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in which you and john spectacularly fail at keeping your promise
pairing: john logan x f!reader
series summary: You and John Logan are childhood best friends. You share the kind of emotional intimacy only two people who have seen each other grow up can have, but now you’re no longer kids, you’re college students and trying to navigate the complex time between childhood and adulthood. Before joining John at Briar U a year after him, you were convinced your silly crush had faded, but now that you’re back in his orbit, you’re no longer so sure. You try your best to remain just friends, but watching him turn from the boy down the street to the big man on campus is harder than you thought. And you’re not sure how much more you can take of watching him overlook you time and time again.
contains: ANGST!!! heavy stuff, childhood trauma, addiction, swearing, emotional abusive parent, fighting, cursing, no use of y/n (logan calls reader by nickname: birdie) read with caution!
author’s note: i’m so tired and i honestly don’t know how im gonna feel about this one tomorrow or if there are 10,000 typos but here ya go!!! in logan’s pov <3 really some heavy stuff, so plz read warnings and proceed with caution. love u guys!!!
Garrett Graham’s fingers were brushing your shoulder.
And John Logan was fantasizing about cutting those fingers off.
John, at least, had the decency to feel guilty about it. He knew he had no right, but nevertheless, he could not take his eyes off the couch across the living room from him where you and Garrett sat; you completely oblivious while talking with Tucker, and Garrett staring at your profile with his arm on the back of the sofa, his fingertips just grazing your skin.
You probably couldn’t even feel it, most people wouldn’t notice it, but John did. He noticed everything.
The both of you swore to everyone that you were just friends. Maybe you were, but Garrett didn’t want to be. John knew his best friend, he knew the look in his eyes. He knew it because he felt the same. The only difference between the two was one of them wasn’t a complete and total idiot.
John loved Garrett. He was a good friend, a great hockey player, even a decent roommate, but there were times when John really did not like Garrett. One of those times, of course, was right now—watching him breathe your air and make you laugh. Some of those other times, it was due to his complete and total lack of awareness at his privileged upbringing.
He knew Phil Graham wasn’t the best guy in the world, but no one seemed to care more about their son’s career than he did. He got Garrett the best coaches, tutors, equipment, sponsorships. John would have killed for his dad just to know he made the Briar hockey team, let alone care enough to invest in his future. None of that seemed to matter to Garrett, though. He had no idea how good he had it.
The Graham’s didn’t have the kind of wealth that was flashy—they weren’t buying yachts or spending half the year in their vacation home in St. Barts, but it was the kind of wealth that those without noticed. And John noticed.
When things were broken in the house, Garrett called someone else to come fix them right away. When his car started making a funny noise, he’d trade it in for a new one. Once, he complained because one of the guys on the hockey team was chronically late to practice because he had a job, but the kid couldn’t afford to go to school without one. He worked at Malone’s, had served the team thousands of times, but when he got kicked off and John took the time to tell Garrett why he was always late, Garrett claimed he didn’t know, that he hadn’t noticed him.
Things came easy for Garrett. He made it all look so effortless. For John, that hadn’t ever been the case.
When John’s dad left, after his mom was through throwing his things out onto the lawn, she leaned down, took him by the shoulders and said, “you’re the man of the house now. You’ve got to step up.” He was eight.
He tried his best, he really did. However, it seemed that no matter what he did, it wasn’t right. He felt weighed down by expectations and like he was drowning in another man’s shoes he was desperately trying to fill. He didn’t know his father super well. Even when he did live with them, he worked a lot. His parents had opened the garage together a year after they got married; their first child a shared dream. It probably should have been their only child, but nevertheless, John came along shortly after, and then Jules, and their mom was expected to stay home with them. It was fairly obvious to him that she didn’t want to.
That’s when the fighting started. Back then, his parents spent most nights in a screaming match over various issues; money, the garage, whether or not his dad was sleeping with other women.
John once asked his mom in the aftermath of a particularly harsh argument that was soothed by a cigarette on the porch and a glass of whiskey. “Why do you stay with him?”
“Because I love him,” she answered hoarsely. “Like a fool.”
I hope I never fall in love, John thought then.
It took him a while to put a name to what he felt for you. He knew love to be as destructive as a tornado, as all-consuming as addiction, and as corrosive as a cancer. What he felt for you was something soft, steady, and warm. It was something precious he felt meant to protect.
He’d done a shitty job of that so far, and it started that night before he left for Briar.
He hadn’t planned to say the things he did to you, but he felt like something inside him had shaken loose that summer and he was helpless to stop the landslide.
When you kissed him, he was utterly gone. Nothing existed in his head but you; the feel of your soft body fitting perfectly into his, the give and take of your lips, the smell of your shampoo.
He’d spent so long resisting. So long telling himself that this fragile, beautiful thing between the two of you was too precious to risk. But the surrender was addicting.
Everything came rushing back the moment you asked what the kiss meant. He wasn’t afraid of the question, or you, he was afraid of his answer.
Everything, he wanted to say. But he knew from the moment he first saw you he wasn’t meant to have you. He knew when he watched you sitting up in your tree, the pop of your pink sneakers the only thing visible through the branches, that you were like a flame and his touch would only smother you.
So he said what he knew would hurt you, to get you to pull away. He’d allowed himself a momentary lapse in judgement, and it would have to last him the rest of his life.
When he walked back to his house, shattered and broken feeling, his mom had been sitting on the porch with her usual cigarette and glass of whiskey. She said nothing when she saw him, but he could tell from her face that she’d heard what just transpired between the two of you.
As he passed her, she muttered, “that girl deserves so much better than you.”
“I know,” was all he could say.
John told himself that if it were anyone else pursuing you, he could get past it. Anyone but Garrett Graham, his best friend, the man who got everything he wanted. And as he watched his hand slowly inch closer to you, your body relaxing in his hold, that fact was proving true.
He clenched his fist to the point of pain in his lap, knowing if looks could kill, Garrett would be dead.
He was only brought back to the moment when he felt Grace gently cover her hand over his, a knowing look in her clear eyes.
She got up off the couch so suddenly, everyone paused their conversation. John followed her after a moment into the backyard where she was now standing, her back to him and her arms wrapped around herself to fight off the biting cold.
John draped his jacket over her shoulders, and had she been less cold, he knew she would have thrown it right back in his face, but she wrapped it further around herself.
“Why did you want to get back together with me?” She wastes no time beating around the bush. It was one of the things he appreciated about her. John flinches but before he can respond, Grace is continuing. “Was it to spite her? Make her jealous?”
“No,” he immediately denies.
“Then why? It’s so clear she’s the one you want to be with.”
“I really like you Grace—“
“But you love her.”
His mouth opened and closed as he stared at her, the lie on the tip of his tongue but something in him wouldn’t let him say it.
She laughs bitterly, taking his silence as confirmation. “I knew it, too. I knew you were both lying to me and I didn’t care. I just hoped…” she shakes her head. “I guess I’m to blame too.”
“No, Grace. You’ve done nothing wrong. We shouldn’t—…I shouldn’t have involved you. I should have left as soon as I found out she wasn’t at the dorm that day.” He’d gone there in search of you, anyway. But you were off with Garrett, and instead there was Grace, smiling so brightly at him. It was selfish and petty, but it was also easier with Grace. He didn’t feel ripped open every time she walked into a room. He could breathe without her there. Unlike you.
“Why don’t you tell her?” She asks.
“Tell her what?” He plays dumb.
“That you’re in love with her.”
He sighs. “She deserves better than me,” was all he could think to say.
“I don’t think you get to decide that.” He felt exposed, like a nerve. He looked up at the dark sky because he couldn’t look at her face anymore with all its morose lines and sullen angles. It had slowly morphed into something even worse than her previous anger: pity. “What is it that makes you so determined not to be happy?”
He felt like the wind was knocked out of him then. He hadn’t… He wasn’t…
God. Was she right?
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.
“Maybe you should take the time to figure that out.” She hands him back his jacket before walking back inside, and he knows he won’t be seeing her again.
-
It’s Christmas Eve the next time he sees you.
Your family always hosts a small get together. He hadn’t come to the last one, he’d spent Christmas Eve in the rehab facility with Jules and their mom. She had been sober since her stay over Thanksgiving, but John gave up hoping a long time ago. It was safer to expect the worst.
When the three of them walked in, his eyes found you immedaitely like they always did. You were standing in the corner of the living room with your sisters, your nails a wine red that matched the liquid in your glass. Your lips were red too. He wondered if you tasted like the wine you drank.
He walked straight toward the kitchen for a drink.
The whole night it felt like the two of you orbited each other, but never came together. You talked with different people on opposite sides of the room, your eyes always finding and catching each other.
“John.” your mom suddenly appeared in front of him, snapping him out of his staring contest with you. “That faucet is acting up again, would you mind coming to take a look?”
“Of course.” He smiled and handed off his drink to Jules beside him before heading into the kitchen.
You found him a few minutes later underneath the sink. “Oh no,” you began. “She’s got you doing manual labor at a party.”
“I gotta sing for my dinner, Birdie,” he joked, his words slightly muffled while tightening the bolts on the pipes. You watched him work with your back pressed to the sink behind you and handed him a towel when he was done to wipe his hands with.
He leans back against the counter opposite you. “How’ve you been?”
You shrug casually. “Pretty good. How are you?”
He sighs, debating on telling you the truth. He’s been in a weird place ever since Thanksgiving. Actually, ever since the party when you very suddenly entered his life again. Having you so close but not with him was difficult. You’d agreed to be friends, and you were…friendly. But you hadn’t gone back to the way you were before. He wondered if you ever could.
“I heard about you and Grace.” He knew you had. After all, you two are roommates.
“I hope it didn’t make things…awkward between you guys.” He rubs the back of his neck nervously.
“No, we’re okay,” you assure kindly. You’re silent for another minute before breaking it again. “Well, I should get back in there.”
He watches you go and Jules comes to find him before he rejoins as well. He can tell something is wrong by their face. “Mom,” is all they need to say.
In the time he was gone, she had managed to down a few glasses, and was now swaying on her feet. He says nothing as he begins ushering her out to take her home.
“Let go of me, John. I’m fine,” she slurs. He says nothing as he continues to half guide her, half carry her down the street. When they make it inside he leads her to the couch and immediately goes to get a water for her. Jules heads straight to their room and slams the door shut.
He sits down on the coffee table in front of her and puts the glass right in front of her face and watches her drink. When she stops after a few he shakes his head. “The whole thing.”
“Don’t look at me like that,” she tells him before obeying.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re ashamed of me.” He says nothing. He knows he doesn’t have to. “You think you’re better than me?” She slams the empty glass down beside him on the wood. “You are me.”
“I’m nothing like you.” He doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince more, himself or her.
“No, you’re right.” She leans back and the two of them glare at each other. “You’re your father. So scared of letting anyone in to actually see you. Punishing those who do manage to break down your walls. All the while hating yourself the whole damn time.” John felt himself shake with anger, but at her words or the accuracy, he didn’t know. “Tell me, how long have you been punishing that poor girl for?”
He rips himself away from the conversation before he can say anything he can’t take back and locks himself in his room.
He lies awake in his bed all night just staring at the ceiling.
-
He sees you again a week later on New Year’s Eve.
You look like a dream in your shining, silver sequin dress. The hockey house is packed with people, the TV on for the ball drop countdown while music plays over it. You’re on the other side of the room the entire night, again revolving around each other while never looking away.
When you excuse yourself and walk out back, he follows you.
He finds you sat in one of the chairs at the fire pit, the logs burning low with no one around to feed the flames. He sits beside you, watching with curiosity as you pull out a joint and light it.
He raises his eyebrows at you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smoke before.”
“It’s new,” you comment stiffly, your face scrunched up at the sour taste after taking a hit, your reaction affirming your words. He laughs. It’s rusty, like he hasn’t in a while. He realizes then that he hasn’t. “Helps with the stress.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“Have you tried it?” You offer it to him, but he declines.
“What do you think?” You smile, your eyelids drooping a little more than before. “With the random drug testing, I don’t get to partake very much.”
You hum in acknowledgement and bundle up further into your coat, tucking your knees up to your chest in the adirondack chair.
“How’s your mom doing?” You venture quietly.
“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. “We haven’t talked since Christmas.” His foot nudges the log in front of him, sending embers and smoke up in a puff.
“I’m sorry,” she says even quieter.
He feels the pull then, the one he always does when you’re around to lay himself bare in front of you, open and vulnerable knowing you’ll look with gentle eyes. He doesn’t, though. He’s terrified he’ll prove his mother right.
“It’s alright,” is the response he settles with. “How’s your family?”
You roll your head as it leans against the chair to face forward, staring into the orange glow and it reflects in your eyes. “They’re okay. The Thanksgiving fiasco ended up helping things in the long run. I said some things I had bottled up. We hashed things out. We’re good.” You shrug like it’s that simple. And he knows with your family, it really is.
“I’m glad things are better. I’m not glad that it took you getting hurt for it to happen, though.” You hum in agreement. “Let me see the battle scars.”
You lift the sleeves of your coat to show the slightly puckered and now pink skin still healing on your forearms.
“You gonna come up with a cool story?” He eyes you.
You smile. “Do we think hero angle? Saved someone from a burning building? Or badass and say I got in a fight with a pyromaniac?”
He chuckles, running his thumb over the skin, noticing a slight shiver from you when he does. “I vote badass.”
You pull back down your sleeve once he pulls away and settle back into the chair. When the sliding glass door opens again and group of people step out to smoke as well, he stands.
“Thirty minutes ‘till midnight,” he informs you. “I’ll leave you to it.”
After he heads back inside, he goes through the motions for the remainder of the party, feeling a bit like he’s on autopilot. That’s kind of how these past few years for him have felt. Everything a little less vibrant without you around.
John tends to see his life in two parts: before Birdie and after Birdie. The before, he doesn’t like thinking about too much, but the after, he likes thinking about that quite a bit. He still remembers the first day he met you. How you hid behind your older sister, the shyness in your smile and the white paint on your toenails. He’d never been content to just watch someone exist before, but he enjoyed watching you. You’d sit up in your tree humming gently and just watching life go by. Birds nesting, spiders weaving webs, ants collecting food for a colony. He liked the way you saw the world.
He liked the soft and quiet way you lived, like falling snow. Peaceful. Beautiful.
When the clock hit 11:58, he decided to head back outside to find you and bring you in, knowing how much you loved watching the countdown. However, Garrett was already sat out there with you, taking John’s previous spot from earlier, beside you.
He moved to join the two of you, but faltered when he saw his best friend lean in to kiss you and the way you let him.
He tortured himself by watching for a few more seconds and then turning away when he couldn’t anymore.
He vaguely heard the people crowded into his living room cheering as the clock struck midnight, some of his friends patting him on the arm or grabbing him for a hug, but it was all a blur as he made his way upstairs, to his bedroom.
He laid in bed for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling and replaying the kiss over and over again.
He finally gave up going to bed somewhere around 4am and got up to head downstairs for some water. He forgot you were sleeping on the couch. Evidently, you couldn’t sleep either since you were up on your phone and offered him a smile as he made his way past you and towards the kitchen.
He hopes you won’t, but you join him, sliding your body up onto the counter beside him. You look soft and sleepy in your oversized shirt and sweatpants with fuzzy socks on your feet.
He aches.
“I didn’t see you after the ball drop,” you comment. “Did you head up early?”
“Yeah,” he says hoarsely, zoning out on the countertop beside you instead of meeting your eyes, afraid of what you’ll see in his.
“Are…you okay?” You ask tentatively.
He looks at you then, the crinkle of concern between your eyebrows, the slight downturning of your lips.
God he wants to kiss you.
“You’re killing me,” he confesses so quietly, it’s a miracle you hear him, even in the quiet of the dark kitchen.
“Excuse me?”
“This…distance when you’re actually right here. It’s killing me.”
You shake your head lightly in confusion. “But we—“
“I know,” he cuts you off. “I know we agreed. I know I promised. I know I’m an asshole for saying it and breaking the promise, but I feel like I’m holding my breath constantly and the only time I can let it go is when you’re with me.” Your eyes widen the smallest amount at his confession. “But when you kissed him? That sucked all the air out of the room.”
You straighten in surprise. “How did you—…did you see us?”
“You could pick anyone, Bird. Anyone. I won’t like it, but at least it’s not him.” He hates himself for saying it.
“Why does it bother you so much? Why him?”
“Because he has everything, Birdie. Everything. And it’s selfish and childish and stupid, but he doesn’t get to also have you.” He moved closer as he spoke, his arms coming to cage you in on the counter, his palms resting on either side of your thighs.
“You had me,” you remind him, leaning back slightly from him. “And you didn’t want me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then what is?”
He pauses and contemplates telling you the truth. And then he does. “I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you and that terrifies me.”
You’re stunned silent, your lips slightly parted. He looks down at them, he can’t help it. He looks back up at you and leans closer, testing the waters. When you don’t lean away, he inches closer, feeling your breath on his face. His nose nudges yours and you nudge back, tipping your chin toward him in invitation. He wastes no time kissing you.
His hands grip your hips firmly and tug you closer to the edge to press you against him, his fingers digging into your flesh while you run yours through his hair, scratching his scalp lightly with your nails. He hears himself groan and your tongues meet as his mouth opens.
You’re so lost in each other you don’t hear Garrett come down the stairs. You only notice him when he says, “well. That was fast.” John pulls back, but you scoot off the counter and move across the kitchen to get away from him, a guilty sort of look souring your face. “I would have thought it’d have taken you at least a full day to come to your senses, Logan.” His tone isn’t kind.
“Garrett—“ you begin.
“The fuck does that mean?” John questions, cutting you off.
“Nothing. I just think it’s funny everyone else sees your pattern but you.”
“Garrett,” you say more sternly, though neither of them listen.
“And what pattern is that?” John challenges.
“The one where you only realize you want something when someone else has it.”
You look nervously back and forth between the two of them, John’s breath coming quicker with his anger.
“You know nothing, Graham.”
“Oh, I know plenty.” His eyes glance over to you momentarily, but John catches it, snapping his attention over to you.
“Garrett, stop.” You don’t deny what he’s implying. You’ve told him things. Things only you know. Things he only ever told you because he knew he could trust you.
John doesn’t know what to say, so he turns to leave. You call after him, begging him to come back, but he keeps walking toward the steps, back up to his bedroom.
“Yeah, leave,” Garrett calls. “Just like your dad.”
John stops dead in his tracks at that. He turns slowly to face the man he used to call his best friend, and he punches him square in the jaw.
His head whips back while you shriek. Garrett wastes no time hitting him back. You move to intervene, yelling at them again to stop. When they don’t, you get in between them just as Garrett is swinging, but instead of hitting John, he catches you.
You collapse to the ground and the both of them freeze. John immediately falls to the ground with you, lifting your face to inspect it.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” John yells, waking the rest of the house. Garrett’s face is so pale, he looks as if he’s the one who got hit out of nowhere. His expression is haunted, so shaken that he doesn’t even see Dean in front of him until he touches his shoulder, the two other roommates coming down to see what the commotion is about.
When John tries to lift you to get you back into the kitchen for an ice pack to put over your rapidly swelling eye, you finally snap.
“I don’t want your help!” It’s John’s turn to look stricken. “I’m so tired of being the casualty in your chaos. You don’t know how to not hurt me.”
You stand to leave and Tucker rushes to your side, offering to drive you home. Garrett mutters over and over again that he’s sorry. John watches numbly as you leave, wondering if this is the time he succeeds at pushing you away.
Summary: Beau has hid his best friend Y/N from the group for years. She and him had been friends since middle school, living next to one another growing up, and now the pair were in the same college. Then the day happens, when Beau finally decides to introduce them to her. They all immediately are entranced by her and her personality, John Logan especially…
Warning(s) throughout the series: strangers to lovers, mutual pining, swearing, mentions of softball plays/games, mentions of PTSD, angst, fluff, smut (18+)
The afternoon sun was brutal, and the large metal bleachers radiated heat, the air smelled like fresh-cut grass and dirt, and the sound of bats cracking echoed across the softball stadium.
The music was blaring loudly through the stadium speakers, players finished up their warmups, Y/n was finishing up with her pitcher. They were going through each pitch, discussing the gameplan, and how they were going to play it today.
"Remind me why we're here again?" Dean asked, stretching his legs out in front of him as they all sat in the front row right in the center.
"Because Beau threatened violence if we didn't come," Garrett snorted as he placed a hand on Hannah’s thigh. Beau’s head shot over towards Dean and Garrett.
"I didn’t say I'd be mad, I said I'd be disappointed," he shot back with his finger pointing at them both. Beau rolled his eyes and leaned against the fence.
"So where's this best friend of yours?" Logan says as he nods toward the field below, and Beau smirks.
"Just wait and you'll see."
"That's all you ever say,” Allie snorts, making the guys giggle. “Why can’t we meet her right now?” she asks, and he shakes his head immediately.
"Because I'm not introducing you ladies, and these idiots before the game,” he giggles, pointing at the girls nicely, and then swats over towards the guys. Allie crossed her arms. "Why?"
"Because she'll get distracted. She’s big into her pregame superstitions,” he explains, watching the girls run over a fielding drill together, both Allie and Hannah laughed.
"No, because you're possessive,” Logan jokes, and Beau purses his lips in amusement as he nods.
"That is also correct,” he says back, causing everyone to chuckle.
Over the past year, they had heard countless stories about Y/N, because Beau talked about her constantly. Not in an annoying way, it was just naturally.
“Y/N did this.”
“Y/N said that.”
“Y/N beat some girl to first from the outfield, and made a play.”
“Y/N accidentally started an argument with a referee.”
“Y/N somehow convinced me to drive three hours for tacos, and two in the fucking morning. Don’t ask.”
They all knew she was important to him, but none of them had actually met her, and today would be the first time that they would all be seeing her. Hopefully meeting her.
It wasn’t long until the game had started, the Briar team taking the field first, and they emerged from the dugout. Players spread across the field towards their positions, and Dean immediately pointed.
"Which one is she?" he asks, and Beau doesn’t let him finish before shaking his head.
"Nope,” he hums, Dean still trying to get something out of him. "That one?"
"Nope."
Tucker smirked, and joined in. “Is she a blonde?"
"Nope."
Garrett groans, and Logan speaks this time. “Dude, just spill. You’re killing us here,” he laughs, and then Beau nodded toward home plate.
"There."
Everyone looked, watching as the girl wearing her full catcher gear walked up from the dugout, headed towards home plate. She had her mask hanging from one hand, glove on the other.
Her hair was long, her high bubble ponytail with a bow tied at the bottom with Briar’s colors swung back and forth. The moment she stepped to her spot behind the plate, she looked completely different from how Beau described her.
She looked confident. Focused. It was like she owned that field.
Logan's eyes followed her instantly, and not once did they leave her.
Beau noticed immediately, smirking right away as he noticed something interesting. Y/N tossed her mask down and started warming up her pitcher.
The first throw hit her glove with a loud crack, and so did the next one. Every catch looked effortless, her throws were nothing but straight cannons.
"Okay," Tucker admitted, leaning back against the bleachers. "She's kinda badass."
"Kinda?" Hannah said, she chuckles, raising a brow before motioning to her. "Look at her."
Y/N was squatted down when throwing down to second base, only dropping to her knees as she fired a throw to second. The ball looked like a missile as it reached the bag before the infielder even finished setting up.
Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Oh."
Garrett laughed, nodding towards him as their eyes never left her. "Oh is right."
Logan was still staring, caught up in his own mind. His own world. He was mesmerized. He couldn’t see the way Beau was smirking. The game started a few minutes later.
Y/N crouched behind home plate, the umpire getting set behind her, as the opposing team's leadoff hitter stepped into the batter's box.
The entire group had never left her, watching how smart she was behind the plate. Y/N immediately caught the batter on first, who tried to delayed steal.
She adjusted, getting ready to throw it down, faking a play. She faked a throw to the pitcher, seeing that the runner took the bait, Y/N didn’t hesitate to zip that ball straight to shortstop, to get the tag at two.
“Yes! Good shit, Y/N! Beauty!” Beau yelled as he stood from his spot, hooting, whistling, and hollering.
Her team cheered as the runner was declared out, her pitcher coming to do their handshake, Y/N tossed the ball back to her pitcher with a grin.
"She's annoying, isn't she?" Hannah asked, mainly saying that because she just knew she was so entranced in her sport, she had to talk about it quite a lot.
"The worst," Beau said proudly, chuckling lightly as he clapped.
The second inning got even better, with a runner on first, there was one out. The batter slapped a ground ball through the infield, and the runner rounded second aggressively, going and trying for third.
Big mistake.
Y/N received the relay throw, she spun, and immediately fired. The ball arrived before the runner was halfway into her slide.
“She’s out!”the umpire hollers from the baseline, holding a fist up to signal the out, and the crowd erupted.
Dean stood up, letting out a hoot. "What a throw!" he cheers, Beau going to grab his bicep to pull him back down.
"Sit down," Beau said.
"I will not!"
Logan was grinning now, clapping and cheering too as he was completely invested.
By the third inning, Briar's offense started rolling, as Y/N walked toward the batter's box.
The crowd immediately got louder.
"She's one of Briar’s highest sitting averages, and best hitters," Beau explains to them, her teammates doing cheers from the dugout.
“Really? What’s her average?” Tucker asks, and Beau just nods towards her.
"Just watch."
The pitcher threw the first pitch, too high in the strike zone. Ball.
The next pitch came in quick. Fastball. Y/N crushed it, as the crack of the bat echoed across the entire complex.
Everyone's heads snapped up, watching the ball soar deep into left-center, and it hit off the back of the stadium cushioning.
Y/N exploded out of the box with no hesitation, no wasted time on watching where the ball went, no waste on her movement.
She was fast, flying around first, her eyes tracking where the yelling and action was, spotting the outfielder finally recovering the ball.
Most players would've stopped, but not Y/N. She was already rounding second, going to try for third.
Allie laughed, shaking her head. "She's insane."
The throw came in, almost a millisecond too late as Y/N slid safely into third.
The Briar dugout exploded, doing a cheer they created for each player, singing hers out loud and proud. Beau was cheering for her loudly, pointing down at her, seeing her eyes find his when she stood up. She raised her arms, cupping one in front of her face, as the other made an eating motion.
Beau looked completely unsurprised, pointing over at her with a knowing smirk, seeing her smiling widely with a laugh. She puts her hands on her hips as her coach tells her something.
"See?" Beau says, sitting back down. “Told you she is someone worth watching.”
Tucker shook his head, his eyes wide. "How in the world is she so fast?"
"No idea."
Y/N stood up, brushed dirt from her pants, her eyes laser focused back onto the upcoming pitch.
Logan couldn't stop smiling. Every few seconds his eyes drifted back toward third base, not realizing that Beau saw everything.
The game continued, and Y/N scored moments later. Then in the fifth inning she threw out another runner trying to delayed steal, and in the sixth she nailed a line drive double into right field.
"She's nasty," Garrett said, his tone in complete awe. “I always forget how good Softball players are. They truly are a different breed.”
Beau shrugs as he flicks his gaze to look back at Garrett. "I've been telling you."
But Logan barely heard them. He was staring, and Beau noticed instantly as a slow smile spread across his face. "Oh, this is getting bad."
Logan blinked, snapping out of his daze. "What?"
Beau folded his arms, sighing playfully. "You are, buddy."
"What about me?"
"Dude, you've watched every at-bat she's had,” he giggles, making Logan look away.
"No I haven't,” he says as his voice gets quieter.
"Oh you absolutely have."
"I have been watching everybody,” he argues back, but his answer came back too quickly, making Beau snort.
"Name our shortstop."
Logan paused, opening his mouth only to close it a few seconds after. Beau smiled ear to ear. "Exactly."
The guys nearby burst out laughing, causing Logan to roll his eyes. "Shut up, I hate you all."
But Beau wasn't letting him off the hook.
Instead, he leaned forward, his gaze still checking to see Logan, who would continue tracking Y/N as she adjusted her batting gloves at second base.
"So,” he says once again, Logan looking at him with a confused expression.
"So what?"
"You like her, huh?” he says a little softer, not wanting to catch the rest of the group’s attention.
Logan nearly choked, saving it to sound like a cough. Which failed completely. "No."
"Logan."
"No."
"Logan."
"No."
Beau pointed toward the field. "You literally haven't looked anywhere else, but her, for two innings."
Logan opened his mouth, only to close it. Then he opened it again. "She's just-" he lost his words, making Beau squint his eyes.
"Just what?"
"She's impressive." Logan sighed.
"Good save," Beau snorts with sarcasm dripping from his lips. Logan ignored him for a bit, but after a few moments, he spoke up again.
"How long has she been playing?"
Beau immediately laughed, nodding in understanding. "There it is."
"What?"
"The questions."
"What do you mean the questions?"
"The 'I totally don't like her but suddenly need her entire life story' type of questions."
Logan groaned, before Beau was already counting on his fingers.
"How old is she? What's her favorite color? What music does she listen to? Does she like dogs or cats-"
"I wasn't gonna ask any of those!" which made Beau give him a look with a raised brow.
"You were absolutely gonna ask those,” he says back as he watches Logan rub a hand over his face. Deep down Beau was enjoying this way too much.
He turned back to watch the game, but smirks when he hears Logan talking again. "How long has she played?"
Beau lets out a dry laugh. "Since she was little. Four or five if I remember correctly."
"Really?"
"Yep."
"She's good."
"Better than good."
Logan watched as Y/N clapped on base, voice loud as she was cheering on her teammate up at bat. "Best hitter on the team?"
"One of the top on their leaderboard."
Logan nodded, knowing after her hits, that it had tracked. Everything she'd hit today had been crushed. A few moments passed, Beau cheering as her teammate took a pitch to the shin, taking her base.
"She's their main catcher every game?" Logan asks, his eyes still on her, not realizing how he was looking at Y/N. Beau immediately turned.
"There it is again."
"What?"
"Question number two."
"It's a normal question."
"Sure,” Beau chuckled as shook his head, then answered after a few seconds. “But yes. Every game."
Logan looked genuinely impressed. "That's rough on the knees."
"She’s got strong legs. Stronger than ours probably,” Beau answers, turning to look at Logan for a second. “You're learning softball now?"
"I like to learn about other sports."
Beau laughed. "No, you like to learn about Y/N."
Before Logan could respond, the next batter brought her home with a line drive, the crowd cheering excitedly as she crossed the plate.
Y/N pointed toward her dugout, smiling wide as her team exploded, knowing she was the tie breaker to bring in.
Logan couldn't stop smiling, and Beau saw it. He honestly saw all of it.
The way Logan's eyes followed her, and the way he picked up every little thing. It wasn't subtle anymore, but he knew Logan wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself.
Beau nudged him. "So when are you talking to her?"
Logan looked horrified, leaning back in his seat as she disappeared from view, into the dugout. Almost like his body was physically relaxing. "What?"
"When are you talking to her?"
“I’m not,” Logan looked back toward the field. “She’s your best friend. You’ve kept her hidden for a reason,” he stutters out, creating excuses. “I don’t even think I’d know what to say.”
Y/N had removed her helmet and was laughing at something one of her teammates said. When the sunlight caught her face, Logan completely forgot Beau was standing there. He bit his lip as he couldn't get her out of his now, trying to hide the smile on his face.
Beau saw that too. "Oh, wow. It's worse than I thought,” Beau giggles. Logan finally tore his eyes away. "What is?"
"Dude,” Beau pointed dramatically. “You're gone."
"I'm not gone."
"You are absolutely gone. You’ve got the hots for my best friend, don’t you?"
"No,” he was too quick with his answer.
"You watched her smile and it looked like somebody just handed you a winning lottery ticket,” he joked back and Logan groaned while trying to hide his face.
"Can you stop?"
"Nope."
"Please, I’m even asking nicely."
"Not a chance,” Beau laughed, but then lowered his voice. "You know she likes people who actually talk, right?"
Logan looked through his hands at him, an expression of confusion and interest. "Huh?"
"I'm serious."
Now he had Logan's full attention, making him grin. Somewhere across the field, completely unaware, Y/N was jogging back toward home plate to warm-up her pitcher for the next inning.
The final inning arrived with Briar ahead, there were two outs with a runner on first, and the opposing team desperately needed something.
The batter connected with a sharp line drive into shallow center, making the runner take off, trying to force something.
Y/N immediately started directing traffic. "Cut four! Cut four!" Her powerful and loud voice echoes throughout the cheers from the other team, her mask being whipped off as she steps up to the plate.
The ball was quick to come in, being thrown her way, Y/N immediately snagged it into her glove and turned down to apply the tag.
The Umpires had come to look closer, before signaling up with a fist. Out, and that meant game over.
The crowd erupted, and the players cheered with one another as Y/N went up to shake hands with the umpires, and then rushed up to do her handshake with her pitcher.
She was sweaty, covered in dirt while smiling. Logan couldn’t help but still think she was absolutely beautiful. That was apparently the exact moment Logan got himself into trouble, because he couldn't stop staring.
Beau folded his arms.
"Oh, no."
Logan jumped, turning to see Beau’s shit-eating grin. "What?"
"Oh, absolutely not,” Beau shook his head as they all began to stand up from their spots.
"What?" Logan asks again, his voice an octave higher, and Dean immediately looks between them. Then burst out laughing.
"Oh no."
Garrett caught on next, not like it was hard to miss. "Oh yes!"
Dean wheezes out. "Looks like Logan had a massive crush on your bestie, Beau!"
"I- What? No! I do not," Logan sputters out, feeling the way his face was heating up as he tried to argue back with the allegations.
"You do,” Hannah chuckles, and he shook his head immediately.
"I don't."
"You absolutely do!” She laughed even more, and Logan looked horrified staring back down at the field while Y/N was still celebrating with her teammates, completely unaware. Beau looked genuinely offended.
"That's my best friend,” he trails off slowly, crossing his arms.
"So?"
"So?" Beau stared at him in shock, Logan rubbed a hand over his face.
"I literally haven't even met her,” he scoffs, still stuttering over his words as he felt his heart beating quicker. Beau leans forward with a knowingly smug smirk. "And yet?"
Logan groans, running a hand through his hair. "I can't help it!"
Everyone exploded into laughter, Dean fell back a bit while Tucker nearly fell off the bleachers.
Beau groaned dramatically. "This is a nightmare."
"It's been thirty seconds," Dean said.
"Thirty seconds too fucking many."
Down on the field, Y/N finally looked toward the stands, her eyes immediately found Beau. A huge smile spread across her face, and she waved, seeing as Beau waved back automatically.
Then Y/N noticed the group beside him, seeing the friends she'd heard so much about. She gave them all a curious smile, a few quick waves, and then disappeared back toward her teammates.
Logan watched her go, and Beau caught him yet again.
"John Logan."
"What?”
"Behave."
Dean nearly choked laughing, as Garrett slapped Logan's shoulder. Hannah and Allie were both grinning, and for the first time all afternoon, Logan looked nervous.
Because seeing Y/N from a distance had been one thing, but actually meeting her after the game?
That was going to be a completely different challenge. He felt like he might shit his heart out. The second Y/N looked toward the fence and smiled at them once again, the entire group noticed.
Unfortunately for Logan, “”Ohhh shit,” Dean's voice rang out immediately, and Logan closed his eyes as his head fell backward. "No."
"She smiled at you."
"She smiled in this direction, dumbass."
"At you."
"Dean, I swear-"
"At. You,” he sings out, and Garrett was already laughing. "Dude's been staring at her for two hours and got rewarded,” he adds in, hands on his knees as he is laughing.
"I have not been staring at her,” he tries to argue, only for the entire group to look at him.
"You literally were asking every single stat about her to Beau," Tucker deadpanned, and Logan looked at him in shock, making Tucker nod. “Yes, we all heard it.”
Logan pointed at him. "That's normal."
"No, it isn't,” Beau giggles back, sticking his hands into his pockets. "Not unless you're scouting for a pro team," Hannah added as Allie nearly doubled over laughing while Logan groaned.
Meanwhile, Beau stood with his arms crossed, watching the whole thing unfold. "See? It isn't just me,” he answers, watching as Logan shot him a look.
"You're enjoying this way too much."
"Oh, immensely."
Beau wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. The funny thing was that while he was clearly entertained, there was also a very obvious protective edge to him whenever Y/N came up.
It was the kind of energy that came from years of friendship..
A moment later, Beau leaned casually against the netted protection from the stadium. "So."
Logan narrowed his eyes.
"So?"
"Why exactly do you like about her?"
The entire group instantly got quiet. "Oh this is good," Tucker said. Dean hisses afterwards with a cringe. “Here comes papa Beau, rest in peace Logan.”
Logan looked horrified at both Beau’s now intimidating expression and Dean’s words. "I'm not answering that."
"Why not?"
"Because, just, not in front of these hooligans,” he says but then looks at the two girl. “Besides you two. Love you both,” then turns back to look at Beau with a curt shake of his head. “No."
Beau was trying, and failing, not to laugh. Then his expression shifted slightly as he looked back toward the field, watching her shake hands with the opposing team. "Just so we're clear."
Logan immediately recognized that tone. It was his protective one. The big-brother tone. Beau pointed toward Y/N. "She's my best friend. She’s family."
Logan nodded, knowing that this was coming. Beau has never played around when it came to Y/N. It took them how long to finally meet her because he knew how the guys would act, and he was being protective for many reasons. "I know."
"I mean it Logan. I will absolutely make your life miserable. I don’t play when it comes to her."
"Protective Beau has arrived,” Dean wheezes out, patting Logan’s back as the other friends in the group laughed with him.
Beau ignored them, knowing it was bound to happen, still staring at Logan. "I'm serious,” he says with no sign of jokes or sarcasm. Dean looked between them.
"Did we just witness a weird brother approval interview?"
"Before they've even gone on a date?" Hannah added, and Allie was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes.
A few minutes later, he pushed away from the netting, nodding at his friends. "I'm gonna go say hi, and see what her plan is. She gets busy post game, so I’ll see what she’s thinking.”
Dean pointed dramatically. "Tell your secret superstar friend we have complaints."
"What complaints?"
"You kept her hidden."
Beau laughed. "She's a person, not a treasure map."
"Well that’s debatable, because you have never brought her around, Goose."
Beau shakes his head with a snort at Dean, and then heads down to the field. Y/N was finishing a quick conversation with one of her coaches when she spotted Beau approaching the opening on the far side of her dugout.
A grin immediately appeared on her lips, bidding goodbyes to her coaches before heading his way. "There he is,” she chuckles, Beau laughs back with a sarcastic wink.
"There she is."
They met halfway, Beau not hesitating to lean against the opening as Y/N bumped her shoulder against his.
"You watched?"
"Unfortunately,” he hums out a huff, giving her a fake pout. She gasped dramatically, putting a hand on her chest.
"Rude!”
"You only got like four hits."
"Three. The fourth was a shitty one to shortstop."
"Wow, absolutely terrible. Do you even play D1?"
"Honestly so embarrassing."
They both laughed, knowing the ease between them was obvious. He nudges her and nods back. "You played great though, not a bad play made," Beau admitted, watching as Y/N made a face before scoffing and crossing her arms over her chest.
"I left two runners on."
"You had a triple."
"I still left runners on."
"There it is."
"What?"
"The catcher perfectionism,” he hums. “Always downplaying your hard work. You had one wrong move, but you solved it effortlessly. Look at it from that point of view.”
She rolled her eyes, trying to hide her smile of appreciation. Beau was always able to prevent her mind from going into the gutter. "Whatever."
Beau laughed as she pushed his shoulder playfully, then he nodded toward the stands above.
"So,” he trails off,
Y/N followed his gaze, seeing the entire group was still standing there.
Dean was waving both arms like an idiot, Garrett was yelling something incomprehensible, and Tucker was laughing.
Allie and Hannah were trying unsuccessfully to get everyone to act normal, Y/N immediately laughed. "Those your friends you’ve yet to let me meet?"
"Unfortunately," he grimaces with a nod, and she lets out a suspicious hum.
"Wow. They’re definitely your friends alright."
"Exactly."
She smirked. "They seem chaotic."
"They absolutely are."
"Should I be worried?"
"Probably."
Y/N laughed again while Beau shook his head. He gave her a distant look that caused her to squint at him.
"They want to meet you."
"Oh?"
"Apparently they're offended I've never introduced you,” he adds, shrugging his shoulders like it was nothing and she snorted.
"That's actually kind of funny," she giggles. “But that’s also because you’ve kept me hidden, my good sir.”
“Wow you and Dean will get along great. He just said the same thing.”
“Respect,” she nods. “Wise man,” she added before she heard her name, and glanced back toward her dugout. One of her co-captains were ushering for her to come join for post game stuff, making her nod and put up a finger while mouthing, ‘One second’
She looks back at Beau and nods. "I’m up for it, but I have interviews and team stuff first."
"That's fine, they get that.”
"But I'll come over before I change,” she suggests. “ Because it’s gonna take a bit before I leave the locker rooms. That way we can figure out what the plans are after."
Beau nods, bringing his hand up to do their handshake. "Amazing. Take your time."
Y/N pointed at him as she turned to walk away. "If they start a fight while I'm gone, that's on you."
"No promises!” he hollered back, causing a couple of giggles to leave her mouth.
Fifteen to twenty minutes had passed since Y/N had talked with Beau, her eyes would occasionally look up to catch them all mostly talking.
She didn’t know that they were also teasing Logan, which had become everyone's favorite activity. Logan was talking about something else to change the subject, Beau hearing the crunch of metal cleats jogging to their direction, making him hold a hand up with a smug grin.
"She's coming over."
Logan immediately sat up straighter. Dean saw it. “This is fucking hilarious,” he wheezes lightly, Logan frowning. "Now what?"
"You perked up. It was so obvious.
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
Garrett nodded, and added in, "That was immediate."
"I hate all of you."
"Oh yeah, look at him. He's nervous." Allie laughed, pointing over at the brown-haired boy from her spot under Dean’s arm.
“Try not to drop the L bomb on the first meeting,” Beau snickers while smiling widely over at Y/N. Before Logan could argue, a voice perked up. "There they are."
Everyone turned to see Y/N was jogging toward them. Still in uniform, her hair still pulled back, she had confidence practically radiating off her. She didn’t have her catcher’s gear on like she did when Beau stopped over.
“Hey guys,” she laughs once she makes it to their group, everyone was beaming and saying their greetings back, followed by some fun comments.
"Finally,” Beau exasperates, pulling into a side hug. She rolled her eyes. "Well jeepers, sorry. I kept being summoned."
"You kept the celebrities waiting."
Y/N laughed.
"The only celebrity here would be Garrett Graham," she shot back, nodding towards him, making Garrett laugh loudly.
“She knows her shit,” he laughs while pointing at her.
She smiles proudly, before shrugging her shoulders. “He’s said a thing or two. I also grew up in a hockey family, so it’s law to know hockey.”
“I like her. I like her very much,” Dean interrupts, making her chuckle. "So you're the mystery friend."
Y/N pointed at Beau, a fake look of confusion. "He tells people I'm mysterious?"
"Don’t start,” he whines, Dean cuts back in.
"We just couldn't believe someone this cool existed and he'd never introduced us."
"Beau, how could you?" Y/N gasped dramatically. “First you keep me in hiding, and then you go and tell them I’m some mystery girl? What is this, your bachelor pad?”
"I regret everything in this moment,” Beau purses his lips, and points at Dean. “I regret letting you both meet one another. Now I've got two versions of Dean.”
“So that’s Dean? The one I pretty much quoted line for line without knowing?” Dean and Y/N look at each other with smug expressions. “I knew we would get along just fine,” she laughs, and the group burst out laughing.
Garrett shook his head as he pointed to the field. "Seriously though? That was insane."
"It was alright,” Y/N shrugged, Garrett gave her a knowing grin. Every athlete nearby would recognize that kind of answer. The universal "I could've done better" response.
Hannah laughed. "That's such an athlete's answer.”
She shrugs. "Unfortunately,” she then adds. “Sorry you’re going to have to hear more athlete talk. You probably already hear too much from this load.”
“Oh no, after what we just watched? I’m invested,” Hannah answers, playfully swatting in her direction, Allie nodding. "You were on fucking fire. Seriously, I may have a girl crush on you," Allie added, making Dean let out a choked sound, causing the boys to snicker.
Y/N smiled as she laughed. “Why thank you. I work very hard to at least look like I’m doing something right,” she jokes, and then Dean jumps back in.
"I think the bigger question is why Beau hid you from us,” he trails off, and she slowly turns to look up at Beau with a look that says everything. Before she could say another snide remark, Beau shook his head and pushed her head away playfully.
"Don't encourage them,” he shot, making her push him back. “I can sense the wrong decisions coming from a mile away. Don’t start.”
"No, I think I will,” she throws back, smiling smugly. “They will definitely be joining in on my shenanigans.”
The group laughed again, all the while Logan stood slightly toward the back. He was trying to play it cool.
Because now that she was standing right here? It was somehow worse.
She was funny, and extremely confident. She made herself feel easy to talk to.
It was exactly like she'd seemed from the field. Then he felt himself almost buckle to the ground when Y/N looked directly at him. "You're Logan, right?"
His brain briefly stopped functioning. "Uh,” he muttered before he could stop himself, Dean immediately covered his mouth to stop himself from laughing. "Yeah."
Y/N smiled sweetly at him. Nothing snarky, snide or smug about it. She was giving him a softer, more gentle smile. Something flickered between her eyes. "Nice to finally meet you."
Finally?
Logan blinked a couple times, then snapped out of the haze. "Finally?" he asked her, finally finding his voice, and she nodded.
"Beau talks about all of you,” she admits, and Beau groaned immediately. “So I kind of felt like I already knew everybody."
"Hopefully only the good stories?” Logan laughed, trying to keep his composure looking cool and collected. He was definitely the opposite.
"Oh, definitely not,” she giggled, and the group erupted.
"YES."
"Thank goodness."
"She's good, I really like her."
Y/N grinned, and soon enough Logan found himself smiling too. A lot.
Which Dean noticed immediately. Of course he did.
"So," Dean said, trailing his voice off. "Logan's been very interested in softball today."
Logan nearly died, staring at Dean like he was ready to gouge out his eyes with the edge of his hockey stick. "Dean."
"What?"
Y/N looked amused, turning back to look at Logan. She was amused and he could slightly see the peak of interest in her face. "Oh?"
"He asked for your stats."
The group exploded, and Y/N turned toward Logan. One eyebrow raised. "My stats, huh?"
Logan pointed at Dean, looking over at him. "I'm gonna throw you into traffic."
Y/N laughed, and it was the sound that immediately made Logan smile again.
"Don’t be embarrassed,” she says softly. “That's actually kind of cute."
Dean nearly collapsed, while Allie hid her face in his chest. Hannah bit at her hand while leaning into Garrett’s back
Garrett doubled over, and Tucker looked like he was about to cry laughing. Logan stared, and saw that Y/N looked completely unbothered.
She was just smiling. She looked comfortable, and completely at ease. Then she tilted her head slightly. "So?"
"So what?"
"Were you impressed?" She asks like it was the simplest question ever. The grin she gave him was undeniably teasing, maybe even a little flirty.
The group immediately got quieter. They were watching. Waiting.
Logan somehow managed a smile. "I was."
Y/N nodded, her smile lit up even more, Y/N could feel her face heating up. "As you should be,” she answers back, the confidence in the answer made everyone laugh.
"Wow,” Logan chuckles. “ She's got the jokes and the confidence,” he shoots, his arms crossed over his chest, and Y/N pointed toward the field. "I earned my confidence."
"That is fair."
She looked back at Logan. "Good answer, though."
Logan laughed.
"Thanks? I think?”
"You're welcome,” she answers back. For a second, neither of them looked away from each other. Not until Dean dramatically stepped between them. "Okay, no mroe eye contact."
"What?"
"None."
"Dean."
"I'm protecting the group from whatever this is," Dean jokes, pointing at them both. “I’m protecting them from the eye fucking that was about to happen.”
The entire circle dissolved into laughter, including Y/N, who was now grinning directly at Logan. If Beau noticed the way both of them kept finding reasons to look at each other during the rest of the conversation, he absolutely noticed, but he just wasn’t saying anything about it.
It was Sunday night and you were looking forward to getting home after a night with the girls at the local bar. Hannah had decided to stay over at her boyfriend’s and Allie joined her, how those two managed to get partners who lived in the same house- you’d never quite understand. But you weren’t even bothered. Just looking forward to the relaxing night you were about to treat yourself with, a nice hot shower that involved your favourite berry scented soap and a blow-out that contained too many hair products, each of them as sweet smelling as the rest.
You rolled your eyes when the rain started pattering against Cherry’s windshield, the cherry-red chevy was your baby, and she was very resilient in all types of weather, but the water droplets just banged against her vintage exterior too aggressively for your liking.
You rubbed along her steering wheel, “Almost there baby,” the squeak of the wipers was answer enough and you decided to flick on the radio, hopefully the soft melodies of you mother’s fleetwood mac CD would drown out the echoing of the torrential downpour, a significant increase from the initial patter.
For about one picturesque second , the vehicle was filled with Stevie Nicks’ vocals and you sighed, the song reminded you of when your parents would dance in the kitchen, your dad tickling your mothers sides in a way that would make her screech and slap his shoulder playfully- you and your siblings would cringe and run out into the backgarden, ignoring her calls for dinner in 10 minutes.
The next, the song gave one tragic little crackle and died.
You stared at your dashboard.
Cherry continued rolling down the road through the rain, wipers dragging water from the windshield in uneven arcs, the headlights turning the wet pavement ahead of you into a long black ribbon of reflected streetlights.
“No,” you said.
The radio did not respond.
You pressed the power button once, keeping your eyes on the road.
Nothing.
Twice.
Still nothing.
A third time, because sometimes persistence was the answer to everything.
You were still being assaulted by the hollow banging of the sheets of water splattering outside. Taking a slow breath, you remembered what mama always told you- a big deep breath before making expensive decisions or replying to emails sent by people who used, “just circling back” unironically.
“Cherry,” you said, very calmly. “Do not do this to me.”
The car gave a faint, worrying cough.
Not a human cough, obviously. You were not insane. You understood machinery. You had dated enough emotionally unavailable boys and owned enough temperamental objects to know that sometimes things made sounds without meaning anything dramatic.
But still, any reasonable person would agree that she coughed at you, a little, wet, mechanical throat-clear that vibrated beneath your feet and travelled straight up your spine.
You tightened your hands around the steering wheel.
“Absolutely not.”
Rain battered against the windshield hard enough to make the world outside blur at the edges. The road was mostly empty, which should have been comforting and was instead deeply insulting. Of course Cherry would choose an empty road. Of course she would not have the decency to make her point in front of a café or a supermarket or somewhere with lighting that did not make everything look like the opening scene of a horror movie.
The speedometer in front of you flickered, the little pointer rotated wildly before it settled on the big, red, zero.
Your stomach dropped.
“Cherry.”
Another cough, this time it wasn’t ignorable. Unlike the suspicious little shudders Cherry had been doing whenever you slowed down at traffic lights for the past three days, which you had been ignoring in a deeply optimistic way.
“Baby, no,” you whispered.
The engine stuttered beneath you.
You flicked your eyes toward the side of the road, searching through the rain for somewhere to pull over that did not look like the sort of place people disappeared in true crime documentaries. The headlights caught the edge of a sign ahead, blue and white and half-hidden behind rain-slick branches.
A garage.
Not even a proper one, at first glance. More like a family shop tucked off the road, with two wide bay doors, a small office light still glowing despite the late hour, and one battered truck parked outside beneath the awning. It looked open, though that might have been wishful thinking. Cherry lurched again.
“Okay,” you said quickly. “Okay, okay, I see it. We’re going. Don’t be dramatic.”
Cherry ignored you and rolled toward the garage with the exhausted dignity of someone arriving at the hospital after insisting all day that they were fine.
By the time you managed to pull into the small lot, the rain had turned violent. This wasn’t romantic rain. Not soft, rom-com, dramatic reunion with undying love confessions rain. Not like the rain you and your cousins would watch on TV, gathered around on the living room floor at your grandparent’s house, tummy first in the plush carpet, sharing a bag of crunchy baby carrots.
This was the type that slapped against the roof and pooled around tyres and turned every light into a smear. You parked beneath the edge of the awning, though not far enough beneath it to avoid the rain completely because you were stressed and Cherry had chosen that exact second to make another noise you never wanted to hear again.
The engine died before you turned the key.
You sat there for one long second, “Oh my God,” you breathed.
The rain answered.
You leaned forward and rested your forehead lightly against the steering wheel, careful not to smudge your lipstick because if everything else was going to fall apart, your mouth was not. The car smelled like your perfume, old leather, and the faint strawberry air freshener you had bought by mistake because the store had been out of cherry and settled for the next best option. Your hair was already frizzing from the humidity despite the fact you had not even left the car yet.
This was fine. This was a normal evening. Girls broke down outside strange, off the highway garages all the time.
Right?
You lifted your head and looked toward the lit office window.
There were people inside. Thank God.
You grabbed your purse, cursed when the strap caught on the gear shift, apologised to Cherry because none of this was her fault emotionally even if it was absolutely her fault mechanically, and shoved the door open.
The rain hit you immediately. Rude in the way it shoved you in its unforgiving momentum, thrusting against your clothes and drenching you down to the core. You wobbled on your feet against its forceful bullying.
By the time you crossed the short distance from Cherry to the garage office, your cardigan was soaked through, your hair was wet at the ends, and your ballet flats had made the deeply unfortunate discovery that puddles existed. You pushed open the office door with far more force than intended, stumbled inside, and brought half the storm with you.
Two men looked up.
One older, sitting behind the counter with paperwork spread in front of him and a pair of reading glasses low on his nose.
The other younger, standing near a workbench with a rag in one hand, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, dark hair slightly messy like he had been running a hand through it all night.
A third voice came from what you can only assume was the office, “Who the fuck is coming in at this time?”
You winced, biting your lip and wisely made the choice to look at the pair in front of you. The older man rolled his eyes at the remark, whilst the younger was more focussed on you.
Probably the state you were in, the chill had settled into your bones and goosebumps had erupted across your skin. The dress you had worn for girl’s night was not built for the weather and you wished you had bothered to look at the forecast before pulling the baby-doll peplum one piece out of your closet, but the length was just right and the white ruffles at the top were accented perfectly with the ruched red and white gingham against your chest. It didn’t help that Allie had hyped you up so much that you broke out your favourite ballet flats to finish off the outfit.
You felt like a little-girl’s barbie doll that somehow ended up in the washing machine as you stood in front of these two confused men, who were probably looking forward to closing down for the day.
“My car is dying,” you said.
Both men stared.
You stood there dripping onto the mat, clutching your purse against your chest, rainwater sliding down your jaw, red lipstick somehow still intact because at least one thing in your life had loyalty.
The younger one blinked.
“Dying?”
“Yes.”
The older man’s mouth twitched, “Mechanically?” he asked, folding his glasses off his nose and setting them down on the newspaper he was hunched over.
You gestured helplessly toward the window.
“Emotionally, mechanically, spiritually. I’m not sure yet. She coughed.”
The younger man looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“She coughed,” he repeated back to you, his arms folded over his chest.
“Yes.”
“Cars don’t cough.”
“Mine did.”
The older man leaned back in his chair, now openly amused.
The younger one looked past you through the rain toward the lot. “Which one?”
You turned and pointed, though the rain made Cherry look less like a car and more like a tragic red blur beneath the awning. “Her.”
“Her?”
“Cherry.”
The younger man had followed your finger, but turned back to you when you said her name.
“Cherry.”
You nodded.
“That’s the model?”
“That’s her name.”
There was a pause, perhaps this was the moment where a normal person might have realised they were giving a very strange first impression. However, you were cold, wet, and worried about your car, so self-awareness had been postponed.
“She’s a Chevy,” you added, like that cleared everything up.
The older man coughed once into his fist, badly hiding a laugh.
The younger one finally smiled. A crooked pull at one corner of his mouth that immediately made him look more dangerous than a mechanic in a rainstorm had any right to look.
“Right,” he said. “Cherry the Chevy.”
“Cherry the cherry-red Chevy,” you corrected, rolling onto your heels and back.
His smile got worse, but he brought a hand up to pretend he was running it down his stubble, he nodded as though you had just stated the sky is blue, “Of course.”
The older man stood, sliding his glasses off. “Logan, grab the umbrella.”
Logan.
So that was his name, it suited him. Wait what?
The younger man-Logan-tossed the rag onto the workbench and reached for a large black shop umbrella leaning by the door. “You drive her here like that?”
“She drove herself,” you said, then blinked, realising you sounded insane. “I mean, I drove. Obviously. But she made the decision for us both.”
Logan opened the door, and the sound of the rain surged in.
“You always talk about your car like she’s a person?”
You stepped toward him, trying not to drip directly onto the floor any more than you already had, "That feels a little unkind to say in front of her. She’s having a very hard night."
The older man laughed from behind you.
Logan looked at you, smile still lingering, “Fair.”
He opened the umbrella before stepping outside, and you followed him beneath it, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his arm. The rain hammered against the fabric above you, loud enough to soften the world into something smaller. The garage light spilled across the lot in a pale yellow wash, catching on wet asphalt, on Cherry’s red paint, on the strands of hair stuck to your cheek.
Logan was taller than you had realised inside. Which was not important. At all.
He held the umbrella more over you than himself, which you noticed despite trying not to, and by the time you reached Cherry, his shoulder was wet from rain blowing sideways.
“You’re getting soaked,” you said.
He glanced at you.
“You’re already soaked.”
“That doesn’t mean you should join me.”
“I’ll survive.”
“That sounds like famous last words.”
“You always this dramatic?”
“Yes,” you said immediately. “But only when my loved ones are in danger.”
He looked at the car, and pointed at Cherry, “Loved ones.”
“She’s family-adjacent.” Nodding, you patted her slippery bonnet, immediately regretting it as the frigid water numbed your hand. You shook it away, ignoring the amused expression Logan pinned you with.
“Family-adjacent.”
“My nana picked her out, and my parents bought her after Strawberry died.”
Logan had already crouched near the front of the car, but he paused at that.
“Strawberry?”
“My old Beetle.”
“Your old car was named Strawberry.”
“She was red too.”
“Was she also family-adjacent?”
You looked at him like the answer should have been obvious.
“She was my first car.”
Logan stared for half a second, then shook his head, but he was smiling as he moved toward the hood.
“Pop it.”
You leaned inside to pull the latch, immediately regretting the way cold rainwater dripped from your hair down the back of your neck. Cherry’s hood released with a dull click, and Logan lifted it, securing it with practiced ease. The garage light caught the line of his forearm as he reached inside, and you looked away so fast you nearly bumped your hip against the side mirror.
You busied yourself by smoothing one hand over Cherry’s door, “Don’t worry,” you murmured. “He seems competent.”
“I can hear you,” Logan said.
“I know.”
“Competent?”
“So far.”
He glanced at you over the engine. “That’s generous.”
“I’m a generous person.”
“You brought me a coughing car and called her Cherry.”
“I know. She makes a strong first impression.”
The rain kept falling hard around the edges of the umbrella. Logan leaned over the engine, focused now, and for the first time since you had burst into the office, he stopped looking amused and started looking entirely serious. His hands moved confidently through the engine bay, checking, adjusting, pausing. He asked you questions every so often-what happened before she stalled, how long the shuddering had been going on, whether any warning lights had appeared-and you answered as best you could, though it became significantly harder when he reached for a flashlight and the movement made the muscles in his forearm shift.
You forbade yourself from developing a crush in a parking lot.
Especially not on a man who had known you for seven minutes and already thought you were insane.
“You said it started with the radio?” he asked.
You blinked, grateful for the question because it gave your brain something to do besides betray you.
“Yes.”
“The radio died first?”
“Very dramatically.”
“Then the shuddering?”
“Then the emotional coughing.”
He gave you a look.
You shrugged.
“I stand by the description.”
His mouth twitched again.
The older man had come out at some point and was standing near the garage door, watching with the expression of someone who had seen enough late-night car emergencies to know when one was about to become entertaining.
Logan checked something deeper beneath the hood and muttered under his breath.
You leaned closer. What was in front of you was a whole lot of car, and you were subtly impressed that Logan could make sense of it.
“Is she going to live?”
He looked over.
You were close enough now that the umbrella barely covered both of you. Rain dripped from the edge between you and the scent of wet asphalt rose warm from the ground. Your perfume had shifted in the rain, less pungent than when you had sprayed it hours ago. Cherry and vanilla, yes, but softened now by cold water and damp wool and whatever impossible thing happened when perfume met skin and weather.
Logan noticed it. It hit him when you leaned in, one hand still resting anxiously on the car, your hair wet at the ends, your lipstick bright despite the storm, your eyes wide and serious as if he was examining a wounded animal instead of a temperamental Chevy. You smelled like rain and cherries. Like something sweet made sharper by the cold. Like something he was not supposed to be thinking about while working.
He looked back at the engine immediately.
“She’ll live.”
Your shoulders dropped with relief so quickly he almost laughed.
“Oh thank God.”
“But you’re not driving her far tonight.”
Your expression changed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can get her stable enough to move, but she needs a proper look. Alternator maybe. Could be wiring. Battery’s not loving life either.”
You placed a hand over your heart.
“Don’t say that in front of her.”
“She knows.”
“She’s sensitive.”
“She stalled in a parking lot.”
“Because she was overwhelmed.”
The repair took longer than you expected and less time than you feared. Logan worked in the rain and the garage light while you stood nearby, occasionally asked questions, and made deeply unhelpful comments whenever Cherry made a noise you disliked. At one point, you offered to hold the flashlight and then immediately aimed it at the wrong thing because you were telling him a story about the time your mother made you transport a lamb in Strawberry and forgot what your hands were doing.
“A lamb,” Logan said, voice muffled as he leaned under the hood.
“Yes.”
“In the car.”
“She was small.”
“The lamb or the car?”
“Both.”
“And your mom made you?”
“She didn’t make me. She strongly requested with maternal authority.”
“That’s making you.”
“You don’t know my mother.”
“I’m starting to get a picture.”
You smiled despite yourself, and Logan, still half-focused on Cherry, caught it out of the corner of his eye.
But he re-focussed on the engine in front of him just as quickly, this was going to be a problem if he didn’t get a hold of himself.
You were pretty when you walked in.
Obviously.
Soaked hair, red mouth, wide eyes, ridiculous car name. That had been easy to notice, but pretty was usually not enough to distract him in the way you were right now.
The problem was everything else.
The way you spoke to your car like she might feel neglected if you stopped. The way you apologised when you stepped in a puddle and splashed his boot. The way your laughter kept surprising him, bright even in the rain.
And the perfume.
That was definitely a problem too.
By the time Cherry started again, the engine turning over with a rough but steady sound, you looked at him like he had personally performed a miracle.
“She’s alive.”
“For now.”
“Don’t ruin this.”
“I’m being honest.”
“You’re being pessimistic.”
“I’m being a mechanic.”
“Mechanics can have bedside manners.”
He leaned one hand against the open door, looking into the car while Cherry idled. “You got someone who can pick you up?”
Your smile faltered slightly, barely slipping from almost-stencil like posture. But he noticed.
“I can call a cab.”
His father spoke from the garage doorway before Logan could answer.
“I’ll call one from the office. Weather’s bad.”
You turned toward him immediately, both your hands wrapped around the handle of the umbrella as your skirt billowed across your thighs.. “Oh, you don’t have to.”
Jesus, had you just fallen out of a black and white film, or had Dean finally smashed him hard enough into the boards to do serious damage?
“I know.”
The older man smiled.
You smiled back, softer now.
“Thank you.”
Logan looked away.
There was something strange about watching you smile at someone else, even his father, because your whole face changed when you meant it. Like warmth arrived before the expression did.
He closed Cherry’s hood and shook his head, his curls now fallen from the weight of the rain into his eyes, , “You’ll need to leave her here overnight.”
You looked wounded, pressing your lips together and somehow barely smearing the perfect red paint that he somehow kept glancing at every few minutes. One of your hands came to rest against your heart,“She’ll be inside?”
Logan glanced toward the bay.
“Yes.”
“Not out here?”
“No.”
“And nobody will be mean to her?”
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Logan sighed. “Nobody will be mean to Cherry.”
“Thank you.”
“You realise she’s a car.”
“Yes. But she’s been very loyal to me, and I think that should count for something."
His smile returned before he could stop it.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m getting that.”
When the cab arrived fifteen minutes later, you were mostly dry from standing under the lukewarm garage heating while still wearing wet clothes. Your cardigan clung uncomfortably at your sleeves. Your hair had started to dry into waves you were not sure you had approved. Your lipstick, by some act of divine intervention, had survived.
You thanked Logan’s father twice.
Then turned to Logan, handing him a small piece of paper from your purse. He looked at it curiously, the cardstock seemed to be perfectly ruffled at the edges, in the centre was looped handwriting that had your full name and number, along with a doodle of a… was that a goat?
He recalls seeing something similar in a vintage shop in town, tucked away from the general college crowd, the old lady at the till had chirped at him when he picked up the reminiscent stack of cards, “those are calling cards sweetpea, people used to leave ‘em for each other before all of this here, tikkytoky business.” Logan had smiled at her and left without a rogue thought.
For a second, the two of you stood in the garage bay beside Cherry, the rain still hammering against the roof, the air smelling of motor oil, wet asphalt, and your perfume lingering in the warm shop air. You noticed how comical he looked in front of you, studying the calling card in his hands, which looked more like doll’s furniture between his fingers.
Nana had started your interest in them, bringing down a large, oak box of what she called, “tinder on paper”. You fashioned the one in his hand by yourself, taking joy in the crafts project- and ended up with a hefty amount of them in your bag at all times.
“Someone will call tomorrow,” he said, blinking out of his stupor. He flicked the calling card and ran his thumb along the waved edges.
“About Cherry?”
“About Cherry.”
You nodded, then hesitated, eyes dropping briefly to his hand,“Will it be you?”
Logan looked up.
“Calling, I mean,” you added quickly, as if the distinction mattered. “Only because you’ve met her now. And you were very nice to her. I think she’d prefer continuity of care.”
His mouth twitched. “Continuity of care.”
“Yes.”
“For your car.”
“For Cherry.”
Logan nodded slowly, thumb still moving along the edge of the card like it needed his full attention,“I might be in class,” he said.
“Oh. Of course.” You nodded immediately, too quickly, like you had not felt the smallest pinch of disappointment.
You’d only known each other for 45 minutes. There was a very slim chance he'd consider calling you in the middle of his presumably busy day, just to give you an update about your chevy, “That’s fine. Someone else can call. I’m sure elder Mechanic is very capable.”
Logan scratched lightly at his brow, poorly hiding his bashful amusement, “Elder Mechanic?”
“Your father,” you clarified. “I didn’t want to be rude and call him old Mechanic.”
“Thoughtful.”
“I try.”
He turned the card between his fingers once more. “I’ll call if I can.”
Your face brightened before you could stop it, “Good,” you said softly. You looked at Cherry one last time, reached out to pat the side of her hood, then seemed to realise Logan was watching and immediately straightened. “She’ll like that.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“A little.”
“That’s okay.” You smiled then, bright and sudden and unfair. “I’m very funny.”
You were. Unfortunately for him.
The cab driver honked once outside, impatient as he waited in the cold, and you startled slightly.
“Oh. Right.”
You stepped backward, then stopped.
“Thank you, Logan.”
It was the first time you had said his name. It sounded different coming from you, in your voice, from your pretty, painted lips.
He did not like how much he noticed that.
“No problem.”
You hesitated, then added, “And sorry for dripping on your floor.”
“Our floor’s seen worse.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
You smiled again.
Then you were gone, ducking under the umbrella his father had insisted you take, hurrying toward the cab in the rain with your purse clutched against your chest and your wet hair bouncing against your shoulders.
Logan stood in the open garage doorway and watched until the cab pulled out of the lot.
He had no reason to.
Cherry was still in the bay behind him, ticking softly as the engine cooled. His father had already gone back inside, he could hear him and his brother chattering. The rain was blowing against his boots, and he was tired, and he had practice in the morning, and there were at least six logical things he could be doing that did not involve staring after a girl whose car had coughed dramatically into his life and then refused to leave quietly.
Still, he stood there, rotating the calling card long after the lot emptied again and the cab’s taillights disappeared into the rain. It was when the only sound remaining was water against concrete and the faint hum of the shop lights behind him, that his father’s voice came from the office.
“You coming in?”
Logan blinked.
Then he looked back at Cherry.
The car sat under the shop lights, red paint glossy from the rain, ridiculous little strawberry air freshener still hanging from the mirror.
He should have been thinking about the alternator, or the wiring, or the fact that he had an early morning ahead of him. Instead, for some morbid reason, he brought the card to his nose- curious if it was the entity still emanating the scent of cherries around him. Sure enough, the sweet scent enveloped him once again.
In fact, he was sure the entire garage still smelled faintly like rain and cherries.
summary: drunk reader confesses her feelings to logan. short fic, requested (via dm)
The glittery eyeshadow makes your eyes pop, Logan thinks as he stares down at you. It’s a shame he has to take it off.
“Why are you staring at me?” You say, giggling.
He shakes his head, “Nothing. Your makeup looks really nice.”
“Thank you.” You say, beaming up at him. “Your face looks really nice.”
Logan lets out an incredulous laugh, but how could he not? You’re stupidly drunk after one of the infamous Briar U Hockey Team parties, and the alcohol seems to have completely removed the filter between your mind and your mouth, leaving you rambling your every thought to him as he decided it’s time for you to go to bed.
Now, there you are, shiny eyes looking tired under the low lights of his room, wearing his clothes, sitting cross-legged on his bed, calling him pretty. It's both adorable and nerve wracking.
“You’re just drunk, honey.”
“I am so drunk.” You nod, chuckling, “But I’ve always thought you were pretty.”
He looks at you, “Yeah?”
“Yes, sir.” You say, solemnly.
Logan shakes his head, grabbing a makeup wipe he got from Hannah’s tiny box of supplies in Garrett’s bathroom. He sits by your side and delicately grabs your chin, holding you in place. “What are you doing?”
“Taking your makeup off.” He says, concentrating on wiping your face gently enough.
“Why? You just said you liked it.”
“Because it’s time for bed. Close your eyes for me?”
You do, and Logan carefully starts removing the smudged glitter on your eyes. You hum as he wipes the make up off of your eyes, “This feels nice.”
“Yeah? Not too harsh on your skin?”
You try shaking your head no, Logan’s hand still holding you in place. You giggle, “No, it’s not harsh at all. Well,” You say, “Your fingers are a bit callous.”
He smiles at your sincerity, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like them,” You say, then a little more sure, “I like you.”
Logan’s grip completely falters, and he lets his hands fall to his lap.
He wishes he could’ve said it took him by surprise, but honestly, no, not really. Actually, he should’ve seen it coming tonight.
It was pretty obvious that Logan had a soft spot for you from the moment you got introduced into the group by Hannah, and he might be slow, but he’s not blind — he knows you like him too. It’s like you’ve been playing a silly game of will they, won’t they, both too coy to take the initiative. Until alcohol gets involved, that is. Then all your inhibitions are swallowed down, and next thing he knows, you’re a dream come true confessing your feelings for him.
It can’t be like that, Logan thinks.
You open your left eye just slightly, peeking through your lashes, “Logan?”
“I– I think you should go to bed,” he says, not giving you any time to repeat yourself, getting up from his bed, “We can talk in the morning, yeah?”
You blink, face turning from giddy-drunk to frowny-drunk, “Okay.”
Not okay, he can tell from your curved lips. “Yeah? You good?”
“Yeah.” You say, crawling to the top of his bed. “All good. Night, Logan.”
“Hey,” he says before you can close your eyes, “We talk in the morning, okay?”
You nod, then hide under the covers.
—
Logan doesn’t see you in the morning.
In fact, he wakes up with an awful back pain from sleeping on the big chair near his bed, just to find his bed empty, clothes carefully folded and not another sign of you.
Fuck, he thinks, grabbing his phone from the nightstand to check if there’s any phone calls or texts from you, to no success. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Logan gathers his last bits of hope to go downstairs, but the house is silent, and everyone seems to be asleep still.
He tries calling you, but you won’t answer. He texts you, hey, can we talk? Then, please? to no avail.
By the end of the morning, he’s desperately knocking on your bedroom door.
“Oh, my God,” You show up at the door, flunging it open, “What the fuck is wrong with– Oh. Logan. I– I wasn’t expecting you–”
“I called you.” He cuts you off, “I mean, you weren’t there this morning, and I tried calling but you wouldn’t answer. I– I was hoping we could talk?”
You frown, “So you can reject me to my face? Again? No, thank you. I’m too hungover for this.”
“No, no. What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about me reading this,” you point between you both, frustrated, “all wrong. Look, I’m sorry, but I thought–”
“I like you.” He says, watching as you close your mouth, taking a step back. He follows your step, getting an inch closer.
“You do?”
He scoffs, “Honey, you know I do.”
“I don’t know anything, Logan.” You answer softly, “I thought I did, but…”
“But you were really fucking drunk,” he says, hiding back a laugh as he gets closer, “And calling me pretty, and– And I was thinking, god, I like you so fucking much.”
You grin at him, “Really?”
Logan refuses to answer you, his lips finding the corner of your mouth, chasing your kiss over and over and over again til you’re dizzy again, drunk on something much stronger this time.
notes: thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
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You woke in the narrow confines of your off-campus apartment, sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains you had chosen for your ethereal quality, casting the room in a forgiving glow. It made even the cluttered stacks of dog-eared novels and half-finished linguistics notes feel like the opening chapter of some delightful, meandering adventure.
Humming a barely remembered tune, you padded across the creaky floorboards in oversized socks, brewing a cup of early grey while mentally rehearsing your seminar presentation on the fluidity of emotional lexicons in modern prose. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror earned an approving wink.
Not bad.
You gathered your scattered belongings, laptop brimming with annotations, textbooks, and stepped out into the crisp air.
The drive started splendidly, windows cracked to let in the breeze that carried hints of blooming lilacs and distant lawnmowers. The old sedan had its quirks, unreliable but endearing. It had faithfully ferried you through countless late-night library runs and spontaneous road trips-
Today, though, as you turned onto the quieter residential street shortcutting toward Briar University, the engine began to falter. A sputter here, a hesitant cough there.
You coaxed it gently at first, patting the dashboard like a finicky old friend.
“Come now. Don’t do this to me."
But fate, ever the mischievous author, had other plans.
The car gave one final, theatrical shudder and fell silent altogether, coasting to a stop along the curb of a tree-lined street dotted with handsome houses. You simply sat there, blinking at the dashboard as if it might apologize and restart on its own.
No. No, no, no. You had a presentation. You could not afford to be the girl whose car died dramatically on the side of the road.
A disbelief bubble of laughter escaped your lips first before the frustration took its place. You turned the key again and again, the clicks mocking you with their empty rhythm.
“You gotta be kidding me,” You groaned, leaning back against the headrest with a dramatic sigh that bordered on theatrical.
Your phone battery hovered at a precarious twenty percent, and the campus still beckoned from beyond the next hill, you allowed yourself a few minutes to simply feel it—the absurdity of the situation.
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from that overwhelming rush of “why me, right now?” blended with a strange amusement at your own misfortune. You rested your forehead against the steering wheel.
The street around your felt curiously serene, those large houses suggesting a lively collegiate ecosystem you rarely brushed agains.
You could handle this. Call for assistance, transform the delay into an opportunity for people-watching or jotting down observations.
Before you could reach for your phone to summon roadside assistance—battery be damned—a knock sounded against the driver’s side window.
It made you jump so hard your knee slammed into the steering column.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” The words flew out of your mouth as you whipped your head around, eyes wide, one hand pressed to your chest as if that would calm the adrenaline surge. “What the actual fuck—”
Your heart was executing a fluttering pirouette as you swiped at your cheeks and smoothed the stray tendrils of hair framing your face.
Through the glass, a tall figure loomed, broad-shouldered and casually commanding, with a backward baseball cap taming dark, slightly tousled hair. Striking doe brown eyes met yours directly, carrying a blend of concern and easy amusement.
He wore a faded hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded from what you could only assume were hockey drills.
John Logan of all people.
He looked a little startled by your reaction but raised his hands slightly, trying not to spook you further. Even in your rattled state you registered that he was stupidly attractive up close.
Oh my god, he saw the forehead-on-wheel moment.
You cracked the window an inch, catching your breath.
“Sorry—shit, you scared the hell out of me. I didn’t hear you coming at all.”
He blinked at you, those striking eyes narrowing in concern and what looked like amusement. You’d seen him around campus before, usually surrounded by the rest of the hockey crowd, but never this near.
Never while you were mid-meltdown with tear tracks probably still visible on your cheeks.
“No worries. Didn’t mean to give you a cardiac event."
You let out a watery giggle, trying to slow your racing pulse.
“That’s… an apt nomenclature for it.” You immediately winced, heat rushing to your face. “I mean—yeah. It just died. Stopped working. Sorry."
Logan’s eyebrows rose, that half-smile deepening as he tilted his head.
Logan’s eyebrows rose, that half-smile deepening as he tilted his head. “Nomenclature? Damn. You okay if I take a look, or do you want me to call it something fancier first?”
"...Take a look?"
Logan's grin twitched. "Yeah."
"At the car?"
"That's generally what breaks down."
"Right, but..." You frowned. "Why?"
For the first time, he looked genuinely confused.
"Because it stopped running?"
"No, I understand the sequence of events. Car dies. Tragic. Very moving." You pointed at him. "I'm asking why you are volunteering."
His eyebrows climbed. "Why?"
"You're a hockey player."
"Okay?"
"That's all I've got."
"That's all you've got?"
"And you're in some of my general education classes." You shrugged helplessly. "But none of that screams automotive expertise."
Logan stared at you for a second before shaking his head. “That’s not usually a disqualification for basic car knowledge. Pop the hood."
"Are you sure?"
"Trust me."
"People who say 'trust me' are statistically responsible for a significant percentage of bad decisions."
He leaned one forearm on the roof of your car, ducking to meet your eyes better through the cracked window. "Pop. The hood."
You hesitated. "Do you know what you're doing?"
"Yes."
"Actually?"
"Yes."
You narrowed your eyes playfully. "Or in the way every guy who has watched three YouTube videos suddenly thinks he can rebuild an engine?"
Logan laughed outright.
"I know what I'm doing. I’ve been fixing cars since I could walk."
You hesitated, biting your lip as you searched his face.
“If you break it more, I’m going to cry in front of you, and that would be the ultimate humiliation.”
His expression softened, the cocky smirk becoming gentler.
“I won’t break it. Are you gonna keep interrogating me while your car stays dead?”
You let out a defeated huff, reaching down to pull the hood release.
“Sorry. Yes, please. That would be incredibly helpful."
Logan gave you a quick, reassuring nod, that smile still playing on his lips. “No problem. Sit tight.”
He moved to the front of the car as you watched through the windshield. He lifted the hood and propped it open as the morning light poured over him—faded hoodie stretched across a strong back, sleeves shoved up to reveal corded forearms dusted with faint scars and engine grease already smudging his skin.
The backward cap shadowed his eyes, but the sharp line of his jaw and the focused set of his mouth were impossible to ignore.
Oh. You swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of the warmth blooming in your body. That was… that was a fine man.
You hadn't voluntarily noticed a man in months—possibly years—and yet here you were, cataloging the exact width of his shoulders as if you were annotating a particularly attractive stanza.
Logan leaned over the hood, one hand braced on the frame as he studied the engine bay. His brow furrowed in concentration, a small frown of thought crossed his face as he reached in and touched something, his fingers moving with surprising dexterity.
He looked completely in his element
You pressed your cool fingers to your flushed cheeks, trying to will the warmth away. Thank God he was completely focused on the engine and not looking at you right now. If those doe-brown eyes turned your way while you were blushing, you’d probably dissolve into the driver’s seat.
You would not get flushed over random hockey players who looked like they could carry both the heroine and the entire third-act climax without breaking a sweat.
You moved in your seat, pretending to check your phone even though the battery warning was glaring at you. Anything to keep from openly ogling the hockey player currently saving your morning.
After a minute, Logan straightened, still leaning over the engine.
“Looks like your alternator belt is shot,” he called out, voice muffled by the hood. “It’s pretty frayed. That’s why she died on you.”
You leaned toward the open window, trying to sound normal. “Alternator belt, right."
He let out a low chuckle and wiped his hands on his hoodie, finally glancing over the hood at you. Your eyes met for a brief second, and your stomach performed an unflattering somersault worthy of a Brontë heroine.
Abort. Abort. Maintain dignity.
“Want me to call a buddy?” he offered, “He’s got a shop nearby. Could tow it and fix it cheaply. Save you the drama.”
You stared at him, equal parts grateful and mortified.
“You really don’t have to do all that,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear in a futile attempt at composure. “You’ve already done more than enough."
Logan’s grin returned, crooked and far too charming.
“I don’t mind." He pulled his phone from his back pocket, thumbs moving across the screen. “He owes me a favor anyway. I’ll have him swing by with the tow truck. Shouldn’t take long.”
You hesitated, pride and practicality wrestling in your chest. The seminar clock was ticking louder by the second.
"I’m not trying to be a charity case for the Briar hockey team.”
Logan glanced up from his phone, one eyebrow arched. “Did I say anything about charity?”
“No, but… you have that helpful-athlete vibe. It’s suspicious.”
“Suspicious,” he repeated, entertained. He leaned against the side of your car, arms crossed over his broad chest, the faded hoodie pulling tight across his shoulders. “You always this cynical?"
You looked away, pretending to check the time on your dying phone.
“I— linguistics major. We’re trained to question everything. Especially smooth-talking men with tool knowledge.”
Logan’s smile widened dangerously. “Smooth-talking. I’ll take it.”
You groaned, covering your face with both hands for a second. “I’m going to stop speaking now.”
“It’s cute.”
Before you could spiral about his casual comment, he pushed off the car. “You got somewhere to be, right?”
“Seminar. I’m presenting.” You winced.
“Tell you what,” he said, tilting his head toward the row of pretty houses across the street. “My place is right there. The third one with the shitty basketball hoop out front. You can wait inside, charge your phone, and grab some coffee. No pressure.”
You stared at him.
He shrugged, almost boyish despite the six-foot-something of pure athletic competence. “Or you can sit here and stress. Your call.”
The logical part of your brain screamed stranger danger. The rest of you—the part currently cataloguing the way his forearms flexed when he crossed them again—voted yes immediately.
You hesitated, fingers tightening on the strap of your bag.
“I appreciate the offer, but… I don’t know. I can wait out here. I don’t want to impose.”
Logan kept his respectful distance.
“I get it. Random guy invites you into his house after your car dies? Sounds like the opening to every cautionary tale your mom ever told you.”
You let out a surprised laugh, and some of the tension in your shoulders eased.
He continued, rubbing the back of his neck in a boyish way that somehow made him even more disarming.
“But here’s the truth: it’s just me and three other idiots right now. One’s in class, the others are probably still passed out. The door stays unlocked the whole time. You can leave whenever you want.”
He shrugged, that half-smile softening into something sheepish. You searched his face. There was no pushiness or over-the-top flirting. He seemed like a genuinely decent guy.
You exhaled slowly.
“Okay. Yeah. That sounds really nice. Thank you.”
Logan’s smile brightened, but he didn’t make a big deal out of your acceptance, simply nodding toward the third house across the street.
“Cool. C’mon.”
That was your cue. You finally pushed open the car door and stepped out into the crisp morning air, slinging your bag and laptop over your shoulder. Logan waited patiently on the sidewalk, hands back in his hoodie pockets.
He kept pace beside you as you crossed the tree-lined street, maintaining a polite distance—close enough to talk comfortably, but never crowding. The morning sun filtered through the leaves, catching on his backward cap. You tried (and mostly failed) not to notice how good he looked doing absolutely nothing.
As you reached the steps of the third house, he unlocked the door and held it open for you with an easy gesture.
“After you. Fair warning, it’s a hockey house."
The place was surprisingly livable, with a worn couch, a decent kitchen, and a living room that smelled like fresh coffee and laundry. Nothing smelled bad or screamed “frat hell.” It felt… normal.
Logan moved into the kitchen, “Phone charger’s right there on the counter if you need it. Help yourself. Coffee’s still hot, I made it before my run.”
He poured you a mug without asking twice and slid it across the island, black and simple. Then he stepped back, giving you plenty of space as he leaned against the opposite counter.
You wrapped your hands around the warm mug, feeling the last of your nerves settle. You took a sip of coffe purely to avoid looking at him.
Unfortunately, that only gave you more time to be aware of him. The problem wasn't that Logan was attractive, plenty of people were attractive.
The problem was that he was sitting three feet away from you, looking unfairly good while doing absolutely nothing.
"So."
You were busy trying not to stare at his forearms, a losing battle, if you were being honest. Your gaze darted away the second you realized where it had landed.
You looked up cautiously.
"So," you echoed.
A corner of his mouth twitched. "You know who I am."
You nearly choked on your coffee. "What?"
"You knew I played hockey before I said anything."
"Oh."
"That means you know my name."
"Yes."
The realization hit him at the exact same time it hit you. You knew his name, that he played hockey, that he lived in this house. You knew his teammates' names and that he'd scored twice in the championship game last year because half the campus wouldn't shut up about it.
Meanwhile—
You had never actually introduced yourself.
"But I don't know yours."
A horrified sound escaped your throat, causing Logan to bark out a laugh. "Holy shit."
You groaned. "Oh no."
"There it is," he said.
"There what is?"
"The look."
"What look?"
"The one where you realize something embarrassing."
You covered your face, pointing at him from behind your hands.
"You also never introduced yourself!"
His eyebrows lifted. "I didn't think I had to."
You could tell by his face that it hadn't occurred to him that an introduction was necessary because you'd already known exactly who he was.
Which should have been annoying.
You snorted, "That's a crazy thing to say."
Normally, it would've driven you insane.
Male athletes had a very specific brand of confidence that usually made your eyes twitch. Half of them on campus walked around like they were personally responsible for the invention of oxygen. Every conversation somehow circled back to their stats, their workouts, their game schedule, their importance to society.
You typically found it exhausting and pretentious. Yet somehow—
"It is?"
When Logan said it, it didn't sound like ego. It sounded like confidence.
Your brain should have filed him neatly into the same category as every other cocky athlete you'd met. Instead, your brain had apparently decided: this one's hot.
To save yourself, you gave him your name.
"That's a pretty name."
The compliment was such a ridiculously low bar that you hated yourself a little for getting flustered for the millionth time. Then again, the bar for men was historically buried somewhere beneath the Earth's crust.
You murmured a thank you into your coffee mug before your dignity could stage a protest.
Logan's grin widened. "You're a linguistics major, right?"
You blinked. "How do you know that?"
"You said it."
"Oh, right."
His smile somehow got bigger. "Oh?"
"I say a lot of things."
"I noticed."
Wonderful, you were being perceived. You hated being perceived, especially by attractive men who seemed to find your awkwardness entertaining instead of alarming.
Logan took another sip of coffee, still watching you over the rim of the mug. "Emotional lexicons."
"What?"
"That's what you were talking about when I walked up."
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"You heard me talking to myself."
A laugh escaped him and it sounded so nice it made it impossible not to smile back.
"You were sitting alone in a dead car arguing with your steering wheel."
You groaned so hard your soul nearly left your body. "Please stop."
"Wait," he said suddenly. His eyebrows pulled together. "What is your presentation about?"
You lowered your hands. "Linguistics."
"That's not an answer."
"It is technically an answer."
"No."
You laughed. "No?"
"No."
He pointed at you. "What specifically?"
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't stop smiling.
"The fluidity of emotional language in modern literature."
"Okay, say that again but like you're explaining it to a normal person."
"Wow. That was rude."
"It was honest." He looked genuinely curious.
You'd spent years explaining your major to people whose eyes glazed over halfway through the first sentence. Usually the conversation went:
What's your major?
Linguistics.
Oh cool. How many languages do you speak?
And then you had to spend ten minutes explaining that linguistics wasn't actually the study of learning languages.
You shifted on your stool. "It's basically about how people use language to communicate emotions."
His expression sharpened. "Like psychology?"
"Adjacent."
"English?"
"Adjacent."
"Made-up word science?"
"That one hurt."
His grin appeared immediately. "So basically yes."
You shook your head.
"I study how people choose words. Why certain phrases become popular. Why language changes. Why different people communicate emotions differently."
The sincerity caught you off guard. Everything about this man kept catching you off guard because you expected hockey-player responses, the typical disinterest.
Logan rested his forearms on the kitchen island. "So what do you wanna do with that?"
You srunched your nose in reply.
"What?" His forehead creased.
Somehow, you'd gone from talking about your dead car to discussing your future plans with a man you'd known for less than an hour, which felt oddly intimate.
You shrugged, tracing the rim of your mug with a fingertip as if the ceramic held the answers to your entire post-grad existential spiral.
“I’m not entirely sure yet,” you admitted, the words tasting surprisingly honest on your tongue. “Part of me wants to chase a PhD—dissect semantic shifts in emotional discourse across cultures, maybe publish something. The other part wants to teach, or write, or… I don’t know, help people find better ways to say the things they feel.”
Logan listened without that glazed, polite detachment you’d come to expect from most guys. His doe-brown eyes stayed on you, turning your words over in his mind instead of waiting for his turn to speak.
“That sounds important,” he said after a beat. “People suck at saying what they mean. Especially the important shit.” He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m better at hitting a puck than hitting the right words most days.”
You smiled into your coffee, warmth blooming somewhere behind your ribs that had nothing to do with the caffeine. He’s not performing humility, your brain noted.
“You seem pretty articulate for someone who allegedly only speaks hockey,” you teased lightly.
Logan’s grin flashed, “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll run out of big words. I save my limited vocabulary for important stuff. Like convincing pretty linguistics majors not to cry over dead alternator belts.”
Your cheeks heated instantly. Abort. Do not catalog the way he said ‘pretty’. You were level-headed enough to know this was probably standard charming-athlete protocol, but your traitorous heart did not.
“Flattery won’t fix my car,” you said, aiming for dry.
“Wasn’t flattery,” he replied simply, shrugging one broad shoulder. “Just stating facts.”
Oh no. He’s lethal.
Before you could spiral further into semantic analysis of that particular sentence, the low rumble of a tow truck sounded from outside.
Logan glanced toward the window. “That’ll be my buddy. I’ll go talk to him real quick—make sure he doesn’t overcharge you or anything.”
You nodded, watching as he headed out. The second the door clicked shut behind him, you let out a long, shaky breath and pressed your forehead against the cool kitchen island.
Get it together. You are a grown woman with a working knowledge of twelve linguistic frameworks. You are not going to develop heart palpitations because a hockey player has kind eyes and competent forearms.
Logan returned a few minutes later, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“All set. He’ll tow it to his shop, replace the belt, and text you when it’s ready. Gave him my number as backup so you’re not stuck if anything goes sideways.”
You stared at him, gratitude and disbelief filling your chest. “Logan… seriously. Thank you so much."
Your phone buzzed on the counter, still low battery, but enough life left to show a text from your seminar group chat asking where you were.
Shit.
“I should get to campus,” you said reluctantly. “I’m already cutting it close.”
Logan straightened. “I can drive you. My truck’s out back. No big deal.”
You opened your mouth to protest—stranger danger, independence, etc.—but the offer felt so uncomplicated coming from him.
“If you’re sure,” you said carefully.
“Positive.”
The drive to campus was just as effortless as the conversation in his kitchen. Windows down, September air rushing through the cab, a quiet indie playlist humming low. You talked about everything and nothing—his upcoming hockey season, your hatred of semicolons in academic writing, the absurdity of off-campus parking.
By the time he pulled up near the humanities building, you felt giddy, a fizzy feeling you hadn’t experienced with a guy in years.
“Thanks again,” you said, unbuckling. “For everything. I owe you one. Seriously.”
Logan rested his wrist on the steering wheel, looking over at you with those warm brown eyes.
“You don’t owe me anything. But if you wanted to grab coffee sometime—when your car’s not actively trying to ruin your life—I wouldn’t say no.”
Your stomach did that stupid Brontë somersault again.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling before you could overthink it. “I’d like that.”
“where are we?” you slur lazily, body leaning against your boyfriend for support. one of his hands is wrapped around your hip and the other one slams his bedroom door shut. “thought we’d go t’yours.” you pout.
and logan has to do his best to not bark out a laugh. a breathy laugh bubbles out of his throat. you’re funny when you’re drunk. he wipes a stray lock of hair out of your face. “we are at mine, baby.” he mumbles, eyes glistening. “c’mon. i’ll remove your make up.”
he walks you over to his soft bed. the one you lay in almost everyday. you immediately melt into a sleepy puddle of limbs. “give me a kiss first, johnny.”
you tip yourself up on your elbows, glossy lips puckered up. logan is too down bad for you, because he immediately indulges in your request and pushes his soft lips to yours.
the kiss is dramatic. you dramatically moan into his mouth, your lips smacking against his. it’s not a fluid kiss, it’s mouthy and swirly, but logan makes it work with a stable hand cupping your chin to coordinate you.
“happy now?” logan questions, pulling back. you let yourself fall back on the duvet, his smell lingering on the sheets. your eyes flutter shut.
“yes,” you reply, “you’re a really good kisser. now we can sleep. maybe i can sleep with you.” you giggle, mischievous grin on your face.
“oh— does your boyfriend know?” logan pulls back, plucking the micellair water from the night stand, faux-shocked expression on his face.
you burst out a laugh, hoisting your legs up from laughing too hard: “you are my boyfriend, silly!”
logan laughs that gentle laugh when he lightly traces the cotton pads over your skin. he hums in approval. “i’m a lucky guy, my love.”
he continues to clean your pretty face up. sleep is at the verge of conquering you, but before it pulls you under, you ask: “can i wear your shirt to bed?”
“of course, honey. of course you can.”
eventually you and logan end up tangled under the sheets. you’re wearing one of his old training shirts, his name and number on your back. and some old, oversized basketball shorts.
logan doesn’t really sleep with you like that. of course not. instead, your face is pushed into his neck. you’re knocked-out cold, softly snoring as logan presses a kiss to your knuckles. slowly intertwining your hands before placing them on top the duvet.
a/n: this guy looks so much like the guy i was into during my first year of uni. i have such a hard time not texting him. omgggggg and we're graduating i HAVE to text him right. RIGHT????
Summary: You broke up with Logan...but you want him back
You couldn’t stop the jealousy that simmered beneath your skin at the sight of the leggy blonde chatting up Logan. From behind the bar, you had a front-row seat to the entire thing. She was batting her lash extensions, laughing a little too hard at everything he said, and leaning across the table every chance she got. Every few minutes, she'd reach out to touch his arm or brush her hand against his shoulder like she couldn't help herself.
The worst part?
Logan was letting her.
‘’You look like you're about three seconds away from hopping over that bar and committing a felony,’’ Allie said, sliding beside you with a tray tucked beneath her arm.
You tore your eyes away from them.
‘’I might,’’ you admitted. ‘’I hate puck bunnies. She makes me want to throw a gum in her hair.’’
Allie snorted, reaching for a tall glass and filling it with beer from the tap. ‘’The cat’s claws are coming out!’’
‘’Shut up.’’
Allie glanced toward the booth. The blonde was laughing again.
‘’Go talk to him.’’
‘’We broke up,’’ you recalled, the words tasting sour on your tongue.
Choosing to end things with Logan hadn't been easy. In fact, it was the hardest decision you'd ever made. But with the skating competitions looming ahead, school and working at Malone’s on the weekend, there was no longer any room in your life for a relationship. Your coach had doubled your training schedule, packing your weeks with early mornings, late nights, and endless hours at the rink. Every practice, every competition, every sacrifice was building toward one goal.
The National Championship.
If you wanted a real shot at this competition, you couldn't afford distractions — even one as supporting and understanding as John Logan.
‘’But you still love him.’’
‘’Allie…’’
‘’What? I’ve been there too, you know? The ‘post break up crisis’ where you're wide awake in your bed at night, wondering if you did the right thing or just lost the love of your life. Actually, I’ve been there many many times with Sean. Turned out we weren’t compatible anymore…but that’s beside the point. What I’m saying is, there’s nothing wrong with getting back together if you love him.’’
‘’I don’t have time for a relationship—’’
‘’Go talk to him,’’ Allie insisted, handing the beer to you. ‘’He ordered another beer. This is your chance.’’
You took the beer, your fingers tightening around the cold glass. You hadn’t talked to Logan since you left his room three weeks ago, fighting off the tears after calling it quits. You saw him around on campus a few times and at Malone’s, but you always gave his table to someone else.
Out of sight, but of mind they say. Unfortunately, it wasn’t always true.
Logan was always in the back of your mind.
The walk to his booth felt longer than a triple axel jump.
Your feet moved on their own, heart pounding like it was the night before a competition. The blonde was still there — of course she was — drinking her vodka cranberry bedford laughing at something Logan had said, her hand now resting casually on his forearm.
He hadn’t touched her back. Not really. But he hadn't pulled away either.
And that stung worse than that time you took a bad fall and broke your arm.
You stopped just short of the table, thinking about putting down the beer and sprinting back to the bar, but you knew if you did that, Allie would send you back.
Logan looked up the second you appeared, as if he had sensed your presence.
Logan's smile disappeared the second his eyes landed on you.
Not faded.
Disappeared.
Like someone had flipped a switch.
For a moment, neither of you said anything.
The blonde looked between the two of you, clearly sensing something had changed.
You forced your server smile into place and set the beer in front of him. ‘’Here you go.’’
‘’Thanks.’’
God, hearing his voice after three weeks nearly knocked the air from your lungs.
It sounded exactly the same.
Warm. Familiar.
His gaze lingered on your face a second longer than necessary. ‘’How’s skating going?’’
The simple question caught you off guard.
‘’Good.’’
He nodded, forcing the conversation. ‘’I heard Hannah is making a song for the performance you’re working on.’’
‘’She is,’’ you replied, a small smile curling on your lips.
It was so generous of Hannah to offer to make a song for you. And you hadn’t even asked. She just saw you on the ice after a hockey practice and showered you with compliments the next time you saw her. You hadn’t heard the full song yet, but the snippets she sent you were great.
‘’It’s sweet. Your next competition is in Boston, right? I…I might come see you. Unless you don’t want me there. I’d understand if—’’
‘’Everyone is welcomed.’’
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
‘’See you tomorrow, Della!’’ you called over your shoulder as you headed for the door, impatient to be home and go to bed.
It was well past midnight, and after a few hours on the ice and an entire shift at Malone's, your feet were killing you. All you wanted was to get home, peel off your uniform, and sleep for the next seven hours. Twelve hours would feel even better, but it was a luxury you couldn’t afford.
Allie had left twenty minutes ago, but offered to help Della with the tables to thank her for accommodating your shifts to your new skating schedule. That woman was the kindest boss you ever had.
Just as you stepped into the biting night air, you walked right into Logan, who was standing outside the diner.
‘’Oh my god, you fucking scared me!’’ You shoved at his chest, your heart hammering against your ribs. ‘’What are you doing here? Standing there like a creep waiting to jump a woman at night.’’
Logan immediately held up his hands in apology. ‘’Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t think…’’
Obviously.
‘’The diner is closed.’’
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, his brown eyes set on you. ‘’I was waiting for you.’’
You glanced around. The street was empty except for a few cars, the neon Malone's sign buzzing quietly behind you. It was rarely this quiet around here, laughter and music usually spilling from the diner bar.
You crossed your arms against the cold and stared at him. ‘’Where’s blondie?’’ you asked bitterly. ‘’She left your bed already?’’
Before you got together, he was no better than Dean or Garrett in the hooking up department. He must have gone back to his old habits.
‘’I didn’t leave with her, if that’s what you’re insinuating.’’
You let out a humorless laugh. ‘’Oh right! You had her suck you off in the bathroom, then? It spares you the chore of kicking them out of your room. I know people do it, but I clean those bathrooms, Logan—’’
His jaw tightened immediately. ‘’We didn’t fuck!’’ he cut in, his voice echoing on the empty street.
Logan ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the movement. The wind immediately tousled it again.
‘’We had a few drinks and kissed for a bit, but I didn’t take her home. She tried to, but I rejected her. I went home by myself, you can ask G if you don’t believe me. He and Hannah were there.’’
You searched his face for a crack in the story. ‘’Why are you here if you went home?’’
The question lingered between you.
Logan looked away briefly as he tried to find the words without sounding like an obsessive ex. ‘’Because I couldn’t sleep. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.’’
The confession settled heavily in the silence.
True to his words, he wasn’t dressed the same. His jeans had been replaced by sweatpants and his shirt was a different color. He looked exactly like someone who had gone home, laid awake staring at the ceiling, and finally decided he couldn't stay there anymore.
‘’Logan…’’
‘’I know, I know. You said you don’t have time for a relationship right now. Honestly, I don’t have much time to spare either with hockey and the garage but I just miss you. I miss driving around and hearing you complain about my music, I miss watching you and Tucker argue about the acceptable cheese ratio in vodka sauce and snuggling on the couch after a long day. I miss having you in my life. I miss us too, but I miss you more.’’ Logan’s voice cracked slightly as he admitted it, raw and unfiltered like the words had been clawing their way out for weeks.
He didn’t try to kiss you. Didn’t reach for your hand or pull you into his chest like he used to. He just stood there, tall, broad-shouldered John Logan, looking small in a way only love can make someone look.
You didn’t know what to say or what to do.
You missed him too. You’ve missed him every day since you broke up.
In your dream scenario, you would jump in his arms and kiss him.
But real life was not as easy.
‘’I can’t give you what you want, Logan.’’
‘’What if we met halfway?’’ he offered. ‘’What if, until the end of the semester, we don’t commit to anything? I do hockey and work at the garage, and you focus on the Nationals, and if we have free time we see each other. We don’t pressure or guilt ourselves. We don’t schedule dates ahead or worry about seeing each other. We do our thing on our own until summer.’’
‘’And then?’’ you asked, taking a step toward Logan.
‘’And then we spend summer together.’’ He reached out for your hand, intertwining them together.
You glanced down at your hands and smiled. You missed this. Missed the way his fingers fit between yours like they belonged there. Missed how warm and protective his hand always felt. Missed how easy everything seemed when it was just the two of you.
Logan squeezed your hand gently.
‘’Say something.’’
You laughed softly through the knot in your throat. ‘’You always make everything sound so simple.’’
‘’It is simple.’’
‘’Logan…’’
His thumb brushed across your knuckles. ‘’I love you. You love me. The timing sucks but we work round it.’’
Your gaze dropped briefly to his lips. Then back to his eyes. The same warm brown eyes that had looked at you like you were the center of the universe since the day you met.
You stepped forward, grabbed the front of his jacket…and stopped.
He kissed that girl…
‘’Don’t worry. I brushed my teeth and used extra mouthwash.’’
A laugh burst out of you despite yourself. That idiot. You shook your head before closing the space between you. You loved that idiot.
The second your lips met, Logan’s hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you against him like he'd been resisting the urge for weeks. The other hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he gently tilted your face toward him, making up for all the time he couldn’t kiss you.
For every good morning text you didn’t receive.
For every night you spent staring at pictures together on your phone, wondering if he missed you as much as you missed him.
For every time you saw the Hawks get on the ice after you and pretended your heart didn't skip because he was there.
When you finally broke apart, neither of you moved very far.
His forehead rested against yours, not ready to let go of you yet.
‘’Skating doesn’t stop during summer. Actually, that’s when new programs start,’’ you said, breaking the silence.
Logan groaned. ‘’For fuck’s sake…’’
At least there was no school or shifts at Malone’s.
Summary: John Logan thought he understood exactly what his feelings for Hannah meant—right up until Hannah’s intimidating, sharp-tongued roommate walked into the Briar house and flipped his entire world sideways in a single afternoon. What starts as teasing banter and an unexpected walk across campus quickly turns into something far more dangerous: the realization that the easiest connection Logan’s ever had might be with the one girl he absolutely didn’t expect.
wc: 2256
Pairing: John Logan x Reader
A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts for a few days now, enjoy
Masterlist
The first thing John Logan noticed was the combat boots. Not because combat boots were unusual at Briar, but because the girl wearing them looked like she would rather be anywhere else.
Dean had been talking for the last five minutes—something dramatic about being “psychologically bullied” by Hannah’s roommate—but Logan stopped listening the second the front door opened wider behind Hannah.
“She doesn’t hate you,” Hannah said, dropping her backpack near the stairs while cold winter air swept into the house. “She just thinks you say dumb things.”
Dean looked personally wounded. “That’s basically hate.”
Garrett snorted from the kitchen island where he was digging through the fridge for beer. “To be fair, you do say dumb things.”
“I say emotionally honest things.”
“You asked her if pharmacy school was ‘basically legal drug dealing.’”
Dean pointed defensively. “That was a valid question.”
“No,” Hannah said flatly. “It wasn’t.”
Logan leaned one shoulder against the kitchen doorway, only half paying attention. The house smelled like stale beer, detergent, and whatever mystery takeout Dean had abandoned on the coffee table three days ago. A hockey game quietly played from the TV while Tucker yelled upstairs about someone stealing his shampoo again.
You know, the normal chaos.
Then Hannah stepped aside.
And suddenly Logan’s full attention locked onto the girl behind her.
Oh.
Okay.
He understood Dean’s problem immediately.
The girl standing in the doorway looked nothing like Logan expected from Hannah’s descriptions.
Not prettier—
Actually, no. Definitely prettier.
But not in the polished Briar-girl way he was used to. She looked rougher around the edges. Cooler somehow. Like she’d thrown herself together in ten minutes and accidentally looked incredible anyway.
Dark curls spilled messily over one shoulder beneath a black beanie. Heavy eyeliner framed deep brown eyes that scanned the room once—quick, sharp, unimpressed. Tattoos wrapped around both forearms beneath the sleeves of an oversized vintage Metallica shirt, disappearing beneath silver rings and stacked bracelets.
Black cargos.
Combat boots.
Leather jacket despite the freezing weather outside.
And an expression that said she’d already decided everyone in the room was slightly embarrassing.
Logan immediately wanted to make her laugh.
Which was weird.
“She’s staring again,” Dean muttered under his breath.
Without missing a beat, the girl replied, “I can hear you.”
Dean straightened instantly. “See? Terrifying.”
Hannah sighed like this exact interaction happened hourly. “Everyone, this is my roommate, y/n.”
y/n lifted two fingers lazily in greeting. “Unfortunately.”
Garrett laughed under his breath.
Logan bit back a smile.
Then y/n’s gaze landed on the three hockey sticks shoved beside the kitchen counter.
She blinked once.
“…Why are there hockey sticks in the kitchen?”
“Storage issue,” Garrett answered immediately.
“That sentence should never exist.”
Dean pointed toward her dramatically. “See? Judgmental.”
“You’re using sports equipment as interior design.”
“It’s temporary.”
“There’s dust on them.”
Garrett looked genuinely offended. “Wow.”
y/n finally smiled a little.
And Jesus Christ.
That smile changed her whole face.
Up until then she’d looked intimidating. Guarded in that cool, detached way that made people keep their distance automatically.
But the smile softened her.
Not completely.
Just enough to feel dangerous in an entirely different direction.
“Your house looks exactly how I imagined,” she said.
Garrett narrowed his eyes cautiously. “What does that mean?”
y/n looked around once more. “It smells like protein powder and poor decisions.”
Logan laughed before he could stop himself.
Not just a quick chuckle either—a real laugh that escaped unexpectedly.
y/n’s eyes flicked toward him instantly.
And stayed there.
Just for a second longer than normal.
Interesting.
There was no instant swooning recognition in her expression. No “oh my God, hockey player” energy.
If anything, she looked mildly entertained by him.
That almost never happened.
Hannah nudged y/n’s shoulder. “Ignore them. We’re gonna study upstairs.”
y/n shook her head slowly like she couldn’t believe these people functioned independently.
Then she adjusted the heavy backpack hanging off one shoulder.
Logan noticed immediately how full it looked.
“You heading out?” he asked before thinking too hard about why he cared.
y/n looked over at him again.
Close up, her eyes were darker than he thought. Warm brown under the kitchen lights, framed by smudged eyeliner that somehow made her look even more exhausted.
“Yeah,” she said. “Lab shift.”
Dean frowned. “You voluntarily go to labs?”
“She’s in pharmacy,” Hannah reminded him.
“That still sounds fake.”
y/n looked at Dean with complete seriousness. “You’re right. I made the entire degree up for attention.”
Tucker wandered downstairs just in time to hear that. “Honestly? Respect.”
“Thank you,” y/n replied.
Logan grinned.
There was something weirdly easy about talking to her already.
Normally conversations with girls at Briar went one of two ways:
Flirting.
Or boredom.
Sometimes both.
But y/n talked like she genuinely didn’t care who he was, and somehow that made him want her attention more.
“What kinda lab?” Logan asked.
“Antibiotic resistance research.”
Dean blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means bacteria are becoming resistant to treatment.”
“Oh.”
“Which is bad.”
“Right. Yeah. That part I got.”
y/n gave him a slow nod like she was encouraging a small child through a difficult learning experience.
Logan laughed again.
And this time y/n’s attention shifted fully toward him.
Like she hadn’t expected him to actually find her funny.
“You really like it?” he asked her.
Something in her expression changed immediately.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Like someone quietly lit a match behind her eyes.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “A lot.”
No sarcasm this time.
No teasing.
Just honesty.
And for some reason, that hit Logan harder than it should’ve.
Most people at Briar liked things.
Hockey.
Parties.
Classes sometimes.
But y/n loved what she studied.
He could hear it in her voice instantly.
Could see it too.
It made her look different somehow. More awake.
“Jesus,” Tucker muttered. “That’s terrifying.”
y/n nodded solemnly. “Women in STEM. Horrifying.”
Logan laughed hard enough to duck his head briefly.
God, she was funny.
Not try-hard funny.
Just naturally quick in a way that kept catching him off guard.
Hannah checked her phone and groaned. “We’re late.”
Garrett perked up immediately. “Wait—before you disappear, can you make that cherry pie again?”
y/n paused halfway to the door.
“Cherry pie?”
Garrett pointed dramatically at Hannah. “See? She gets it.”
y/n looked interested now. “I’m listening.”
“She makes homemade pie,” Garrett explained reverently.
y/n stared at Hannah for a beat. “Why are you hiding this from the public?”
“Because every time I bake for you people, you act like Victorian children seeing sugar for the first time.”
“That’s because we’re broke,” Logan said automatically.
y/n immediately pointed at him. “Exactly.”
There it was again.
That tiny flicker of connection.
Like they’d accidentally stepped into the same wavelength.
“I spent twenty minutes debating whether generic ramen tastes different from brand-name ramen yesterday,” she admitted.
Logan nodded seriously. “It absolutely does.”
“Emotionally?” y/n asked.
“Emotionally.”
She laughed softly under her breath.
And Logan felt stupidly victorious about causing it.
A few minutes later, Hannah disappeared upstairs with Garrett while Dean and Tucker argued loudly in the kitchen about frozen pizza.
y/n headed for the front door again, pulling her beanie down tighter over her curls.
Logan moved before he fully thought it through.
“I’m heading to campus too,” he said casually. “I’ll walk with you.”
Dean looked up so fast it was almost violent.
The expression on his face screamed gossip.
y/n noticed too.
One eyebrow lifted slightly.
But after a second, she opened the door anyway.
Cold air hit instantly.
Outside, Briar looked gray and slushy beneath the overcast sky. Snowmelt soaked the sidewalks while groups of students hurried past in scarves and winter jackets.
For the first block or so, they walked quietly.
Not awkward.
Just… settling into each other.
y/n shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. Logan kept stealing glances at her beside him.
At the way her curls escaped beneath the beanie.
At the tiny silver hoop through her nose.
At the tattoos winding around her wrists.
He caught himself staring at her mouth once and immediately looked away.
“So,” Logan said finally, “what do Hannah and Allie say about us?”
y/n’s mouth twitched.
“You want the honest answer?”
“Always.”
“They think you’re the least emotionally constipated of the hockey players.”
Logan barked out a laugh. “That’s somehow insulting and flattering.”
“It gets worse.”
“Oh no.”
y/n looked entirely too pleased with herself now.
“Hannah specifically said—and I quote—‘Logan acts like a frat boy but has the emotional energy of someone who wants to hold hands at a farmer’s market.’”
Logan stopped walking for half a second.
“What?”
y/n burst out laughing.
Not just smiling now.
Actually laughing.
Head tipping back slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners.
And Christ.
That was dangerous.
Because suddenly Logan wanted to hear that sound again immediately.
“You enjoy ruining lives, huh?” he asked.
“A little.”
They crossed the street together while snow crunched beneath their shoes.
Then y/n glanced sideways at him.
“So,” she said casually, “you like Hannah.”
Straight to the point.
Logan exhaled sharply through his nose. “Am I really that obvious?”
“Yes.”
“That’s brutal.”
“You look at her like she invented sunlight.”
“Well,” Logan muttered, “now I’m never recovering from that sentence.”
y/n laughed softly again.
But then her expression gentled slightly.
“She looks at Garrett the same way, though.”
That landed harder than Logan expected.
Not painful exactly.
Just true.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly.
“You okay with that?”
He thought about lying.
Instead he shrugged.
“I think maybe I got attached to wanting something I couldn’t have.”
y/n was quiet for a second beside him.
Then she nodded slowly.
“I get that.”
Logan glanced over.
“You do?”
“My entire life’s kinda built around it.”
“How?”
y/n adjusted her backpack higher on her shoulder before answering.
“My parents came to Canada with nothing,” she said. “So for them, success isn’t optional. It’s survival.”
There wasn’t resentment in her voice.
Just exhaustion.
Logan understood that immediately.
“My dad’s different,” he admitted slowly. “But… similar outcome.”
y/n looked over at him more carefully then.
Not teasing now.
Just listening.
“Family stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
The fact that she said it so casually made him want to anyway.
Which was new.
“He’s an alcoholic,” Logan admitted after a moment. “Money’s always been bad.”
y/n’s expression softened instantly.
Not pity.
Never pity.
Just understanding.
“That’s hard,” she said quietly.
Logan shrugged automatically even though tension tightened in his chest. “I’ll survive.”
y/n looked at him for a second longer than necessary.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “You probably will.”
Something warm settled low in Logan’s stomach.
Because she sounded like she meant it.
The conversation flowed easier after that.
Lighter again.
They talked about classes, textbooks, terrible cafeteria food.
y/n admitted she once fell asleep in the library during finals and woke up four hours later with keyboard marks on her face.
Logan told her about Garrett accidentally breaking a table while wrestling Tucker.
At some point, Logan realized he hadn’t thought about Hannah in almost an hour.
Which felt strange.
Not bad strange.
Just unexpected.
They reached the science building too quickly.
y/n slowed near the steps, staring up at the giant concrete building with visible disappointment.
“Ah yes,” she said flatly. “My prison.”
Logan smiled. “You love it though.”
“Unfortunately.”
Then she turned toward him fully.
Cold wind pushed curls across her face while students streamed around them toward the entrance.
Up close, Logan noticed details he hadn’t before.
Smudged dark nail polish.
Faint shadows beneath her eyes from exhaustion.
A tiny tattoo behind her ear.
Pretty.
Really fucking pretty.
“You know,” y/n said casually, “you’re not what I expected.”
“What’d you expect?”
“Hockey player.”
Logan grinned. “I am a hockey player.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yeah.
He did.
“And you’re not what I expected either.”
y/n folded her arms. “What was your expectation?”
“Honestly?” Logan admitted. “Someone scary.”
A slow smile spread across her mouth.
“I can still ruin your life if you want.”
Logan’s stomach flipped embarrassingly fast.
“Good to know.”
For one suspended second neither of them moved.
The chemistry between them felt sudden now.
Heavy.
Noticeable.
y/n tilted her head slightly.
“You flirt a lot for someone supposedly in love with another girl.”
Logan groaned instantly. “I am not in love with Hannah.”
“Mhm.”
“I’m serious.”
y/n’s eyes flicked briefly toward his mouth before lifting again.
“You’ve spent this entire walk staring at mine.”
Logan froze.
y/n looked unbearably smug.
“That’s different,” he said weakly.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Because talking to you feels stupidly easy.
Because you actually listen.
Because I forgot about Hannah the second you laughed at me.
Instead Logan just stepped a little closer.
Close enough to smell vanilla and cold winter air clinging to her jacket.
“You ask too many questions, scientist,” he murmured.
y/n smiled slowly.
“And you deflect too much, hockey boy.”
Then she backed toward the doors, still looking at him.
Still smiling.
And Logan stood there in the freezing cold watching her disappear inside like a complete idiot—
grinning to himself the entire way back to the house.
heyy could you do a john lohan x gf reader where like she goes to his games and wears his number and all and she gets a temp tattoo of 22 on her back and shows him after the game when they’re celebrating
22 for you | john logan
john logan x reader!gf
summary: you have always been a supportive girlfriend. wearing your boyfriends jersey, attending every game, and defending him in every hockey debate. after a big win, logan discovers a surprise that’s meant just for him.
word count: 1,7k
warning: fluff, kissing
authors note: guys i’m not gonna lie im really enjoying writing for logan he is just such a cutie
————————————————————————
it all started after you and your best friends, hannah wells and allie hayes had watched one tree hill the morning before your boyfriends would play.
“wait, wait, wait,” allie sat up straighter on the couch. “I just had the funniest idea.”
you immediately groan, remembering the last time allie had a ‘funny idea’
“that’s never a good sign.” hannah said
“oh come on” turning to hannah while saying “hannah back me up on this”
“ y/n should get a fake tattoo of logan’s number.’”
“why?” hannah said with confusion written on her face, not quite sure where this was leading to.
“to see lover boys reaction, duh.” allie said
the entire room went silent for a second.
before you could tell allie it was a stupid, hannah started backing up allies plan
“wait, that’s actually hilarious.’”
“seriously hannah.” you say staring at her with a fake offended look
“y/n, please do it.” allie said while looking at you with a pleading look
you looked at your friends like they’d both collectively lost their minds.
“you want me to pretend I got a tattoo?”
“yes.”
“of logan’s number?”
“exactly”
“you people need hobbies.”
“no, seriously,” allie laughed. “don’t tell him it’s fake. just walk up and be like, ‘surprise!’”
“he’d have a heart attack.” hannah said
“exactly”
you tried not to smile, because unfortunately they weren’t wrong. you could practically picture logan looking at the tattoo trying to figure out why just happened.
trying to hide your smile from the girls and failing miserably. allie starts shaking hannah while saying “she’s going to do it”
“guys, he’d freak out.”
“in a good way or a bad way?” hannah questions
“both.”
the two girls burst into laughter.
“he’d be so proud of himself.”
“that’s what I’m saying!” allie pointed dramatically. “his ego would grow three sizes.”
“he’d tell every single teammate.” hannah said agreeing with allie
“immediately.”
“dean would never let me live it down.”
“which makes this even better.”
you buried your face in a pillow.
this was such a terrible idea.
a terrible, hilarious idea.
“okay,” you mumbled giving in.
the room exploded.
“WAIT, REALLY?” the girls said collectively.
“only if one of you buys the tattoo.”
the cheering got even louder.
“logan is about to have the best and worst day of his life.” allie said while she and hannah pulled out their phones looking for somewhere they could find the temporary tattoo.
“okay movement of truth” hannah says while slowly removing the film of the tattoo, while allie nervously stands looking over her shoulder.
as she removes the film, allie gasps.
“oh my go-”
“stop allie what”
“it looks so good”
hannah takes her phone out to take a picture of the tattoo to show you, as she’s doing so you she starts agreeing with allie
“it does, and it looks so real too”
she shows you the picture and a cheesy smile starts forming on your face.
“guys why do i kind of love it?”
the girls start cheering, ending the cheer with a high-five.
“maybe you should get a real one” allie says excitedly
you smirk at her while saying “depends on his reaction”
you guys get ready to go, late as always but this time you guys actually have an excuse.
not that you could tell them
watching logan on the ice never got old. everything seemed effortless when he played. the speed, the confidence, the way he weaved through defenders as though they weren’t even there. sometimes you found yourself forgetting to breathe whenever he had the puck.
the boys were on fire tonight, finishing the game with a win and a huge score difference. a win for the briar boys always meant a huge party afterwards at the hockey house.
you, hannah and allie wait for the boys after the game to congratulate them. starting obviously with your boyfriends and moving on to your friends.
you see logan walk out the changing rooms. he always looked so good after games and practices, cheeks flushed, wet hair, you just loved it.
he makes his way towards you with a grin.
“hey”
before you could say hey back he cuts you off with a soft kiss to your lips. between kisses you congratulate him, praising him for how good he played.
he pulls away halfway to kiss your forehead then pulls away completely.
“thank you baby.”
logan’s hand found your waist, pulling her a little closer. what started as a quick kiss quickly turned into something more, neither of them eager to pull away. resting his hand on your lower back not realising what was hiding underneath. every time you broke apart for a breath, you found yourselves leaning right back in, unable to stop smiling.
eventually getting cut off as dean knocks his hockey stick against logans leg.
“come on guys, party tonight” he says excitedly.
the party was in full swing but you had spent the last twenty minutes avoiding logan.
which, unfortunately, only seemed to make him more determined.
“there you are.”
you groaned as logan appeared beside you.
“i’ve been looking for you.”
“really, i’ve just been with the girls.” you say trying to convince him he was just imagining it
his eyes narrowed.
“why are you being weird?”
“I’m not.”
“you are.”
across the room, hannah and allie exchanged looks.
you pointedly ignored them.
logan crossed his arms.
“what are they smiling about?”
“nothing.”
“what are you hiding?”
“nothing.”
his eyebrows shot up.
“you’re definitely hiding something.”before you could stop yourself, you glanced toward hannah and allie.
mistake.
a huge mistake.
because now logan looked even more suspicious.
“y/n.”
she sighed.
“fine.”
you grabbed the bottom of his shirt pulling him behind you and dragging him close to his room.
out of the corner of your eye you can see hannah and allie trailing behind you giggling as they do so.
“then what’s going on?”
for a moment, you considered dragging this out longer.
then you remembered hannah and allie were probably lurking trying to eavesdrop.
“gfine.”
logan waited.
you set down your drink.
then you began to lift your shirt just enough to reveal his number on your body.
for a second, logan just stared.
then he blinked.
looked at the tattoo.
looked at you.
looked back at the tattoo.
“is that…”
his mouth fell open.
“no way.”
you immediately started laughing.
“omg, your face.”
“Y/N!”
from behind a wall came the sound of hannah and allie losing their minds.
“we knew he’d react like that!”
logan pointed toward them.
“they knew about this?”
“maybe.”
“i knew it”
his gaze returned to the tattoo.
“you put my number on you?”
“It’s fake.”
“I don’t care!”
his grin was impossible to miss.
somehow, that only made you laugh harder.
because you friends had been right.
his reaction was absolutely worth it.
he pulls you to him, your waists touching.
“i actually liked it” he said while staring at your lips slowly leaning in with a smirk just before he could close the gap hes cut off by hannah and allie.
“right, that’s our cue to leave”
“yeah we’re just gonna go”
as they leave you and logan break out in giggles, he gently grabs your face pulling you in for a soft kiss. the kiss going from soft and sweet to more passionate.
it felt as if he was your oxygen
after a few minutes, your lips bruised, each breath coming out shaky your chest rising too fast to calm down, your cheeks flushed, logans hair slightly messy from your hands in it, his eyes half-lidded, dazed if this was his reaction to a temporary tattoo, how would he react to a real one
you guys made your way back to your friends, immediately when you get to them dean is practically floating after hearing about this tattoo
“alright let’s see it.” deans says enthusiastically like you were about to show him your first born
“wait.”
dean held up his hand after seeing the tattoo
“hou’re telling me,” he said slowly, his eyes moving between you and logan, “that she got your number tattooed on her?”
“It’s fake,” you immediately said.
dean ignores you and carries on.
“that’s not the point.”
“It’s literally the entire point.”
dean turns to logan and immediately starts to interrogate him.
“did you cry?”
logan immediately dismissing that while looking offended
“I didn’t cry.”
“you look like you cried.”
“I didn’t cry.”
dean pointed dramatically.
“see? that is literally exactly what someone who cried would say.”
“shut up.”
“no, because I need to know.”
dean stepped closer.
“when you saw it, did wedding bells start playing in your head?”
logan groaned.
“dean.”
“logan i am being so serious right now.”
“well dean i amnot having this conversation.”
dean gasped.
“omg.”
“what?”
“you totally imagined your future together, are you guys having kids together, no wait what’s the colour scheme for the wedding.”
“I hate you.”
“you did!”
logan buried his face in his hands.
across the room, garrett looked seconds away from falling off the couch laughing.
meanwhile, was just getting started.
“you know what this means, right?”
“no.”
“she’s officially your biggest fan.”
“she’s my girlfriend.”
“not anymore.”
logan looked up.
dean pointed towards you.
“that girl has got your jersey number tattooed on her body, come on logan”
you snorted.
“It was temporary.”
dean waved her off.
“details, immediately.”
then he looked back at logan.
“you’re never recovering from this.”
the grin spreading across logan’s face completely ruined any chance of arguing that.
dean immediately pointed.
“just look at him.”
“what about me”
“he’s smiling again.”
“am not.”
“he’s smiling.”
“am not.”
“he’s smiling at the tattoo.”
logan groaned.
dean leaned back triumphantly.
“best prank ever.”
“best prank ever,” hannah agreed.
“best prank ever,” allie echoed.
logan looked towards you.
unfortunately, the stupid smile returned instantly.
dean saw it.
and immediately started screaming.
authors note: guys if i’m being honest im not sure how i feel about this, love the idea but i think i could’ve done better. after he finds out about the tattoo, i wasn’t sure how to go on from there so i decided to throw dean in just to make it longer.
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can we pls get john logan x di laurentis ! reader?🥹💗 the reader could be dean’s twin. u can make it angst or fluff idc. i absolutely LOVED the sleepy story it was so good😭
Dean’s Twin
Pairing: John Logan x Reader
Word Count: 891
Request open!
Off campus masterlist
The first problem was Dean.
The second problem was that John liked you anyway.
That had been the situation for months, long enough for the guys to notice and long enough for Dean to become deeply suspicious about every interaction you had with John, even when John was being perfectly respectful and not at all flirtatious. Which, unfortunately for everyone involved, only made it more obvious that he was trying very hard not to be obvious.
You had known John through the hockey house long enough to trust him. Long enough to laugh with him, tease him, sit beside him at parties and not feel like you had to perform anything. He was easy to be around in a way that felt rare. Calm where Dean was chaos. Gentle where Garrett was loud. Quietly attentive in a way that made it hard not to notice him.
Still, being Dean Di Laurentis’s twin sister made everything a little messier.
Especially when you caught John staring at you from across the room at a party and Dean saw it too.
Dean’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Absolutely not.”
You turned toward him, drink in hand. “What?”
He pointed across the room. “Him.”
You followed the gesture and found John pretending not to look your way, which was a terrible strategy because he was visibly failing.
You sighed. “Dean.”
“No.”
“Dean, relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
You gave him a dead look. “You look like you’re planning a duel.”
“Maybe I am.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too, which Dean noticed and hated immediately.
John eventually made his way over, looking only slightly amused by the tension he was walking into. He stopped in front of you and nodded at Dean.
“Hey.”
Dean looked at him flatly. “What.”
John glanced between the two of you, then back at Dean. “I was just coming to say hi.”
Dean folded his arms. “That’s very brave of you.”
“Dean,” you warned.
John’s mouth twitched. “It’s fine.”
“No,” Dean said. “It’s not.”
You took one step closer to John before Dean could escalate into something unnecessarily dramatic. “What do you need?”
John looked at you, and his expression softened immediately in a way Dean absolutely did not miss.
“Nothing,” he said. “I just wanted to see how your day was.”
Dean made a strangled sound. “You can ask that from across the room.”
John gave him a calm look. “Would that have helped?”
Dean stared.
You hid a smile behind your drink.
John looked back at you, gentler now. “You want to get out of here?”
Dean nearly choked. “Excuse me?”
You ignored him. “Yeah?”
John nodded toward the side door. “There’s too many people in here.”
You considered him for one beat, then said, “Okay.”
Dean’s head snapped toward you. “Absolutely not.”
You turned to him. “Dean.”
“You are not leaving with him.”
John looked mildly amused now. “I’m not kidnapping her.”
Dean pointed at him. “That’s exactly what someone kidnapping her would say.”
You laughed, and John’s gaze stayed on you like the argument around him had become background noise.
Then he spoke, quiet and direct. “Dean, I’m not trying to screw this up.”
That shut Dean up.
For a second, even you did not say anything. John rarely said things like that out loud, and when he did, it was impossible not to take him seriously.
Dean’s expression shifted from suspicious to uncomfortable, which was probably the best you could hope for.
John kept his eyes on you. “If you don’t want this, I’ll leave it alone.”
That landed in your chest in a way that made everything else disappear for a second.
You looked at him carefully. “I do want it.”
John’s expression softened instantly, but only a little. He was clearly trying to behave in a way that wouldn’t set Dean off further, which was both sweet and deeply inconvenient.
Dean groaned. “I hate both of you.”
You smiled at him. “No, you don’t.”
“I hate that you’re right.”
John offered Dean a quiet nod and then looked at you again. “Still want to go?”
You glanced at your brother, who looked like he was one second away from making a speech about boundaries and bad decisions, then back at John, who was standing there with his hands loose at his sides like he was trying very hard to be patient.
You smiled.
“Yes,” you said.
John held your gaze for a second too long, then held out his hand.
You took it.
Dean immediately muttered, “I can’t believe this is happening.”
You looked back over your shoulder as John guided you toward the door. “You’ll survive.”
John’s thumb brushed once over your hand, and when he looked down at you, there was something steady and warm in his face that made the whole messy situation feel a little less impossible.
At the door, he paused and said quietly, “You okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He studied you for a second, then smiled faintly. “Good.”
And even though Dean was still glaring holes into the back of John’s head from the living room, you realized with some surprise that you were not nervous anymore.
Not with John.
He was calm enough for both of you.
And somehow, even with Dean Di Laurentis as your brother, that felt like a pretty good place to start.
blurb: john logan claims that he doesn’t do jealousy. he thinks he’s above such petty feelings. but what happens when his girlfriend gets hit on at a house party?
warnings: fem!reader, suggestive, established relationship, alcohol
note: smut pt. 2 here
“Cupcake?”
You turned around at the voice, meeting the face of a 6’2” football player you didn’t know personally but recognized from the Briar sports Instagram account.
He was staring at your headpiece; a frosting top with colorful sprinkles. You realized what he was trying to say.
“Oh, no. I’m chocolate,” you said.
He raised an amused brow, “Chocolate?”
You nodded, sipping your beer. “Chocolate.” You confirmed, then pointed across the room to where Kendall was busy making out with one of the hockey players. “She’s vanilla. We’re chocolate and vanilla swirl.”
The football player nodded in understanding. “Ah. I see,” he said before looking over at Kendall. “Though vanilla isn’t very vanilla.”
You laughed at his witty joke, both of you watching Kendall as she did a body shot off of the hockey player she was kissing two seconds ago. She was dressed in the same tube top and bubble skirt set you were wearing, complete with the knee-high boots and matching headpiece; hers a whipped white color, yours a cocoa brown.
From the other side of the room, Tucker and Logan were talking when the former spotted you chatting with the tall football player.
Tucker nudged Logan, “Yo, is that your girl?”
Logan followed his line of sight and it landed on you, leaning against the kitchen counter and speaking to the good-looking stranger with an easy smile on your lips.
Logan looked away and gulped down his beverage. “She’s a big girl.”
Logan wasn’t one of those insecure, pompous boyfriends. He didn’t do jealousy. He’s convinced jealousy was invented by a short dick man with an easily bruised ego. Logan was secure enough in his relationship with you to never have any reason to feel jealous.
You turned to the jock and gave his costume a once-over. Knitting your brows together, you racked your brain’s storage full of pop culture references and iconic fictional characters.
“Timothée Chalamet in Call Me by Your Name?” You tried.
He let out a huff of laughter, “Close. I’m Luca from the Disney-Pixar movie.”
“Ahh,” you nodded. “Practically the same.”
He flashed a charming smile, dragging a sip from his bottle. He extended his hand to you, “James.”
You shook his hand and told him your name.
“Pretty name,” he responded. “Though…” he leaned in closer, “…cupcake fits better, don’t you think?”
Ah. At that, you picked up that he was attempting to flirt with you. Forever loyal to your boyfriend, you opened your mouth to turn his advances down. But before you could, you felt an arm wrap around your waist from behind and find purchase on your hipbone. You knew who it was without even looking.
“Hey, got you a refill,” Logan said, taking the half empty can from your hands and replacing it with a new one.
“Thanks,” you said. As your hand moved to pop the can open, Logan’s deft fingers beat you to it and he cracked the tab for you.
The football player, James, eyed the two of you, biting his lip whilst reconfiguring his whole plan. “You’re both…?”
“Air signs,” Logan teasingly remarked with a straight face, casually drinking from his red solo cup. You elbowed him with a small smirk.
“No,” James shook his head. “I mean—”
“Together,” Logan told him, putting his now empty plastic cup down on the counter. His newly freed hand joined the other by holding onto your other hip and giving it a squeeze.
James nodded to himself. “Got it.” And away he went. Probably off to find his Alberto.
Logan’s eyes followed his retreating figure, not easing up until he was out of sight. Only then did he drop his hands off your body.
You turned around and looked up at your boyfriend with a wide smile. “What was that?”
“What was what?” He returned, pouring himself a new drink.
“That whole thing,” you responded.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” You repeated.
Logan shrugged. “A normal interaction, no?”
“He was flirting with me before that.”
“Oh so you’re aware.”
Your expression dropped. Oh, is that why—
“Logan.”
“Hm.”
“Logan.”
“Hm?”
You tilted his face down to look at him. “I wasn’t going to entertain it.”
“I know,” he replied.
“I was going to shut it down right before you showed up.”
“I know.”
“I want to make sure you know that.”
“And I know that.”
You squinted your eyes. This was suspiciously too easy. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
You stared at one another for a beat longer than necessary.
“You’re still upset,” you observed.
“I’m not upset,” he answered.
“So what are you feeling?” You asked.
“I don’t like how he called you cupcake,” Logan told you.
“Me neither. Not when I’m so clearly chocolate.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
“Y/n.”
You sighed softly, “Okay, sorry. I thought humor would make it better.”
Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping to relieve some of his tension. It worked. A little.
“It was a shitty pickup line,” you said. “Wouldn’t work on me even if I was single.”
“I hope so.”
“Oh, please, Logan. Take me out the back and shoot me if you ever see me falling for that,” you commented. He let out a small laugh. That’s progress
His hands returned to your hips and he pulled you closer. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck. His large hands rested just above your ass.
“What if I called you that?” Logan said lowly.
“Wanna give it a try?” You offered.
He leaned in, his lips hovering right by your ear. You could feel his warm breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. “Would you be into that, cupcake?” He whispered, ending it with a gentle nibble on your earlobe.
You shivered, feeling goosebumps crawl over your skin. “Fuck, I guess you have to take me out back with a gun, Logan.”
He pulled back with a hearty chuckle. You gave a matching smile and he held your face, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.
As he looked at you, his face turned thoughtful for a moment. You squeezed his hand reassuringly.
He leaned in again. “I didn’t like how he looked at you.”
“How’d he look at me?” You wondered.
“Like how I look at you.”
You stared up at him, biting your lip. “And how do you look at me?” You whispered.
He brought his forehead against yours, gazing deep into your eyes. “Like I want you.”
Oh screw your sexy boyfriend and his even sexier responses. And that’s exactly what you wanted to do now—if only you weren’t in the middle of Beau and Dean’s birthday bash.
You had enough of this game. You raised yourself up and pressed your lips to his. Logan was hungry; he seemed to devour your kiss, swallowing every soft sound you made. His hand strayed down to grip your ass, the other held your waist comfortably. His tongue was already begging to enter your mouth, and you obliged without hesitation.
When you pulled away several moments later, Logan chased your lips with eagerness, gently biting your bottom lip as you separated.
“Mine,” he breathed out under his breath.
You bared a dazed smile, “I only want you.” You mouthed silently.
Logan let out a soft sound of amusement, nodding more to himself than to you. Satisfied and high off your impromptu makeout session, he pressed one last kiss to your forehead before rejoining his friends, this time with a protective hand on the small of your back.
Summary: Weeks after Dean's party, you encounter Logan by accident when you're asked to take pictures of the guys during a hockey interview.
Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader
Word count: 5.1k
Warnings/tags: mentions of childhood bullying, parental issues, reader has food sensory issues and trouble understanding social cues. leaning hard into her being ND just fyi <3 dean and garrett being kinda annoying but they mean well. hannah being a cutie. photographer!reader. this is kind of a slow burn so nothing really happens tbh except logan being a nice young man :)
Notes: this is a series now? maybe?? i have no idea what's happening but thank u for all the support on the first fic! i guess if u guys are still interested, i'll keep writing these two!
i don't do taglists but you can follow @sanguinelibrary for all fic updates
the divider
“Yo. Hey, Logan. Loooogan. Dude.”
Logan peeks one eye open. Dean is crouched in front of him, at the side of his bed, shirtless, which is pretty much the last thing he wants to see ever.
Dean smiles with all of his teeth. “Hey, sunshine. Drain's clogged again.”
Logan grunts. “What'd you do this time?”
“Absolutely nothing. It was Garrett.”
“It was not, asshole,” Garrett says, strolling into Logan's room. He throws a shirt at Dean. “I just got home. Someone thought it'd be a great idea to pour bacon grease down the drain.”
“Why are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,” Logan grumbles.
“Well, I don’t cook, so it can’t have been me. Must’ve been Tucker,” Dean says.
Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. “If you're spreading bullshit about me, Dean, I'm here to defend myself. For the record: yes, I did make bacon, and there's a plate downstairs. But I was not the one who poured grease down the drain, because I'm not a fool.”
They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now.
“Yeah, I lied earlier,” Dean says. “It was me. I wanted to use the cup.”
Logan smiles flatly. “I already knew it was you, dumbass. You clog every drain in the house once a week. Vote time. Everyone in favor of kicking Dean out forever?”
The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird.
“Nay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?”
“Yeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?” Tucker says, rolling his eyes.
Then he bolts for the door, Dean on his heels. Logan sighs and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. He dreamt about you again. You were on the ice, skating with him, telling him how much you like Taco Bell. He kissed you.
Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.
“Hey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,” Garrett says, typing on his phone. No doubt texting Hannah. Logan is proud to say that he no longer has a crush on Hannah Wells, as fleeting as that was. No, he has a crush on her friend, who is smart and beautiful and who probably hasn't given him another thought since the party three weeks ago.
He missed you in class this week. He even stayed behind and pretended he had a question in order to scan the room to check if maybe he didn't see you the first time. But you were nowhere to be found. And it's not like he can text you. He scoured Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook for your account, until he felt like a fucking creep and stopped, the search fruitless. Hell, Logan would write you letters if it meant talking to you beyond the two sentences you exchange in class.
You did wave at him last week. Usually, you pack up your things as fast as possible and run out of the lecture hall. So when you lingered long enough to smile at him… well, that was pretty fantastic.
“Yeah, thanks,” Logan says.
Garrett nods. “I'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.”
Logan lets his head fall back against the pillow as Garrett leaves. He thinks what Garrett's doing with Hannah will probably end with one or both of them getting hurt, especially since they’re both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannah’s Instagram songs more than once. Garrett’s absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other.
“Fuck,” he says to himself, palms on his eyes.
You lost your silica gel.
It's not terrible… no, it is. It's thrown off your whole week, actually. You've been on websites longer than usual, looking at fidget toys, sorely tempted. You're especially taken with a moldable squishy with beads inside. It's like the mother of silica gel, and your fingers itch with anticipation of how it would feel.
But you can't. It's eighteen dollars, which is certainly one reason why you shouldn't buy it, but it also would make noise. And even if you used it outside of class… what if someone found it or caught you using it? How do you explain that?
And you hate feeling like you need a toy to keep you grounded. Your stomach hurt so badly that you skipped class on Monday, which sucked because you didn't see Logan. But you were thinking about having to see your mother during the break and your upcoming finals and nothing, not even listening to music, helped the resulting pain in your stomach.
Your mother has always told you that it's psychological, and treats your anxiety like a moral failing on your part. If you would just try harder… but you don't know how to do that. You're already trying so hard. It's difficult enough to eat everyday, and go to class, and sleep enough, and not rot in your dorm.
Your mother would be pleased if you told her you went to a party. She'd dismiss the fact that a guy harassed you. She wouldn't believe you if you told her about Logan and his pretty curls and mouth. No man is looking to just be friends with you.
She was the one who wanted you to go away for college. You didn't mind staying local, but she said you'd never “grow into yourself” if you didn't move away.
Your nails have been bitten to stubs. You've been growing them for a month, and all your hard work is lost. The silica gel occupied your hands but now that it's gone, you've fallen back to nail biting.
Hannah said she would meet you at the stadium after her class this morning. Two days ago, you told one of the editors of the Briar newspaper that you bought a new camera. You've taken pictures for them before, but never during an event. Stupidly, you revealed your new purchase, and the editor excitedly asked you to attend an interview that some of the Hawks players were giving today, and take pictures for the paper.
If only you knew when to keep your mouth shut. Taking pictures of people is stressful. You hate it. They often want you to turn them into someone they're not through the camera lens. People can never just be themselves on camera. That's why you take pictures of birds or buildings or sunsets. They just are, and you can capture them in all their candidness. Most of the world doesn't perform for a camera—only people do.
Hannah is the first one to greet you when you get inside the stadium. You walk to the bleachers together, where a video crew is setting up.
“This is great,” Hannah says. “People are gonna see your pictures, as they should.”
You shrug. “I guess so. I didn't really want to do this.”
“Your photos are really good,” she says. “And getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?”
You sigh. “I don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.” Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. “And what if the players hate the pictures?”
“Well, Garrett's doing the interview, and he wouldn't let anybody on the team say anything to you about your pictures. But it's only a few of them, I think. Do you want me to stand with you?”
You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say.
She beams. “Of course I'll stay.”
But as everyone finishes setting up, Coach Jensen approaches you. Hannah explains that she's Garrett's tutor, and Coach tells her that she can stay, but only in the bleachers.
“I'm here to support my friend,” she says. “It’s her first time photographing for the team. Please?”
“Sorry. Only press and photographers can be here.”
She looks at you sympathetically. “I'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.”
You watch Hannah go sit, wishing you had the silica gel.
Garrett is the first player interviewed. You take many pictures, so there are lots of options to choose from when you send them to the paper. He doesn't look at you once, which is splendid.
Next is Dean. He's fired up in his interview, swearing that Briar will crush the competition. Then it's Tucker, who seems a little nervous in front of the camera. You understand completely.
You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you can’t hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.
“So John,” begins the reporter. “How is the team preparing to win the next three games? You’ll need three wins to keep Briar’s ranking.”
“Yeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrett’s a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt we’ll win. We’ve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.”
He glances in your direction. Click. You’re not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you can’t help it. You won’t send that one to the paper.
“How are you personally feeling about the season?” the reporter asks.
You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.
“John, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,” she says. “Is there something distracting you? A light? A noise?”
“Nope,” Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. “All good.”
He answers a few more questions. The reporter thanks all of them for their time and then the crew packs up. You put the lens cap on your camera and pack it up in its case.
“Hey.”
You look up from your case. Logan’s in front of you. This close, you can really take in his appearance: his swoopy hair, his azure jacket with the Hawks emblem on the chest. He smells like apples, as always.
“You’re here,” he says, before you can say hi back.
You nod, confused. “Um. Yes?”
“I didn’t know you were a photographer.” He’s smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. “I haven’t seen you photographing games.”
“I don’t. The paper’s editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.”
“Can I see?”
You hesitate. “I can’t retake pictures.”
“I know. I’m asking because I want to see your pictures, not ‘cause I care about how I look in them. You don’t even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?”
“You want to see my other photos? They’re of birds and stuff like that.”
“I fucking love birds. And I mean that.”
You blink. “Oh. Okay. Me too.”
“I didn’t see you in class this week,” he says.
“I was sick.”
“That sucks, I’m sorry.”
You nod. You don’t tell him why you were sick. He doesn’t need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.
She stops next to you. “Hey! How was it?” She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. “Hi, Logan. What’s up?”
“Hey, Wellsy,” he says. You try not to frown. It’s stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isn’t even his invention.
“Logan wants to see my photos,” you say.
Hannah raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I didn’t know you liked photography, Logan.”
“Oh, big time,” he says, looking at you.
Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.
“You did great,” she says. “I’ll see you later?”
“I thought you wanted to get lunch together,” you say.
“Uh…” She glances between you and Logan. “I’ll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.” She rolls her eyes. “Hockey players.”
“Ouch,” Logan says, nudging her.
Hannah smiles sweetly. “You and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.”
“Garrett will definitely be hearing that.”
“Good.” She squeezes your arm. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have fun.”
You watch her go, feeling lost. “She said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?”
“Oh, um, I don’t think Hannah meant anything by it,” Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. “Garrett’s such a diva, honestly—he’d probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.”
You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since he’s currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is.
“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “I’ll go eat by myself then. It’s one o’clock, so it’s lunchtime.”
“I could come with you.” Logan clears his throat. “Uh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.”
“Oh. No, I’d like that.” You smile. “And I can show you my photos, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding breathless. “Please do.”
Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.
“Hockey season,” he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didn’t have to; he said he wanted to.
You sit opposite him with your own food. Nothing had seemed appetizing, but you have a headache, which is your body’s way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you don’t feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you don’t have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.
And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you aren’t distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You can’t do those things in front of another person, because it’s rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget you’re supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and it’s no longer appetizing.
“Eating that much chicken doesn’t make you feel sick?” The thought of eating that much meat in one sitting makes you want to vomit. Not to mention the chicken ick. Chicken is an extremely unsafe food—if you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you can’t eat it.
Logan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.”
He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldn’t be such a chore if you could eat like that.
You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you today because that’s the only thing that sounds edible today, but since you’re with Logan, you can’t do that. Probably you can’t go to Taco Bell every time you see him… still, you’re tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Logan’s done eating, and then you can go get what you want.
You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go away—it’s too hard to talk to people when you have a headache, and you really want to talk to Logan.
You unwrap the foil your turkey burger is in. You take it out and remove the whole wheat repulsive bread, then put the meat on your plate. You cut it into small triangles with your knife and fork.
“Not a fan of the bun?”
You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously.
“This bread tastes like cardboard,” you say slowly, watching him for judgment. “I like fluffy white rolls only.”
“That’s my favorite too. Garrett’s always on me to eat more whole grains.”
“Maybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.”
Logan laughs. “Seriously. I think I’m spoiled by Tucker’s cooking. He’s a master chef.”
You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you don’t want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever you’re eating. At least you don’t have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesn’t dismiss the possibility of a bad texture.
You chew, staring at your plate. You forget you’re not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.
“Sorry,” he says. “Again. Seems like I’m always doing that.”
“I zoned out.”
“Yeah, you’re really focused on your food there.”
“I have to be, or I won’t finish it,” you say. “Nothing’s appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.”
You quickly finish the burger, which isn’t the worst, to be fair, but you’re not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and it’s your favorite day on campus.
“Okay,” you say. “Now I can talk to you.”
Logan smiles. “Awesome. Can you show me your pictures?”
“Oh, right. Yes, I can.”
You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your camera’s screen, but he doesn’t touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet he’s warm and solid.
“Wait, go back,” he says.
You were skipping through the pictures from today’s interview. You press the left arrow to go back.
“There! Oh my God, that’s so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,” Logan says, snickering.
It’s a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open.
“That was a mistake,” you say, but you’re smiling too. You can’t avoid Logan’s infectious giggles.
“No, that was a gift from above,” Logan says, still laughing. “God, that’s perfect. If you don’t send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.”
“How?”
“Do you have Instagram?”
“No,” you say. “I deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.”
“Honestly? Good for you. I’m not on it that much either.”
“The only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,” you say. “So it doesn’t really matter. I don’t care about random students’ lives.”
“You rock,” Logan says. “Seriously. You’re my hero.”
You can’t take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.
“Well, uh,” he continues. “This might be presumptuous of me, but… d’you wanna exchange numbers?”
“It’s not presumptuous,” you say. “I like talking to you.”
He lights up. “Same here.”
You type your number into his phone.
Hi :) says the message on your phone.
Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan 🏒.
“I’ll send the picture when I upload them tonight,” you say.
“I’m gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.”
“I did.” You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. It’s one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. It’s only a little blurry too.
“That is so fucking cool, whoa.” Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You don’t move away. “You’re amazing at this. What else did you capture?”
You show him pictures of the nearby lake, sunsets, a deer, the Boston skyline. Logan loves them all, and tells you many times how good of a photographer you are.
“You could do this professionally, seriously,” he says. “Like, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.”
You shrug bashfully. “I don’t know. It’s not even my major. It’s just a hobby.”
“So what? You’re really good.”
You gnaw the inside of your cheek. “Maybe.”
“Yeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see what’s open.”
You and Logan are pretty much curled up next to each other by now. Your arm and thigh are pressed against his. He is indeed warm, and you can feel his muscles shift against you. You think of him in the gray sleeveless shirt at the party. You couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms.
And when he turns to talk to you, he’s so close. Close enough to—
“Yo, Logan, you started without us?”
Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Logan’s teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over.
“Hey, man,” Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. “I thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.”
“Plans changed,” Logan says. He doesn’t look very happy to see them. You’re puzzled.
“Hi,” Tucker says, waving at you, saying your name. You wave back.
And then Garrett and Dean seem to notice you. Dean grins, looking between you.
“Ah,” he says. “Plans changed. Got it.”
You don’t like the tone of his voice. You don’t like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other.
“How do you know Logan?” Dean asks. “You a hockey fan?” He winks.
“I’ve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.”
“You guys study together?” Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. “Ow! What the fuck, man? Why’d you kick me?”
“Because you’re both asking idiotic fucking questions,” Logan says. “Lay off. She’s not a suspect.”
Your skin itches. You don’t like being watched. And they’re watching you, you can tell. They’re studying you. Figuring you out.
“Actually, I should go,” you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it.
“Are you sure?” Logan asks, getting up with you.
“Yes, I have finals to work on.” You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. “Thank you for the meal swipe.”
“Yeah, anytime,” Logan says. “I’ll see you in class on Monday?”
You nod. “You will. I’ve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.”
“‘S not a real threat,” Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. “They have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors don’t care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.”
“And I still got a B minus,” Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett.
Tucker shakes his head. “Yeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.”
“A win is a win.”
“So Dr. Jenkins lied?” you ask, brows furrowing.
Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. “Kinda. More like a bluff.”
You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. “Why does everyone know the secret rules but me?”
All week you’ve been anxious about potentially missing a third class because of your stomach. You were prepared to chug as much Pepto Bismol to avoid that as you needed to. Has everyone else been living without a care in the world, not forcing themselves to go to class when they feel sick? You’ve gone when you were sure you’d throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain you’ve ever felt, right before you got it removed.
Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, they’re all staring at you. Fuck.
“Whaddya mean, secret rules?” Dean asks.
Fuck, fuck. You’re being weird. Stop it. Stop.
“Hey,” Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so he’s the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. “If you don’t feel well, you should skip, but you aren’t, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. That’s what college is for. You’re doing the right thing. It’s not a secret rule, it’s just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.”
Dean scoffs. “Excuse me?”
Logan ignores him. “So I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tucker’ll make you soup and I’ll bring it over.”
Tucker leans around so you can see him and gives you a thumbs-up in confirmation. Your breathing gets a little easier; your shoulders soften.
“Okay,” you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You aren’t brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back.
“Can’t wait to see your pictures in the paper,” Logan says.
You smile. “They’re of you.”
“Yeah, but you took ‘em. Who cares what they’re of?”
You duck your head, feeling shy again. It’s a residual shyness, but sometimes you get so aware of how nice and handsome Logan is, and the fact that he goes out of his way to talk to you. Not that you’ve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you aren’t immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. You’ve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You can’t.
“Well, um, bye. I’ll drop off your wings soon,” you say.
“Stop by anytime.”
“See ya around,” says Tucker.
“Yeah, see you,” Garrett says. Dean nods.
You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan won’t hold it against you.
Once outside, you take out your camera outside and flip through some of the shots of Logan. You’re not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now you’re a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.
“Hey, wait up!”
You turn around. Logan’s jogging toward you.
“What are you doing?” you ask as he stops in front of you.
“Uh.” He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Um. Hm. Good question. I don’t know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.”
You frown, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.”
“What? You didn’t—”
“I did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrett’s faces. They thought I was weird. And I was, to be fair. I reacted too strongly to the absence thing. Sometimes I do that, and I don’t realize until someone’s really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.”
“You did not emote wrong,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didn’t think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you know…”
“Nerds?” you finish.
“Smart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but we’re actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. They’re not used to knowing people who worry about attendance. That’s all it was, I promise.”
You purse your lips, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. You can’t, so you just ask. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes,” Logan says. “I mean it.”
“It’s okay if you don’t. I wouldn’t hold it against you. Lots of people have thought I’m weird. Lots of boys. Lots of athletes. I was terrible at kickball in middle school, and people hated me for it. I would sit out early so they wouldn’t purposely kick the ball at me.”
His eyes get sad. That’s an expression you recognize on Hannah too.
“That’s fucking awful,” Logan says. “We aren’t all like that. I’m not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with aren’t either. Even if you are weird, it’s not a bad thing. Not at all.”
No one’s ever told you it’s okay to be weird. They’ve only ever denied that you are, even though you’re pretty sure you are. You can’t help it either. But Logan doesn’t mind. You’re still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you.
“Okay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? I’m going to drop off your wings before Monday.”
“Sure, so you’re gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then you’re gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then you’ll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. It’s like a dirt path. And you’ll turn right onto that. We’re the first house on the left.”
You nod, even though you’ve already forgotten all that. You’re terrible with street names. “I’ll be there.”
“I look forward to it,” Logan says, grinning.
You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. “I actually don’t remember anything you’ve just said. I’m bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?”
“I can absolutely do that,” Logan says softly. “Okay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?”
“Yes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briar’s first schoolhouse in 1846.”
He tilts his head. “How do you know that?”
“It’s on the plaque.”
“Huh. Embarrassingly, I’ve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.”
“He brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.”
“Shit, wow. That’s cool.”
“History is cool.”
Logan hums. “You’re cool. And that mentality is why Dean’s the loser for missing half the semester and you aren’t.”
You smile. “I guess so.”
“Okay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then you’re gonna walk past that student vegetable garden you photographed. Keep walking until you see that giant oak tree with the knots in the trunk. The one that students make out under. Or, uh… study?”
“Attempt to study, anyway.” You know the struggle well.
“There’s a path there, and you’ll walk until you see our house on the left.”
“Got it,” you say. “For real, this time.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.”
You look at the cafeteria. “They won’t mind?”
“Nah, we always have people come over, don’t worry. Hey.” Logan bumps your arm gently. “They won’t bother you. And if you want, text me, so you’ll know I’ll be home.”
The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.
“I really do like talking to you,” you say.
“Me too.” Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.
“Okay, well, see you!” And you’re gone.
There’s a photo from this morning’s interview you took of Logan. He’s looking at you—well, the camera—smiling, a curl falling into his eyes. You don’t send it to the editor, even though it’s one of your best photos. Instead, you set it as his contact picture on your phone.
drabble for logan x social media!reader from my one shot don't let me down (x)
"ugh i have so much content to edit," you said, dropping back onto logan's bed and sprawling across the football team had finally broken their drought and you had been dying to use the win graphics you'd made at the beginning of the semester. they were very good graphics. they deserved to exist in the world.
logan was sitting beside you, shirtless, holding his phone with the focused energy of someone watching something important. on the screen: diving. synchronized diving, specifically, which you had not known was something people watched voluntarily until you started spending time with john logan. last tuesday it had been badminton. before that, tennis. before that, an obscure soccer match from a league you had never heard of that he had somehow located at eleven pm on a wednesday night.
it was endearing in a way you had never told him because he would absolutely use it against you.
you opened your laptop and pulled up your folders, scrolling through with the resigned energy of someone who loved their job and also wished it would occasionally take a day off.
"what do you have to do?" logan asked, glancing over from his diving. "do you need help?"
"no, honey." you patted his knee without looking up. "just have to get through the win graphics, queue the posts, answer some comments, and then i'll be free."
he made a sound that was technically acknowledgment and was also, underneath it, the sound of someone already thinking about what free time meant.
"you're very transparent," you told him.
"i don't know what you're talking about," he said, eyes back on the diving.
you smiled at your laptop and said nothing.
"i need to pee," you announced approximately four minutes later, standing up and leaving your laptop open on the bed. "do not touch anything."
"i'm watching diving," he said.
"i mean it."
"i heard you."
you pointed at him once for emphasis and went to the bathroom.
logan did not mean to look. he wanted to be clear about that, at least to himself, he was not a snoopy person, had never gone through anyone's phone or read anyone's messages or opened anything that wasn't his. his eyes simply drifted in the natural way that eyes drifted when left unsupervised, toward the open laptop on the bed beside him, toward the photo library sitting open on the screen.
toward the folder with his initials on it.
J.L ❤️
he opened it.
he did not mean to do that either.
almost five hundred photos. dozens of videos. and yes, there, near the beginning, the forty seven that dean had identified on a team bus with the triumphant energy of someone solving a mystery, logan drinking water, logan laughing at something garrett said, logan looking directly into the camera with an expression he genuinely had not known he was making. logan tying his skates. logan mid-conversation with tucker.
he scrolled through slowly.
there was one from october where he was just standing at the boards, not doing anything, and somehow you had made it look like something worth keeping. like something worth putting in a folder with a heart in it.
he was still scrolling, grinning at the screen, when you came back into the room.
"uh oh." you stopped in the doorway. your eyes went from his face to the laptop and back. "what are you doing?"
"nothing," he said, in the tone of someone who was definitely doing something.
you crossed the room with the measured energy of someone trying to decide how concerned to be. "logan."
he turned the laptop toward you. "you tell me, joe goldberg."
"what does that even —"
"you have a folder," he said. "with my initials. and a heart."
"that's just organization —"
"a heart, specifically."
"it's a system —"
"almost five hundred photos." he was trying very hard not to look as delighted as he was and failing completely. "including, and i want to be precise here, approximately one hundred photos of me drinking water."
"those are for content."
"the heart is for content."
"logan —"
"the heart emoji specifically —"
"okay." you took the laptop back with great dignity. "this conversation is over."
"it's really not," he said.
"i have graphics to post."
"you have a folder —"
"i have comments to answer —"
"with a heart —"
"john." you turned to look at him with the expression of someone deploying their last line of defense. "go watch your diving."
he lay back against the headboard, still grinning, and picked up his phone. a moment later, without any announcement, his shoulder settled against yours in the comfortable unhurried way it always did.
you queued your first post. he watched his diving. the room was quiet in the specific way it was quiet when everything was fine.
"for what it's worth," he said, after a while. casual. eyes on the screen. "mine has seven hundred."
you looked up from your laptop.
he kept watching diving.
"seven hundred," you said.
"give or take."
"of me."
"give or take."
you looked at him for a long moment. he had the expression of someone who had said a thing and was now watching what happened next with great interest while pretending to watch synchronized diving.
you looked back at your laptop.
"hm," you said.
you posted the graphic. he watched his sport.
you were smiling at your screen for the rest of the evening and neither of you mentioned it again and it was, somehow, exactly enough.
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That was the argument she planned on sticking with.
Because technically speaking, if Dean hadn’t distracted her by yelling from the kitchen that Tucker nearly lit a towel on fire again, she wouldn’t have walked outside in the first place.
And if Tucker hadn’t panicked dramatically afterward, she wouldn’t have forgotten the door locked automatically behind her.
So really?
This entire situation traced back to male incompetence.
Unfortunately none of that helped her now.
Because currently she was standing outside the hockey house at midnight in the middle of winter wearing:
fuzzy pajama shorts
mismatched socks
Logan’s oversized hoodie
and rapidly deteriorating dignity
Snow crunched beneath her slippers while freezing wind slapped against her face aggressively.
She stared at the locked front door in betrayal.
Then rattled the handle again anyway.
Locked.
“Are you kidding me?"
No response.
Of course not.
The idiots inside were asleep.
She groaned loudly and pressed her forehead against the freezing wood.
Okay.
Think.
Her phone?
Inside.
Keys?
Inside.
Human rights?
Apparently also inside.
She considered ringing the doorbell.
Then remembered Tucker once threatened violence after being woken up at two in the morning because Dean “wanted emotional support garlic bread.”
Absolutely not.
So naturally her sleep-deprived brain came up with the worst possible solution.
Logan’s window.
Now, in her defense, Logan specifically told her once:
“If you ever need anything, wake me up.”
Technically this counted.
Probably.
The snow continued falling softly around her while she marched around the side of the house dramatically clutching the sleeves of Logan’s hoodie over her freezing hands.
By the time she reached beneath his bedroom window, she was genuinely shivering.
“This is how Victorian women died,” she muttered to herself. “Consumption.”
Her breath puffed visibly in the freezing air while she stared upward at Logan’s dark window.
No lights.
No movement.
Dead to the world.
Wonderful.
She bent down and scooped up snow.
Formed a terrible little snowball.
Then launched it upward.
THUNK.
Nothing.
Another one.
THUNK.
Still nothing.
A third.
This one hit harder.
THWACK.
A muffled sound came from inside immediately.
Success.
“Rise and shine, pretty boy,” she whispered dramatically.
A few seconds passed.
Then the curtain jerked open violently.
Logan appeared looking half dead.
Hair a complete disaster. Hoodie thrown on crookedly. Eyes barely open with deep sleep exhaustion written all over his face.
He squinted outside.
Confused.
Then his brain slowly processed what he was seeing.
A girl standing in the snow beneath his window.
Wearing his hoodie.
At midnight.
Throwing snowballs at his room.
His expression changed instantly.
Pure horror.
The window flew open.
“WHAT THE HELL?!”
She looked up innocently.
“Good evening.”
“Why are you OUTSIDE?!”
“I’ve been abandoned by society.”
“BABY.”
He disappeared from the window instantly.
She heard loud crashing sounds inside.
Then yelling.
Then someone screamed:
"WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?!”
“TUCKER MOVE.”
A second later the front door burst open hard enough to slam against the wall.
Logan sprinted outside wearing sweatpants and one sock.
One singular sock.
He looked genuinely panicked.
“Oh my God, sweetheart!”
Before she could even explain, Logan grabbed her face between freezing hands.
“You’re ice cold!”
“It’s called winter.”
“Why are you standing out here?!”
“I got locked out.”
“How long ago?!”
“…Not long.”
His eyes narrowed immediately.
“How long.”
“…Twenty minutes?”
“TWENTY MINUTES?!”
“Okay in my defense I was trying to preserve everyone’s sleep.”
“I WOULD RATHER WAKE UP THAN FIND MY GIRLFRIEND FROZEN TO DEATH IN THE YARD.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“You’re wearing SHORTS.”
“To be fair they’re fuzzy shorts.”
Logan stared at her in disbelief.
Then without another word he yanked her directly against his chest.
Warm.
Immediately warm.
She melted instantly against him with a pathetic relieved sigh.
“There she is,” Logan muttered, wrapping both arms around her tightly. “Jesus Christ.”
His body heat felt heavenly after the freezing air.
She buried her face against his chest dramatically.
“I saw my ancestors.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“I nearly died.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“The snow whispered secrets to me."
Logan laughed despite himself, the sound breathless with lingering panic.
Then he suddenly frowned harder.
“Wait. Why didn’t you knock?”
She hesitated.
“…I didn’t wanna wake everyone up.”
For a second Logan just stared at her.
Then his expression softened so fast it nearly hurt.
“Oh baby.”
Because she genuinely stayed outside freezing trying not to inconvenience them.
God.
His idiot girl.
He immediately tugged her back toward the house while keeping one arm tightly around her shoulders.
The second they stepped inside, chaos greeted them.
Dean stood in the hallway holding a lamp like a weapon. Tucker looked prepared to call emergency services. Garrett sat halfway down the stairs looking deeply unimpressed.
Silence hit instantly when they saw her.
Then Dean blinked.
“…Why is she dressed like a Dickens orphan?”
“She got locked out,” Logan answered flatly.
Tucker gasped dramatically.
“YOU LEFT HER OUT THERE?”
“I didn’t leave myself anywhere!”
Garrett rubbed tiredly at his face.
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes,” Logan said darkly.
All three boys reacted immediately.
“T W E N T Y?!” “WHAT?” “Are you insane?”
She pointed accusingly.
“I was being considerate!”
Dean looked horrified.
“You stood outside freezing instead of waking us up?”
“She was throwing snowballs at my window,” Logan muttered.
That silenced everyone.
Then Tucker started laughing so hard he physically folded forward.
“Oh my God.”
Dean wheezed instantly.
“Like a tiny Victorian ghost.”
“She looked like she was about to ask for porridge,” Garrett added.
She glared at all of them.
“You people are horrible.”
Logan kept one arm firmly around her waist while shutting the front door.
Then he frowned down at her again.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re literally vibrating.”
She opened her mouth to argue again but Logan simply scooped her into his arms suddenly.
She yelped immediately.
“Logan!"
“Nope.”
“I can walk!”
“You’ve lost outside privileges.”
Dean nodded seriously.
“That’s fair.”
Tucker pointed.
“She can’t survive in the wild.”
“I HATE ALL OF YOU.”
Logan ignored the chaos completely while carrying her upstairs bridal-style.
Her frozen legs instinctively pressed closer against his warmth while she buried her face against his neck to hide her embarrassment.
“You’re enjoying this power trip too much,” she muttered.
“You scared the hell outta me.”
That softened her instantly.
Because his voice still carried traces of genuine panic underneath the teasing.
When they reached his room, Logan sat her directly on the bed before immediately wrapping blankets around her like she was recovering from war.
Then he disappeared briefly and returned with:
fuzzy socks
another hoodie
tea
and approximately seventeen blankets
She blinked at the pile.
“Are we preparing for hibernation?”
“You’re never going outside again.”
“That seems excessive.”
“You were one snowflake away from becoming a Hallmark tragedy.”
She laughed softly.
Logan knelt in front of her then and carefully rubbed warmth back into her freezing hands between his palms.
His expression stayed slightly tense still.
“You really should’ve just woken me up.”
“I know.”
“Sweetheart, I mean it.”
His thumbs brushed gently over her knuckles.
“I don’t care what time it is. If you need me, wake me up.”
Something soft tugged painfully in her chest.
Because he sounded so sincere.
So certain.
Like helping her was never a burden.
“I didn’t wanna bother you.”
Logan looked genuinely confused by that.
“Baby,” he said softly, “you standing outside alone in the freezing cold bothers me a lot more.”
Her heart melted instantly.
God.
This stupid boy.
She leaned forward slowly until her forehead rested against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
Immediately Logan wrapped his arms around her again.
“No, honey. No apologizing.”
His lips brushed softly against her hair.
“Just don’t scare me like that again.”
She smiled against his chest.
“No promises.”
He groaned dramatically.
“You’re gonna kill me one day.”
“Probably.”
“Yeah,” Logan muttered while pulling her impossibly closer. “Still worth it.”
Check Engine Light // John Logan x Fem!Reader - [Chapter Nine]
Synopsis: What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching.
But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future.
And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.
You woke up tangled in Logan’s arms in his room, with the sunlight filtering through the blinds, and for a little while, the fear from the night before felt stupid.
Logan’s alarm went off, and he turned over and buried his head into your neck after hitting snooze.
“Five more minutes.”
You laughed softly, “You have to get up, babe.”
A groan vibrated against your skin. For a few precious minutes, things felt normal again. Maybe he really was just tired, and this wasn’t becoming something bigger.
By the time you both finally got dressed, Logan looked more awake than the night before. He still had limited sleep, but he looked functional.
He packed his hockey bag up, complete with a change of clothes for the media breakfast he had that morning.
“What are you going to do this morning?” he asked you.
“I have to go back to my dorm and do some studying.”
He nodded before leaning down to kiss you.
“See you tonight? Maybe we can go to Malone’s?”
The question settled warmly into your chest.
“Yeah. Text me.”
“I will,” he said, stealing one more kiss before he was out the door.
--
The first few hours passed normally. You went home and started studying before grabbing lunch with a friend at a small café near campus. You answered emails, stopped by the library, and then threw in a load of laundry.
Now and then, you checked your phone. Every time your screen lit up with a new notification, you glanced down automatically.
At around three, you sent him a picture of a terrible motivational poster hanging near the library.
You: This feels threatening
There was no response. It wasn’t out of the ordinary; he was busy, you knew that.
At five, you texted him again.
You: Survived studying statistics
Still nothing. Again, not too weird. Maybe he’s sleeping.
You refused to become one of those girlfriends who spiraled because your boyfriend took a few hours to text back. You had a life, you were fine.
At seven thirty, you started checking your phone more often. Not obsessively, just… more. By eight, you’d finished dinner. By eight thirty, you finally got a text. Relief hit you so fast that it embarrassed you. Then, you opened it.
Logan: Sorry. Crazy day. Hope studying was okay.
You smiled at the screen. See? Everything was fine. You were just being ridiculous.
You: It was, still alive. You?
The three dots bubble appeared, disappeared, and then appeared again.
Logan: exhausted lol talk later?
You hesitated. Something about the message felt rushed.
You typed back.
You: of course. Love you
A minute passed, and then he wrote back.
Logan: love you too
That should’ve been enough.
--
At ten thirty, you were lying in your bed, looking at Instagram on your phone, having just brushed your teeth and changed into some pajamas.
You noticed that Dean had a new Instagram story.
You almost swiped past it, but then you looked at it. It was from Malone’s; there was music, crowded tables, and the hockey team packed into their usual booth. Dean filmed himself singing terribly as he turned the camera toward Garrett, who flipped him off. Tucker was laughing, and there, for maybe two seconds, was a shot of Logan.
He was sitting in the corner booth, smiling at something one of the other hockey players said as he sat next to him. A beer was in his hand, and he looked completely unaware he was being filmed.
You stared at the screen. Once, and then again, and then again for a third time.
“Maybe we can go to Malone’s?” you remembered.
Those were his words from this morning. You had thought that he had just skipped everything tonight and gone home to sleep, but it was just you who had the absence of any invitation.
You sat on the edge of your bed, your phone still in your hand. You weren’t angry, you were… confused. He hadn’t chosen the team over you; you knew that. If you’d texted him and asked to come, he would’ve said yes immediately. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he hadn’t thought about it. At least, not enough to invite you, or enough to text and ask you.
You stared at Dean’s story again as the video looped. Logan laughing, Dean yelling, the team celebrating. A knot tightened slowly in your chest.
Your phone buzzed suddenly, and you jumped. It was him.
Logan: just got home, gonna crash. Love you
You stared at the message and then at Dean’s story. You looked at the timestamp on Dean’s story, which said twelve minutes ago.
You didn’t think he was lying, but, with everything going on, you just didn’t think he remembered. You didn’t think he realized you would’ve gone, or that anything was wrong, because he forgot.
You swallowed hard before typing back.
You: love you too. Hope you sleep well
The three dots appeared instantly and then vanished. He sent you back a heart emoji. You set your phone down, the room feeling strangely quiet.
You were trying to decide why this hurt so much. Of course, you didn’t have to go everywhere and do everything with him. It wasn’t Malone’s. It wasn’t the hockey team; it wasn’t being left out. It was the fact that he had asked to see you earlier in the day, even mentioning Malone’s, and then didn’t even ask you to go later. It was the promise of plans without the follow-through. It was that he made you feel like he’d forgotten you. Not intentionally, not cruelly, just… forgotten. Somehow, that felt worse to you than if he’d done it on purpose. Because if it were intentional, you could fight about it. If it was intentional, you could feel angry without feeling guilty. This? This was Logan getting pulled in a million directions that eventually something slipped his mind, and that one thing had unfortunately been you this time.
What scared you the most was how quickly you’d forgiven it. A small voice in the back of your head kept whispering, ‘If this is the first thing he forgot, what happens when there are more?’
--
You told yourself not to make it weird. That became the goal. Not a ‘don’t be hurt’, but a ‘don’t make it weird’ message to yourself. Logan forgetting to invite you to Malone’s wasn’t a crime; it wasn’t betrayal. It was just a mistake, one exhausted decision he probably didn’t even remember making.
So when you saw him Monday afternoon outside the student center, you smiled. For a second, everything felt normal. Logan spotted you from halfway across the quad, his face lighting up. He crossed the grass without hesitation, and wrapped an arm around your waist, and kissed you.
“Hey,” he said to you.
“Hey.”
His hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing tan forearms. His hair was slightly messy, and there were traces of dark circles under his eyes. He still looked happy to see you, which made things more confusing.
“You eating lunch?” he asked you.
You nearly laughed. Same Logan, there he was.
“Yes, Mom.”
“Good.”
His phone went off, and he checked the screen, typing something before looking back at you.
“Sorry,” he apologized, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
“How’s your day?” he asked you, as he linked their hands.
“Good.”
“Yeah?” he said, raising one eyebrow.
You nodded.
Then, before you could stop yourself, you asked, “How was Malone’s?”
The question slipped out casually enough, at least you hoped it did. Logan froze, like, actually froze.
“Oh.”
Your stomach dropped, because immediately he knew.
“Y/N.”
There it was, the guilt. It was fast. He ran a hand through his hair.
“Shit.”
“It’s fine.”
“It isn’t.”
People walked around them across the quad. Students were laughing, and music was playing somewhere near the center of the quad.
“I completely forgot.”
You forced a smile, “I figured.”
His face somehow got worse because, apparently, hearing that hurt too.
“Coach pulled us into something after practice, and then everyone ended up at Malone’s and—”
He stopped because the explanation didn’t matter. The problem wasn’t Malone’s. The problem was exactly what he’d already admitted: he forgot.
“I’m sorry.”
You shrugged lightly, “It’s okay.”
Logan’s eyes narrowed, “You’re upset.”
“No,” you lied.
Logan immediately recognized it, “Y/N.”
“It’s really okay.”
And mostly it was, that was the frustrating part. You understood, you did. Which somehow made it harder to explain why it still bothered you. Logan stepped closer to you, his hand settling on your waist.
“I’m really sorry.”
You nodded once and then leaned up and kissed him briefly. Not because everything felt fixed, but because you didn’t want to do this here.
--
The next few days passed strangely. They weren’t bad, they were just… off. Like every interaction had a tiny crack running through it now.
On Wednesday afternoon, you sat with Logan outside the business building while he worked through scouting reports on his laptop.
You were halfway through telling him about one of your professors' arguments with another student.
“It was so weird, it was like he had this grudge against the student—”
Logan’s phone buzzed. He looked down automatically, and you stopped talking. You waited while he typed a quick response. He looked back up at you, and there was a beat of silence.
“Sorry, what happened?”
The words hit harder than they should have. Not because he meant anything by them, but because you realized you’d started expecting them.
“Nothing.”
“Y/N.”
“It’s fine.”
Logan frowned. You hated that look, the confused one. He genuinely didn’t understand why these moments felt bigger than they were. To him, it was one interruption. To you, it was becoming a pattern.
--
Friday night was worse. Not because of anything Logan did, but more because of what he didn’t do. On that Wednesday night, he’d invited you over for a movie night on Friday at the boys’ house.
It was nothing special, just pizza, the boys, Hannah, and Allie. They all wanted to watch this terrible action movie.
You showed up at the house that night, carrying snacks. You had Logan’s favorite candy and a few other things you thought everyone would like.
You knocked on the door, and Dean answered. He blinked, a confused look on his face as he looked at you.
“What are you doing here?” he asked you. It wasn’t mean, he was just puzzled.
You laughed, “What?”
Dean frowned, “No, seriously.”
Your smile slipped slightly. “Movie night?”
Confusion crossed his face. Then realization took over, and then horror.
“Oh.”
Your stomach dropped, because it was in that moment that Dean immediately looked like he wanted to throw himself off a bridge.
“Oh no.”
“Dean.”
“Oh no.”
“Dean,” you said louder.
He physically winced.
“Logan didn’t text you?”
The answer sat between them before you even spoke. No. He hadn’t.
“Coach asked him to stay after practice for a meeting.”
“But why him and not the rest of you?”
“I think it was something about a scout that’s interested in him.”
Silence. Dean rubbed a hand down his face.
“I can’t believe he forgot.”
You took a deep breath and nodded. That was exactly what hurt; You could believe he did. A few months ago, he would’ve remembered. Six weeks ago, he would’ve texted. A month ago, he would’ve called. Now? Now, he forgot. Again.
Dean looked genuinely upset on Logan’s behalf.
“He’s been a disaster lately.”
You managed a small smile, “It’s okay.”
Dean stared at you, then quietly said, “No, it’s not.”
For the first time, someone else saw it too.
Dean ended up making you stay anyway. Mostly because he looked like he would personally fight Logan if you left.
“You’re already here,” he said.
“Dean—”
“We have pizza.”
“That’s not a compelling argument.”
“We have good pizza.”
You laughed softly, and that seemed to relax him slightly.
“See? Fixed.”
“Nothing was broken.”
Dean gave you a look that clearly said, ‘I’m not stupid.’ Unfortunately, Dean was far more observant than most people gave him credit for.
The house was unusually quiet without Logan there, or maybe you are just so used to Logan’s presence being so big in your life.
Garrett sat on the couch, working on something for class and waiting for Hannah, while Tucker was in the kitchen making sure there was enough ice for all of the drinks. This was normal for all of the boys; it was comfortable.
Somehow, it made you miss Logan even more, because you could picture exactly where he’d be. He’d be curled into the corner of the couch, an arm around your shoulders, stealing your candy even though he had his own, and making fun of the movie that Dean chose.
About an hour later, your phone buzzed.
Logan: where are you?
You stared at the message, and then at Dean. Then, you looked back at the screen. He didn’t even know you were at his house.
You: your house.
The typing bubble appeared and disappeared quickly.
Logan: shit.
You closed your eyes briefly. Across the room, Dean visibly winced. Apparently, Logan had texted him, too. A second later, another message appeared.
Logan: Y/N I’m so sorry
Logan: I completely forgot
The words should have made you feel better, but they didn’t. This wasn’t crossed wires. This wasn’t miscommunication. He forgot, plain and simple. Again.
You: It’s okay
His response came immediately.
Logan: no it’s not
Logan: I’ll leave as soon as we’re done
You could picture it perfectly; Logan already exhausted, already stretched too thin… and now add guilt on top of it. The thought made you feel awful.
You: finish your meeting
Logan: love you
The message sat on your screen as you looked at it for a second.
You: love you too
The response felt honest. You still loved him exactly the same, maybe even more. Somehow, this made it hurt worse.
Logan showed up nearly two hours later. You heard the front door open before you saw him, and Dean looked at him from the couch.
“Nice of you to remember where you live,” Dean said, half joking, half pissed about what he’d done.
Logan ignored him, or tried to. His eyes found you immediately, and the second they did, guilt washed visibly across his face.
You suddenly wanted to take all of it back because he looked devastated.
“Hey,” he said, directed at only you. He dropped his hockey bag beside the door and crossed the room immediately. He stopped in front of you, like he wasn’t sure whether he deserved a hug.
You stood from the couch. The relief that crossed Logan’s face when you wrapped your arms around him nearly broke your heart. His arms tightened around you instantly.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair.
You closed your eyes; there it was again. It was the cycle you’d learn to expect: Forget, Apologize, Forgive. You were starting to hate it. It wasn’t because he wasn’t sincere; he was, every single time.
He pulled back slightly, running a hand over your jaw.
“I swear I remembered this morning,” he said to you.
You nodded, “I know.”
Logan studied your face carefully, like he was looking for signs that you were angrier than you claimed. Then, his phone buzzed, and the entire room went silent. Logan looked down automatically, and then seemed to realize what he’d done because he froze and then slowly lowered the phone.
Logan looked embarrassed. Garrett and Hannah looked away awkwardly, and Dean and Allie suddenly became very interested in what movie they were going to pick for everyone. Nobody said anything, and that made it worse.
Later, after the movie ended and everyone started drifting upstairs, Logan walked you to your car. The night air felt colder than it should have. Neither of them spoke immediately.
When they reached your car, he stopped. He stepped forward and kissed you. It was soft, careful, and almost cautious, like he was trying to fix something with affection. When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You nodded, “Okay.”
Normally, that would have been enough. You would have driven back to your dorm smiling. Instead, you watched as Logan walked back toward the house alone, and one thought kept repeating itself in your head: he keeps saying sorry, but nothing is actually changing.
You found yourself wondering whether love was enough to outrun whatever was happening to them.
--
On Saturday night, Malone’s was crowded, loud, and familiar in the way that it had become over the last few months. The hockey team occupied their usual booth. Dean was losing a game of darts that he insisted he was winning. Garrett was arguing with Tucker about a video game, and music blasted overhead from the speakers.
People drifted in and out of conversations, and everything looked normal. You sat beside Logan in the booth, your shoulder brushing his. His arm rested across the back of the seat behind you, his fingers occasionally grazing your back. From the outside, you probably looked exactly the same as you always did: happy, comfortable, and in love.
Logan checked his phone three times in the last ten minutes. Dean made his way back to the table, telling everyone some ridiculous story, and half of the table laughed. You laughed, too. A second later, you realized Logan hadn’t.
“Everything okay?” Garrett asked, who was sitting across from us.
Logan looked up, “Huh?”
Garrett nodded at him, “The phone.”
“Oh.”
Logan glanced down at it. “Yeah.”
A waitress dropped off their food, and everyone immediately started digging in. Everyone except for Logan, who left his burger untouched.
Without thinking, you nudged his arm lightly, “You’re not eating.”
Logan didn’t look up from his phone, “Mhmm.”
You waited.
“You should eat,” you said.
It was simple, something you’d said a hundred times before. Something he’d always bugged you about, too. The same thing he’d usually roll his eyes at. He’d maybe steal one of your fries, or maybe joke about how bossy you were.
Instead, he exhaled sharply.
“Y/N.”
His tone stopped you immediately. It wasn’t loud or cruel, just frustrated.
“Can we not do this right now?” he said sharply.
Silence. The words landed on the table like broken glass.
Dean stopped talking, looking between both of you. Garrett looked down. Tucker suddenly became very interested in his drink.
You just stared at him. Logan froze immediately afterward. You couldn’t stop staring at him. You’d never heard that tone directed at you before, not once. Not ever.
Suddenly, every forgotten text, every interrupted moment, every canceled plan, came rushing back at once.
The table remained painfully quiet. Dean and Garrett looked like they wanted to disappear. Logan finally looked at you.
You felt embarrassed; you felt dumb sitting there. You slid out of the booth quickly, the movement surprising you.
Logan looked up immediately.
“Where are you going?” Logan asked.
“I uh, I think I’m going to head home.”
His forehead creased.
“What?”
You grabbed your purse, feeling tears stinging the corner of your eyes.
“It’s getting late.”
The excuse sounded weak. You knew it, he knew it, and everyone at the table knew it.
“Y/N.”
You couldn’t look at him, too embarrassed. You’d been embarrassed that no one at the table could look at you. You’d been embarrassed by how hurt you were. You’d been embarrassed by how much you’d been carrying around without saying anything.
“I should go,” you reiterated.
Logan pushed himself upright; the confusion on his face looked genuine.
“I thought you were staying with me tonight?”
The words hit hard, because you had been. That had been the plan. Spend the night at his house, in his room. Spend Sunday morning together.
You said quietly, “Maybe it’s better if I don’t.”
The silence afterward felt enormous. Logan was stunned. Nobody said anything; not Dean, Garrett, or Tucker. The music kept playing, and people laughed at other tables. Glasses clinked, and the entire bar kept moving around them.
You slipped your jacket on, put your purse on your shoulder, and turned toward the door. For weeks, you’d been afraid that you’d lose Logan someday, that hockey would take him away. Afraid the pressure would become too much. Now? You felt like it was already happening, and that thought followed you out into the cold.
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