⊹ 𓂃 john logan's girl

The first thing Layla Monteiro heard when she opened the door to the hockey house was someone yelling,

“THROW WATER ON IT! THROW WATER ON IT!”

Followed immediately by,

“DON'T THROW WATER, YOU IDIOT, IT'S OIL!”

And then,

“I'M GOING TO DIE BECAUSE OF A LASAGNA!”

Layla stopped in the doorway, still holding the grocery bag Tucker had asked her to bring, while smoke poured out of the kitchen like the house was trying to divorce its own foundation.

For one whole second, nobody noticed she'd arrived, because: Garrett was waving a dish towel at the smoke detector, Dean was dramatically coughing like he'd inhaled toxic gas.

And Logan, holding a saucepan in one hand, looked like he was actively reconsidering every decision he'd ever made. Then Logan looked toward the front door.

And froze.

Layla's dark hair was dusted with tiny snowflakes, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, and her oversized winter coat nearly swallowed her whole. She blinked slowly.

"...Should I come back later?"

Garrett immediately pointed at Dean.

"HIM."

"Traitor," Dean replied, deeply offended.

Tucker appeared from the kitchen carrying two grocery bags. Then stopped.

"Why is there smoke coming out of my kitchen?"

Silence. Dean slowly raised one hand.

"Before you get mad..."

"You burned the lasagna?!"

"Technically, it caught fire by itself."

"DEAN!"

Layla burst out laughing. Not one of those polite little laughs, a real laugh. The kind that made her shoulders shake. And Logan would've sworn it was easily one of his favorite sounds on earth.

Even if nobody could ever know that. Because nobody knew about them, the stolen kisses, the two a.m. texts, the hands intertwined beneath the table, the countless times they had "accidentally" ended up alone after parties. None of it.

And honestly? Logan was getting tired of pretending.

"I asked for ONE thing," Tucker complained while turning off the oven. "ONE thing, Dean."

"I got distracted."

Garrett snorted before ratting him out.

"He was making out with a girl upstairs."

Layla raised an eyebrow.

"While the kitchen was on fire?"

Dean spread his arms dramatically.

"Love requires sacrifice."

"You don't even remember the girl's name," Garrett teased.

"That's irrelevant."

"You're irrelevant."

Dean pointed at Layla.

"See? Toxic environment."

Still laughing, Layla set the grocery bags down on the counter.

"My God. Do you guys actually live like this all the time?"

"Unfortunately," Tucker sighed. "And now my lasagna is dead."

Layla glanced at the blackened baking dish sitting on the stove.

"Well... there's still time to make something else."

Tucker practically came back to life.

"You brought what I asked for?"

She lifted one of the bags.

"I did."

"I love this woman."

Tucker threw both hands into the air before wrapping her in a grateful hug.

Logan, still standing by the sink, muttered far too quietly,

"...Me too."

Garrett's head snapped toward him.

"What?"

Logan nearly died.

"I love food too," he answered much too quickly.

Dean slowly narrowed his eyes.

"Interesting."

Layla bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Because Logan was absolutely panicking, and she loved every second of it. Forty minutes later, the kitchen had become significantly less hazardous.

Layla and Tucker worked side by side, cooking together while the other three somehow managed to be more of a hindrance than a help. She'd decided to teach Tucker how to make escondidinho de carne seca. Because, according to her,

"If you guys are planning to survive college on nothing but protein shakes and instant noodles, I need to intervene."

"That smells ridiculously good," Garrett commented.

"That's because real food exists, Graham."

"Hey, I eat real food."

She glanced at the giant tub of protein powder sitting on the counter.

"Sure you do. Whenever Tucker cooks."

Leaning against the refrigerator, Logan let out a quiet laugh. Layla immediately looked over at him. Mistake.

Huge mistake.

Because John Logan smiling like that, all lazy and effortless, should honestly be classified as an emotional weapon. She hated the effect he had on her. Especially since she had to pretend everything was perfectly normal.

And Logan wasn't helping. Not even a little. Because every single time she said something, he looked at her like she'd just personally invented the cure for sadness.

Idiot.

Dean wandered over, stealing a handful of shredded cheese. Tucker smacked his hand with the wooden spoon.

"Stop stealing my ingredients!"

"I'm a simple man."

"You're a parasite."

Garrett lifted the lid off the pot.

"Can I taste it?"

"No."

"Just a little."

"No."

"Dictatorship."

Layla laughed as she stirred the sauce.

"You guys are worse than children."

"And you still like us anyway," Dean replied.

She opened her mouth to answer, but Logan beat her to it.

"She clearly needs therapy."

Layla slowly turned toward him.

"So you're taking their side now?"

"I'm taking the truth's side."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Fine. Then you don't get to eat."

Logan's eyes immediately widened.

"That was low."

"Very low," Garrett agreed.

Tucker watched the two of them for a few seconds before sighing dramatically.

"You two flirt so loudly I'm losing track of the recipe."

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Dean slowly turned his head.

Garrett blinked several times.

Layla nearly dropped the spoon.

And Logan simply closed his eyes like a man exhausted by his own existence.

"Tucker..." he began.

"I'm just saying."

"Nothing's going on," Layla answered far too quickly.

Dean burst into laughter.

"Well, now there definitely is."

"Shut up."

"Logan's blushing."

"I AM NOT."

Garrett looked at him.

"Dude... you're really blushing."

Layla had to turn around because she was seconds away from laughing again. This was a disaster. A very beautiful disaster.

The snow had really started coming down by the time they finished eating.

Outside, the wind rattled against the windows.

The entire street was disappearing beneath a blanket of white.

And Tucker's phone wouldn't stop buzzing with weather alerts.

"Alright," Garrett said, glancing out the window. "Nobody's leaving tonight."

Layla sighed.

"My luck is incredible."

"There's no way in hell you're driving in this," Logan replied immediately.

Too quickly.

Far too concerned.

Dean's gaze slowly shifted between the two of them.

Interested.

Very interested.

Layla crossed her arms.

"I'll survive."

"That's probably exactly what people said before getting into accidents," Garrett pointed out.

"You're dramatic."

"You're staying here," Tucker decided. "End of discussion."

And honestly?

Layla wasn't all that interested in arguing.

Because her apartment suddenly seemed a lot less appealing than this warm, noisy, chaotic house.

Especially when Logan looked at her like that.

Like she was something precious.

"You guys live like animals."

That's what Layla said two hours later, standing in the middle of the living room while the four of them argued over what movie to watch.

Dean wanted an action movie.

Garrett wanted a comedy.

Tucker wanted literally anything without explosions.

And Logan kept saying, "I don't care," while very obviously hating every single one of Dean's suggestions.

So Layla took control.

"You're all watching a Brazilian movie."

"That sounds like a threat," Garrett replied.

"Because it is."

She put on Elite Squad.

And immediately regretted it.

Because:

Dean started repeating Portuguese lines with an absolutely terrible accent.

Garrett asked a question every five minutes.

Tucker was doing his best to keep up with the subtitles.

And Logan...

Logan just kept looking at her.

She noticed halfway through one of the scenes.

Turned her head.

And found his eyes already on her.

Steady.

Soft.

Like he'd completely forgotten there was even a movie playing.

Her heart stumbled violently.

She arched an eyebrow.

Logan answered with a lazy little smile.

Idiot.

Complete idiot.

By the time the second movie ended, Tucker had fallen asleep in the armchair.

Garrett was complaining about being tired as he headed upstairs.

Dean pointed at the two of them before disappearing down the hallway.

"You two are suspicious."

"Goodnight, Dean," Logan answered immediately.

"Very suspicious."

Then he was gone.

The living room fell quiet.

Only the television cast a soft glow across the room.

Outside, the snow kept falling in thick sheets.

And suddenly, the couch felt much smaller than it had before.

Layla pulled the blanket higher over her legs.

"I think he's starting to figure it out."

"Dean can smell trouble from a mile away."

She laughed softly.

Then she felt Logan's shoulder brush against hers.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Her heart started racing all over again.

"Tired?" he asked quietly.

"A little."

"Come here, then."

She turned to look at him.

"Logan..."

"You were practically falling asleep sitting up."

She hesitated for two seconds.

Then she gave in.

Resting her head against his shoulder.

His arm settled around her.

And that was it.

She was never going to have emotional peace again.

Because Logan immediately went completely still.

Utterly still.

Like he was terrified of ruining the moment.

She smiled against his T-shirt.

"Relax."

"I am relaxed."

An outrageous lie.

She could feel how fast his heart was beating from where she was.

The room stayed quiet for several minutes.

Comfortable.

Warm.

Intimate.

Until Logan spoke.

Very softly.

"I'm tired of hiding this."

Her chest tightened.

She slowly lifted her head.

He was already looking at her.

Serious now.

Vulnerable.

And that was rare.

Very rare.

"I know this was supposed to be casual," he murmured. "But I like you so damn much, Layla."

That was it.

She died.

Officially.

"And honestly..." He let out a nervous laugh. "It's starting to drive me crazy pretending I can't do this."

Then he cupped her face.

And kissed her.

Slowly at first.

Warm.

Careful.

But only for a few seconds.

Because Layla grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him closer, and Logan laughed against her lips before kissing her properly.

Like someone who'd been waiting far too long for that moment.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both smiling like complete idiots.

"So..." Layla whispered. "Was that your way of asking me to be your girlfriend?"

Logan rubbed the back of his neck.

"Maybe."

"Worst confession in history."

"I can try again."

She smiled.

Logan gently took her hand between both of his, and for the first time all night, he looked genuinely nervous.

"Will you be my girlfriend?"

Outside, the storm kept tearing through Hastings.

But inside that warm living room, filled with the smell of homemade food, brigadeiros, and the quiet sound of a movie still playing on the TV...

Layla realized she'd probably never felt more at home.

image from: pinterest one shot by me aesthetic of the top by me

If you wanna read more, check my Wattpad page, my user is palletlunna_

This is a little excerpt from my Wattpad fanfic, enjoy this little taste, sweeties 💕

At that moment, however, she had exactly twenty minutes to get ready.

Which should have been enough.

Should have.

Ella opened her closet and started looking for an outfit that didn’t look like it had been chosen by someone with absolutely no coordination skills. Five minutes later, she had already ruled out half of her options and regretted not getting ready earlier with Allie’s help.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered to herself.

That was exactly when someone knocked on the front door.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Ella froze.

Then came the voice.

“I know you’re in there.”

She closed her eyes, and the voice repeated:

“This isn’t going to work.”

Her answer came immediately.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know because you use that line every week.”

“And I’m still trying.”

With a resigned sigh, Ella left her room and opened the door.

Dean Di Laurentis was standing in the hallway with a backpack hanging from one shoulder and an expression that suggested he had been deeply offended by the existence of that morning.

“You look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“It’s ten in the morning.”

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does to me.”

Dean walked past her without hesitation, as if the house belonged to him, or at least partially belonged to him.

“Is there food?” he asked while heading straight to the kitchen.

“You didn’t even say hi.”

“Is there food?”

Ella closed the door behind him.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Dean opened one cabinet, then another, then the fridge.

Then his eyes landed on the cake.

“I knew I liked you.”

“You’ve known me for almost two years.”

“And I’m still finding reasons.”

Before she could even respond, he was already grabbing a slice.

“You’re a parasite.”

“And you cook really well.”

“That’s not an argument.”

“It’s an excellent argument.”

Dean settled onto one of the kitchen stools and pointed his fork at her.

“Why aren’t you ready yet?”

“Because I have time.”

“You don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Dean.”

“Ella.”

“Class starts in forty minutes.”

“And I like getting there early.”

Ella stared at him.

“You literally just complained about being awake at ten in the morning.”

“Those are different things.”

“They’re not.”

“They are.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

She shook her head.

Some things never changed.

Ella crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head slightly to the side, watching Dean finish another bite of cake like he was getting paid to do it.

“So stop complaining that I’m not ready and come help me,” she said, pointing toward the door of her room.

Dean looked up at her and slowly raised an eyebrow.

“Help with what?” he asked suspiciously.

“Pick an outfit.”

The hockey player placed a hand over his chest, putting on an exaggerated offended expression.

“Sweetheart, at least take me to dinner first.”

Ella showed no reaction other than a completely bored stare.

“I’d rather eat glass.”

“Cruel,” Dean mumbled, shaking his head in disapproval as he took another bite of cake.

“Realistic,” she replied without missing a beat.

Dean pressed his lips together in a dramatic expression.

“You break my heart.”

Ella narrowed her eyes.

“You have a heart?”

He pointed the fork at himself.

“Some people say I do.”

“Do those people actually know you?” she asked while starting to collect the plates from the counter.

Dean placed a hand over his chest again.

“That was personal.”

“That was the intention.”

“See?” He pointed the fork at her like he was presenting undeniable evidence. “That’s why you’re going to end up alone.”

Ella let out a small scoff.

“And yet I’m still the least annoying person in this conversation.”

“Disagree,” he answered immediately.

“Nobody asked.”

“That’s never stopped me before.”

Ella rolled her eyes and walked away from the kitchen.

“Are you coming or not?”

Dean stared at the stairs for a second, pretending to seriously consider the situation.

“I’m evaluating my reputation and whether it’s worth entering a girl’s bedroom.”

“Dean, everyone knows you don’t have one. You just don’t eat electrical outlets because they shock you.”

A smile immediately appeared on his face.

“Fair enough.”

He got up from the stool, picking up the plate with the slice of cake like it was a priceless possession.

“But if anyone asks, I want it on record that I was dragged into your room against my will.”

Ella was already halfway there when she looked back.

“If anyone asks, I’ll say you followed me because of food.”

Dean pointed his fork at her.

“Because that is exactly what happened.”

“I know.”

esse é um trecho da minha fanfic no wattpad, aproveitem essa degustação xuxus

Naquele momento, porém, ela tinha exatamente vinte minutos para se arrumar.

O que deveria ser suficiente.

Deveria.

Ella abriu o armário e começou a procurar alguma roupa que não parecesse ter sido escolhida por alguém sem coordenação motora. Cinco minutos depois, já tinha descartado metade das opções e se arrependeu de não ter se arrumado antes com ajuda de Allie

— Isso é ridículo. — murmurou para si mesma.

Foi exatamente nesse momento que alguém bateu na porta da frente.

Uma vez.

Duas.

Três.

Ella congelou.

Então veio a voz.

— Eu sei que você está aí.

Ela fechou os olhos e a voz repetiu

— Isso não vai funcionar.

A resposta dela veio imediatamente.

— Você não sabe disso.

— Eu sei porque você usa essa frase toda semana.

— E ainda estou tentando.

Com um suspiro resignado, Ella saiu do quarto, abriu a porta.

Dean Di Laurentis estava parado no corredor com uma mochila pendurada em um ombro e uma expressão que sugeria que havia sido profundamente ofendido pela existência daquela manhã.

— Você parece cansado.

— Estou cansado.

— São dez horas.

— Exatamente.

— Isso não faz sentido.

— Faz para mim.

Dean passou por ela sem cerimônia, como se a casa fosse dele, ou pelo menos parcialmente dele.

— Tem comida? — perguntou enquanto caminhava direto para a cozinha.

— Você nem disse oi.

— Tem comida?

Ella fechou a porta atrás de si.

— Você é inacreditável.

— Isso não responde minha pergunta.

Dean abriu um armário, depois outro, depois a geladeira.

Então seus olhos encontraram o bolo.

— Eu sabia que gostava de você.

— Você me conhece há quase dois anos.

— E continuo encontrando motivos.

Antes mesmo que ela pudesse responder, ele já estava pegando uma fatia.

— Você é um parasita.

— E você cozinha muito bem.

— Isso não é um argumento.

— É um excelente argumento.

Dean se acomodou em uma das banquetas da cozinha e apontou o garfo para ela.

— Por que você ainda não está pronta?

— Porque eu tenho tempo.

— Não tem.

— Tenho sim.

— Não tem.

— Dean.

— Ella.

— A aula começa em quarenta minutos.

— E eu gosto de chegar cedo.

Ella ficou olhando para ele.

— Você acabou de reclamar por estar acordado às dez da manhã.

— São assuntos diferentes.

— Não são.

— São sim.

— Não.

— Sim.

Ela balançou a cabeça.

Algumas coisas nunca mudavam.

Ella cruzou os braços diante do peito e inclinou levemente a cabeça para o lado, observando Dean terminar mais uma garfada do bolo como se estivesse sendo pago para aquilo.

— Então para de reclamar que eu não to pronta e vem me ajudar. — Ela disse, apontando para a porta do quarto dela

Dean ergueu os olhos para ela e arqueou uma sobrancelha lentamente.

— Ajudar com o quê? — perguntou com desconfiança.

— Escolher uma roupa.

O jogador levou uma das mãos ao peito, assumindo uma expressão de falsa ofensa.

— Gatinha, pelo menos me leva para jantar primeiro.

Ella não demonstrou qualquer reação além de um olhar completamente entediado.

— Eu prefiro comer vidro.

— Cruel. — Dean murmurou, balançando a cabeça em desaprovação enquanto levava outra garfada à boca.

— Realista. — Ela rebateu sem perder o ritmo.

Dean apertou os lábios numa expressão dramática.

— Você parte meu coração.

Ella estreitou os olhos.

— Você tem um coração?

Ele apontou o garfo para si mesmo.

— Algumas pessoas dizem que sim.

— Essas pessoas te conhecem? — perguntou enquanto começava a recolher os pratos da bancada. Dean levou a mão ao peito novamente.

— Isso foi pessoal.

— Era a intenção.

— Viu? — Ele apontou o garfo na direção dela como se estivesse apresentando uma prova irrefutável. — É por isso que você vai acabar sozinha.

Ella soltou uma risada nasal.

— E ainda assim eu sou a menos irritante desta conversa.

— Discordo. — respondeu imediatamente.

— Ninguém perguntou.

— Isso nunca me impediu antes.

Ella revirou os olhos e se afastou da cozinha.

— Você vem ou não?

Dean observou a escada por um segundo, fingindo ponderar seriamente a situação.

— Estou avaliando minha reputação, se vale a pena entrar no quarto de uma menina.

— Dean, todo mundo sabe que você não tem uma, você só não come a tomada porque dá choque

Um sorriso surgiu imediatamente no rosto dele.

— Justo.

Ele se levantou da banqueta, pegando o prato com a fatia de bolo como se fosse um bem precioso.

— Mas se alguém perguntar, quero deixar registrado que fui atraído para o quarto contra a minha vontade.

Ella já estava na metade do caminho quando olhou para trás.

— Se alguém perguntar, vou dizer que você me seguiu por comida.

Dean apontou o garfo para ela.

— Porque foi exatamente isso que aconteceu.

— Eu sei.

There is a kind of peace that only arrives after the storm, when even the wind learns to speak softly.

Flowers never rush the spring. They simply remain, roots steady, petals open, trusting that the light will find its way.

Maybe this is what it means to live: to keep blooming even on the days when the sky forgets its color.

And still, morning always returns, as if it had never stopped believing in us.