, I’m never walking with a guy, and that none of my friends have posted anything either.”

“That is a bit much.” Logan nodded, looking over your head for a moment.

“He found me when I was getting a drink a few minutes ago. I don’t know what else to do so I just thought…”

“That I could get him to back off?”

“Yeah, maybe.” You shrugged a little. “Sounds a little pathetic now that you say it.”

“So what do you need? Just to hang out and put on a show?”

“Maybe?” You laughed nervously. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead, and I wasn’t even sure you would say yes.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s not like we talk much outside of class.”

“Yeah, but that’s cause you never come to anything I invite you to.”

“Oh, come on. You guys invite everyone.”

“I don’t.”

“So I’m special?”

“Yeah, maybe…” He flashed a smile but nodded. “Okay, yeah. I’ll help you.”

“Really?” You brightened. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”

“But you owe me.” He pointed at you.

“The times I saved your grade isn’t enough?”

“No, not at all.”

“Alright, fine, I’ll do your next Consumers assignment.” You waved him off. “I appreciate you talking to him.”

“Oh, I’m not talking to him. Not unless he comes to us.” He laughed, taking his empty hand out of his pocket. He gestured for your cup and you offered it to him in confusion. “And you’re not drinking that.”

Without explanation, he dropped it in the nearest trashcan. He came back, offering you his now empty hand.

“My drink.” You frowned.

“I’ll get you a new one.” He offered with an amused smile.

“That one was fine.”

“You ever look away from it?”

You nodded slightly.

“You don’t trust to block the guy. You trust to not see your drink?”

“Fair point.”

You took the hand he offered and he gave you a slight tug to follow him. You did, looking back to try and find your friends. They were still lost in the crowd.

They wouldn’t miss you for a little while, right?

“Shit, Logan.” Garrett laughed as the two of you made it back to his friends. “I think Dean owes you an apology.”

“For what?” Dean spun around. “Oh, shit.”

“It’s not-” You tried.

Logan freed his hand from yours and put his arm over your shoulders instead.

“You two sneak off for a chat and come back… What? Dating?” Tucker asked and you just looked up at Logan.

You felt your phone buzzing in your pocket so you checked it.

Hannah was calling.

Maybe they would miss you.

“Shit.” You whispered and answered, turning slightly away from the boys’ conversation and blocking your other ear. “Hey, Han.”

“Y/N/N! What happened to you? We couldn’t find you.” Hannah answered. Even though she was likely yelling, the music was fighting to drown out her voice.

“Yeah, well. Long story short, Eli.”

“Shit.” She breathed. “Where are you? Allie and I will come help.”

“Another long story short, Logan.”

“Lo- Like John Logan from the hockey team?!”

“Yeah… I’ll explain later.”

“Alright… Call if you need a rescue, okay?”

“Absolutely. Thanks, lovey.”

You ended the call and turned back, shifting closer to Logan and unintentionally leaning some of your weight onto him.

“Everything okay?” Logan asked, looking over at you.

“I let Allie pick my shoes and they are not meant for standing.” You laughed.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Logan laughed. 

“Because Allie was so proud of the outfit she put together despite her hating my closet.” You gestured to yourself and you didn’t miss the way his eyes followed the path of your hand. “She said…”

Logan met your eyes with a silent question.

Any man would be lucky to be wrapped up in those legs.

“She said the shoes make my legs look longer.” You filled in.

“She was right.” Logan nodded.

“She also said the skirt distracts from my boring shirt.”

“I see what she means.” Logan laughed and you found yourself smiling in response.

“You’re wearing a plain shirt and a Carhartt.” You tugged on his jacket slightly. “But you’re telling me that my outfit is boring?”

“Not the whole outfit.”

“Oh, so just half of it?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“I am regretting coming over here already. Remind me why I thought this was a good idea.”

He laughed as he guided you to the nearby picnic table his friends had claimed. He sat on the table and left a gap between his legs. Again, he reached for your hand.

You accepted, though the questioning look in your eyes didn’t falter. He just winked and smiled, and that was enough for you to go along with whatever plan he had. You took your seat, crossing one leg under yourself and adjusting your skirt accordingly. You leaned back against Logan’s leg and looked over at the stage, watching the band perform. Logan was laughing and joking with his friends. Whatever was so funny, you didn’t know or didn’t really care.

You did realize you liked hearing him laugh.

“Oh, wait. You know her.” Garrett said suddenly, then he showed you his phone screen. “The waitress from Malone’s.”

“Hannah.” You corrected, glancing at the photo of her on his screen. “What about her?”

“What’s her deal?”

You leaned forward, crossing your arms over Logan’s leg. His hand found its way to your back, fingers tracing slight patterns between your shoulder blades that almost made you shiver.

“What do you mean?”

“Like… Okay, I have a class with her and she was the only one to ace a paper.”

“Not surprising.” You shook your head. “She knows her stuff.”

“So I try to get her to help me out so I don’t fail again and she said no.” Garrett lifted his hands for a dramatic shrug.

“Well it could have something to do with you not knowing her name.” You offered. “Or she just doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“No? You sure? Can’t blame her if it is.”

“Couldn’t possibly be that.” Logan joked.

“If it’s not personal, she is usually pretty busy.” You explained. “I think she has three jobs, and then her classes and her music.”

You felt a hand tap your arm and you turned to face Logan.

“I think he’s coming over here.” Logan warned and you frowned, deflating a little.

Logan chuckled, tapping his fingers under your chin. “Trust me, okay?”

“What other choice do I have?” You gave a small shrug.

“Yo, Dean!” Logan called and the blond came over, a slight wobble in his step from too much to drink too fast. “You see that guy coming over?” Logan shamelessly pointed at Eli. That seemed to make him hesitate and change course. “Would you think he has a shot with Y/N?”

“Fuck no.” Dean answered with a laugh and no hesitation. “Logan, you barely have a shot with her. No offense.”

You scoffed in offense and whacked at Dean’s arm, earning a laugh from him and Logan.

“Does he seriously try?” Dean asked you.

“Relentlessly.” You nodded. “I can show you the DMs. It’s at least twice a week.”

“Please do.” Dean laughed and sat near you on the bench.

“Once, he commented ‘be my waifu’ on an Instagram post from two years ago.”

You pulled your phone, seeing a series of texts from Allie.

WTF!?!?!

LOOK UP!!!!

YOURE KIDDING ME

!!?!?!??!?!

You swiped the messages away before opening the one sided thread in your Instagram DMs. You passed Dean your phone before looking towards the last place you saw your friends. Allie had found something to stand on and was waving frantically towards you. You smiled and offered an awkward wave. She looked down for a moment, head moving as she was likely typing an aggressive message, then she looked back up. Her eyes were wide and her hands were swinging wildly still when you felt Dean tap you with your phone.

“That’s sad, actually.” Dean said, fake empathy in his voice. “Oh, also Allie is very confused.”

“You read my text!?” You snatched your phone and saw it was open to yours and Allie’s messages.

IS THAT JOHN FUCKING LOGAN!?

YOURE DATING JOHN LOGAN?????

WHEN DID THIS START!?!?

Y/N Y/L/N STOP IGNORING ME

“She’s gonna kill me.” You sighed.

“She’ll get over it.” Logan answered.

“No.” You shook your head as you thumbed your response.

don’t make this a thing. i’ll explain later… call if hannah goes to make a move tho and i will come RUNNING

“This is gonna be her go-to for quite literally anything. ‘Remember when you didn’t tell me about you and John Logan?’ Allie will definitely hold a grudge over this.”

“Yeah, but is it something?”

You shifted to look up at him. His head was cocked slightly, his cup abandoned beside him and both hands bracing the way he leaned back on the table.

“Just a favor...” You answered after a hesitation. That was the truth, but it still felt suddenly wrong.

Before either of you could say anything else, there was a new presence beside you. You expected to turn and see Allie had stomped her way over to demand answers or Hannah had come with some excuse to whisk you away. Instead, you turned and saw Eli standing there.

Immediately, you tugged the hem of your skirt down and shifted to be facing straight. Logan leaned forward, an arm coming across your chest and pulling you slightly closer. You reached up and put one hand on his arm, the other going for his hand. His thumb ran gently back and forth over your knuckles. A heat raced up your neck as your cheeks burned but you tried not to acknowledge it. Prior to the last few minutes, you hadn’t considered anything with Logan but now that the thought had been planted…

Now that you knew how easy it was to be around him…

“This’ll be good.” Dean mumbled.

“Hey, man.” Logan said casually. “You’re in our Consumers class, right? Elliot.”

“Eli.” Eli corrected sharply. “I just wanted to talk to Y/N about something.”

“Up to her.”

“Can’t we talk here?” You asked politely, offering an easy and comfortable smile. “It’s not like we’re telling secrets or anything.” You laughed a little.

“I was hoping to save some embarrassment.”

“For who?”

“Fine… I just wanted to see why you lied to me.” He said sharply, as if you had offended him.

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you said you weren’t looking for anything.”

“Wasn’t.” You shrugged. “But I did also say I was already seeing someone.”

“Why are you here, Y/N?” He asked, nearly desperate. You tried to keep your face neutral. “You talk and you tempt me but then you leave.”

“I’ve never given you that idea.” You had to laugh.

“You expect me to believe you, a beautiful and innocent and sweet and kind and smart woman, would date him?”

“Have you been bothering her outside of class?” Logan cut in, a new edge to his voice.

“No.” Eli said quickly.

“No, I've seen the way you try to corner her.”

“Yeah and I’ve seen the messages.” Dean added with a small, almost pitiful laugh. “You bother the fuck outta her. She’s just too nice to tell you to fuck off. We, on the other hand, aren’t. So fuck off.”

“Who was talking to you, blondie?” Eli turned on Dean. 

“Wrong fucking answer, buddy.”

“Don’t you have some other girl to make question her morals?”

Dean went to stand but Logan grabbed his friend’s arm.

“Blondie here can still kick your ass. I wouldn’t pick a fight with hockey players.” You commented, squeezing Logan’s hand slightly. “You won’t win.”

“I like her.” Dean smiled to Logan, who gave a small chuckle in return.

Garrett and Tucker had now come closer, as if recognizing the tension. Eli took a step back.

“Just leave her alone, alright?” Logan said calmly. “She doesn’t want shit to do with you.”

“But she suddenly wants you?” Eli snapped.

You didn’t bother trying to keep your expression neutral. Your brows raised and you let out a quiet “wow”.

“Why are you here, Eli?” You asked plainly. “You don’t respect anything I tell you. You don’t believe I’m seeing someone. You literally see me with him. But you come over here and… What? Think I’ll run off into the sunset with you? I see your DMs. I see the comments. You ever think that maybe there’s a reason I ignore all of them?”

“You’re better than this, my darling.”

“Alright.” Logan announced. You felt him lean forward, his chest against your back. “You heard her. It’s time for you to go.”

“Or what?” Eli lifted his chin, almost trying to challenge Logan.

Part of you wondered if Logan would’ve moved differently had you not been sitting in front of him, tucked under his arm. Would he have been more like Dean, ready to fight? Would he have been like Garrett and Tucker, a quiet but strong presence? Or would he be the same he was, tense but in control?

“What more proof do you need that I don’t want anything to do with you?” You said sharply. You moved Logan’s arm and stood, coming nearly eye to eye with Eli thanks to the lift of your heels.

“It won’t last. He will break your precious heart and toss you aside like you’re worthless.” Eli nearly pleaded. “I will treat you like a princess. Like a queen. You deserve so much better.”

You looked over at Logan, at Dean, then Tucker. Garrett had disappeared.

“I like where I am.” You gave a small, nonchalant shrug. “Take a fucking hint and-”

You were cut off by your phone buzzing. You looked down at it, ignoring the pleas from Eli.

It was Allie.

“No fucking way.” You said when you answered. “Is she really?!”

“Yes, get your cute ass down here now!”

“Okay, yes, coming!”

“You’re not off the hook for whatever that is with Logan.”

You laughed and hung up the phone. Still ignoring Eli, you turned and grabbed Logan’s hand. You didn’t need to bring Logan with you. Surely, if Eli still tried to follow and talk to you, the boys would block him, but you just wanted to bring him along.

“Come with me!” You said in excitement and gave a slight tug.

He laughed, said something you weren’t listening to, but gave in to your efforts. He stood, waved to his friends, and followed you back towards the main party. As you reached the crowd, you had to slow down.

Logan was close behind you, one hand still in yours and the other was now on your hip. You glanced down at it and felt the heat on your cheeks again. With the people around you, there was no way Eli could see much. He didn’t have to put on a show for anyone, yet he still went out of his way to keep hold of you.

You liked it.

When you finally got through the crowds, you found Allie and Dexter already watching Hannah.

“Girl. I thought you were kidding.” Dexter told Allie, offering a double take as you approached with Logan in tow.

“John Logan, this is Allie and Dexter. Allie and Dexter, John Logan.” You introduced quickly, though it was likely they knew who he was. “We have Consumer Behavior together and he is my savior tonight.”

“Okay.” Dexter gave a nod of approval.

“Shut up! We can talk about that later.” Allie insisted, smacking yours and Dexter’s arms. “She’s doing it.”

You turned and saw Hannah making her way to Justin. Her attempt was cut short by someone knocking into her and spilling their drink. You turned and dropped your head against Logan’s arm, huffing in defeat. He laughed a little and patted your back.

“Oh, hell no!” Allie said firmly and you looked back up. Dexter pulled her back and when you followed their focus, you saw Garrett Graham offering Hannah his jacket.

You turned back to Logan.

“What the hell is he doing?” You asked in shock.

“I have no idea.” He laughed a little, though his expression was just as confused. “Guess that’s why he was asking about her.”

“Huh…” You nodded slowly. “I guess rejection is the way to Graham’s heart.”

“Or he just really wants help with that next paper.” Logan joked.

You smacked his chest slightly but laughed a little bit.

“The things we do for our grades, huh?” You teased.

“Hey, I’m doing this for more than a grade.” He put his hands up in surrender.

“Are you?” You cocked your head.

The sun had fully set by now and there was a slight chill in the air. A chill ran down your spine, making you regret agreeing to the skirt. As cute as it was, it was not weather appropriate.

“Oh, shit. Here.” Logan noticed, quickly taking off his jacket. He offered it to you, but you tried to push his hands away.

“I’ll be fine. I don’t think I’ll stick around much longer anyway.” You tried.

“Shut up and take it.” He urged gently, pushing the jacket back at you.

With a sigh, you did. It was already warm and you could smell his cologne on it.

“Thank you.” You said, shoving your hands in the pockets. “For all of it, tonight.”

You felt a tap on your shoulder and looked over to see Dexter pointing between him and Allie. He took her wrist and began to pull her away, despite Allie’s protests. Dexter gave you a pointed look, to which you rolled your eyes, then they blended into the crowd.

“They are gonna have a field day with this.” You laughed.

Logan took hold of the front of his jacket and pulled you closer, flush against his chest. You let out a small noise of surprise at the action and he just smiled at you.

He had a very pretty smile. How had you not noticed it earlier?

“Can I tell you something?” Logan asked, his voice low as if he was telling you a secret.

“Sure.” You nodded.

“I’m glad you came up to me tonight.”

“I’m glad you agreed. Otherwise, I would’ve had to sick Allie on him and that would not have been pretty.”

“You still can, I mean…” He shrugged and you laughed. You drew your hands out of the pockets and rested one on his arm while the other fiddled with the chain around his neck. “Y/N…”

“John.” You titled your head back to meet his eyes.

“Let me take you to dinner tomorrow.” He nodded slightly.

“Seriously?” Your brows raised. “Shit, not- Not that I don’t want to, just… It’s kinda out of nowhere.”

“Yeah, a little, but…” He smiled but he almost seemed nervous.

“John Logan, am I making you nervous?” You laughed.

“Do you want to go or not?” He laughed, ignoring your question.