Sin título

The Baratie was packed of residents and pirates alike; thankfully, no marines in sight. Sanji had been sentenced to waiter duty after telling Zeff how his chefs still sucked, despite his time away with his crew.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a beautiful woman seat herself in the same booth that he met his friends at. She had a sword attached to her hip and an unimpressed look on her face. Sanji grinned to himself as he began to think of some pick-up lines to use, serving someone their meal as he did so. Sure, his crew may have been up to something much more exciting than he currently was, but he couldn’t turn down a chance to work with Zeff again, much less ignore such a beautiful woman.

You watched Sanji walk past your table empty-handed, presumably heading over to take other patrons orders. He shot you a charming smile that had you rolling your eyes in amusement. It was boring, waiting for your contractor to show up, but the workers here were so interesting (and not to mention cute).

A man sitting at your table had turning your attention from the door that the blonde had just walked through, and you resisted a sigh. You knew what was coming, and you didn’t want any part in it, even if you couldn’t express that.

By the time Sanji had managed to convince a waiter to let him take over for your table, you were already preparing to leave. You had just stood, about to walk from the Baratie when Sanji spoke.

“Sorry for the wait, Madam,” he smiled, despite your back to him. “I sincerely hope you aren’t leaving me here, such a beautiful woman as yourself is sure to make my shift much more interesting.” The flirtation rolled off his tongue with ease, but his words went ignored, interrupted by a man he hadn’t seen.

“So, we have a deal then?” His voice was muffled by a mask that covered his face.

You paused for a moment, not turning to face the masked man or Sanji as you replied.

“Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll kill Roronoa Zoro for you.”

Now, while Sanji may dislike the swordsman, he didn’t want him dead; most of the time, anyway. His shift on the Baratie came to a swift end as he heard her words, eyes watching her leave, hand clenched into a fist on her sword. He knew he had to warn the others. Had to warn Zoro and then leave to find another island.

Roronoa Zoro, for all strength and skill, was never good at covering his tracks. The whispers about the green-haired brute entered your ears the moment you docked on the island.

Idiot, you thought to yourself. He doesn’t even know it’s me and he isn’t bothering to be discreet.

It was obvious where he would be, and so you headed to the bar.

It wasn’t like he was hard to spot, the bright green hair stood out in any crowd, not to mention you would recognise his posture anywhere… and he was at the bar, obviously. Typical Zoro.

“Long time no see, Roronoa,” was your greeting as you took a seat beside him, ordering a drink.

His eyes snapped to you instantly. You were sat there, smiling at him. He hadn’t seen you in years and you were acting as though it was like you were still kids.

“What are you doing here?” He asked. His tone may have been cold and seemingly unaffected, but years of training together meant that you could see the well-hidden shock in his eyes easily.

“Let’s call it a favour for an old friend,” you began, nodding at the bartender as he handed you a drink. “People want you dead.”

Zoro scoffed.

“Tell me something I don’t know,”

“I’m being serious, ‘ro. I don’t know who it is, but they’re hiring a lot of talented people.”

The use of your nickname for him sent him back in time, but the serious look on your face snapped him from it; you were never one to be serious.

“I’ll be fine. It’s not like they’ll be able to do it.”

You shook your head in annoyance, taking a final sip from the bottle in your hands before sliding it to him and standing.

“Fine, whatever.” You turned to walk away but stopped. “Just remember that you can’t keep your promise to Kuina if you’re dead.”

Zoro silently watched you leave.

Maybe you had a point.

“A lot of people? Jeez, Mosshead, just how many people have you pissed off?” Sanji asked Zoro, an amused smile curled on his lips as he spoke.

“A few,” Zoro was as blunt as ever.

Silence fell over the crew for a moment before Nami spoke up.

“Who told you this, anyway? I mean, isn’t it weird that someone knows that.”

Zoro shrugged, sipping the drink you had shoved at him before you stormed off.

Seeing you after all these years had been a shock. After all these years - and somewhat different professions – he hadn’t expected to see you again. He was a pirate hunter, but you were just a hunter. An assassin. You would kill anyone if the price was high enough, didn’t matter who. Oh, that’s why you know: you’ve been hired to kill him.

Zoro may be stupid, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew you well enough to know that you wouldn’t do it. You weren’t warning him for some twisted sense of fun, you just wanted him to know to watch his back. Huh, people don’t really change, do they?

The first thing you noticed as you walked by the bar was how empty it was. It wasn’t late, so why was it empty? The next thing was the quiet chuckles and murmured words from an alleyway. With cautious steps, you approached.

“Didn’t think it’d work,” a man chuckled, leaning over… something. “I mean, all the strawhats were stupid enough to drink it? It’s a shame really, I thought this would be harder.”

Another man spoke up.

“Think of the bounties you’ll get, boss!”

And a third man; the bartender from earlier, you realise.

“I better get a big cut, I was the one who slipped it in their drinks, after all.”

The second man, an ‘apprentice’ of sorts, spoke again.

“No way?! I was the one that made the drug, why do you get it?”

The young apprentices began bickering.

“They’re not even fully unconscious, idiot! They just can’t move. Your drug sucks.”

You rolled your eyes as you silently approached. They were arguing so loud that it wouldn’t have even mattered if you had sprinted at them.

Amateurs, you thought to yourself as you unsheathed your sword, stabbing the leader with such speed and strength that it killed him instantly. His body fell to the floor.

The previous arguing ceased as their teacher’s body slumped to the floor, blood leaking onto the ground. They stared in shock for a second, until the third man succumbed to the same fate. His friend – and currently the only alive one – looked at the two bodies on the ground before spinning to face you.

Your lips were pulled into a neutral, unimpressed expression as you stared at him. He was younger than you, as to be expected since he was learning. You resisted the urge to glance at the crew who were paralyzed on the ground. That could come later, right now, you need to keep your eyes on the target to ensure you have the advantage.

“You should really watch your mouth,” your voice was like ice. “I mean, your arguing just got your two co-workers killed. Does that not bother you? I mean, it’s your fault they’re dead, so you should feel guilty.” You didn’t care, to be honest. All this was just part of the job and you needed to anger the man enough to draw his weapon so you knew what you were dealing with.

It worked. The man drew a tiny knife and you laughed.

“That is what you’re using the kill Zoro and his crew? God, assassins really have gone downhill, haven’t they?”

Your taunting words clearly riled him up more as he swung at you. The tiny blade did nothing. You simply stepped back and swung your sword at him, ending him in one swoop. It was nothing. They were nothing.

A glance around showed that there were no hidden enemies, so you were safe to sheath your blade and check on those in front of you.

Kneeling besides the pile of pirates was oddly entertaining. They were all tossed into a pile, no regards for the orange-haired woman being on the bottom and Zoro on the top of them all.

“I hope you all feel bad for crushing your friend, idiots,” you murmured after pressing your fingers to the pulse point of each of their necks.

At least they’re alive, you thought. But annoyingly, you now had to sit around and wait until one of them came around enough to watch the others.

Sanji was the first to successfully fight the paralysis and he shot up the moment he was able to.

You were still sat there, back facing them all as you watched the moonlit night through the end of the alley; watching for enemies, Sanji assumed.

Surely he could take you down? Especially since you weren’t paying him any attention and were unarmed. He just had to be quick. You were obviously just waiting to get Zoro alone, so he needed to be quick to save Mosshead.

“Oh, it’s you.” You seemed genuinely taken aback as you looked over your shoulder to see Sanji now sat. “From the Baratie. Weird, you don’t seem like the type of guy ‘ro would usually hang out with.” You turned back to the moon.

Nami was the next to move, shoving the others from her with a groan.

“You know Zoro?” She asked as she stood, brushing off the dirt from her clothes.

You nodded. “That can’t have been comfortable.”

Nami groaned, shoving Zoro onto his back with her foot which pulled a laugh from you.

“He was the worst,”

Your laughter fell to a simple smile as you watched her. You could feel Sanji’s eyes on you but paid him no mind.

“Yeah, he is pretty heavy,” you turned to face her fully. “Are you feeling all right?”

You approached Nami, gently grasping her shoulders. Sanij abruptly jumped to his feet, preparing for a fight, yet you didn’t even look at him. Even as he stood within attack range, your eyes were focused solely on Nami as you used your hands to move her body, checking her pulse before giving a satisfied hum.

Then, you finally turned to Sanji who was staring at you. You did the same to him, gently grasping his chin to try and check him over. Your eyebrows furrowed when he pulled himself from his grasp.

“Oh, sorry. I should have asked.” You apologised with a step back; hands raised in surrender gesture.

Nami’s own eyebrows furrowed as she watched the interaction. This wasn’t usual Sanji. No, Sanji would have been all over you. What was going on?

“Sanji, what? You usually love the attention.”

“She’s here to kill him too,” Sanji stated, staring at you.

You saw Nami’s own eyes widen – cursing herself for not considering that idea – and pull out her own weapon. You didn’t react in the way she had expected. You didn’t reach for your weapon, nor did you flee. You just stood there, arms still raised.

“He’s right, well, kind of,” you shrugged casually, as though the fact you were here to kill their friend was something normal.

Nami prepared to attack, but you still didn’t move.

“What are you doing?” Zoro’s voice was slightly slurred but still held his usual annoyance.

Nami hesitated, especially since Zoro, despite having heard the conversation – the paralytic drug only took away their ability to move, not hear – didn’t reach for his own weapon. He just looked bored.

“Have you lost your hearing or something? She’s here to kill you, Mosshead.”

Zoro glanced over at your still unmoving body. He shrugged, shocking the threatening pair even more. Why didn’t he care?

“I’m aware,” Zoro said. “She told me. She won’t do it so you can stop whatever you’re planning.”

Nami hesitated for a moment, weapon still pointed at you, but one look from Zoro had her reluctantly stepping back. Sanji did the same. Once you were sure they weren’t going to jump at the chance to attack you, you dropped your hands back to your sides.

“Well, now that’s sorted, are you guys going to be alright if I go, or are you going to get drugged and almost killed again?” You asked as you inspected Zoro. He shrugged you off, as to be expected.

“We’ll be fine, just go.”

You nodded at Zoro’s words, turning to leave but were instead greeted with another assassin.

“Are you serious?”

Nami and Sanji shoved the still paralysed Luffy and Usopp on their backs as you and Zoro prepared the fight. Sanji didn’t trust you not to kill Zoro while they ran, but he trusted Zoro enough to not die if you did try and made for the Going Merry the second the opportunity arose. Him and Nami dashed past the attacker as they charged towards Zoro, sparing you only a glance.

The initial plan was to leave the island the moment Zoro arrived back on ship, only Zoro didn’t come back. Well, he did, but it wasn’t just Zoro; you were there too.

“Let’s go,” Zoro called as you both boarded the ship.

You stood beside him with a frustrated huff; arms crossed over your chest. Zoro looked over at you then huffed himself.

“Don’t blame me. It’s not my fault they destroyed your boat.”

“Yeah, well it’s your fault for not listening to me and getting drugged, you moron! If you had listened and just left, then we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Sanji watched the confrontation, ignoring his thoughts about how you were cute when you pouted, finger shoved into Zoro’s chest while you ranted. He still didn’t trust you, but he couldn’t deny that you had save their lives. Not only that, but you also waited to make sure they weren’t attacked while coming around. You were certainly strange.

Zoro muttered something to you – likely a whatever knowing him – and stalked off somewhere else on the ship. You sighed again, running a hand through your hair. Sanji continued to watch you closely, lighting up a cigarette and placing it between his lips as he did so.

You didn’t seem threatening; you just seemed annoyed. If what Zoro had said about your boat was true, then he assumed you were now at risk too. There was a stark contrast between a small boat and a pirate ship, so unless the attackers were idiots, they knew you were a threat to them. The cook wondered if his accusation had been wrong, but you did admit you were here to kill Zoro. Then, why hadn’t you? You had the perfect chance to do so in the alley. Why didn’t you?

Too deep in his thoughts, Sanji hadn’t heard Nami approach until she spoke.

“She’s a strange one, isn’t she?”

Sanji, too tired and confused to flatter Nami’s beautiful, genius self, nodded in agreement, blowing the smoke from his cigarette into the air.

Your explanation was short and to the point was the first thing Nami noticed. You didn’t waste time with needless information and explanations; you simply stated what was happening and what had happened.

“Wait, so you’re being hunted because you didn’t kill Zoro? That seems stupid. I mean, chasing an assassin. But no fear, the great Captain Usopp shall protect you! I have defended countless damsels in distress and-“ Usopp boasted, beginning to tell you stories of the people he had saved with a proud grin.

Sanji didn’t want to admit it, but he did begin to wonder what was going on with you. Not only were you nothing like Zoro – your giggles and willingness to go along with Usopp’s lies were a huge giveaway – but you were strangely close to him; emotionally and physically.

You currently sat beside the swordsman on the couch. Zoro’s eyes were closed, his head tilted back and arms-crossed, but he didn’t seem to mind the closeness. Even when you lightly hit with and began to scold him for dozing off while the others were speaking, he didn’t get annoyed. He didn’t even shove you off when you curled against his side, your own eyes drooping. No, he just called you a hypocrite with a roll of the eyes and went back to what he was doing.

Were you two together? After all, Zoro isn’t one for physical affection ever, so it was the only assumption that made sense. Yeah, you had to be Zoro’s girlfriend! That’s why you didn’t kill him. It all made sense now.

Your cheeks warmed ever so slightly as Sanji passed you a cool drink with a wink and a compliment about how you shone brighter than the sun overhead. As he spoke, Sanji spared a glance at a silent but unamused Zoro then wandered off back to the ship’s galley.

“He’s always like that,” Nami explained, sipping her own drink.

Despite the rough start to your relationship, Nami and you had become fast friends. She was glad to have another girl aboard the Going Merry, and you were happy to have some company. In fact, in the weeks that you had been travelling with the Strawhats, you would say you had spent the most time with her. Zoro was a close second, but he got boring quite quickly. You much preferred to spend time with Nami, just like you were right now.

You looked over at her with a smile then leaned forward to remove your oversized shirt, leaving you only in your bathing suit. It was very sunny today, so you and Nami had decided to try and enjoy the heat while you could. Bad weather was inevitable.

“Yeah?” You asked.

Nami shuffled back in her chair, stretching to try and tan while she lay.

“Yeah. I mean, he’s worse with you because he wants to annoy Zoro, but that’s just what Sanji is like. He flirts with everyone.”

Zoro’s own interest was piqued by now, one eye opening to look at you both.

“Why would that annoy me?” He asked and you agreed, confused.

“Aren’t you two together?”

The face you pulled, had she been looking, would have answered Nami’s question. Alas, she wasn’t looking at either of you, instead resting her eyes and enjoying the heat, so you had to speak up.

“No, absolutely not. Ew.”

“Agreed,” Zoro chimed in. “I don’t even want to know why you think that.”

You watched as Zoro left, laughing at the weirded-out expression he wore.

You and Zoro? Absolutely not. You two had grown up together, had helped each other grieve. You loved Zoro, but a platonic, sibling type of love rather than romantic. You wouldn’t date Zoro if you were the last people on Earth and the sole hope for keeping humanity going. No. You’d rather it be someone else from the crew. Someone who was the complete opposite of Zoro…

Sanji watched over the railing as you, Nami, and Zoro conversed about something for a moment before Zoro stalked off, a strange expression on his face. Whatever you had been discussing had clearly freaked him out. Yet, as he came face-to-face with him, his expression had reverted back to normal, except for the slight amused smirk on his lips.

“Girlfriend kick you out already, Mosshead?” Sanji turned his attention back over the railing, now seeing Nami staring at you in shock as you avoided her gaze with red cheeks. You looked beautiful, he couldn’t deny, but you were Zoro’s girlfriend.

“She wanted me to prepare a date for later,” Zoro shrugged casually, watching Sanji’s back for any type of reaction. “Wants to spend the night with me or something, I don’t know.” That got a reaction from his rival.

Sanji tensed up for a split second before deflating. Zoro watched as he reached into his pockets, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. He popped the stick into his mouth then lit it before turning to face Zoro.

“Well then, better not keep such a beautiful lady waiting then, should you?” Sanji glanced back towards you and Nami for a moment, ignoring the weird sensation in his chest. “Make sure not to disappoint her with your lacklustre performance, eh?”

Zoro smirked, turning around.

“Course not,”

“Keep your voice down!” You hushed Nami as you announced your secret far too loudly for your liking.

Your cheeks burned as you looked away from Nami’s shocked stare. She covered her mouth, stifling her laugh, but you still heard it and your cheeks began to burn even more.

“Sorry, sorry, but still,” she laughed again, leaning forward to observe your embarrassed expression. “I mean, Sanji? Of all people, Sanji? I would have been less shocked had you said you like Usopp, but you have a crush on Sanji?!”

“Shush! I never said I have a crush on him, I just said-“

“That you find him cute and funny and think he has very kissable lips, yeah I heard that all, Y/N,” She shot you an unamused look. “That’s a crush.”

“No, it isn’t!”

Nami rolled her eyes then leaned back again. She could make some easy money from this.

The motel was a little run-down, but given the erratic weather, you didn’t really mind. You never had minded staying in places that were worse for wear given that you never stayed anywhere long enough to need a good place. In fact, your time aboard the Going Merry had been the longest you had stayed anywhere since you were a child. It was a strange feeling, but one that you didn’t mind.

“Five rooms please,” Nami asked as she approached the old lady at the desk.

You stood beside her with a weary look. Ever since the storm begun, she had been acting strange. It was like she knew something you didn’t and she was very happy about it.

The worker seemed relieved at Nami’s request, but her small smile dropped once you corrected her.

“Wait, but there’s six of us?”

Nami paused for a moment, seemingly thinking as she glanced at the others behind you both, then hummed.

“You’re right. Six then, please,”

The old woman looked away awkwardly as she explained.

“Ah, sorry, dear, but we only have five rooms available currently. Four singles and one double.” She looked apologetic and slightly fearful as she spoke, as though she was expecting an argument.

“That’s all right, Ma’am,” you said with a reassuring smile. This lady hadn’t done anything wrong so she didn’t need to fear. “I’ll just share with you, Na-“

Nami cut you off.

“No, I need some good rest in a single bed tonight.” Nami glanced over her shoulder at the others with a smirk and paused for a moment. “You on the other hand can share with one of the guys!” She finished her sentence once the keys to the room were on desk in front of her.

You watched Nami with wide-eyes as she grabbed three keys to the singles and tossed two towards Usopp and Luffy. You heard them all say a simple goodnight and wandered off to their rooms, completely carefree and oblivious.

“Well, I’m sure that you two will have a fun night together,” Sanji teased, eyes glued on the keys on the desk.

“Absolutely not,” Zoro spoke, clearly irritated at the entire situation. “I’m not sharing with her.” You watched as he grabbed the final single room key and wandered off in the complete opposite direction of the rooms.

Idiot.

Had you not been mortified at the situation unfolding, you would have called after your friend and teased him for getting lost, but the way Sanji was staring at you with a completely dumbfounded look brought you back to reality.

“Are you two arguing?” He asked with a concerned and confused look.

“No? Not that I know of, anyway. Why?”

“Well, if I was your boyfriend, I wouldn’t want you sharing a room with another guy, especially not one I always argue with.” Sanji said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world then sighed, picking up the key. “Come on, then.” He turned too quickly for you to see the red that stained his cheeks and strutted off in the right direction.

The door clicked behind you after the silent walk.

The room was indeed intended for couples use. A large double bed sat in the centre of the room; its red sheets tucked neatly, silk pillows of the same shade lying atop the duvet. Had you been alone, you would have loved having this bed – it looked too comfortable for the Berry it had cost to stay here – but you weren’t alone. You were with Sanji. Sanji who apparently still thought Zoro was your boyfriend as you suddenly realised.

“Zoro isn’t my boyfriend, so he doesn’t care who I share a room with.” You said as you stared at Sanji’s back which showed through the soaked fabric of his shirt. “I don’t know why you even think that.”

He turned to you with a raised eyebrow.

“Maybe the fact he was telling me about how you asked him to take you on a date and often spend the night with him, love.”

Now you raised your eyebrows.

“What are you talking about, Sanji?”

He huffed a laugh.

“You don’t need to hide it. Zoro definitely doesn’t. He’s always commenting on things about your relationship to me.” He shrugged and turned to head to the bathroom. “Luffy doesn’t care about that type of thing. As long as you are happy, he doesn’t mind.”

“Zoro talks about… our relationship?”

Now you were really confused.

You and Zoro weren’t together? He agreed with you that it would be weird when Nami said Sanij thou- Oh, you get it now.

Before Sanji could answer, you spoke again.

“He’s just doing that to get under your skin. Nami told us that you thought Zoro and I were together a few days ago while we were sunbathing. We both agreed that that was weird and he walked off. Zoro and I are more like family than partners, believe me. And he’s not my type.” Your voice trailed off as you ended your sentence. Upon realisation of what you had said, you rushed past him and stole the bathroom.

Sanji watched the door shut in shock.

You weren’t together? Mosshead was just trying to annoy him? Wait, does that mean that he knows about Sanji’s feelings for you? How? Damn it, Roronoa.

After taking around fifteen minutes alone in the bathroom, you decided you were ready to face Sanji. Having changed from your rain-soaked clothing and quickly cleaned up, you did feel a little better. You hadn’t meant to say that Zoro wasn’t your type to the man who absolutely was, it just sort of slipped out while you were trying to explain the whole situation.

You gently opened the door, pushing it slowly to avoiding it creaking in case Sanji was sleeping. He wasn’t. Instead, he stood shirtless at the end of the double bed, his shirt hanging over a chair that was carelessly tossed in the corner of the room.

Somehow, staring at Sanji’s bare back was more terrifying than anything you had experienced in your whole career; maybe even your entire life. Had it been anyone else, you wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But it wasn’t anyone else. It was Sanji. Sanji who you were sharing a room with tonight.

Too caught in your panic, you didn’t realise that he had noticed you until he spoke.

“Everything all right, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,”

Did he not realise he was shirtless, or did he just not care?

“Sorry, I didn’t realise you were changing,” you muttered, spinning on your heels to head back into the bathroom to allow him to change.

You cursed yourself and your actions. You were a trained assassin, one of the very best, so why were you acting like an embarrassed schoolgirl who was speaking to their crush for the first time?

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. His words were quickly followed by the sound of rustling fabric. “I’m done now anyway. You don’t need to run off, especially now I know that Mosshead won’t kill me for being shirtless around his girlfriend.”

When you turned back around, you saw the bright, charming grin he was shooting you. It was the same one that he gave you that day at the Baratie, but it somehow held a different energy, if that was possible? Maybe you were imagining things, maybe not. Hell, maybe it wasn’t even his smile, but rather the look he was giving you as he smiled; who knew.

You shook your head to clear your mind and turned your attention to the bed behind him. You nodded towards it, then asked a simple question.

“Is it comfy?”

Sanji looked at you for a moment, grin faltering somewhat as his eyebrows furrowed. Following your gaze seemed to fix his expression.

“Haven’t tried it, love. Thought I’d let you have it. Ladies first. Anyway, it wouldn’t be fair of me to steal it from such a lovely woman as yourself. Beautiful women need lots of rest to maintain their appearance, after all.” He said with a wink.

“That is a lot of words to tell me to get on the bed,” despite the harshness of your words, you giggled.

You approached the bed, leaning backwards and flopping onto it. Your gaze remained on the ceiling as you adjusted your body, testing the comfort of the mattress before humming.

“Yeah, it’s good. Very comfortable. Much better than other places I’ve stayed,”

When Sanji didn’t respond for a few moments, you sat up to see what was wrong. You looked at him in confusion when you saw he was just stood there, body rigid as he stared at where you were sat. His cheeks were flushed, eyes wide.

“Sanji, are you okay?”

Your confusion seemed to snap him from his dazed state.

He cleared his throat.

“Your shirt is riding up, sweetheart,” his voice was a low and quiet murmur.

You watched him move his gaze from where your shirt had ridden up to somewhat reveal your panties, cheeks a flaming red and hands balled into fists. Sanji, having somehow forgotten he had just changed, tried to shove his fists into the pockets of his pants, but the sweatpants he wore didn’t have any.

Your throat gave a casual hum, and you shrugged before voicing your thoughts.

“It’s fine. I trust you, Sanji. I mean, unless it makes you uncomfortable then I can-“

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.” His words were rushed, voice strained. “I just-“ he coughed into his hand, eyes slowly moving from the grey carpet and back to you, only this time your face. “Think you’re a very attractive woman.”

You looked up at him, an innocent and joyful smile crawling onto your lips.

You didn’t understand what he was saying, did you?

“Thank you, Sanji. I think you’re a very handsome man, too.”

His eyes widened at your honesty, and he turned his body away from you.

You were going to kill him. He was going to die in this room – not that he minded dying to you this way – and you would have no idea why.

Sanji muttered a quiet thank you as he walked away from you on the bed.

Sanji hadn’t expected his evening in a room alone with you to go entirely smoothly, but he hadn’t expected it to go this disastrously. Of all the times he could have gotten turned on by you, it just had to be while you were stuck in a room together. Whatever Gods were currently in existence were being cursed by the cook as he tried shoving his hands into his non-existent pockets once more.

The springs of the mattress creaked as you adjusted yourself to sit at the end of the bed. You watched him for a moment. Sanji still had his back to you, but with the tight-fitting t-shirt he was wearing giving you an excellent outline, you couldn’t find it in you to care. Sure, you would have loved to see his face, but his back would do.

“Well, I should – ahem – take the couch and try get some sleep.”

You had never heard Sanji’s voice so strained. Was he getting sick? You hoped not. In the midst of your concern, you hopped up from the bed and in a quick movement, your hand was on his shoulder, urging him to face you.

You heard the quiet inhale from him as you grasped his shoulder.

“Ah, sorry,” you whispered. “I forgot to ask again.”

Reminding Sanji of your first meeting was absolutely not helping his current situation. Thinking back to your fight with the trio who had attempted to kill the group of pirates was only turning him on more and he could feel himself twitch beneath his sweatpants.

Focus, Sanji. Focus. Think bad thoughts. Think of Zoro.

Trying to think of Zoro only made the situation even worse as Sanji began recalling the nights that he had spent imagining himself pleasuring you rather than Zoro. Knowing that it hadn’t even happened only made it worse.

You’re a free woman, so maybe he- no, Sanji. Stop. This is your friend. You can’t be thinking about her like that, no matter how much you want t-

You moved to stand in front of Sanji, your eyes glued to his face as you looked for any signs that he was ill. Besides his visibly hot cheeks and vacant expression, he didn’t seem sick, but the temperature was clearly a sure sign he was getting ill.

You raised your hand, pausing in front of Sanji to ask if it was okay. You watched him Adam’s apple bob as he gulped and nodded. Your face held a look of concentration, tongue poking out from between your lips as you pressed the back of your hand to his cheeks and then his neck.

“You’re really warm, Sanji,”

He could feel your breath hit his face as you leaned in to observe him closer.

Everything will be fine as long as you don’t look down, he repeated as he focused on keeping his gaze on your face. Surely if I don’t look then-

Your hand pulled the tight t-shirt he wore ever so slightly, and you slipped your free hand against the skin.

“Huh, you’re not massively warm th-“

Your words were cut off by his own hand grabbing yours, giving it a light squeeze as he forced a chuckle that sounded more like a cry for help than anything.

“I’m fine, sweetheart. It’s just very warm in here.” His voice was more strained than before.

Okay, something is definitely up, you thought to yourself.

Your eyes glanced up at his closed ones, long lashes laying against his flushed cheeks. You could fele the sweat building on his palm and the slight shakiness of it as it gripped yours.

“You’re acting weird, Sanji. What, oh-“

Sanji’s eyes snapped open as you giggled.

You had noticed.

Oh, shit he was screwed.

In his panic, Sanji released your hand and began backing away, apologies already beginning to form on his tongue as he awaited a sharp slap to his cheeks from you. It never came, though. Instead, you silently trotted back over to the bed, sitting on the edge as you dangled your feet.

Okay, this is fine. He can redeem himself! He’ll just get on his knees and beg for forgiveness! Yeah, good plan!

Sanji rushed over to stand in front of you, dropping to his knees between your spread legs as he began to apologise. His eyes were scrunched shut hands bracing himself against the wooden frame. Despite it all, he still felt fucked.

You shook your head in silent amusement as you watched the scene unfold before you. You had always thought Sanji would be confident regardless of the situation but seeing him begging for forgiveness on his knees – sitting on his knees did little to hide the cause of the entire situation, but he didn’t need to know that – painted him in a whole new light. It wouldn’t be fair of you to not tease him, right?

Your right hand reached out to tangle itself in his hair. You saw his body freeze and his pleads for forgiveness stopped mid-sentence as he looked up at you with wide eyes. You smiled down at him, lifting your other hand.

“It’s okay. You can make it up to me,” you whispered as you ran your thumb across his lower lip while caressing his hair.

Now, it was supposed to be a joke. A simple tease to try and calm him down and make him realise that it was fine and you weren’t mad. That was the plan, but Sanji was evidently full of surprises. Your own eyes widened as he eagerly nodded, lips popping open to take your thumb into his mouth.

You felt him hum in agreement as his tongue began to lick at your thumb, giving occasional sucks. His eyes remained fixated on yours, pupils fully blown.

This was not the reaction you had expected. Though, you probably shouldn’t have been surprised; Sanji loved to please women.

His tongue continued to circle your thumb and suck while you stared down at him. Your panties were becoming increasingly damper as he continued, the wetness worsening when he moved one hand from the bedframe to instead caress your thigh.

“Sanji,” you whispered breathlessly. “I was kidding, you don’t have to do anything. It’s fine.”

You withdrew your thumb from his mouth to allow him to speak. He shook his head, giving your thigh a squeeze.

“I want to.” His voice was thick with lust as you moved to your untouched thigh, pressing three gentle kisses before speaking again. “Please. I need this. I need you.”

You looked at him in shock for a moment, mouth hanging.

At your silence, Sanji’s own expression morphed into shock and he quickly withdrew his hand and mouth, despite your own still being laced in his hair.

“Shit, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m so so-“

Once again, you cut off his apologies. A gentle tug of his hair was all it took for his terrified rambling to dissolve into a quiet moan.

“I need you too, Sanji,”

He smiled, placing his hand on your thigh again, higher this time. His lips began kissing at your thigh, nibbling the flesh as he worked his way up.

Percy couldn’t stop thinking that it was unfair in a personal way, the kind of unfairness that didn’t explode but instead settled into his ribs and stayed there, heavy and persistent, because you walked through Camp Half-Blood like someone who never had to learn to survive.

You didn’t look powerful in the way Percy knew from children of the Big Three; you looked like someone who had gone to school, who had complained about homework, who had worried about college applications instead of prophecies, and he found himself irrationally angry at the way you asked questions about cabins and chores and dinner schedules, normal questions.

Maybe he hated himself for noticing how normal it all sounded coming from you.

It wasn’t that you were arrogant about being Zeus’s daughter, because you weren’t, and that made it worse!

You just accepted the truth the way someone accepted a late train or a sudden change in weather, with mild surprise and adjustment rather than anger or fear.

Percy watched you while Chiron explained the gods, the wars, the prophecies, and he expected— wanted— you to look shaken, but you only nodded slowly, like you were absorbing information instead of grieving a stolen childhood.

And about that; the boy couldn’t stop thinking about how his own childhood had never been normal, how it had been carved into pieces by monsters and choices he never got to make.

Maybe he was angry about how you had been allowed to grow up without any of that, protected by the same God who had let Percy nearly drown in responsibility before he could even fucking drive.

He told himself that was why he was irritated when you trained with the other cabins and struggled in ways that made sense for someone new at combat, because every missed strike and hesitant dodge was proof that you didn’t belong here with the rest, that you hadn’t earned this place the way the rest had.

He told himself that was why he snapped when you accidentally crossed his path on the way to the arena.

He was always angry around you.

Percy found you in the armory when he was very deliberately trying not to, standing by one of the weapon racks with a sword that was clearly heavy for you, your brow furrowed in concentration rather than frustration, this was a problem you fully intended to solve.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he said, sharper than necessary, because everything about the situation rubbed him the wrong way, from the way you were allowed to be here at all to the way you looked mildly inconvenienced.

You turned at the sound of his voice, surprise flickering across your face, instead of bristling or snapping back the way he half-expected, you just adjusted your grip slightly and asked, “Like this, or am I still about to lose a foot if I swing it?”

Percy clenched his teeth, because you weren’t defensive or offended, and that somehow made it harder to justify the irritation buzzing under his skin as he stepped closer.

“No, your stance is wrong too, and if you’re going to train with a blade that heavy you’re going to wreck your shoulder before you manage to hurt anyone else.”

“Oh,” you said thoughtfully, shifting your feet without any visible embarrassment, “that explains why it feels like I’m wrestling it instead of using it. Everyone keeps telling me it’ll come naturally and it really, really isn’t.”

That did something unpleasant to his chest, you sounded genuinely confused, and the boy hated that his brain immediately supplied the image of himself at twelve, small and terrified and being told the exact opposite, that nothing would ever be natural for him again.

“Well,” he said stiffly, “it’s not supposed to be easy, especially not for someone who’s only been here five minutes.”

You nodded, thinking that was fair, as if he hadn’t meant it as a dig. “That’s okay, I wasn’t expecting it to be easy, I just don’t want to be dead weight while everyone else actually knows what they’re doing.”

“You don’t really get it,” he muttered, not looking at you, if he did he might see something in your expression that would make this harder. “This place isn’t a summer camp, no matter how much Chiron pretends it is, and people don’t just survive here by trying.”

You blinked at him, clearly trying to understand where this was coming from, before replying evenly, “I know it’s not a game, Percy, and I’m not treating it like one, but trying is kind of my only option right now unless you’d prefer I sit in the cabin and stay out of everyone’s sight.”

He hated that you used his name without hesitation, hated that it didn’t sound reverent or fearful or impressed, just matter-of-fact, like he was another person instead of the hero everyone whispered about.

He hated, hated, hated you.

“That’s not what I meant,” he snapped, then immediately wished he hadn’t because your expression shifted, not hurt but alert. “I just— people who come here late don’t usually understand what they’re stepping into.”

You considered that for a moment, then shrugged lightly.

“Maybe not in the same way you do, but I’m not completely clueless, and I didn’t exactly get a handbook for being hidden from monsters my entire life either.”

That caught him off guard, you were so honest, and Percy found himself staring at you before he could stop himself.

“Look, if you don’t want to help me train, that’s fine, I won’t hold it against you, but I’d rather you be blunt than angry at me for something I don’t even know.”

Silence stretched between you, uncomfortable and charged, and he realized with a sick sort of clarity that you genuinely didn’t understand why he was upset, that his jealousy and resentment were invisible to you because you had no idea you were standing in the middle of it.

“I’m not angry,” he said automatically, that was easier than unpacking the truth.

You hummed softly, unconvinced but not pushing, and replied, “Okay, but you do sound like someone who hasn’t slept enough, so I’m just going to assume it’s not about me.”

Percy saw you set the sword back on the rack and turn to smile at him in a way that was polite but not appeasing.

“If you change your mind and want to explain the stance thing again without looking like you’re imagining pushing me into the lake, I’ll be around.”

You walked away before he could respond, leaving the boy standing there with his hands curled into fists and a sinking realization settling into his chest that you weren’t his rival at all, and that whatever was growing between irritation was entirely one-sided and entirely his problem.

Still, he would never, ever, end up training with you.

In the end you did end up training together...

Percy was irritated when Chiron paired you together, the decision in that calm, authoritative tone that made it clear there would be no arguing and no switching partners.

“You’ll learn faster if you work with someone experienced,” Chiron said mildly, as if Percy wasn’t standing there with his jaw locked and his arms crossed like a little kid.

“I’m okay with it, if you are.” You glanced at the boy.

He didn’t look at you when he replied a little “Sure”.

Training started badly and got horrible.

Percy corrected you constantly, his voice impatient as he circled you on the arena sand, tapping your ankle with his wooden sword when your footing slipped and striking your guard harder than necessary when your block was late.

“Try to keep up,” Percy muttered as he advanced, his first strike hard, wood cracking sharply against wood as he tested your guard.

You barely blocked it, the impact jarring enough that you stumbled back a step, surprise flashing across your face before you reset your stance.

“Okay, that was a little faster than I was expecting, but I can adjust if you give me half a second.”

Percy didn’t give you half a second.

He pressed forward again, his movements aggressive, each strike landing a little too close and a little too hard, the frustration he’d been swallowing for days bleeding into every swing.

You blocked what you could, dodged what you couldn’t, but the difference in experience showed, and he was ignoring the way your breathing hitched or how your footwork grew uneven.

“You’re dropping your guard,” he snapped as his blade clipped your side, the dull thud enough to make you wince.

“I know,” you said through clenched teeth, trying to reposition, “you don’t have to hit me that hard.”

“That’s how you learn,” Percy shot back, already moving again.

Stopping meant thinking and thinking meant acknowledging that he was taking this too far.

The next hit knocked the air out of you completely, wooden sword slamming into your ribs hard enough that you staggered back, one knee hitting the ground as a involuntary gasp tore out of your chest.

“Percy,” you say, voice strained, “that actually hurt.”

“So would a real weapon,” he fires back immediately, not even pausing. “You don’t get special treatment just because—”

'' Because what? '' you wonder distantly, because you didn’t grow up afraid, because you didn’t bleed early, because you weren’t forged the same way he was?

Your chest tightens with frustration and something else unfamiliar building too fast for you to untangle, and when he lunges again you react without thinking, instinct overriding intention as you throw a hand up defensively and shout, “Stop!”

The hairs on your arms stand on end, as the sound hits, a violent crack that comes out of your hand and sends a bolt of white-blue lightning.

The force throws him back, his sword flying from his hand as he hits the ground hard, skidding across the dirt before going still, smoke curling faintly from the scorched earth where the bolt struck.

The arena goes dead silent.

Percy ended up in the infirmary, laying on the bed with a throbbing shoulder, a bruised ego, and a few singed strands of hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted— which, technically, he had.

He groaned softly when the door opened and there you were, small and frantic in the doorway, holding something behind your back.

“Oh my gods, Percy, I am sosososososo sorry, I didn’t mean to do that, I swear I didn’t, I don’t know how I did it and I—oh gods, you’re hurt, I can’t believe I—” you babbled, practically bouncing on your toes as you held out a ridiculous little basket of fruit that looked borrowed from the Apollo cabin.

Percy raised one skeptical eyebrow, his voice flat with disbelief. “A basket of fruit…”

“Yes!!” you said, thrusting it forward like it was somehow going to make everything better.

“Apollo cabin told me nectar would help but I didn’t want to do that, and— well I got you fruit! Please, Percy, I’m so sorry, I really didn’t know I could do that, I—”

The boy stared at the basket like it was some alien artifact, his frustration and throbbing muscles battling with the strange warmth in his chest at the sight of your frantic sincerity.

“You zapped me into the infirmary, and your apology is a basket of fruit?”

“Yes!” you said again, flinging your hands up like punctuation, and then added, softer, “I wanted to do something to fix it, because I feel awful, Percy, and I really didn’t mean—”

Percy groaned again, burying his face in his hands for a moment before muttering, “Of course… of course it’s a basket of fruit.”

You leaned forward, still panicked, and whispered, “ I’m really sorry, I’ll do anything to make it up to you, Percy. Anything.”

He peeked through his fingers, caught the earnest tilt of your head and the slight tremor in your hands, and felt a dangerous little part of his grumpiness soften, just enough to think that maybe, against all logic, he could get past being zapped if you kept being this… obliviously sincere.

Maybe he didn't hate you that much, just maybe.

Percy expected to avoid you for a while after the whole electrocuting him incident, because that was his strategy when emotions got tangled and uncomfortable, but Chiron had other plans when he assigned the two of you to night watch at the edge of the woods.

You arrived wrapped in a borrowed jacket that was too big for you, arms crossed for warmth, and when you noticed Percy already there you hesitated.

“Hi,” you said softly, settling onto the log a few feet away from him, careful not to crowd his space.

He didn’t answer right away, staring out at the dark tree line and feeling the familiar irritation try to surface, only to fizzle out before it could catch, dulled by the memory of you in the infirmary with that stupid basket of fruit and your eyes wide with guilt.

“You don’t have to sit that far away,” he said eventually.

“Oh,” you muttered, shifting a little closer but still leaving space, and then added apologetically, “I figured you might still be mad, and I didn’t want to make it worse.”

That tightened something in his chest in a way he didn’t like.

“I wasn’t mad,” he replied fast, then sighed and corrected himself, “Okay, I was, but not about the electrocuting me thing. That part was kind of my fault.”

“You were pushing me pretty hard, but I also did get you into the infirmary, so I think we’re even.”

Despite himself, Percy let out a quiet huff of a laugh before shaking his head. “That’s not what I mean. I was mad before that, way before that, and I didn’t really have a good reason.”

You blinked, genuinely surprised.

But you didn’t rush to fill the silence, you waited, eyes focused on the firelight flickering.

“I thought it was unfair,” he admitted, the words scraping on the way out. “That you got to grow up normal, that you didn’t have to deal with any of this until now, and that you still get to be here anyway, like the gods just decided to give you the pass.”

You were quiet for a long moment before answering.

“I get why it looks like that, but it didn’t really feel like a pass from the inside.”

He frowned and turned to look at you as you continued, still staring ahead instead of at him.

“I always knew something was off,” you keep going. “There were rules that didn’t make sense, places I was never allowed to go, people I was told not to get close to without ever being told why, and I spent a lot of time thinking I was different in a bad way, weird.”

A breeze cut through the clearing, colder than before, and Percy noticed the way you shivered even as you kept talking.

“When Zeus finally told me the truth, it wasn’t relief like everyone expects. It was grief, because suddenly every strange thing in my life had a reason, and I realized I’d been living a version of myself that wasn't real.”

Without making a big deal out of it, Percy reached up and tugged his sweater over his head, the familiar worn fabric still warm from him, and held it out toward you like it was nothing, as if he wasn’t crossing some invisible line.

“Here,” he muttered. “You’re cold.”

You paused mid-sentence, blinking at the sweater like it had personally offended you before carefully taking it and pulling it on, the sleeves swallowing your hands.

It was so warm and smelled like him.

“Oh— thanks but you really didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, turning back toward the woods as if the conversation hadn’t shifted into something more vulnerable, “it’s not a big deal.”

He didn't hate you that much to let you die of a cold.

What was his head even thinking about?

“I shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” he said after a moment. “You didn’t choose any of it, and hating you for surviving differently than I did doesn’t make my past any easier.”

You finally looked at him, your expression gentle rather than relieved.

“Percy, I never thought you hated me. I just thought you were hurting.”

That hit harder than lightning, because it meant you’d never seen him as an enemy, just as someone carrying too much weight and handling it badly.

Percy snorted under his breath, the tension easing just enough to let something soft settle in his chest, and as you tugged the sweater tighter around yourself like it already belonged to you, he realized that whatever he was starting to feel wasn’t rivalry anymore.

Percy told himself that things were normal after that night, that how you didn’t flinch when he corrected your stance during training was just the natural result of not actively hating on you anymore, and not something he needed to overthink.

He told himself this while noticing that you still wore his sweater sometimes when the evenings turned cold, even though you’d returned it once with a thank-you that was casual enough to make him shove it back at you and mutter something stupid.

“You know you don’t have to keep giving this back,” he said one afternoon by the lake, arms crossed as you held the sweater folded neatly in your hands. “It’s not like I’m running out of clothes.”

“I know,” you replied, smiling at him, “I just don’t want to steal it.”

“You’re not stealing it,” he said, a little too quickly. “It’s just… clothing.”

Although it was one of his favorite sweaters.

You nodded, accepting the answer without teasing him, and draped it over your shoulders, settling beside him on the dock.

The thing Percy didn’t expect was how quiet the jealousy became, turning into something else when he heard other campers talk about you in that offhand way. They didn’t resent you for being Zeus’s daughter, but somehow that made him more protective than angry, especially when someone joked too lightly about how “lucky” you were.

The realization crept in one night while the camp slept, when Percy found himself awake and thinking about how you listened when he talked, how you never treated his past like a big and incredible legend but something that had weight and consequences, how you didn’t expect him to be kind but appreciated it deeply when he was.

How you gave him that stupid basket with fruits.

He realized it when he pictured you leaving camp one day, stronger and more confident, no longer needing advice or protection or his badly disguised concern, and the thought left his chest hollow in a way that had nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with loss.

“Oh,” he muttered to himself, staring up at the ceiling of his cabin. “Oh, that’s bad.”

This was a crush.. A real one.

The kind that made his stomach flip when you laughed, the kind that made him irritated when other people made you smile in ways he hadn’t, the kind that made him notice stupid things like the way you tucked your hair back when you were thinking.

The worst part was how obvious it was in hindsight.

Of course he’d been angry at first!

The anger was easier than envy, and envy was easier than admitting that you were pretty and funny and... Okay, you get it.

Of course he’d been watching you, memorizing your reactions, cataloging your moods like they were important, because apparently his brain had decided you were important.

But you didn't noticed.

You still treated him the same way you always had, still talked to him like he was a familiar one and not currently spiraling because he’d realized he liked you in a way that absolutely did not fit into the whole thing you guys had going on since you met.

“You’re thinking,” you say one evening by the fire, nudging his knee lightly with yours before turning your attention back to the flames.

“I’m not,” he said quickly, suspicious of himself.

You hummed, unconvinced, and leaned back on your hands, completely unaware that you’d just confirmed his worst fear.

Percy stared into the fire, heart doing something unhelpful and traitorous, and accepted the truth with a grim sort of resignation.

How could this happen to him of all people? The luckiest daughter of Zeus in the world who he hated at first had him flushing and you didn't even notice.

He had a crush on you and that was going to be a problem.

♡ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

♡ 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝ 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

💭: Repost day, I had planned to post another new fic but I got locked in and I'm now doing a long Percy fic of 17k words...

Percyś Pov

Percy kicked at the gravel path as he wandered through camp, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The day had been quiet—too quiet—and his thoughts kept circling back to battles fought, promises made, and the weight that never seemed to leave his shoulders. He was halfway to the cabins when something white caught his eye, half-buried under a bootprint.

He bent down, brushing dirt off the crumpled paper. At first, he thought it was just another note someone had dropped. But the words weren’t ordinary. They were lyrics. A song.

“He walks with storms behind his eyes, A tide that never rests. The boy who carries worlds alone, But still protects the rest.”

Percy’s breath caught. His fingers tightened around the page, the edges crinkling under his grip. He read the lines again, slower this time, as if the meaning might change. But it didn’t.

It was him.

The sea, the storms, the boy who never asked to be a hero but kept fighting anyway. Whoever had written this—whoever had seen him this clearly—had put into words the things he never said out loud. The exhaustion. The fear. The quiet determination that kept him moving even when he wanted to stop.

Percy swallowed hard, his throat dry. He wasn’t used to being seen like this. People called him brave, reckless, loyal—but this was different. This was someone looking past the titles, past the victories, and writing about the boy underneath.

He folded the paper carefully, almost reverently, and slipped it into his pocket. The words lingered in his chest like a secret melody, one that belonged to him alone.

For the first time in a long while, Percy felt both exposed and comforted. Someone out there understood. Someone had written a song for him.

You’d tucked the folded paper under your pillow earlier, certain it was safe. Just a silly song, just words you’d scribbled when the feelings got too heavy to keep inside. It wasn’t supposed to be found. It wasn’t supposed to leave your cabin.

But now it was gone.

Your stomach twisted as you tore through your things, checking drawers, bags, even under the bed. Nothing. The paper had vanished, and with it, your secret.

The thought hit you like a tidal wave: What if Percy found it?

Heat rushed to your face. He was your best friend. The one person you couldn’t imagine losing. If he read those lyrics—if he realized they were about him—you’d never be able to look him in the eye again. It would be too much, too raw, too embarrassing.

You pressed your hands to your face, heart pounding. Every line of the song replayed in your head, mocking you. The storms, the sea, the boy who carried the world. You’d written it for him, because of him. And now it was out there, exposed.

Somewhere in camp, Percy Jackson might be holding your heart in his hands, written in ink you never meant him to see.

“[Name]! [Name]!” Percy’s voice rang out across the camp as he jogged toward you, waving a crumpled sheet of paper in his hand. His face was lit up, eyes wide with something between wonder and disbelief.

You froze. Your stomach dropped. No. No, no, no.

Percy skidded to a stop in front of you, practically vibrating with energy. “Look what I found!” he blurted, thrusting the paper toward you.

Your eyes locked on it instantly. Your song. The one you’d sworn no one would ever see. The words stared back at you, betraying every secret you’d poured onto the page.

Percy didn’t notice your silence. He was too busy ranting, his words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s amazing—like, whoever wrote this actually gets me. They don’t just see Poseidon’s kid or the guy who’s supposed to save Olympus. They see me. Percy Jackson. Just me.”

He laughed breathlessly, shaking his head. “Do you know how rare that is? To feel…seen like that?”

You tried to listen, but your mind was spinning. He was holding your heart in his hands, reading it aloud without realizing it was yours. The embarrassment burned hot in your chest, but then—despite yourself—you smiled.

Because Percy was smiling too. Because he was happy. Because he was finally seeing himself the way you saw him.

His voice blurred into the background as you zoned out, watching him with a soft, helpless grin. He had no idea. And maybe that was for the best.

“[Name]! You good?”

You blinked, snapping out of your thoughts to see Percy standing there, his sea-green eyes filled with concern. The paper was still tucked in his hand, but now his focus was entirely on you.

You forced a smile, shaking your head quickly. “I’m fine, really.”

Percy tilted his head, skeptical. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Before you could protest, his hands darted forward, fingers digging into your sides. You yelped, laughter spilling out as you twisted away. “Percy! What was that for?”

He grinned, unrepentant. “Just checking you were still you.”

You swatted his arm, playfully indignant. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Definitely still you,” he confirmed with a laugh—right before you smacked him lightly on the head. He winced, rubbing the spot, but his grin never faded.

And even as your heart pounded with the weight of the secret—the song, the truth—you couldn’t help but smile back. Because in that moment, with Percy teasing you like always, it almost felt safe.

Percy’s grin widened as he held the paper up again, eyes sparkling with realization. “Maybe it’s Annabeth!” he exclaimed, almost triumphant. “It makes sense, right? She’s smart, an Athena kid—she could see through all my façades. She wouldn’t just see Poseidon’s son or the so-called savior of Olympus. She’d see me. Percy Jackson.”

He kept talking, voice full of awe, as if the mystery had been solved. His words tumbled over each other, painting Annabeth as the only possible author.

But your heart lurched. Relief and panic tangled together in your chest. Relief, because he hadn’t guessed you. Panic, because the truth was still dangerously close.

You forced a laugh, nodding along, even as your pulse raced. Percy’s excitement was contagious, his joy so genuine that you couldn’t help but smile at him. He was glowing, finally feeling seen—and he thought it was Annabeth who had given him that gift.

And maybe that was safer. Maybe it was better this way.

Still, as you watched him clutch the paper like it was something sacred, you couldn’t shake the ache in your chest. Because the words were yours. And Percy Jackson was looking at them like they were the most precious thing he’d ever been given.

Annabeth's pov

Annabeth had never met a boy this dumb.

Percy Jackson was standing right in front of her, holding out a crumpled sheet of paper like it was some divine revelation. “Did you write this?” he asked, eyes wide, voice full of hope.

She blinked at him, then at the paper. The song. The one that had been floating around camp gossip for the past few hours. The one that was clearly written by his best friend, [Name], who was obviously head-over-heels in love with him. You could ask anyone in camp and they’d tell you the same thing. Everyone knew—everyone except Percy.

Annabeth couldn’t help it. She laughed. The absurdity of the situation was too much. “Percy,” she said, shaking her head, “do you really think I wrote this?”

He frowned, confused. “Well… yeah. I mean, it makes sense, right? You’re smart, you see through me better than anyone else—”

Annabeth cut him off with another laugh, softer this time. “Seaweed Brain, you’re looking in the wrong direction.”

His brows furrowed, still not catching on. She sighed, amused and a little fond despite herself. “Think about who’s always by your side. Who knows you better than anyone. Who would write something like this.”

She didn’t say the name outright, but the tip-off was there, hanging in the air between them. If Percy wasn’t so oblivious, he’d see it.

Annabeth smirked, folding her arms. “Trust me, Percy. It wasn’t me.”

Percyś Pov

Percy couldn’t stop replaying Annabeth’s words in his head. “Seaweed Brain, you’re looking in the wrong direction.”

Wrong direction? What did that even mean?

He paced outside the cabins, the paper clutched in his hand like it might disappear if he let go. His thoughts spun faster than the tide. If it wasn’t Annabeth, then who? Who could see him like this—through all the layers, past the titles, past the son-of-Poseidon nonsense—and write something so raw, so true?

His chest tightened. He thought of the lyrics again: storms behind his eyes, the boy who carried the world. Whoever wrote it knew him better than he knew himself.

But that was terrifying. Because if someone saw him that clearly, it meant he wasn’t hiding as well as he thought. It meant someone had been watching, noticing, caring.

Percy dragged a hand through his hair, heart pounding. Was it one of the campers? Someone from the cabins? He thought of every face, every friend, every person who might have been close enough to know.

And then his mind kept circling back to one name. [Name]. His best friend. Always there, always steady, always seeing him when he didn’t want to be seen.

But no. That couldn’t be it. Could it?

The idea made his stomach flip. If it was [Name], then everything changed. Every laugh, every late-night conversation, every moment of trust—they’d all carry a new weight.

Percy shook his head, spiraling deeper. He wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t ready to confront what it meant. But the paper burned in his pocket, and the words echoed in his chest, refusing to let him go.

The waves lapped gently against your calves, cool and steady, but inside you there was nothing steady at all. You stared out at the horizon, the endless stretch of sea that always seemed to belong to Percy more than anyone else, and the ache in your chest deepened.

He thought it was Annabeth. Of course he did. Annabeth—brilliant, fearless, sharp as a blade. Together, they’d be unstoppable. A power couple. The kind of pair that made sense in every way the world could measure.

And you? You were just… you. The best friend. The one who laughed at his jokes, who patched him up after battles, who carried secrets in folded papers under pillows. The one who loved him so much it hurt, but never said it out loud.

Your toes curled into the wet sand as you whispered the truth to the waves, words too fragile to ever reach his ears. “You’ll never know, Percy. You’ll never know how much I love you.”

The tide pulled back, as if carrying your confession away, and you let it go. Because what else could you do? He was holding your heart in his hands without realizing it, and he thought it belonged to someone else.

The first drops fell like whispers against your skin, cool and sharp. You didn’t move at first, legs still dipped in the tide, but as the drizzle thickened into sheets of rain, you pulled yourself up slowly, every muscle heavy with dread.

You couldn’t let him see you like this. Not with your heart cracked open, not with the truth clawing at your throat. If Percy stood in front of you now, you might break. You might tell him everything.

And then you saw him.

Percy, jogging toward you through the storm, hair plastered to his forehead, sea-green eyes brighter than the lightning splitting the sky. He looked like he belonged to the rain, like it had been waiting for him.

Your stomach twisted. You turned, desperate to leave, but his voice cut through the downpour. “Hey! Wait!”

You froze, shoulders tense, before forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. “I was just heading back,” you lied, the words brittle, breaking even as they left your lips.

Percy frowned, stepping closer, rain dripping from his lashes. “Heading back? In this?” His gaze searched your face, too sharp, too knowing. “You’re lying.”

Your breath hitched. He always saw through you, even when you prayed he wouldn’t.

“I’m fine,” you tried again, but your voice cracked, betraying you.

Percy’s hand caught your wrist, gentle but firm, grounding you in place. “No, you’re not.” His words were low, steady, but the storm around you made them feel like thunder.

The paper—the song—burned in your mind. You wanted to scream, to confess, to tell him it was yours. That every word had been carved from the way you saw him, the way you loved him. But the fear was louder.

“I…” You swallowed hard, rain mixing with the tears you refused to let fall. “It doesn’t matter.”

Percy stepped closer, so close you could feel the heat of him even through the cold rain. His eyes locked on yours, unrelenting. “It matters to me.”

The world tilted. Your chest ached. And before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out, raw and jagged. “It was me, Percy. I wrote it. The song. Every word. Because I—because I see you. Because I…”

Your voice broke, but the silence that followed was louder than any storm.

Percy’s breath caught, his grip tightening just slightly. His expression shifted—shock, realization, something softer blooming beneath it all.

And then, slowly, like the tide creeping back to shore, he leaned in.

The first kiss was hesitant, rain-slick and trembling, your lips brushing like a secret too fragile to hold. But then Percy pressed closer, his hand cupping your cheek, and the hesitation melted into something deeper, hungrier, desperate.

The storm roared around you, but all you felt was him—the warmth of his mouth against yours, the way his body curved into yours like he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

You gasped against his lips, fingers clutching at his soaked shirt, pulling him closer even as your heart raced with fear and relief. It was messy, imperfect, drenched in rain and tears, but it was real.

Percy pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the cold air. “You should’ve told me,” he whispered, voice rough, vulnerable.

You laughed weakly, shaking your head. “I was terrified.”

His thumb brushed your cheek, tender despite the storm. “Don’t be. You don’t have to hide from me.”

And then he kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that unraveled every wall you’d built.

The rain poured harder, but you didn’t care. Because in that moment, Percy Jackson wasn’t just holding your heart in his hands. He was kissing it, claiming it, making it his.

Finally, Percy chuckled softly, the sound low and disbelieving. “We’re drenched,” he murmured, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. His thumb lingered against your cheek, tender in a way that made your chest ache.

You laughed weakly, nerves still buzzing. “Yeah. We look ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously amazing,” he corrected, grinning, though his voice carried a tremor of vulnerability.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was fragile, precious. Percy reached down, his fingers brushing yours before curling around your hand. The warmth of his grip cut through the chill of the rain, steadying you.

Together, you started walking back toward camp. The mud squelched under your shoes, your clothes clung to your skin, but none of it mattered. Every step felt surreal, like you were moving through a dream you’d never dared to imagine.

Percy squeezed your hand once, then again, as if testing the reality of it. “I can’t believe you wrote that song,” he said quietly, almost reverently. “All this time… you saw me like that.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding. “I’ve always seen you like that.”

He stopped walking, turning to face you under the dripping trees. His sea-green eyes locked on yours, intense and unguarded. “Then I’ve been blind. Because I should’ve seen you too.”

Your breath caught. The drizzle pattered against the leaves, soft and steady, but inside you the storm was louder than ever.

Percy leaned in again, slower this time, his lips brushing yours with aching tenderness. It wasn’t the desperate kiss of the storm—it was gentler, surer, a promise whispered in the rain.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice a whisper. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

You nodded, tears mixing with rain, a shaky smile breaking through. For the first time, the ache in your chest eased.

"Aren't you going to be late?" your roomate chimes from her spot on the couch, craning her head backwards to look at Tucker, who was currently making himself at home in your kitchen.

"She's gonna be late," he says, not looking up from the cutting board. "I am going to be right on time."

Your roommate makes a face at the back of his head that he absolutely feels but chooses to ignore. This is more or less how every Tucker interaction goes— he occupies a space like he was always supposed to be in it and waits for everyone else to catch up.

"What are you even making?"

He shrugs his shoulders, looking over at the small assortment of things pulled from your fridge. Some Ritz crackers, string cheese cut into small cubes, artichoke hearts that were previously jarred, and the apple he's currently chopping into slices.

"Just a little charcuterie board. She doesn't eat at these kind of things. Too busy talking."

You, as a photpgrapher for the school newspaper, and Tucker, as left forward for the hockey team, were invited to the annual Briar U athletics banquet. These kinds of big events always have plenty of networking oppurtunities— and Tucker knows just how hard you work to get your name out there.

Your roommate stares at him for a second. "How do you know that?"

Tucker glances up. "Doesn't everyone?"

The answer is obviously no. The two of them share a silent conversation. Tucker's been around far more than either of them could have imagined— paying attention and taking mental notes on everything about you.

Your roomate opens her mouth to speak, but Tucker beats her to the punch.

"Don't," he says pleasantly.

She closes it.

You emerge from your room shortly after, the click of your door opening making his head turn in your direction. He was ready to say something smooth and charming, but the moment he lays his eyes on you all words are lost.

You are adjusting your earrings, not quite looking at him yet. Tucker realizes he has only a second to fix the awestruck look from his face. He focuses on the cutting board as he feels his ears warm. You look stunning in this dark blue gown. Its got a cowl neckline with blue ruffles hanging off your shoulders.

"You're gonna be late." He murmurs.

"I'm exactly on time." You appear in his peripheral, peering over his shoulder at the spread. "Are you making me a snack?"

He scoffs, shaking his head. "I'm making me a snack…but you can have some, I guess."

You look at the side of his face. He can feel it.

"Tucker." You say, a smirk playing at your lips.

"It's just cheese, Y/n." He attempts to brush off, but you know him better than that. In fact, you'd argue that you both know each other exceedingly well, now two months into this weird talking/dating/fucking stage. Regardless, you pick at the little board, taking your time as to not make a mess of your makeup or outfit.

Tucker uses this time to let his eyes roam over your face.

"You look—" he starts. You look up.

"Ready. Ready to go. We should probably go now, yeah?"

You look back down at the food, slowly nodding. "Gotta put my shoes on." You mutter, before quickly going back to your bedroom to grab your heels. Your roommate makes a noise from the couch that could generously be described as a cough.

Tucker points at her without turning around. "Not a word."

The ballroom is already full when the two of you arrive, everyone in their respective tables and with their normal cliques. Tucker's hand is at the small of your back— something that comes almost as naturally as breathing.

"Okay," he says quietly, close enough that you can hear him over the room. "Who do you need to talk to tonight?"

You scan the crowd. "Sports editor is here somewhere. And I want to get some shots of the award presentations later." You glance up at him. "You?"

He shrugs. "Whoever finds me first, probably."

As if on cue, someone claps Tucker on the shoulder.

"John Tucker! Just the man I was looking for." An older looking guy with salt and pepper hair, likely an alumni booster, smiles at him…which means he must be in for a very long conversation.

Tucker's jaw does something small. You clock it immediately.

"Go," you say, before he can say anything.

"I'll be five minutes."

"Go." You say once more, your hand reaching behind you to pat his reassuringly. He looks at you, and you look back with the specific patience of someone who has watched him get pulled into a hundred conversations he didn't plan for and came out the other side fine every time.

"I'm gonna go find my table. Find me later."

After what feels like an eternity in conversation with the booster, Tucker finally gets to sit down at the table with the others, just about five minutes before the emcees begin to speak for the night. From here, he can see the media table all the way towards the back of the room. His eyes scan the table briefly— you're not there. His gaze carries over three tables away when he finally does spot you. You're speaking with the main sports writer, camera already hanging from your neck to take pictures when the time calls for it. In your hand is a glass of water, which makes him think about whether or not you ate enough of the snack he prepared earlier.

"You're staring."

Tucker's head whips back into place at the sound of Dean's voice. Dean is sat directly across from him, picking at a bread roll with the energy of someone who has been watching this unfold for two months and has run out of things to say about it.

"I'm not staring."

"You've looked over there four times since you've sat down."

"I'm checking on her."

"Mhm." Garrett takes another bite. "That's what that is."

Tucker straightens his jacket and picks up his menu, reading the same line three times without absorbing any of it. Across the room you laugh again at something Tucker cannot hear and he sets the menu down.

"The salmon looks good," Logan offers from his left, not looking up.

"Shut up, Logan."

Logan shrugs serenely. "Just saying."

"Leave Tuck alone. He's hopeless. Almost as bad as Logan." Garrett chimes from Tucker's right. Logan lets out an offended noise at the dig, opening his mouth to protest when their coach interrupts.

"Enough. They're starting now."

The awards seem to go on for what feels like forever. For a majority of it, Tucker has no interest in the recipiants— but he is entirely focused on you. You are on your feet the entire time, crouched down, walking around, doing what you can to get the best shot possible.

You're good at this. He's always known that. But watching your focused expression when you bring the viewfinder up to your right eye, the way your brows knit and your hands do their best to still. The way you check every picture after you have taken it with a level of attentiveness that shows you're already thinking of ways to enhance the image with editing, only ever wanting to portray your subject in the best way possible.

He is, unfortunately, staring again.

He looks back at his salmon.

It's fine. He's fine. You're just doing your job and he's just eating dinner and everything is completely good—

Until he sees someone grab your elbow. You're smiling at him. He has no idea who this man is. Probably someone you know from the newspaper?

"Easy," Dean says, without looking up from his plate.

"I'm fine."

"You're gonna bend fork."

Tucker sets the fork down. Across the room the guy says something and you tilt your head the way you do when something genuinely catches your interest and Tucker picks the fork back up.

"Who is that?" He asks, keeping his voice even.

Dean looks up, follows Tucker's eyeline, and looks back down. "Don't know."

"Garrett."

Garrett glances over. Then back. "I don't know."

"You're useless." Tucker mutters.

The ceremony ends shortly after, letting everybody off to mingle amongst themselves. Tucker eagerly pushes away from the table, muttering something about being back shortly, and does his best to locate you once more. You've gone back to the media table with the unknown guy, happily chatting with your camera in hand, showing the pictures you've just taken. When Tucker gets closer, you catch a glimpse of him, and your eyebrows raise curiously.

You clock it immediately. He's trying his best to play it nonchalant, talking to some guy from the football team you can't remember the name of. To anyone else he looked relaxed. To you, who knows him better, can tell by the set of his jaw that he is not.

You turn back to the conversation and laugh at something Marcus, a photographer for the basketballe team, says about the lighting in the ballroom. He's not wrong, it's terrible for photography, and normally you'd want to complain about it for longer, but your eyes drift back across the room once more and Tucker is no longer looking at the football guy.

He's looking at you.

You look back at Marcus. "I should probably go find my— " you pause, because what exactly is Tucker, "—my people. But it was really nice to meet you."

"You too." Marcus smiles, easy and genuine. "You're covering for Austin at the game on Friday, right?"

"Yeah. I'll see you then."

You pick up your camera from the table and turn around.

Tucker is closer than he was. Not close enough to have obviously moved, just closer. His conversation has apparently wrapped up, and now he's looking at you with an expression that has slipped just slightly from the practiced easy one he normally gives you.

"Hey." You offer first.

"Hey. Get any good shots?"

"Yes. Lighting in this place is god awful, but I can try to fix it in post."

"That's a shame."

"Mhm…" you tilt your head slightly to the side. "You okay?"

He meets your eyes. "Fine…was that a friend?" He says like it doesn't matter to him— but you both know that's not true.

"Coworker of sorts. Shoots basketball for the paper." You shrug, trying to fight the smile playing at the corner of your lips. "He's nice. Good at what he does."

Tucker nods slowly, the way he does when he's processing something he doesn't want to process. "Cool."

"Cool," you echo. Silence lingers between you two as the rest of the banquet buzzes around you. Clinking glasses and dishware, polite chatter, even the occassional loud cheers of whichever athelete is getting a little too rowdy for the space.

"I know I don't have a— I know we're not—" he exhales.

"What?" You tease gently. A shit eating grin has taken up the lower half of your face, and Tucker can only start to laugh at himself too. Fuck, he's whipped.

"You…are the worst."

"Say what you want to say, T. Don't be shy now." You continue, slipping youe camera strap onto your shoulder instead.

Tucker laughs again, quieter this time, and looks down at the floor for exactly one second — the most vulnerable you have ever seen John Tucker in two months — before he looks back up.

"I don't like other guys talking to you," he says plainly. "There. Happy?"

"Getting there."

He narrows his eyes. "Getting there?"

"I mean." You shrug one shoulder. "That could mean a lot of things."

"You're serious."

"I just want to make sure we're on the same page, Tucker."

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he steps closer, close enough that you'd have to make an effort not to look at his mouth, and his voice drops just enough that it's only for you.

"Be my girlfriend."

You try your best to hide just how undone that made you. You hadn't expected him to put it so bluntly. "That didn't really sound like a question."

He smiles. That same, sweet, boyish look he gets sometimes when he knows he's being sweet on you.

"Would you please allow me, John Tucker, the privilege of being your boyfriend?" He says with the utmost patience. You can't help but chuckle, hands coming up to squeeze his shoulders gently.

"Yes. I will." Tucker's arms loop around your waist, careful to not knock around the camera that's hanging there, before pressing a kiss to your temple.

"I didn't peg you to be the jealous type, Tuck."

Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who has basically moved in with you. All of his things are at your place, a toothbrush in your bathroom and his clothes in your closet. 

He sleeps better when you’re there, it’s not his fault. Having you curled up in his amrs, the steady hum of your breathing, just makes it so much easier for him to fight through the nightmares and drift off peacefully

Overprotective boyfriend! Leonwho teaches you how to shoot, who brings you down to the range with him every weekend and isn’t satisfied until you’ve dumped an entire mag into the target.

Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who turns into the clingiest person alive around you. He always has your hand in his, you sitting in his lap, his arms wrapped around you. Something about holding you has become so soothing to him, he can’t help it

Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who knows all of your friends by name, who has their cars and license plates and the name of their partners all written down, just in case It makes it easier for him to keep up with your drama, too. 

Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who loves when you wear his clothes, who thinks it’s the cutest thing in the world when he sees you strutting around in one of his old t-shirts, or when you go out for a coffee run in a pair of his sweats.

It’s like staking his claim on you in a way, too. He even encourages it, going as far to leave out some of his clothes for you before he has to head out on a mission, laying them out on the bed with a note.

Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who calls you periodically throughout the day. He says it’s just because he missed you but part of you knows it’s to check in on you, too, like some part of him can’t be reassured you’re okay until he hears your voice

Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who has your location and sometimes just…stares at it. That’s all. He’ll look at the little dot pinging where you are, showing you at home or work or wherever else you frequent and try to reassure himself that you’re okay

Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who your friends adore, who always gets invited on your girls nights out. He’s the designated bag holder, the drink watcher, you name it. Your friends all joke that he’s like your own personal bodyguard, and in some ways, he kind of is.

resident evil masterlist | navigation

Leon knew better than to bug you while you were sleeping. That was one thing he’d learned while being your puppy. But one of his favorite things to do was exactly that! It was boring without you there to keep him company. Without you to pet him or give him too many treats, spoil him rotten like always.

You worked so hard and all he ever did was pester you and play! So he couldn’t resist interrupting your nap. You were fast asleep, in no state to even notice the shift on weight on your mattress. The warmth hovering above you.

He licked a stripe from your neck to your jaw, nuzzling his cheek against yours. He perked up, leaning back to see if you were awake. To his dismay, you only stirred a bit. “Owner,“ He whined, sitting back on his haunches. You looked so pretty when you were asleep. So soft. Leon knew he ought to wait until you woke up, but he wanted you now! Not later..

He ducked his head down, nuzzling his face against your tummy. It had ridden up in your sleep, exposing the smooth skin there. Your nose scrunched a bit, feeling one of his fluffy puppy ears brush against your bare skin. “So warm, Owner.” He mumbled, his gaze shifting down your hips to your thighs.

“And you smell so good..” Leon got an idea in that dumb puppy head of his. Maybe the sound of his tail hitting the mattress with excitement didn’t wake you up, but this surely would. He leaned down, gently pushing your knees apart. “Must be so sleepy,” Leon mused, lying down on his stomach. He wasted no time in shoving his head between your legs, nose rubbing up against your panty-clad mound. “Smell ‘s good. Gonna eat you right up.” He growled, dragging his tongue between your folds. It made the fabric damp, the only barrier between your bare cunt and his mouth.

He groaned, tugging your panties aside to expose you to his hungry gaze. Such a needy thing, patience was never his strong suit.

“There we go, Owner..” He dove back in, sloppily lapping at your folds. He felt you squirm, blue eyes flickering up at your face. Your eyes fluttered, but you hadn’t fully woken up yet. Lovely, more time to play with you! (before he got quite the lecture.) Leon whimpered, tail swishing back and forth behind him as he suckled at your clit. “S’ warm and-“ He paused to lick up your folds again, thumbs spreading you open. “Wet.”

Your puppy was sloppy. Eager beyond his own means, whining and panting against your cunt like he was the one getting head. Gripped your thighs, a breathy moan when he felt them close around his head. “Leon..?” Your voice was music to his ears. Your eyes struggled to adjust on the sandy blonde head of hair between your thighs. Pretty baby blues that met yours with a sweet smile.

You repeated his name in the ‘disappointed mother’ voice, making his ears flatten on his head. “Just wanted you to wake up.” He whined, nuzzling against your thigh. “You smelt so good. Tasted so good,” He panted, face flustered and red. You opened your mouth to tell him off, but as he dragged his tongue up your inner thigh, you knew it was no use.

He must’ve noticed your resistance fading. “Oh, thank you! Thank you Owner. Glad you’re not mad.” He nipped at your thigh, K-9’s grazing the soft skin. “Hey-! I didn’t say you were off the hook, Leon! You can’t just..”

“Just what?” He hummed, pressing his mouth back to your drooling cunt. Drenched and pulsing under his touch. You knew he needed discipline. That this isn’t how you wake people up. But … It felt far too good to refuse.

He smiled, tail wagging in a blur behind him. “That’s what I thought. Relax, lemme make you feel good.” He coaxed, pressing wet kisses to your most sensitive spot. Leon’s mouth was hot, his hands a bit too rough when holding your legs open. Maybe he didn’t know his own strength, but it was exhilarating.

You leaned back on the bed, giving into his whims. You knew he’d whine and pout until you gave in anyways. “Can’t get enough,” He spoke against your cunt, thick tongue sliding inside. “I can feel how close you’re getting. Want you to cum on my face.” His nose bumped your clit, replaced with his tongue once more.

“Leon,” You moaned, tangling your fingers in his hair. You felt his ears twitch, flat on his head as he pleased you. He wasn’t the most skilled per se—but with the amount of saliva and whines on his end, it was enough to send you over the edge. “Oh—That’s it, pretty owner. Cum all over my face.” He babbled, lapping up all the mess you made on the sheets. You whined, pushing his head away from the overstimulation. Something he failed to wrap his head around. If you liked it so much, why would he stop?

“Too much, puppy… did good,” Your chest heaved, breaths ragged as you patted his head. He perked back up, pushing his head into your palm. “Yeah? You liked it?” He asked, eager to please. “Mhm. Now, listen to me. That’s a very naughty way to wake someone up, Leon. You were bad to do that.” You tried to scold him.

“But ..” He pouted, eyes glazed over with tears. “Cmon, Owner..” He laid it on thick, sitting up and getting closer to your face. “It felt good, didn’t it?” He asked, licking your cheek. “Leon! Yes, It did. But that’s not the point..” You tried to turn your face away, but he wasn’t one to give up.

“Feeling good isn’t bad.” He settled between your thighs as if to prove his point. You squirmed beneath him, feeling the bulge of his cock through his boxers. (It was a miracle you could get your puppy to wear clothes..)

“Ohh,” He keened, planting his elbows on either side of your head as he bucked his hips against yours. “Please, owner. Need you so bad, make it feel better.” He nuzzled into your shoulder, beginning to rock the outline of his clothed cock against your bare cunt. “Leon.. N-No. Bad puppy—You don’t get rewarded for being naughty.” You gripped at his hair, even though it seemed to spur him on.

“Not naughty.” He huffed, shaking his head no. His fluffy ears swept against your chin, all twitching and pent up. “Yes, naughty! Good boys listen to their owners.” You tried to push him off, but he was much stronger. It wasn’t like you were completely opposed to this anyways. A good spanking to his ass would reel him in, but you let your instincts of feeling good win. You knew Leon was no match to his libido.

“Pleaseee, Owner.. Promise I’ll be good from now on. Lemme prove it.” He lifted his head to capture your mouth in a sloppy kiss. All tongue and drool as he humped against you. He was doing the complete opposite of being good, but you could never stay mad at him. Not with that cute face. (not with that fat puppy cock.)

“Fine…” You mumbled, admitting defeat. He could’ve squealed with excitement, humping your bare cunt with desperation that teetered on violent. “Oh, Owner, I can’t, I’m not gonna last.” He was drooling all over your chin, open mouth kisses all over your face and neck. You would’ve thought he hadn’t gotten off in weeks! Never such the case.

You felt your own climax building at the friction, dizzy once you felt the swell of his knot through his boxers. “Wish I was inside—Wanna fill you up, give you my puppies.” He panted against your neck, leaking pre through the thin fabric. “Leonnn, fuck.” You squeezed your eyes shut, fresh slick of arousal coating his clothed cock.

“You like that, owner? You want my puppies?” He asked, choking on a broken moan. High and breathy, closer to a whimper. “Uh-huh..” You slurred, trembling as your second climax washed over you at the thought. Such a naughty puppy .. you were no better.

“Oh, god—Did that make you cum?” His hips stuttered, losing rhythm. He was sweaty, tummy flush to yours as he chased his high. “M-Me too, shit.” He whined, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he came. You felt the sticky warmth—and the throb of his thick length pressed against your cunt. “Ah, Oh god..” He panted harshly, collapsing against you.

“Oh! Leon,” You mewled, patting at his biceps. Heavy, full body weight on you like a musky blanket. “Noooo… Lemme stay here..” He kissed at your neck, licked up to your cheeks. “You’re so soft and warm, Owner. Don’t make me move.” He pouted.

You sighed. Could never say no to him. “Alright…” You sacrificed your ability to breathe for his sake. “Thank you, thank you!” He was giddy, all over you with a tight embrace. “Love you.” He rolled over, strong arms squeezing you on top of him.

“Mm, love you too, Leon.”

“i know, baby,” he smiles, teasing tone evident in his voice. you huff, of course he’d make a comment like that. you dig your chin further into his chest, almost as if you’re trying to crawl under your boyfriend’s skin. “missed you.” he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

that’s why you love garrett— that under the star hockey player, he can melt down to something so soft. cuddly. gooey, like a chocolate heart. his warmth surrounding you completely, leaving a sweet taste behind.

“you haven’t seen me in two days, garrett.”

your boyfriend pulls you impossibly closer. “yeah. two days too much.” his voice is sleepy, but he sounds somewhat resolute. one free hand snakes over your back, clenching the fabric of your hoodie in his hands. “not gonna let you go anytime soon, baby.”

𝄞 DEAN DI LAURENTIS

“did s’good for me, my love,” dean pushes a chaste kiss to your lips. his loose tee falls perfectly over your naked frame from your previous activities. “perfect for me.”

your body feels like jelly, adrenaline still bolting through your veins like lightning. his big hands clasp around your hips to pull you right on top of him. your eyes are on the verge of fluttering shut as dean presses wet dots of kisses to the inside of your wrist. “i fucking—” he presses a kiss to each of your knuckles, kneading the fat of your waist with his free hand. “love every part of you.”

“love you too,” you mutter, a floaty feeling swirling around in your belly again. “‘m tired.”

the quaint, mellow noise dawns on your shoulders. “eat something for me, love,” the blond whispers, breaking the silence, gripping a bowl of apple slices in his free hand, sitting up with you on his lap.

dean shares the apple slices with you. well, you eat most of them, and dean stares at while you munch on the fruit, whispering sweet nothings to you while your head rests against his bicep as you chew.

𝄞 JOHN LOGAN

today was not it. your lecture was too difficult, the words for your essay weren’t completely flowing, and it just felt like you were stuck. as the cherry on top, the customers at your part-time job were rude as hell, completely knocking you off balance. 

the only solution? crying your heart out in your boyfriend’s arms, in your boyfriend’s bed. with his jumper on. 

as soon as logan sees your pouty lips and your glassy eyes, he tackles you in a bear hug, pulling you with him on his bed. “tell me what happened, baby,” he says immediately, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, already knowing you want to rant your heart out. 

his heartbeat calms you down as you snuggle into his chest, eyes still wet and nose still runny. he listens attentively to your problems, lightly carding his thick fingers through your hair to soothe you.

all the way until you’re completely relaxed, your breath evening out. “i got you, my love. always.” logan whispers to your sleeping figure, peppering light kisses all over your face as he tightens his grip around you.

𝄞 JOHN TUCKER

the room smells clean as you open your eyes, the brightness only mornings can bring piercing through your retinas. you have a busy day today, two long lectures, and you need to finish an essay you’ve been working on for the past few weeks. 

you try to get out of your boyfriend’s bed, but the moment you lift your weight off of the bed, tucker’s strong forearm pushes you back down again. “don’t go, baby,” he mumbles into your neck, his voice still heavy with sleep. 

“have to—” you grumble out, trying to lift your weight again. and of course, you fail again. “gotta meet up with my friends.”

tucker pushes his face into the crook of your neck with some sort of magnetic force before he presses a chaste kiss to the skin there. “just— ditch ‘em,” he proposes, pulling you closer into his chest without opening an eye. “‘m more important, right?”

you giggle melodically, voice still a little raspy. “please? snuggling with your boyfriend? i’ll make you a breakfast sandwich after, pretty.”

he pushes a disgustingly wet kiss to your cheek. “what do you say, huh?”

She’s not happy about it. Something you like about being friends with Hannah Wells is that she wears almost every emotion on her face. Once you deciphered her expressions, it was easy enough to figure out from there what she’s feeling. It makes everything much simpler. You wish everyone were as easy to read as Hannah.

She lets you go with one last affectionate goodbye. You start walking, not sure where you’re supposed to go to find the shuttle from the stadium. Part of you doesn’t really care as much about that. Mostly, you want to get away from the noise. Tonight was just a cacophony of buzzers and slammed pucks and chants and shouts. Players getting shoved against the glass was the worst. You jumped every time.

You pull out your phone. It feels like you’ve gone in a circle. The stadium is a maze.

“Hi.”

You look up. John Logan—everyone calls him Logan, which throws you off—is about ten feet away, and he’s coming closer. He’s still in uniform, even his skates. You’re always impressed when you see players walk on skates. His hair is damp with sweat and at its curliest. Usually, it’s in fluffy waves.  

“Hey, are you coming to the party?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of you.

“I wasn’t invited,” you say.

He tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching. You focus, trying to figure his face out. A look like that usually means you’ve said something that doesn’t make sense, but you can’t imagine what that would be. You don’t even talk much with Logan, so how can he already be confused by you?

“You’re friends with Hannah, right?” he asks. “And Hannah’s bringing her friend Allie?”

You nod. “Yes, they were invited.”

“It’s a campus-wide invite,” Logan says. “No one got invited specifically—Dean and Beau posted the details expecting the entire student body to show up.”

“Oh. That’s confusing.”

He shrugs. “It’s usually the same group of people who go to the parties, so I guess people don’t think about it. But uh, you know, if Hannah and Allie are going, it’s safe to say that you can go too.”

People don’t think about a lot of things. They tell you even less, which makes you feel stupid and lonely sometimes. But you don’t say any of this, because your mother would say those are inside thoughts. Instead, you shove your hand in your pocket and play with a silica gel packet that came in your new camera box.

You like to roll the beads inside the packet, and you’ve discovered that if someone asks what you’re fiddling with, it’s acceptable if you show them the silica gel. You used to fiddle with a ball of plastic wrap, but that made too much noise in class.

“Okay, well, congratulations on your game,” you say when Logan says nothing else. “Bye.” You turn to leave the stadium.

“Wait!” Logan jogs around to face you again. “Uh, wait. Did Hannah not invite you?”

“She asked me to go, but I declined because I have a paper due next week, and because I wasn’t invited. It’s rude to go to parties you aren’t invited to.”

That’s a rule that took a few times to learn in middle school, but you’re very proud that you know it now. Except apparently it doesn’t apply in college. Rules are always changing, and sometimes it makes you so frustrated, you could spit.

“Well, what if I asked you to go? Invited you officially. I live with Dean, and I helped set up the party. Is that enough of an authority?”

“I don’t really know what constitutes an authority to invite people to parties,” you say. “Why do you want me to go?”

“Uh, well…” Logan steps forward, bowing his head a little. One thick curl falls into his eyes. He has such beautiful hair. You wonder what conditioner he uses. A few times you’ve sat next to him in class, and he smells like apples. “I feel like we’re kinda friends now.”

“We are?”

He winces. “I mean, kinda? Is that okay for me to say? We’re in class together, and you stop by with Hannah.”

“I stopped by once because she left her bag. I didn’t come inside.”

“True, fair enough. You can come in though, you know? Like that’s totally okay. Just for the future.”

You doubt you’ll stop by the Hawks House again. You have no reason to. But you nod anyway.

“Plus we compared notes that one time,” Logan says, snapping his fingers. “That’s a friend thing to do, right?”

You let his words wash over you. John Logan says you’re kinda friends. You like Logan. He’s nice to you, and to Hannah. You haven’t spoken much, but he lent you a pencil a few weeks ago in your developmental psychology class. And he always waits and holds the door for you, even if you’re a few people behind him. He doesn’t scare you like athletes often do. He isn’t loud, and he doesn’t say rude things about women, or make fun of how clumsy you are. When you tripped on a step in class, he didn’t snicker like other students—he reached out to catch you, and asked if you were okay.

Then again, you’ve hardly hung out together. There’s always time for him to change his mind, show a different side. Plenty of people have done that.

But you like making friends. You’re not good at it. You want to be. 

“Okay,” you say. “We can be friends.”

Logan grins. “Awesome.”

“You have nice teeth.”

He grins wider. “Thanks. I think that’s the first time anyone’s complimented my teeth.”

“That surprises me,” you say. “I don’t have a costume. Can I still enter the party, or will I be banned for life?”

Logan laughs. You squint. What’s funny?

“Normally, you’d get banned, but as an official party planner, I can get an exception made.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh…”

“I’m kidding,” he says gently, nudging your shoulder. It’s a soft nudge because of his padding. “You don’t need to wear a costume, but if you want, I have an extra pair of wings. You can be a bird with me. Tuck’s a bee.”

You’ve never been a part of a group costume. “I thought it was supposed to be costumes for two people.”

“We make our own rules. I’ll drive you there, okay? I don’t think you’ll wanna be on the party bus. It gets loud.”

You’re relieved. “Yes. Thank you.”

“No sweat. I’ll be out in a sec.”

You watch him disappear into the men’s locker room. You sit on a nearby bench. People are still filing out of the stadium. You put your headphones on, lean your head against the wall, and close your eyes. 

Seven minutes later, a hand on your elbow makes you jump, eyes flying open. You tear off your headphones.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Logan says. He’s in a gray sleeveless shirt and dark jeans. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay.” 

People don’t really touch you, mostly because you don’t care for it. Hannah and Allie like hugs, and sometimes you give them one, especially if they’re sad, because that’s what you do for sad friends. But mostly, you avoid it. People hug too hard, or too long, or they’re sweaty or smell funny. Logan doesn’t smell bad—he smells like orange Dial soap and his apple shampoo or conditioner, and you realize he must’ve showered. 

“Tuck is waiting for us in the car,” he says. “The wings are in the trunk.”

You follow him outside, into the mild night. His curls are even curlier when wet. You want to reach out and tug one, watch it spring back into place, but that’s definitely not an appropriate thing to do. You shove your hands in your pocket and squeeze the silica.

“What were you listening to?” he asks.

“Brown noise.”

“Is that a band or a song or…”

“No, it’s like white noise, but softer.”

He nods slowly, eyebrows knitting. “Oh. Huh.”

“There’s also pink noise and black noise, which I listen to at night to sleep. White noise feels like needles in my ears.”

“So you don’t listen to music?”

“I love music,” you say. “But sometimes it’s too much. The arena was loud, and sometimes I need something quiet to reset my brain, you know?”

“I definitely get that. I’m gonna check those out.”

“Will you really?”

Logan looks surprised. “Yeah, I will.”

You meditate on that, trying to figure out how that makes you feel, Logan meaning what he says.

Tucker greets you happily, and says that more’s the merrier when you tell him about Logan’s idea to join their costume. He has a girl named Kayla with him, and they sit in the backseat on the ride over, kissing and giggling. So you sit in the front with Logan, who keeps the radio turned low.

“If you wanna wear your headphones, I don’t mind,” he says.

You don’t, but the offer makes you beam at him.

Before you go inside, Logan gives you a pair of glossy black bird wings to wear. He steps back, smoothing the feathers, and looks at you.

“You look good. Those really suit you,” he says, and you wonder if he means that too. You’re not brave enough to ask.

The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive, which astounds you, considering the game officially ended less than an hour ago. Dean and Beau are at the center of the party, doing shots. Everyone cheers when they finish. Tucker and Kayla go to greet Dean, but Logan hangs back with you. He leans in to talk in your ear.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I don’t like drinking.”

“That’s cool. I’m gonna get a beer. Do you want to come with me?”

You eye the swell of people in the kitchen and grimace. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be here.”

He smiles, dark eyes warm. Your stomach flips. “Okay. Be right back.”

As he goes, you scour the room for food. If you’d known you were going to the party, you would’ve eaten before the game. But you find an untouched plate of pizza rolls, which is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened tonight, besides Logan telling you that you’re friends.

You put three on a napkin and stand to the side, watching people dance. Allie’s in a beautiful green dress, and you see Dean dance with her. Jealousy strikes you—not because you want Dean, but because you wish you were adept at all of this. Dancing, talking, making friends. Making a boyfriend. Going to college. Living. Hannah understands your struggle a little, but even you can see how well she and Garrett are hitting it off, fake relationship or not.

You finish your pizza rolls and fold the napkin, bouncing your head in time to the music. You don’t like parties, but this isn’t so bad, you suppose. It’s certainly reasonable enough to withstand in the name of friendship, and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?

“Can I refresh that for you?”

You squint at your now empty napkin, where your pizza roll crumbs now lie. Then you look at the guy who asked. He might be a hockey player, you’re not sure. You pretty much only know Logan and Garrett, because Hannah’s your friend. You know Tucker, you suppose, since you’ve now ridden in a car with him. You know of Dean, because it’s impossible to go to Briar U without learning Dean Di Laurentis’ name and seeing his bleach blond head of hair on campus. But you couldn’t pick any other player out of a lineup. 

“It's a napkin,” you say. “It had food, not a drink.”

He holds up his hands and laughs. “Yeah, duh. It was an opener. I wasn’t being literal.”

Opener to what? You don't ask. He keeps talking, evidently not needing you to participate in the conversation.

“I’m Ben Pembroke. I just tried out for the team, but I’m pretty much a shoo-in. My dad played for Briar. Do you come to a lot of parties?”

“No,” you say. “I came to this one because Logan asked me to.”

Ben frowns. “Are you together?”

“He drove me here in his car.”

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, are you dating?”

“No,” you say. “I'm not dating anybody.”

His smile returns. It looks wrong on his face. He has nice teeth too, but they don’t look as nice as Logan’s. “Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because.” Ben suddenly creeps a hand up your back. “It means you're available tonight. You're cute.”

You push his hand off. “Don't touch me. I don't like strangers touching me.”

Ben scoffs. “C'mon, enough with the ‘hard to get' act. I get it, you're ‘not like them.’ You're a nice girl. Whatever.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, but whatever it is, I want no part of it. Leave me alone.”

Ben gets closer to you. You flinch. He's tall and he's angry. You think so, anyway. 

“The fuck? You were sending me signals. You want me.”

Definitely angry. You ball up your empty napkin in your fist. You hate arguing. You usually have to get loud to make people take you seriously, and shouting gives you a headache.

“I was not sending you signals,” you say, voice rising. “I don't want anything to do with you. You came over here.”

Ben smiles again, full of ice. “Look, babe, it's cool, okay? None of your nerdy little friends will know we were together.”

“Together for what? Sex?”

Ben winks. You make a noise of irritation. 

“I did not send you sex signals, you creep. I don't like you! Go away!”

Ben reaches for you again. You yell, throwing your napkin on the ground. 

“Get away from me!” People start to look at you. You scream without words, so angry you feel like you might die. “Go away, go away!”

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Ben snaps, but you ignore him. You don’t care what he calls you as long as he leaves.

“Hey.”

Logan’s wings are suddenly in front of you. He glances at you. 

“You okay?” he asks, holding out his hand behind him. He doesn’t touch you—you think his hand might be an offer, if you need it.

You chew the inside of your cheek. You don't feel okay, but you don't know if this is one of those times when you should lie. Sometimes lying makes things easier, but you never know when that is. 

Logan turns back to Ben after you take his hand. “What the fuck, Pembroke? You're harassing women?”

“Man, she wanted me, I swear—”

“I did not send you sex signals,” you shout. “I don't like you!”

Ben's face spasms. Logan puts a hand on Ben's chest. 

“Take it somewhere else. She's not interested.”

Ben flings a finger at you. “But she—”

“Get. The fuck. Out.” Logan's hand curls in Ben's shirt. A warning. Jules said that in one of their videos about Briar’s games. When John Logan touches people and gets in their faces, he “means business.”

Ben scowls at you. Logan steps back so he can block you from Ben's face. 

“Fine. Fucking whatever.”

He stomps away. You squeeze the silica gel so hard, the beads dig into your palm. You fear the packet might burst. Your brain aches with the fight and the anger and anxiety that accompanied it. You promised yourself you wouldn't make a scene like you always do. It's why you can't keep friends, and you brace yourself for Logan to tell you something similar. 

He leans in so you can hear him over the music. “Let's go outside. It's too loud here.”

Relief softens your body, even if Logan’s only taking you somewhere quieter so he can tell you off. “Okay.”

You pick up your napkin and throw it away. Then you follow him to the backyard. It's big too, and you're glad everything is well-lit and marked. It'd be too easy to get lost in this house. Logan takes you to two chairs on the deck where there's less people. Most of the guests are inside since Beau didn't fill the pool.

You sit. People hate it more when you defend yourself, but Logan has to know that you really did try not to make a scene. You care about things that your friends like, and you want to keep Logan as a friend. You like him, especially after tonight. 

“I tried to tell him I wasn't interested in my quiet voice,” you say. “So many times. I didn't want sex. I swear I didn't send him signals, Logan, I didn't even approach him firs—”

“Whoa, hey.” He pushes his hair back, leaning in. “Hey, hey. I know you don't like Pembroke, and you don't have to try to convince me that he started it. He was a total jerk.”

You’re miserable. “People don't like when I use my loud voice, but sometimes they just won't listen to me. I had to.”

“Is it okay if I take your hand?” Logan asks softly. 

You nod. Logan takes your hand in both of his, resting them on his knee. He’s quiet for a moment. 

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he finally says. “When someone is harassing you, you have the right to be as loud as you want. It fucking sucks, and I’m sorry he did that. I’m gonna tell the guys and make sure he doesn’t make the team next year. He’s a shit player anyway.”

You fiddle with the silica gel again. “I wanted to be good at the party. You like parties, and a video I watched about making friends in college said that I should do things that other people like to become their friend.”

“Oh,” he says gently, rubbing your knuckles. “We’re already friends. You don't have to go to any parties to be my friend. Parties are fine, yeah, but they aren't the only thing I like. I'm not Dean.” He rolls his eyes and laughs. 

You smile, pleased to catch onto his joke. “He was dancing with Allie.”

“Yeah, I think we may have witnessed a historical event: Dean Di Laurentis not getting what he wants.”

“Because she didn't kiss him?”

Logan snorts. “Exactly. Look, do you wanna ditch this party and do something else? There's a guest house on the property if you just wanna chill. I would drive you home, but I’m still a little tipsy.”

He's still holding your hand. You like it. You like how rough his palms are, his cool skin against your warmth. You link your fingers with Logan's. He looks down, then looks back up at you.

“I'm hungry, actually,” you say. 

He hums. “Good.”

“How is that good?”

“No, I mean, it's good you're being honest with me and telling me what you want. Don't force yourself to go to any more parties, okay?”

“Okay, Logan. Is there a Taco Bell nearby?”

“You’re a genius,” Logan says, his mouth full of Crunchwrap. He chews, then swallows before speaking again. “Taco Bell should be a post-game tradition. Garrett’s a health nut, but I think I could convince him.”

The Taco Bell is only a few blocks away from the house, so you and Logan walked here. He paid for your food even though you have money. He said it was to make up for the shitty party. You told him he didn’t need to do that. He said he wanted to.

“It’s my favorite fast food,” you say, working on your potatoes. You stick a fork into one, then carefully dip one corner in sour cream and the other in the nacho cheese.

“I thought they put the sauces on top,” he says.

“Normally they do, but I ask for them on the side because otherwise all the potatoes don’t get an equal distribution of sauce.”

It’s quiet, and you find Logan staring at you as you chew. You swallow, frowning.

“What?”

He shakes his head, grinning. He does that a lot. “Nothing, just… you’re different.”

“Oh.” You pull your food closer to you, shoulders curling in.

“Not in a bad way! I like it. You know what you want.”

“Not really.” You suddenly remember Allie and Dean dancing. “Or if I do, I don’t know how to get it.”

“I think that’s pretty common,” Logan says, resting his chin in his hand. “I’ve been in that situation plenty of times.”

“What did you do?”

“Hmm.” He takes a long sip from his coke. “Depends on what I wanted. For the most part, I just went for it. No one else is gonna give it to you, you know?”

“I guess so.”

“What do you want?”

It strikes you now that Logan’s eyes are not just brown; they’re speckled gold, like spattered sunlight on tree bark. They’re lovely even in the harsh fluorescent light. He’s like some kind of fantasy novel angel with the wings and his swoopy curls. His lashes are long and thick. He licks his lips, and now you can’t stop staring at his mouth. Your heart starts to pound, the longer he looks at you.

Oh no, you think. Oh no. I don’t want to be his friend. 

Yet another thing you’ve misunderstood. 

“I don’t know,” you say hoarsely. You clear your throat. “I really don’t know.”

“Well,” Logan says. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And whatever it is, it’ll be there for you.”

You can hardly speak. You twirl the silica gel between your fingers. You do that the whole car ride home. Logan leaves the radio on low again. He gets out and opens your door after he pulls up to your dorm. Again, he offers his hand, and again, you take it.

“You look really pretty in those wings,” he says, like he’s telling you a secret, even though he already told you that earlier. He must really mean it. 

It’s just you two here; campus is pretty much dead because almost everyone else is at the party.

“So do you.”

He laughs, and you think you’d really like it if he gave you a hug right now. But you’re not a hugger. You don’t know how to ask for such a thing from John Logan.

“You played really well,” you say.

Logan hums. “Thanks. I’m really glad you came.”

He’s still holding your hand. He squeezes it. 

“Well, um, bye,” you say, letting go.

“Goodnight,” he says after you.