rachel

That’s exactly why, two hours later, you’re standing in Allie’s bedroom while she tries to force you into a pair of silver boots.

“Your foot bends,” she says, gripping your ankle with the determination of a woman preparing to relocate a dislocated joint. “Stop fighting me.”

“I’m not fighting you. My body is rejecting them.”

“Your body has no taste.”

Hannah, sitting cross-legged on Allie’s bed with a glass of wine, watches the struggle over the rim. “I think losing circulation in both feet might make dancing difficult.”

Allie shoots her a betrayed look. “I thought you were on my side.”

“I’m on the side of keeping all ten of her toes.”

You finally wrench your leg free and nearly topple into the dresser. “I’m wearing sneakers.”

“You cannot wear sneakers with that dress.”

“I can do anything. I’m incredibly brave.”

Hannah snorts into her wine. Allie stares at you for another second before dropping the boot and pointing toward the door.

“Fine. Sneakers. But we are leaving before you crawl back into bed and disappear for another week.”

“I haven’t disappeared.”

“You answered my text yesterday with a thumbs-up.”

“That’s communication.”

“I asked whether you were still alive.”

You grab the wine bottle from Hannah and take a long drink directly from it.

Allie’s expression changes right away. She doesn’t get gentle, since Allie Hayes always chooses blunt concern over subtlety, but she does stop arguing about the shoes.

“That bad?” Hannah asks.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Nope.”

“That sounded convincing,” Allie says.

“I’m just tired. I need one night where nobody asks me about deadlines or my future or why I haven’t answered an email that has been sitting in my inbox for six days.”

Hannah holds out her glass, and you pour more wine into it.

“No deadlines,” she agrees.

“No futures,” Allie adds. “And absolutely no emails.”

You lift the bottle between you. “To making tomorrow’s problems significantly worse.”

“That is not what I—” Hannah begins.

Allie clinks her glass against the bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”

It turns out that drinking when you have barely eaten is remarkably efficient.

By the time you get to the bar, the wine has already warmed your stomach and taken the edge off everything that’s been bothering you all week. The music is loud enough that no one expects a serious conversation. The room is crowded enough that you can blend in without really being alone.

Allie buys the first round. Hannah buys the second. You lose track after a bartender places three violently pink drinks in front of you and Allie announces that they taste like “a slutty juice box.”

They do.

You drink two.

An hour later, Hannah is passionately explaining the plot of a book she read in high school to a woman she met in the bathroom. Allie is dancing with both arms above her head, her hair stuck to her lip gloss, and you are standing on the edge of the dance floor with your face tilted toward the flashing lights.

For the first time in days, your brain is quiet.

There is no assignment waiting. No unread message. No horrible heavy knowledge that morning will come and expect something from you again. There is only the bass vibrating beneath your shoes and Allie grabbing your hands, pulling you into the crowd.

“There she is!” Allie shouts.

“Who?”

“You!”

You laugh so hard you stumble into Hannah, who has returned from the bathroom with her new best friend’s entire relationship history.

“I like bathroom people,” Hannah tells you solemnly. “They’re honest.”

“Bathroom people are the backbone of society.”

“That’s what I said.”

Allie appears between you, flushed and shining. “Shots.”

Hannah points at her. “No.”

“Counterpoint: yes.”

“I’m with Allie,” you announce.

“You can barely stand.”

“I’m standing beautifully.”

To prove it, you straighten your spine and immediately sway sideways. Hannah catches your elbow before you can collide with a table.

“Beautifully,” she repeats.

The shot burns all the way down. You slam the tiny glass onto the bar and feel spectacular for approximately twelve minutes.

Then the room begins moving without you.

It’s not exactly spinning. It just feels like everything is a little delayed. Your legs take a few seconds to do what you tell them. Allie’s face keeps drifting in and out of focus. Hannah asks if you want water, and you tell her water is “emotionally boring.”

Your phone is in your hand, though you do not remember taking it from your bag.

There are six messages from Logan.

logan: having fun?

logan: tell Allie Dean says she’s banned from stealing traffic cones tonight

logan: apparently this is a real concern

logan: you alive, trouble?

You stare at the final message until the words blur together.

Alive.

A strange, sad feeling settles under your ribs. The alcohol has made you happy, but it’s also brought down every wall you’ve been holding up all week. Suddenly, you miss him so much it almost hurts.

You press his name and hold the phone to your ear.

He answers on the second ring. “Hey.”

“John.”

There is a brief pause.

Then his voice becomes much more alert. “Hi, baby.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too. How much have you had?”

You squint at the bar as though the empty glasses might provide a reliable inventory. “Some.”

“Some.”

“Drinks.”

“Yeah, I gathered that.”

You smile and lean your hip against the bar. “You’re so smart. That’s why I keep you.”

In the background, you hear male laughter and Garrett asking, “Is that her?”

Logan muffles the phone for a second. “Yeah, and she’s wrecked.”

“I heard that,” you complain.

“I know.”

“I am not wrecked. I’m having a girls’ night.”

“You called me, remember?”

Your eyes burn unexpectedly. “I wanted your voice.”

The teasing disappears from his voice. “Okay. You’ve got me.”

You press your fingers against your closed eyes. The room is getting too loud. Someone bumps your shoulder without saying sorry. Allie has climbed onto a low platform to dance, and Hannah is trying to convince her that this is how people break their necks.

“Can you come get me?” you ask quietly.

Logan does not hesitate. “Yeah. We’re coming.”

“We?”

“Garrett and Dean are here. Where are Hannah and Allie?”

You look toward your friends. Hannah has both hands wrapped around Allie’s waist while Allie argues with gravity.

“Being safe.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says somewhere in the background.

“Send me your location,” Logan tells you. “Stay with the girls. We’ll be there soon.”

“John?”

“Still here.”

“You’re my favorite.”

His voice softens. “You’re mine too.”

The three of you are sitting on the curb when the boys arrive.

Hannah has stolen your purse because you kept attempting to give cash to strangers. Allie is wearing one shoe and holding the other like a weapon. You are leaning against Hannah’s shoulder, humming along to a song playing faintly from inside the bar.

Dean gets out of Garrett’s Jeep first.

He takes one look at Allie and stops. “Where is your shoe?”

She lifts it proudly. “Here.”

“Why isn’t it on your foot?”

“Personal choice.”

“You’re standing on a public sidewalk.”

Allie looks down at her bare foot as though she has only just noticed. “Oh.”

Garrett circles the hood and crouches in front of Hannah. “Hey, Wellsy.”

Hannah smiles at him with slow, overwhelming affection. “G.”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“You’re really handsome.”

Garrett glances over his shoulder at the others. “Finally, some recognition.”

“I always recognize you.”

“No, I mean—never mind.” He takes the purse from her lap and slings it over his shoulder without reacting to the bright pink strap. “Think you can stand?”

“Obviously.”

She cannot.

Garrett catches her under both arms before she reaches the pavement. Hannah dissolves into laughter against his chest while he mutters something about never allowing Allie to plan another outing.

Then Logan steps around them, and suddenly the whole noisy street feels like it’s just him.

He is wearing gray sweats and a Briar hockey hoodie, his hair still damp from the shower. His eyes find yours immediately, moving over your face, your clothes, your scraped knee from an incident you do not remember.

You smile so widely it hurts. “Boyfriend.”

“Girlfriend,” he says, crouching in front of you. “You look comfortable.”

“I’m on the ground.”

“I noticed.”

You throw both arms around his neck. The force nearly knocks him backward, but Logan steadies himself with one hand against the sidewalk and the other around your waist.

“You came,” you mumble into his shoulder.

“You asked me to.”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“You smell good.”

“Thanks.”

“You always smell good. It’s suspicious.”

Behind him, Dean is attempting to put Allie’s shoe back on while she keeps moving her foot away.

“You’re being difficult on purpose,” he tells her.

“You like me difficult.”

“Not while I’m kneeling on a sidewalk that has probably seen three different bodily fluids tonight.”

Garrett guides Hannah toward the Jeep. “Nobody say bodily fluids. I don’t need anyone getting ideas.”

“I’m not throwing up,” you announce.

“Great,” Garrett says. “Thank you for the formal statement.”

Logan draws back enough to look at you. “Can you walk?”

You consider this carefully. “Can you?”

“Usually.”

“Show-off.”

He laughs, turns, and guides your arms around his shoulders. “All right. Up.”

The sidewalk falls away as he stands with you on his back. You tighten your legs around his waist and rest your cheek against him,feeling completely content.t.

“Logan,” Dean calls while wrestling Allie into the back seat. “Control your woman.”

“She’s not the one missing a shoe.”

“I found the shoe!”

“And yet it remains off your foot.”

The ride back to the hockey house is loud.

Hannah keeps telling Garrett that she likes his nose. Allie sings half the chorus of three different songs and becomes offended when Dean refuses to stop the car for French fries, even though Garrett is already driving to a twenty-four-hour diner.

You spend most of the ride folded against Logan in the passenger seat, your hand tucked beneath his arm so you can hold onto him.

The happiness starts to fade. In its place is that deep, loose sadness that comes with drinking when you’ve spent too long pretending you’re okay. You watch streetlights move across Logan’s face and feel your chest ache with everything you haven’t said.

At the drive-through, Logan orders enough food for everyone and adds your favorite without asking. Back at the house, the boys get water into all three of you and supervise as much food as can reasonably be managed.

Hannah falls asleep halfway through a sentence with her head on Garrett’s shoulder. Allie accuses Dean of being “aggressively beautiful” before allowing him to carry her upstairs.

Logan keeps you at the kitchen island until you have eaten nearly half your fries.

“One more,” he says.

“I’m full.”

“You said that before you ate the last four.”

“Those were emotionally necessary.”

“So is this one.”

He holds a fry in front of your mouth. You glare at him, then eat it.

“Manipulative.”

“I’ll live with it.”

When Logan finally takes you upstairs, you are exhausted enough that every step feels like walking through wet sand. He sits you on the edge of his bed and kneels to untie your sneakers.

You immediately place both hands in his hair.

He looks up. “What are you doing?”

“Petting you.”

“I’m not a dog.”

“You’d be a golden retriever.”

“That feels insulting.”

“It’s the highest compliment I have.”

He shakes his head, smiling as he takes off your shoes. Then he helps you into one of his shirts, turns away while you change out of your dress, and gently cleans the scrape on your knee with a damp cloth.

The sting makes you hiss.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You hurt me.”

“You fell outside a bar.”

“And now you’re attacking my wound.”

“Yeah, this is all part of my evil plan.”

He puts a bandage over the scrape and kisses just above it. The tenderness surprises you.

Your fingers curl into the hem of his shirt.

“John.”

He glances up immediately. “What?”

Your throat tightens. For a few seconds you cannot remember how to make the words come out without them sounding as frightening as they feel.

“You know,” you say, staring down at him, “I don’t think I would be alive without you.”

Logan goes completely still.

The room goes quiet. Logan doesn't move.

He stands and sits next to you on the bed, knees bumping yours. He doesn't look away. That almost makes it worse.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”

You try. Your eyes only make it as far as his mouth.

“I mean it in a nice way,” you mumble.

“I know you think you do.”

“You make things better.”

His hand closes around yours. “I’m glad I make things better.”

“You do.”

“But that scared the shit out of me.”

Your face crumples before you can stop it. “Sorry.”

“No. Don’t do that.” Logan slides closer, catching your face gently between his hands. “I’m not mad at you. I just need to know whether you’re saying you’ve been thinking about hurting yourself, or whether you’re drunk and trying to tell me you love me.”

Tears slip hot and embarrassing down your cheeks. “I don’t want to hurt myself.”

“Okay.”

“I just get so tired.” Your voice breaks. “Everything is so much all the time, and then you’re there, and it’s not as loud.”

Logan wipes under your eyes with his thumbs. He looks at you for a long moment, but he doesn’t say anything or treat you like you’re fragile.

He leans in, his voice steady but a little rough. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But tomorrow, when you’re sober, we’re going to talk about how tired you’ve been. Not because you’re in trouble, but because I don’t want you to feel like you have to get this drunk just to tell me what’s going on. You don’t have to protect me from the hard stuff. I want all of you, even the mess.”

You lean forward until your forehead presses against his shoulder.

“Tomorrow sounds awful.”

“Probably.”

“Can we cancel it?”

“Nope.”

“I knew you were evil.”

“That’s me.”

His arms wrap around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You clutch the back of his shirt and breathe him in, letting the last of the night dissolve.

After a while, Logan shifts you beneath the blankets and places the water bottle on the nightstand. He climbs in beside you, and you immediately wrap yourself around him, one leg over his and your face tucked beneath his chin.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still my favorite.”

Throughout the night, people were chosen, songs were sung, and a good time was had. Anticipation settles in your stomach, wondering if you'll get lucky enough to get picked. Before you know it, the spotlight choosing people lands on you, the other one landing on the opposite side of the bar where a group of guys and two girls were huddled around a bar top. Focusing more on getting up on stage, your friends cheer you on as you walk up, eager to start.

The mystery man ends up on stage next to you, nervously adjusting his letterman jacket as you glance up and down his frame. Tall, handsome, hopefully a good singer, as you wanted to put on the performance of a lifetime tonight. He must feel your eyes on him as he looks back at you. He's taken aback by your beauty and the confidence that seemed to radiate off of you. Once your eyes met, you gave him a small smile, him returning the smile.

“Alright you two, what are we singing?” the emcee asks. Before Logan can even butt in, you grab his arm, eyes widening slightly,

“I have an idea, do you trust me?”

“I just met you,” he chuckles, as you give his arm a reassuring squeeze, heading over to where the emcee was, whispering into their ear your song choice. Logan's curiosity got the best of him before the start of the song began, Logan instantly recognizing the piano keys, lyrics that he didn’t need popping up on the screen.

You rejoin him up on stage, both of you standing behind the mics sitting on the stands as you glance over at him.

"You know this one?" you ask, covering the mic with your hand. His answer doesn't come by talking, but by singing,

‘Living in my own world,

Didn’t understand…’

A smile graces your face as you look at him while he sings. The group he came from hoots and hollers, his friends evidently unaware of his singing abilities. Your eyes find the group, thinking it's sweet how he had the support from his friends. His voice was smooth like butter, hitting every note perfectly as you look back at him, baffled that this random choice brought someone like him to you. His part ends as you start.

‘I never believed in,

What I couldn’t see…’

He finds himself enamored as you sing, holding the mic with both hands as you look at him with a softness as you sing directly to him. An excited feeling settles in his stomach, hearing your beautiful voice. You both join in together, your voices harmonizing beautifully as the crowd claps and cheers,

‘I know that something has changed,

Never felt this way,

And right here tonight…’

You both start singing the chorus, the comfortability level between the two of you growing as Logan finds himself feeding off your energy, feeling himself relax seeing you so bright and confident on stage. Your bodies slowly angle towards each other, shy smiles finding each other as the tension of the moment grows stronger. Neither of you breaks eye contact until the second verse hits. 

‘Now, who’d have ever thought that, mmm’

Logan faces his body back towards the crowd, taking his jacket off, tossing it to the side of the stage, clearly getting into character. You jokingly roll your eyes and fan him with both hands like he’s too hot (because he definitely is), as you laugh, joining him in singing,

‘We’d both be here tonight, oh, yeah,

And the world looks so much brighter (brighter, brighter),

Oh, with you by my side (by my side)’

Cheers radiate through the bar as you both continue singing, your on-stage chemistry undeniable. Yours and Logan’s friend groups watch you both smiling and laughing as you sing through the second verse, knowing something amazing was being created right in front of their eyes. The crowd can feel it too, the positive energy hyping everyone up even more. 

As the bridge of the song comes up, you take the mic off the stand, Logan doing the same as he steps closer to you as he sings, both of you now facing each other,

‘I never knew that it could happen till it happened to me, oh yeah,’

‘I didn’t know it before, but now it’s easy to see, oh’

The crowd cheers loudly as you nail the high note, Logan’s harmonies blending once again with your voice. Singing through the last chorus, the crowd claps in beat with the music as you sing, both of you bopping to the music, singing directly to each other. Logan taking slow steps towards you as you continue to walk backwards. 

‘I feel in my heart,

That it’s the start-’

Losing your footing for a half second, you feel yourself about to fall backwards, before Logan’s arm wraps around you, hoisting you back up. You laugh lightly as neither of you lose rhythm or lyrics, singing straight through the almost accident. Logan eventually moves his hand from your back to your waist, before dropping it to his side, the action sending butterflies in your stomach. Logan now takes backwards steps, you walking forwards following him as the song reaches the end,

‘And now, looking in your eyes (looking in your eyes),

I feel in my heart (feel in my heart)’

The claps die down, the end of the song slowing down as you and Logan are back to center stage, standing still and singing to each other,

‘The start of something new,

The start of something new,

The start of something new’

The close proximity distracting you both from the crowd getting even louder, everyone on their feet – cheering, pumping fists in the air, clapping. Breaking the intense staring contest you both seemed to be having, you both look out to the crowd, seeing the joy in the room before looking back at each other, large smiles on your faces. 

“Logan,” he says, introducing himself as he holds his hand out. You return the introduction, giving him your name and shaking his hand.

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

note – walk with me here, the concept of turning this into a mini series and every chapter is the title of a high school musical song🤭

He checks his phone again, in hopes that you’ll see his texts and meet him at the door, but he knows how you get once you’re too deep into a project: unaware of the rest of the world, completely locked in, no matter how much your phone buzzes. He drops his head a little, letting out a sigh as he faces reality. It’s time to face his own personal shark tank, best known as the fashion department studio. 

It’s not always like that, really. Logan enjoys watching you work there most times, bringing coffee to the studio when you’re cutting garments, making you take a seat for the first time in hours to show him how every cut is done and how they’ll look, your sketches pretty and clean on your beloved journal. It can be a nice, peaceful place too. But right now, with the entire department working on their final assignments, Logan knows that the studio becomes a mined camp and every misstep of his will be reprimanded, because when deadlines are on the way, fashion people seem to get particularly insane over it — his girlfriend included, of course.

And still, he has to go in. 

It takes roughly five seconds for someone to notice him and call for you across the packed room, “Babe, your knight in jock armor is here!”

Logan watches you snap your head up, face lit up. He almost feels the desperate need to let everyone know that he’s not being obnoxious, storming into the studio for no reason in the middle of final’s week when everyone has a million deadlines and no time to spare. No, he’s here on a mission. 

Thankfully, you make sure of that, “You are an angel,” you say, heading in his direction as your eyes drop to his hands holding your journals, “You have no idea how fucked I’d be without these for my tech pack.”

“I think I have an idea,” he says through a chuckle. 

You look a little manic as you approach him, and Logan wonders if you had a good night of sleep even though the answer is probably no. He moves to offer you a quick hug before handing you the journals, but you outright snatch it from his hands, holding it closer to your chest, “Ah, my babies,” you coo, your eyes closed as you rock left and right.

Logan clears his throat, “You’re welcome.”

You giggle, arms moving around his neck, “Thank you so much, my love,” you press a quick peck to his lips, backing off as soon as you feel his hand on your cheek, “You gotta go, though.” 

He would’ve taken offence if he didn’t know it came from a place of genuine rush. His hands stay in the same spot in your face, thumb moving back and forth, “You look tired, baby.”

You are tired, you think. You haven’t slept at all, and you’re pretty sure (because you stopped counting them after the third one) you’re running on six caffeinated drinks, a stolen Liquid IV from Logan’s closet and a single breakfast muffin so far, having spent the night writing your paper on historical context behind your clothing choices, pages upon pages on French Revolution and how it led to Marie Antoinette becoming a fashion icon. Fun theme, but hours of research and typing needed, and among making sure you have all you need for your presentation — all the fabric you had used, every single pattern named right, the correct measurements and a proper paper, hell fucking yeah you’re tired. 

“And you don’t usually leave your tech pack behind,” Logan adds, his doe eyes running over your face. Fuck, that too, “I knew you were acting weird when you texted me to go get it. This thing’s like– It’s your bible.” 

You chuckle, “Yeah, I know. I didn’t get much sleep,” you watch as Logan’s mouth twinges up a little, not the reaction you are expecting, “What?”

“Sorry, it’s just– I literally just thought that.” 

“Eh, you know me well,” you shrug.

“I do,” he smiles, “And you got the Liquid IV from my things.”

You shake your head in embarrassment, “I did.”

Logan lets out a laugh, “It’s fine. You need food, though, and I’d love to take you for lunch. But I suspect the answer is gonna be a resounding no.”

You give him a forced smile, “Sorry…” you murmur, raising your journals in explanation, “I gotta get the digital sketches done now that I have all the info.”

Logan gently pinches your cheek, dropping his hand and letting you go, “It’s okay. I’ll let you get back to work.” He gives you a final kiss on the forehead, “But I’ll bring you something to eat, how do you feel about Tucker’s pasta salad?”

You feel your stomach rumbling before you can answer, “Yes, thank you. Hey–” He turns to you, and your hand latches to his upper arm, squeezing it, “Thank you so much. Really.”

Logan shrugs, “Just being a dutiful boyfriend,” he says.

“And how does my lovely, dutiful boyfriend feel about staying the night tomorrow?” You say, getting a bit closer as you offer, “We can order take-out and you can help me rehearse for my presentation.”

Logan pretends to dwell on it, laughing as you tug on his arm, “C’mon, even Madonna is mentioned in this one. She wears this gorgeous gown in her Vogue performance—”

“Oh, if we’re talking Madonna,” he says, a twinge of sarcasm in his voice, but you know him just as much as he knows you. Logan likes your presentations, likes the way your mind works, and he always makes sure you know this.

“You say that now, but you’re gonna like it,” you say.

“Of course I am,” he says, “I always do.” 

“And you like Vivienne Westwood,” you say through giggles, knowing exactly how he'll react.

You watch as he turns to you, eyes widened, “Baby, I fucking love Vivienne Westwood. Oh, this is gonna be good.” He says, suddenly invested, “No, forget take out— I’m making you dinner. I’m all in now.” 

You pull him in for a kiss, “Knew it. Now move, I have work to do.”

Logan takes your face between his hands, his face stoney and solemn, “You go and make our girl Viv proud, yeah?” 

notes: thank you for reading! if you're interested in what i had in mind for reader's project as i was writing this, please look up vivienne westwood's 1995 fall/winter collection. likes, reblogs and thoughts are much appreciated! <3

‘’Hi George,’’ you greeted, smiling at the man in his early fifties. 

‘’No clicking noise this time?’’ 

You shook your head. ‘’Car is doing good.’’ 

He wiped his grease-stained hands on a rag before jerking his chin toward the far end of the shop, already knowing you were looking for Logan. ‘’Last bay. He’s been under that Mustang since lunch.’’

‘’Thanks.’’

As you made your way deeper into the garage, familiar sounds filled the space — classic rock humming from an old radio, compressed air hissing, muffled laughter between the mechanics.

You spotted him a second later, half hidden under a red car that looked far too fancy to be here. 

You reached for the creeper and yanked hard, causing him to roll out from under the car, spanner in hand.

‘’What the fu—?’’ Logan trailed off, looking up at you from his perch with his bandana tied over his head and oil smeared on his cheek. ‘’Hey, babe.’’ He smiled, pleased to see you. ‘’Got any car trouble?’’ 

‘’Nope,’’ you replied. ‘’I was just stopping by to see you.’’ 

The garage was thirty minutes from Briar, but you didn't have anything else to do this afternoon. And you secretly loved to see him in his mechanic overalls. Bonus points if it was dirty or open at the chest.

‘’I’m kind of in the middle of something here… Jeffrey was supposed to have this Mustang ready for 3PM, but he called to say something came up and couldn’t come in to finish the job,’’ Logan explained, tired of his unreliable brother. ‘’This client leaves good tip so we can’t afford to lose him.’’ 

You hummed in understanding as he wheeled himself back under the car. 

‘’I get it. But you should tell Jeffrey to go fuck himself.’’ 

Logan snorted. ‘’I wish!’’ 

A familiar tune came on the radio and you found yourself humming to it while Logan worked on the Mustang. Ever so often, he would peek one eye out from under the car, catching your silhouette standing there — patient and pretty in your skirt and flowy blouse —, and it hit him all over again how lucky he was.

‘’You wanna make yourself useful, baby?’’ he asked as the music changed, voice teasing but warm. ‘’Grab me that 10mm socket from the tray?’’

You turned toward the rolling tool cart, scanning the neatly organized sockets until you spotted the 10mm. Picking it up, you walked back to Logan and, with one leg on either side of his body, handed it over to him. 

He rolled out from under the car to grab the tool and swore. ‘’Can you please not stand like that?’’ he said, gesturing to the perfect view up your skirt that you had unintentionally given him. ‘’You know I can’t focus with that pink thong right in my face.’’

A soft laugh left your lips. ‘’Close your eyes.’’

‘’Close your legs.’’

‘’No.’’ You crossed your arms, looking down at him. ‘’You’re looking up my skirt.’’

‘’Because you’re flashing your pussy in my face!’’

The sound of a tool clattering on the concret accompanied by a loud ’Ow, fuck!’ coming from one of the other mechanics echoed in the garage. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but his space was right next to Logan’s so he had heard everything.

‘’You did not just say that… Jesus, this is a garage, kid.’’ 

Logan groaned in embarrassment and moved to roll back under the car.

══════════════════

I stared out the window of the patrol car as we pulled onto Greek Row, the familiar houses blurring together through exhausted eyes. A few hours ago, I'd been walking home from work, thinking about nothing more than getting into pajamas and collapsing into bed. Then someone had grabbed me from behind.

They'd taken my wallet, my phone—everything I had on me. For several terrifying minutes, I was convinced they weren't going to stop there. Even now, my stomach twisted at the memory of their hands on me, the panic that flooded my body as I fought to get away, praying they would leave before they decided to take something I could never get back.

I still couldn't believe I had made it out.

I'd managed to escape long enough to stumble into a nearby restaurant. The employees had rushed to help me, locking the door behind me and calling 911 while I sat there shaking, trying to answer questions through tears.

An ambulance came and checked me over. A blur of bright lights, medical questions, and people telling me I was lucky. They checked me over and eventually cleared me to go to the police station, where I gave my statement and answered every question I could remember how to answer.

Now, a police officer was driving me back to the hockey house.

Back to Logan.

I didn't have my phone anymore, which meant I hadn't answered a single one of his calls or texts. Knowing him, he had been losing his mind. He'd probably called my work, driven around looking for me, and convinced himself something horrible had happened.

This time it had.

The patrol car came to a stop in front of the house.

The porch lights were on.

I swallowed hard.

"You want me to walk you to the door?" the officer asked gently.

I looked at the front entrance, suddenly feeling much smaller than I had all night.

"I..." My voice shook. "I don't think I can do it by myself."

He nodded immediately.

"Of course."

He stepped out first, waiting until I was steady before walking beside me up the driveway.

The front door opened before we even reached the steps.

"Y/N?"

Logan's voice cracked.

He was standing there with his phone still in his hand, like he hadn't put it down in hours. Behind him were Dean, Tucker, and Garrett, all of them frozen in place.

The relief on Logan's face lasted less than a second.

Then he saw me.

The bruises.

His expression completely changed.

"Oh my God. What happened?"

I looked to the officer, silently asking him to spare me from explaining it again.

The officer gave them a moment before speaking.

"I'm Officer Miller.”

The officer continued, keeping his voice calm.

"Y/n was mugged while walking home from work tonight. She was able to get away and make it to a nearby restaurant, where they called emergency services."

Logan's face went pale.

"She's been checked over by EMTs," the officer added quickly. "She's medically cleared. The injuries are mostly bruises, but she should take it easy tonight and follow up if anything changes."

Garrett let out a shaky breath.

Dean's expression hardened.

"Did they catch who did this?"

"Not yet," the officer said honestly. "The report has been filed, and detectives will follow up with her. Right now, the important thing is that she's somewhere safe."

His eyes shifted back to me.

"You did everything right tonight. You got away, you found help, and you reported it."

I nodded, but I couldn't find my voice.

The officer looked back at the guys.

"Make sure she isn't alone tonight. She may feel fine physically, but after something like this, the adrenaline wears off, and things can hit harder later."

Logan immediately nodded.

"She won't be alone."

"I figured she wouldn't be."

The officer gave me one last reassuring look.

"If you need anything, the number on your paperwork will connect you with the department. Don't hesitate to call."

"Thank you," I whispered.

He nodded and walked back toward the patrol car.

The four of them stayed silent until the car pulled away.

Then Logan looked at me again.

And the fear he'd been holding onto all night finally broke through.

He didn't know what to say.

For once, Logan—who always had something to say, some joke to break the tension, some reassurance ready before anyone even asked for it—was completely silent.

His eyes kept moving over me.

Not in a way that made me uncomfortable.

In a way that made my heart ache.

Like he was trying to piece together what had happened. Like he was searching for every injury, every sign that I was hurt worse than I was admitting. His eyes flickered over the bandage on my arm, the bruising along my face, the exhaustion written all over me.

Like he was trying to convince himself I was really standing in front of him.

That I was alive.

That I was okay.

"Logan..." I whispered.

His lips parted, but nothing came out.

He looked like he wanted to ask a hundred questions.

Who did this?

Were you scared?

Did they hurt you?

Why didn't you call me?

But he didn't ask any of them.

Because he knew.

My phone was gone.

I was standing there shaking.

And whatever answers he wanted, he knew I probably wasn't ready to give them.

Garrett stepped forward quietly, breaking the silence.

"Let's go inside."

His voice was gentle, steady—the kind of voice you used when someone was barely holding themselves together.

Nobody argued.

Logan immediately moved to my side, but he still hesitated before reaching for me.

That hesitation hurt more than anything.

Because normally, Logan was the person who hugged first and asked questions later.

But tonight, he didn't assume.

He waited.

I gave the smallest nod.

Only then did his hand gently settle against my back.

Not holding me tightly.

Not trapping me.

Just reminding me he was there.

The four of them surrounded me as we walked inside, the familiar warmth of the hockey house hitting me all at once.

The same place I'd left hours ago.

The same place that suddenly felt completely different.

Dean shut the door behind us, locking it before turning around.

Tucker immediately grabbed a blanket from the couch.

Garrett disappeared toward the kitchen, probably looking for water or something I might be able to eat.

And Logan stayed right beside me.

Like if he looked away for even a second, I might disappear again.

"Do you need anything?" he finally asked, his voice rough.

I looked at him.

At the fear he wasn't hiding anymore.

At the guilt he was already carrying for something that wasn't his fault.

And all I could manage was the truth.

"I just don't want to be alone."

Logan's expression broke.

"You won't be."

He didn't hesitate this time.

"I promise."

The first few days were the hardest.

Not because of the bruises.

Those were healing.

The headache that had followed me home eventually disappeared.

Everyone kept asking about the physical injuries because those were the ones they could see.

The ones they could understand.

But the hardest parts weren't visible.

It was the way I stopped walking anywhere alone.

The way I flinched when someone came up behind me too quickly.

The way my entire body went tense whenever I heard footsteps getting too close.

The way I stared at my bedroom door every night, even though I knew it was locked.

Logan noticed everything.

Of course he did.

He noticed when I stopped sleeping through the night.

He noticed when I started checking the locks three times before bed.

He noticed when I would go quiet in the middle of a conversation because something had pulled me back to that night.

He never pushed.

That was the thing I loved most about him.

He never made me talk before I was ready.

He just stayed.

The first night after I came home, he slept on the floor beside my bed.

Not because I asked him to.

Because when I woke up from a nightmare, gasping and shaking, he was already there.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

His eyes opened immediately.

"What are you sorry for?"

"I woke you up."

His expression softened.

"Y/N."

I looked away.

"I just... I don't want to be this person."

Logan sat up slowly.

"What person?"

"The person everyone has to worry about."

His face tightened.

"You think that's what you are?"

I didn't answer.

Because maybe I did.

Maybe I felt like I had become this fragile thing everyone had to protect.

Logan moved closer, sitting beside the bed.

"You know what I was worried about that night?"

I looked at him.

"I wasn't worried because you were a burden."

His voice was quiet.

"I was worried because I love you."

The words settled heavily between us.

"I spent hours not knowing where you were. Not knowing if you were hurt. Not knowing if you were safe."

He swallowed.

"And then you showed up at that door, and all I could think was, 'She's here.'"

My eyes burned.

"You're not something I have to deal with, Y/N."

He reached out slowly, giving me the chance to move away.

I didn't.

"You're someone I choose."

The guys handled it in their own ways.

Dean got angry.

Not at me.

Never at me.

But at the idea that someone had hurt me and he couldn't do anything about it.

He started walking me home from class when Logan couldn't. He checked in constantly but pretended he wasn't.

"You eaten?" became his version of "Are you okay?"

Tucker tried to make things normal.

He would sit with me in the living room while everyone watched movies, even when I barely paid attention. He'd make stupid comments just to get me to roll my eyes.

"You know, this house was already full of dramatic hockey players," he'd joke. "We didn't need you joining the club."

And somehow, that helped.

Garrett was the quietest.

Maybe because he understood what it felt like to have something happen that changed the way you saw the world.

He never told me I should be over it.

He never said I was lucky and left it at that.

He just sat beside me when the memories got too loud.

One night, I found him in the kitchen making tea.

"You okay?" he asked.

I shrugged.

"I don't know."

He nodded like that was a perfectly acceptable answer.

"I know that feeling."

I looked at him.

"The worst part isn't what happened," he said quietly.

"It's realizing the world kept moving afterward."

My throat tightened.

Because that was exactly it.

Everyone else went back to normal.

Classes.

Practices.

Games.

Life.

But a part of me was still standing on that sidewalk.

A few weeks later, Logan found me sitting on the front steps of the hockey house.

It was where I had been dropped off that night.

The place where everything changed.

He sat beside me without saying anything.

For a while, we just watched people walking across campus.

"You know," he said eventually, "you don't have to prove you're okay."

I looked down.

"I know."

"Do you?"

I smiled faintly.

"Maybe not."

He bumped his shoulder against mine.

"That's okay."

The silence returned.

Then I whispered, "I hate that he still gets to be part of my life."

Logan looked at me.

"The person who did this."

I nodded.

"I hate that he gets to take up space in my head."

Logan was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, "Maybe right now he does."

I looked at him.

"But eventually?"

He squeezed my hand.

"Eventually, he becomes a memory you survived."

My eyes filled.

Not because I believed him completely.

Not yet.

But because I wanted to.

You reached for the saline, irrigating the wound carefully while she winced only slightly. She was somewhere in her late seventies, maybe early eighties. Sharp as a tack despite the pain medication, endlessly chatty, and reminding you so much of your grandmother.

"So," she asked after a comfortable silence, watching you work. "How long have you worked here?"

"Long enough to know which patients I need to keep my eye on." You glanced up with a wink. "And you're at the top of today's list."

"Oh, you're wicked."

You finished flushing the wound before drying the surrounding skin, laying out your suture kit with practiced efficiency. Needle driver. Forceps. Scissors. Suture. Mrs Clark watched every movement with surprising interest.

"So," you already recognised that tone. “Are you seeing anyone?"

Your hands paused for a second before continuing.

"Straight to the important questions?"

"At my age," she replied matter-of-factly, "I don't waste time."

"Fair enough."

"So?"

"I'm seeing someone."

Her entire face brightened.

"Oh, good."

You found yourself smiling as you picked up the first stitch.

"Very good, actually."

"How long?"

You thought for a moment, eyes fixed on bringing the edges of the wound neatly together.

"About six months now."

"And?"

"And," you admitted quietly, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips, "he's wonderful."

Mrs Clark's eyes sparkled.

"You’ve got that smile."

You frowned, though it lacked any conviction.

"What smile?"

"The one a woman gets when she's completely smitten."

Heat crept into your cheeks.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I think you do."

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head.

"He's," you threaded another stitch through the skin. "He's just a good man."

"What does he do?"

You hesitated.

"We work together. He’s a doctor here.”

Mrs Clark nodded knowingly.

"Does that make things easier or harder?"

You couldn't help chuckling.

"Both."

"How so?"

You looked down at the wound, concentrating on keeping your stitches evenly spaced.

"He worries too much."

"About you?"

You smiled to yourself.

"He'd deny it, but yes."

"And you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you worry about him?"

Your fingers continued to move in a steady rhythm.

"Constantly."

The word slipped out before you had the chance to soften it. Mrs Clark's smile softened into something almost maternal.

"Oh, sweetheart."

Before you could recover, two familiar knocks sounded against the door. 

"Come in."

The door swung open, Robby stepped inside, rubbing freshly dispensed sanitiser between his hands.

"I heard you were hiding in here."

"I'm working," you corrected without looking up.

"So you claim."

He wandered over, stopping just beside your shoulder. Not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that you became acutely aware of his presence. He leaned slightly to inspect the repair.

"You mind if I watch?"

You smiled.

"You checking my work?"

"I'm supervising."

"Uh-huh."

He watched quietly for a moment, his eyes following the precise rhythm of your hands.

"Hm."

You glanced sideways.

"Hm, good or hm, concerning?"

"The spacing's good."

You looked back at the wound before he could see how ridiculously pleased that made you.

"High praise."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"I'll try."

Mrs Clark had gone suspiciously quiet. Her eyes drifted between the two of you. The way Robby instinctively moved closer whenever you shifted position. The way you made room for him without either of you acknowledging it. The comfortable silence that settled whenever neither of you spoke. A slow smile spread across her face.

"Ah."

You frowned.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing."

She looked directly at Robby.

"So you're the one she worries about."

Your hand froze for the briefest second.

"Mrs Clark."

"What?" she asked innocently. "I only repeated what she told me."

Robby looked at her first.

"She said that?"

"Word for word."

Only then did he turn to you. There was no teasing in his expression at first. Just quiet surprise.

"You worry about me?"

You looked back at Mrs Clark with a shake of your head.

"I was under the impression doctor-patient confidentiality applied."

Mrs Clark burst into laughter.

"I don't think that's how it works my dear." Robby chuckled, folding his arms loosely across his chest. You tied the final knot before snipping the suture.

"There."

You reached for the dressing, smoothing it into place.

"All finished." Mrs Clark watched the pair of you with open delight.

"She's blushing."

You groaned, finally looking up at Robby, and he was smiling. Not the amused grin he wore with most people. Something softer, something only for you. Your stomach performed an embarrassing little flip.

Mrs Clark clasped her hands together.

"Oh, I like the two of you. How long have you two been married?"

You couldn't help laughing.

"We're not married," Robby said, his voice gentle. Mrs Clark frowned thoughtfully and you shook your head. She hummed to herself, lips twitching. You knew that look. She knew exactly what she was doing.

"You knew perfectly well we weren't married, Mrs Clark." 

Mrs Clark's smile softened as she looked at the pair of you.

"The way he watches you, my Harold used to look at me like that."

The teasing disappeared from her voice. She nodded towards Robby.

Without meaning to, you looked up and Robby was already looking at you. The moment your eyes met, he cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the suture tray.

"Forty-eight years."

She folded her hands in her lap.

"Didn't matter if we were in church, or at home reading the newspaper. When I asked what he was looking at, he'd say, 'Just making sure you're real.'"

The treatment room fell quiet. Then she looked directly at Robby.

"I haven't seen that look in a long time." She smiled again, entirely unbothered, "Don't keep her waiting too long. I had forty-eight years with my husband." She looked at the wedding ring she still wore. "It still wasn't enough."

Even Robby had no witty reply.

Your stomach twisted. You dropped your gaze immediately, fussing with the dressing even though it was already sitting perfectly.

A ring, marriage. You'd never really let yourself picture it. Not because you didn't want it, but because you'd always quietly assumed Robby didn't. He'd never talked about weddings or forever or any of it. He wasn't exactly the daydreaming type, and you'd made your peace with that months ago. Being with him was enough. The last thing you ever wanted was for him to think you expected something he didn't want.

Beside you, Robby noticed the way you'd gone quiet. The smile had vanished from your face. Your shoulders had tightened ever so slightly. He felt something sink in his chest.

Mrs Clark looked between the two of you, her smile fading just a touch.

"Have I put my foot in it?"

"No," you and Robby answered together.

She sighed dramatically.

"Oh, dear."

You finally looked at Robby. He met your eyes for just a second. Both of you wore almost identical expressions, thoughtful and uncertain.

You had always imagined getting married. Not in the ‘I've planned every detail since I was twelve’ kind of way. Just one day, finding your person and standing in front of the people you loved. Promising forever. You had stopped picturing who that person might be years ago. Until Robby. Then he had taken the place that always belonged to him. You'd imagined wearing his ring. Growing old together. Then, just as quickly, you'd forced yourself to stop. Because he had never talked about marriage. Not once. Not when conversations drifted toward the future. Not when colleagues announced engagements.

You had taken the hint. He was older than you, he had built a life before you came into it. Maybe he had already decided marriage wasn't for him. Maybe he had seen too many relationships fall apart. Maybe he simply didn't need a piece of paper to prove how he felt. And that was ok, it had to be ok. Because you loved him. You weren't about to lose him over something he'd never promised you.

You felt Robby watching you for the rest of the shift. He had been quiet all afternoon. Not withdrawn, just somewhere else. Every time your paths crossed, he smiled politely. Professionally. Then he kept walking. It felt wrong.

When your shift finally ended, you were halfway through changing out of your scrubs when you heard a knock on the locker room door.

"You decent?" Robby. He stepped inside, already changed into jeans and his navy zip up, his keys twirling lazily around one finger. You quickly finished the knot in your laces before standing to sling your bag over your shoulder.

"You ready?"

“I want to talk to you first.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

"I knew that was coming."

He leaned lightly against the row of lockers opposite you.

"Mrs Clark."

You groaned.

"Please don't."

"I think we have to."

You dropped your eyes.

“It doesn’t have to be awkward Robby, we can just let it go.”

“No, I want to talk about it. I want us to be on the same page.”

You knew he was right, even if you did want to bury your head in the sand. You nodded, giving in. 

“When she mentioned it, us being married, you looked uncomfortable.” It sounded more like a question, like he wanted confirmation. 

"I was embarrassed."

He took a slow breath.

"I know. I saw it on your face."

“Robby, I just didn’t want you thinking I assumed anything. I don’t want you to feel like I’m expecting more than what you’re happy to give.”

His brow furrowed.

"What do you mean?"

"You've never talked about marriage."

He said nothing, just continued to watch you thoughtfully.

"I know it’s not something you see in your future, or our future," you continued quietly, “and that’s ok. Because if it isn’t something you want, then I don’t want to lose you over it.”

His expression changed immediately.

"It isn't a deal breaker for me." You smiled gently.

His face morphed into something softer, the avoidant Robby from before disappeared. 

"You think that I don't want to marry you?" You couldn’t find the words to speak. You didn’t think Robby wanted to marry you, and you had tried to make peace with that. But to say it outloud, sounded like something you weren’t ready to hear.

“Listen to me,” he reached for your hand, “I know we've only been together a relatively short time." He was speaking carefully now. "And I don't want a comment from a patient making you think there's any pressure. But I want you to know, I have every intention of marrying you some day.”

You stared at him and for a full five seconds, your brain simply stopped. Then your eyes went impossibly wide.

“Really?”

The word came out in a tiny, almost disbelieving squeak. Something in Robby’s chest loosened. A smile spread slowly across his face, completely unguarded. He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore.

"Really."

Your hands flew to his forearms.

"No, but," you shook your head, searching his face. "You’re serious?"

"I’m serious."

A nervous laugh escaped you.

"You want to marry me?"

"I do."

Your entire face lit up. It wasn't just a smile, it was pure, unfiltered joy. The kind that reached your eyes before it reached your mouth. The kind you couldn't possibly fake.

"Oh my God." You laughed once, completely breathless. "Oh my God."

You bounced once on the balls of your feet before throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you automatically, chuckling as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

"You have no idea how happy you've just made me."

"I think I do."

"No, you don't!"

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your grin so wide your cheeks were beginning to ache.

“I didn’t think it bothered me that much, I've spent months telling myself I was perfectly happy never getting married because I had you. And now you're telling me," your smile somehow became even brighter, "that I get both?"

He smiled, unable to look away from you. You knew you weren’t the only one who had become giddy. Robby just wore it differently. Your excitement came out in your laughter, his came out in the quiet smiles and warm hands that didn’t let go of yours.

Mrs. Clark had been right. Every time you looked up, Robby was already looking at you. Not staring, just looking. Like he was taking it all in. 

"You know," he said as you climbed in the car, "your face might get stuck like that." He laughed under his breath, closing your door before walking around to the driver's side.

The moment he sat down, you looked at him again and he reached across and squeezed your hand. You tried to bite your lip to stop yourself grinning. It didn't work.

"You should probably prepare yourself, you know."

"For what?"

He turned on the engine and pulled out of the parking space with suspicious calm.

"I could ask you at any moment now."

Your head whipped towards him.

"What?"

He kept his eyes on the road, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Could be tonight."

You stared.

"Could be next week."

"Robby."

"I just think it's important you stay alert.” He shrugged with exaggerated seriousness. "Could happen in the grocery store."

You snorted.

"The grocery store?"

"You would be loading up the cart, turn around and there I am. Down on one knee. You'd never see it coming."

He glanced sideways at you, gripping your hand and bringing it to his lips and kissed your knuckles.

Logan fixed my car, so the least I could do was buy him a beer.

That was the deal.

A beer for fixing my brakes.

Somehow, that turned into tutoring him through a class I’d already aced the semester before. One study session became another, and before long we were finding excuses to spend time together.

Logan was good at a lot of things.

Hockey.

Listening.

Making people feel like the only person in the room.

Keeping secrets, apparently.

Which was ironic because he was absolutely terrible at lying.

He once tried to convince his roommate he hadn’t eaten the last slice of pizza while actively holding the empty pizza box.

We developed an effortless banter and a connection that felt less like something new and more like we’d somehow skipped straight to years of knowing each other.

We kept our relationship to ourselves.

Not because we were ashamed of it.

Mostly because Jules would have plastered it across every social media platform before we’d even told our families, and neither of us needed that kind of chaos.

The strange part was that I wasn’t exactly a stranger to Logan’s world.

I had been friends with Allie and Hannah before Hannah started dating Garrett, so I already knew his friends. I knew the hockey house. I knew the stories behind the names Logan mentioned.

Honestly, the boys could have caught us a hundred times if they had paid attention.

They missed the shared glances when I served them drinks.

They missed the subtle touches during movie nights.

They missed the fact that Logan somehow always ended up sitting beside me.

Not hiding.

Just unnoticed.

Which, honestly, said a lot more about them than it did about us.

It almost fell apart at the annual youth hockey fundraiser.

After Logan told me the fundraiser was the reason he’d been able to play hockey as a kid—that without it, he never would have earned the opportunities that eventually led him to Briar—I threw myself into making it successful.

I helped secure silent auction donations, designed flyers, coordinated with local businesses, and did whatever needed to be done.

Because the truth was, without that fundraiser, Logan and I never would have met.

So naturally, when the venue fell through two weeks before the event, I did what any reasonable person would do.

I begged my aunt to let us take over her bar.

Malone’s.

When the night finally arrived, the place was packed wall to wall. Between serving drinks and helping my aunt behind the bar, I barely had time to breathe.

Then, about thirty minutes into the event, Dean climbed onto the stage.

“And let’s hear it for my buddy John Logan for putting this whole thing together!” he announced to a chorus of applause.

Logan immediately looked concerned.

“Look at him,” Dean continued. “It doesn’t get any better looking than that. And he’s single, ladies.”

If only he knew.

Dean’s grin widened as whistles erupted through the crowd.

“Seriously. He’s house-trained, he’s got all his teeth, and he only cries after playoff losses.”

Laughter rolled through Malone’s.

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Across the room, Logan looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him.

“Oh, come on,” Dean called. “Don’t act shy now.”

Logan rubbed the back of his neck.

“I hate you.”

“No, you love me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“Same thing.”

The crowd laughed again.

Aunt Della watched me stare across the room.

“You know, honey, subtlety is usually more effective when you aren’t smiling like someone just handed you a winning lottery ticket.”

I looked away.

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You were practically writing his name in your head with a heart around it.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“I own a bar. I have seen people make worse decisions over tequila.”

I rolled my eyes but looked back anyway.

Logan was thanking sponsors while Dean continued embarrassing him, but somehow, like he could feel me watching, his eyes found mine.

Just for a second.

His smile softened.

Not the polite smile he gave donors.

Not the grin he wore with his teammates.

The one that was only mine.

Then, remembering where we were, he looked away.

Aunt Della hummed.

“Oh, he’s gone.”

“What?”

“He looks at you the same way.”

I ducked my head, trying and failing not to smile.

“I guess we’re not as subtle as we thought.”

“Oh, everyone who matters knows.”

Before I could ask what that meant, a woman in her twenties walked straight up to Logan.

Confident.

Beautiful.

She laughed at something he said before lightly touching his arm.

Dean, because apparently he enjoyed making Logan suffer, practically shoved him toward her.

“There you go, buddy!” he called. “See? I told you the ladies would come!”

My stomach twisted.

Logan looked horrified.

Then he looked toward the bar.

Toward me.

Our eyes met.

I raised an eyebrow.

His expression clearly translated to:

Please save me.

I laughed.

He sighed dramatically before turning back.

“I’m really sorry,” he said kindly. “I’m flattered, but I’m actually seeing someone.”

Dean froze.

“...What?”

The woman blinked.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No worries.”

She walked away.

Dean stared.

“Since when?”

Logan shrugged.

“For a while.”

“A while as in?”

Logan smiled.

“Months.”

Dean looked personally betrayed.

“You’ve been hiding a girlfriend from us?”

“It wasn’t exactly intentional.”

“Bull.”

Dean grabbed Logan by the shoulder and dragged him toward the booth where Garrett, Tucker, and Beau were sitting.

“Did any of you know about Logan’s secret girlfriend?”

Garrett blinked.

“...What?”

Tucker looked between them.

“Since when?”

“Months,” Logan answered.

Garrett laughed.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

Garrett shook his head.

“That’s actually impressive.”

“It is not impressive,” Dean argued. “It’s suspicious.”

Logan laughed.

“How is that suspicious?”

“Because none of us have met her.”

“You’ve probably walked past her.”

Dean narrowed his eyes.

“What does that mean?”

Logan immediately realized his mistake.

“...Nothing.”

“Oh, no.” Dean pointed at him. “You don’t get to ‘nothing’ me.”

Beau leaned forward.

“Does she go to Briar?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Is she in our year?” Garrett asked.

“No comment.”

Dean snapped his fingers.

“I knew it.”

“You know literally nothing,” Tucker said.

“I know she’s someone we’ve seen before.”

Garrett looked at Logan.

“Why keep her secret?”

Logan’s expression softened.

“Because we wanted something that was ours before the rest of the world got involved.”

The answer actually silenced Dean.

“...Okay.”

Everyone looked at him.

“That’s actually kind of sweet.”

Tucker nodded.

“I hate that that’s a good answer.”

Dean sighed.

“But you’re still introducing us.”

“When we’re ready.”

Dean looked devastated.

“I can’t believe I have to wait.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Barely.”

From behind the bar, I shook my head.

Because apparently I enjoyed making bad decisions, I grabbed a tray and loaded it with their next round.

“You’re going over there?” Aunt Della asked.

“I work here,” I said. “Kind of hard to avoid customers.”

She smiled knowingly.

“Sure.”

I rolled my eyes and walked toward the table.

Dean was still interrogating Logan.

“There had to be signs!”

“There were,” Logan said.

“We missed all of them?”

“Apparently.”

I set a drink in front of Garrett.

“Thanks,” he said distractedly.

One by one, I placed the drinks around the table.

Dean accepted his without looking up.

“Tucker, back me up here. There’s no way someone dates John Logan for months without us noticing.”

Tucker took a sip.

“I don’t know. We didn’t notice when Beau bought a new truck for three weeks.”

“I parked it in the driveway,” Beau defended.

“Exactly.”

Finally, I reached Logan.

Our fingers brushed as he took the glass.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

“You're welcome,” I replied, keeping my voice professional.

To everyone else, it was nothing.

To us, it took every ounce of self-control not to smile.

I turned away.

Dean finally looked up.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“My pleasure.”

As I walked away, I could practically feel Logan trying not to laugh.

Little did Dean know.

He had just thanked Logan’s mystery girlfriend.

And somehow, that was only the beginning.

We made it another two weeks. Which, honestly, was a miracle. Because Dean had officially become a private investigator.

At this point, I was pretty sure he had spent more time trying to identify Logan’s mystery girlfriend than he had studying for his actual classes.

He had theories.

A lot of theories.

According to Dean, she was either:

Someone from Briar he had somehow never met.

Someone from another school who was “mysterious and therefore suspicious.”

“A government witness Logan, is hiding.”

Or, his personal favorite:

“Imaginary.”

“I am telling you,” Dean announced one night in the hockey house, dropping into the chair across from Logan, “there is no way this girl is real.”

Logan didn’t even look up from his laptop.

“She’s real.”

“That’s exactly what someone with a fake girlfriend would say.”

Tucker looked up from his phone.

“How does that make any sense?”

“It makes perfect sense.”

“It really doesn’t.”

Dean ignored him.

“Think about it. Months. Months, Logan. And not one person has seen her.”

Logan took a sip of his drink, fighting a smile.

“Maybe you’re just not as observant as you think.”

Dean pointed at him.

“That attitude is exactly why I’m suspicious.”

I sat beside Logan, pretending to focus on my homework while listening to this conversation for what was probably the hundredth time.

The funniest part?

Dean wasn’t completely wrong.

He really hadn’t noticed.

Not because Logan was hiding me.

Because every time Dean looked, I was just another person in the room.

The girl helping with the fundraiser.

The person grabbing coffee at the student center.

The friend of a friend he’d said hi to in passing.

He knew me.

He just didn’t know he knew me.

By the end of the week, Dean had taken things too far.

Naturally.

He had a list.

In his notes app.

And he called the girls on it “suspects.”

Logan nearly choked on his drink when he found out.

“You have what?”

“A list.”

Tucker leaned over to look.

“Why?”

“Because I need to know who she is.”

“Why?”

Dean ignored him and scrolled through the note.

“I’ve narrowed it down.”

I looked over at Logan.

He was already looking at me.

Both of us were fighting a losing battle not to laugh.

“Okay,” Logan said. “Who are your suspects?”

Dean straightened.

“First, Sarah from my economics class.”

“Why?”

“She asked me if Logan was single.”

Logan stared.

“That was six months ago.”

“Exactly. And you’ve been dating mystery girl for months.”

“You’re insane.”

“Second, the girl who works at the coffee shop.”

“Why?”

“She knows your order.”

“Everyone knows my order.”

Dean pointed at him.

“Exactly.”

I covered my mouth with my hand.

This was getting ridiculous.

“And third…”

Dean paused dramatically.

Everyone looked over.

“One of the puck bunnies. I just haven’t figured out which one yet.”

Beau shook his head.

“Maybe stop investigating your friend’s personal life.”

Dean didn’t even hesitate.

“Never.”

And that was when Logan decided he’d had enough.

Not because he was annoyed.

Because he was smiling.

The kind of smile he got when he knew something everyone else didn’t.

“Dean.”

“What?”

“You want to meet her that badly?”

Dean immediately sat up straighter.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

The room went quiet.

“Okay?” Tucker repeated.

Logan nodded.

“Yeah.”

Then he reached over and grabbed my hand.

Dean’s face went completely blank.

Not confused.

Not shocked.

Blank.

Like his brain had stopped working.

His eyes dropped to our hands.

Then slowly lifted to my face.

“No.”

I couldn’t help laughing.

Dean pointed at me.

“No.”

Logan grinned.

“Dean—”

“No.”

“She’s been here the whole time.”

The silence lasted exactly two seconds.

Then:

“You?”

I smiled.

“Me.”

Dean looked between us.

“You are the mystery girlfriend?”

“Apparently.”

“You?”

I laughed.

“Still me.”

He stood so quickly his chair scraped against the floor.

“I HAVE BEEN INVESTIGATING YOU.”

The room exploded.

Tucker was laughing.

Beau was shaking his head.

Even Garrett, who had been quiet through the entire thing, was smiling.

Logan just looked proud.

Dean looked personally betrayed.

“You let me make a suspect list.”

“You did that on your own.”

“You let me accuse a coffee shop employee.”

“You said she was suspicious because she knew my drink order.”

“THAT WAS A VALID LEAD.”

I laughed harder.

Dean turned toward Logan.

“And you.”

“Me?”

Dean opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Then sighed.

“...I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Logan said.

Dean dropped back into his chair.

“No. I don’t.”

Then he looked at me.

“Can I just say something?”

“Sure.”

“I am deeply offended that you have been bringing me drinks this entire time and didn’t tell me.”

I smiled.

“You never asked.”

The room exploded again.

Logan laughed beside me.

“You okay?”

Dean sighed dramatically.

“No.”

A pause.

“My entire detective career is over.”

“You didn’t have a detective career.”

Dean looked offended.

“I had a notes app.”

“That’s worse.”

The applause sounded distant. Muted.

Y/N barely heard it over the pounding of her own heartbeat as she glided to the center of the ice for her final pose.

She already knew.

The mistake had happened barely forty seconds into the program.

One step.

One wrong step.

She’d entered the combination from the wrong edge, forcing her to improvise nearly twenty seconds of choreography she’d practiced thousands of times. Most people in the audience probably hadn’t noticed.

The judges had.

More importantly her father had.

By the time she stepped off the ice, her medal hopes had disappeared.

Commentators praised how well she’d recovered from the mistake.

Fans asked for photos.

Young skaters wished her luck next season.

Y/N smiled automatically through all of it.

She knew exactly what was waiting behind the scenes.

Phil Graham didn’t say a single word during scoring.

He simply stood. Turned. Walked toward the restricted hallway leading to the locker rooms.

“Y/N.”

His voice wasn’t loud.

It never had to be.

She followed.

—

The hallway was nearly empty. Only the distant hum of the arena echoed through the concrete corridors.

Phil stopped outside an unused dressing room. The second the door shut behind them, he rounded on her.

“What,” he asked quietly, “was that?”

Y/N kept her eyes lowered.

“I lost my timing.”

“You forgot the choreography.”

“I recovered.”

“You forgot.”

His voice sharpened on the last word.

“I know.”

“No.” He stepped closer. “You don’t.”

“I practiced it…”

“You embarrassed me.”

Y/N swallowed. “It was one section.”

“One section?”

His laugh held no humor.

“You think sponsors remember the clean triple after you butcher the program?”

“I’m sorry.”

“There it is.” Another step. “Always sorry.”

She instinctively took one backward.

Phil noticed.

“Oh, don’t start acting scared now.”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“And I said sorry doesn’t win competitions.”

His hand shot out. Not striking. Grabbing.

His fingers wrapped painfully around her wrist. Hard.

“So maybe you’ll remember this next time.”

Pain shot up her arm. “Dad…”

“You want to skate professionally?” His grip tightened until she winced. “Then start acting like one.”

“Dad… you’re hurting me.”

“Good.”

Her eyes watered.

“Maybe pain is the only thing you’ll remember.”

She tried pulling away. His grip only became tighter.

“Stop moving.”

“I can’t…”

“You forgot twenty seconds of choreography because you got emotional.”

“I slipped.”

“You panicked.”

“I adjusted!”

“You failed.”

He yanked her forward.

The force knocked her off balance, sending her crashing against his chest before he shoved her back upright again.

Her wrist throbbed violently now.

“Dad…”

“Look at me.”

She couldn’t.

He grabbed her chin with his free hand.

“I said…”

The dressing-room door slammed open.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Both of them turned.

Logan stood in the doorway.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, like he’d sprinted the entire length of the arena.

His eyes landed on Phil’s hand gripping Y/N’s wrist. Then on the tears she’d clearly been trying to blink away.

Something in Logan’s expression changed.

Not anger.

Something colder.

More dangerous.

“Let her go.”

Phil barely looked at him.

“This is none of your business.”

“The second you put your hands on her…” Logan took one step into the room. “…it became my business.”

Y/N had never seen him look like this.

Logan was usually easy smiles and sarcastic comments. Quick to laugh. Quick to forgive.

That man wasn’t standing in front of her anymore. This Logan looked absolutely livid.

Phil scoffed.

“Stay out of family matters.”

Logan’s jaw tightened.

“I’ll stay out of your coaching.”

Another step.

“I’ll stay out of your parenting.”

Another.

“But you don’t get to hurt her.”

Phil’s fingers remained locked around Y/N’s wrist.

“I said let go.”

“Or what?”

Logan didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze stayed fixed on Phil’s hand.

When he finally spoke, his voice was terrifyingly calm.

“Take.”

A beat.

“Your hand.”

Another.

“Off.”

His eyes finally met Phil’s.

“My girlfriend.”

Silence stretched between them.

Phil sneered.

“She’s my daughter.”

“And she’s standing here telling you you’re hurting her.”

The words landed like a punch.

Y/N hadn’t even realized she’d said them out loud.

Phil looked back at her.

“You’ve got him fighting your battles now?”

Before she could answer another voice echoed down the hallway.

“Y/N?”

Garrett.

The three of them turned just as he reached the doorway.

He stopped.

His hockey bag slipped from his shoulder onto the floor.

His eyes immediately found Phil’s grip on Y/N’s wrist.

His sister’s watery eyes. The fear written across her face.

Garrett didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in three long strides.

“What the fuck?”

Phil released her only when Garrett physically stepped between them.

Y/N stumbled backward.

Logan caught her before she could lose her balance.

“You okay?” he asked immediately, his voice changing in an instant.

Gentle.

Soft.

She nodded automatically.

Logan looked down.

Her wrist was already reddening. Angry fingerprints wrapped around it.

His stomach twisted. “You call this okay?”

Y/N instinctively pulled her arm behind her back.

“It’s fine.”

“The hell it is.”

Garrett turned slowly toward Phil. His expression was unreadable. Which somehow made it worse.

“What happened?”

Phil shrugged. “She needed correcting.”

Garrett laughed once.

Short.

Disbelieving.

“You grabbed her hard enough to leave bruises,” Logan spoke.

“She embarrassed herself.”

“No,” Garrett said quietly.

“You embarrassed yourself.”

Phil’s face darkened. “Watch your mouth.”

“No.”

Garrett took one deliberate step forward, “You watch yours.”

Logan felt Y/N trembling beside him.

Without saying anything, he reached for her hand.

Not the injured one.

The other.

His fingers threaded carefully through hers.

She held on immediately. Like she’d been waiting for permission.

Logan squeezed once.

“I’m right here,” he murmured without taking his eyes off Phil.

She nodded, breathing unevenly.

Logan continued.

“You don’t get to touch her.”

“I’m her father.”

“You’re supposed to protect her.”

The hallway fell silent.

Phil looked from Garrett to Logan standing protectively in front of Y/N to his daughter, who had unconsciously moved closer to Logan.

For the first time all afternoon, she wasn’t standing beside her father. She was standing behind someone else.

Phil’s jaw clenched. “This conversation isn’t over.”

“It is,” Logan said.

Phil looked at him.

Logan didn’t look away. “If you ever put your hands on her again…” His voice remained steady, but there was enough steel in it that even Y/N felt herself go still. “…you won’t have to worry about whether I’m her boyfriend.” A long pause. “You’ll have to worry about me.”

No shouting.

No threats dressed up as bravado.

Just a quiet promise from someone who meant every word.

Phil held his stare for several tense seconds.

Then, with one last glare, he shoved past Garrett and disappeared down the hallway.

The door swung shut behind him.

Silence.

Y/N hadn’t realized she was shaking until Logan turned toward her completely.

His anger vanished the instant he looked at her.

“Hey.”

He lifted his free hand slowly.

Giving her every chance to pull away.

Instead, she stepped into him.

He wrapped his arms around her carefully.

“You’re okay,” he whispered into her hair.

“I’ve got you.”

Garrett moved beside them, resting a gentle hand on the back of his sister’s shoulder.

Caught safely between her brother and the man she loved, Y/N finally let herself cry, not because she’d lost the competition, but because, for the first time after a mistake on the ice, she wasn’t facing the aftermath by herself.

—

The hallway stayed quiet long after Phil disappeared.

Y/N still hadn’t let go of Logan’s hand.Not because she thought Phil would come back. Because her fingers simply wouldn’t unclench.

Logan noticed.

Without saying anything, he slowly turned his hand so their fingers intertwined more comfortably, rubbing his thumb gently across her knuckles.

“Hey.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “You with me?”

She nodded automatically.

Logan smiled sadly.

“I asked if you were with me.”

Another pause.

This time she actually looked at him.

“…Yeah.”

“There you are.”

His free hand came up to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Only then did he notice tears still clinging to her lashes.

His heart twisted.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Logan blinked. “What?”

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He stared at her like she’d started speaking another language.

“What are you apologizing for?”

She shrugged weakly.

“I didn’t want you to…” Her voice trailed off “…to see him like that.”

Logan’s expression softened even more “Sweetheart.” He cupped her cheek gently. “The only person who should be apologizing is your father.”

She shook her head.

“I ruined your afternoon.”

“You think this ruined my afternoon?”

A tiny nod.

Logan let out a quiet breath.

“You know what would’ve ruined my afternoon?”

She looked at him uncertainly.

“If I’d walked in five minutes later.”

The words settled heavily between them.

He leaned his forehead against hers.

“I don’t care about the competition.”

“I messed up.”

“I know.”

“I practiced that routine for months.”

“I know.”

“I disappointed everyone.”

“You disappointed absolutely nobody.”

She gave him a skeptical look.

“I watched you improvise almost thirty seconds of choreography without falling apart.”

A tiny smile almost appeared.

“That’s impossible to do and you did without loosing yourself. It was an intense moment and you handled well.” Logan continued, “I’ve seen hockey players cry because they broke a skate lace.”

That earned him the smallest snort from Y/n

“There she is.” Logan smiled. “I missed that.”

Y/N finally let herself smile, even if only a little.

Garrett, who had been politely pretending not to listen while collecting Y/N’s skate guards and jacket, walked over with her competition bag slung over one shoulder.

“I have one new rule.”

Y/N looked at him.

Garrett tossed her jacket gently into her arms.

“After competitions?”

She waited.

“You don’t go anywhere alone.”

She frowned. “Garrett—”

“I’m serious.”

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“If dad wants to talk?” He nodded toward Logan. “You come find one of us first.”

“Garrett…”

“No.” His voice stayed calm. “You call me.” He pointed at Logan. “Or him.” Then back to himself. “I don’t care if I’m in the middle of practice. I don’t care if Logan’s asleep. I don’t care if we’re across the damn arena. His eyes softened. “You don’t have to deal with him by yourself.”

Logan nodded immediately. “If you text me one word…” He squeezed her hand. “…I’ll come.”

Y/N looked between them.

Her brother.

Her boyfriend.

Both standing there looking at her like protecting her wasn’t an obligation, like it was the easiest decision they’d ever made.

Her eyes stung again. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Garrett shrugged. “Runs in the family.”

Logan grinned. “I was gonna say handsome, but sure we can go with ridiculous if you want to.”

Garrett rolled his eyes. “Please don’t flirt in front of me.”

That finally pulled a genuine laugh from Y/N.

It echoed through the hallway.

Both boys visibly relaxed.

“There it is,” Garrett said quietly. “That’s the sound I wanted.”

—

Twenty minutes later they were finally outside. The cold evening air felt refreshing after the stuffy arena.

“So,” Garrett announced dramatically, stretching his arms over his head.

“I’m starving.”

“Me too,” Logan admitted.

Y/N nodded. “I could eat.”

Garrett looked between them. Then a slow grin spread across his face.

“…Actually.”

Logan immediately recognized that smile.

“No.”

“What?”

“I know that look.”

“I don’t have a look.”

“You absolutely have a look.”

Garrett slung Y/N’s bag into Logan’s truck before tossing Logan his keys.

“You two go.”

Y/N frowned.

“What about you?”

“I’m suddenly craving pizza.”

“So come with us.”

“Nah.”

“You just said you were starving.”

“I am.”

“So…?”

Garrett started backing away toward his own car. “I’ve decided I don’t want to third-wheel my little sister making googly eyes at her boyfriend all night.”

Y/N’s face turned bright red.

“We do not make googly eyes.”

Logan couldn’t help laughing.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He looked at Garrett “She’s in denial.”

“I noticed.”

“Garrett!”

He held up both hands innocently.

“I’m leaving.”

He pointed at Logan. “You.” Logan straightened. “Take care of her.”

Logan’s joking smile disappeared. “I always do.”

Garrett looked at him for one long moment. Whatever he saw made him nod once. “I know.” Then he looked at Y/N. “I’ll call you tonight.”

She smiled softly. “Okay.”

“And answer your phone.”

“I always answer.”

“You literally don’t.”

“I answer eventually.”

Garrett laughed.

“Good enough.”

With one last wave, he climbed into his car and drove away.

Silence settled between Logan and Y/N.

She watched Garrett’s taillights disappear. Then sighed.

Logan looked at Garett’s car that was leaving and said, “You two are disgustingly wholesome.”

She bumped his shoulder lightly.

“Says the guy who threatened my dad.”

Logan rubbed the back of his neck.

“…Yeah.”

“That was kind of hot.”

He nearly choked.

“…Excuse me?”

She looked away to hide her smile.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, you absolutely did.”

A blush crept onto her cheeks.

“I take it back.”

“Too late.”

He laughed, relieved to hear something so normal after everything that had happened.

He reached for her hand again.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Diner.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“In my sparkly skating dress?”

He looked her up and down dramatically.

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I think you’re underdressed.”

She laughed, shoving his arm.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet…”

He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss across her knuckles, the same wrist he’d watched her father grab only an hour earlier. This time, his touch was impossibly gentle.

“…I still get to take the prettiest girl in the arena to dinner.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

No fear.

No apologies.

Just warmth.

Then she leaned up onto her toes and kissed him.

It was soft.

Brief.

When she pulled away, Logan rested his forehead against hers with a grin.

“I’ve got one more rule.”

“Oh?”

“The next time you lose a competition…”

She groaned.

“I’m not planning on…”

“Hear me out.”

She smiled.

“I’m listening.”

“The first person you come find?” He brushed his thumb across her cheek. “Me.”

“And if I win?”

He smiled. “Then you still come find me.”

She laughed quietly. “Deal.”

Hand in hand, they walked toward the parking lot, leaving the arena. and everything that had happened inside it, behind them for the night.

It was maybe 10-ish p.m. when I was sitting alone in the living room watching New Girl, because most people were either getting ready for bed, studying, or partying at that time. The house was pretty much empty tonight, so it was just me, New Girl, my snacks, and the peace and quiet around me.

"Hey babe," John said, catching me off guard. "Hey, I thought you said you were gonna go to bed.

"I thought I was, but I'm not tired enough. Are you watching New Girl again?"

​"Yeah, I am," I said.

"Can I join you?"

​”Of course you can.” With that, John took his place on the couch beside me, lying down as I sat on the edge, getting comfortable as we both watched the show. The moment was sweet and simple, nothing crazy, just me and John watching the show, laughing at the characters and commenting on the chaos they created each episode.

​

Halfway through another episode, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs, only to see Dean seemingly coming down for a drink of water himself. "You guys watching New Girl?" he asked.

​"Yeah, it's one of y/n’s favorite shows," John said, looking at me in a way I couldn't fully understand. Like he was trying to tell me something, but I couldn't understand what his eyes were saying.

​”Hey! Don’t say it like that, you like it too!”

"Okay, you two, stop being cute or else I'm just gonna throw up, and I don't feel like throwing up right now," Dean said, ruining the moment slightly.​

"That's shocking that you don't want to throw up," I responded, having to duck afterwards to get away from the flying kitchen towel that Dean decided to throw at me in a playful way. 

“Is it alright if I join you guys?” 

“Yeah, that's fine.”

As we continued watching the show, some more people joined us: Allie, Hannah, Garrett, and Tucker. The whole crew was down in the living room watching New Girl. A warmth that filled my heart. A warmth that I didn't know I needed. A warmth in a place I didn't realize had been cold for so long.Seeing all of our friends, all of us spending time together, staying up way too late, all watching a show that we all love. Seeing how we're all comfortable with each other and genuinely enjoy each other's company.

​

Between episodes and during ads, I looked around and realized how grateful I was for the friends and community I had. I looked at John, how he acted with our friends, how he's always the same person. It doesn't matter who he talks to, where he is, or what time it is. He is always just John.

I love him, I thought to myself. I love him so much.

Hours passed as we continued watching. Eventually I ended up lying on top of John on the couch, cuddled together. I could feel his laugh with my face resting on his chest. The way his breathing made him hug me almost tighter.

I love him. I love the way he feels. I love the way he makes me feel. I never knew I could be so in love. I thought to myself.

Eventually, I looked up at him, smiling. "What?" he asked with a bright smile, brows slightly furrowed. 

"Nothing." I responded. 

He pulled me up a bit, holding me close. "You're beautiful, and I love you," he said, catching me off guard. I must have looked shocked because then he added on, "You don't have to say anything back. I just, I don't know, it felt right to tell you I've felt like that for a while now, honestly.” 

"No, no, I just, I love you too." We sat there for a minute looking into each other's eyes. In that moment of time, it felt like we were the only people in the world. It felt like nothing could take us out of that moment. That was until Garrett decided to let out a huge yawn. We looked over at him and then over at Tucker. Slowly, one by one, the chain reaction of yawns began, and we were all realizing how tired we were. I checked my phone.

2:09am 

“Are you telling me we've been here for four hours watching TV?”