Selene

You didn’t break eye contact when you went to grab your suitcase, your hand brushing his. 

“We should go,” you turned to Beau. “I can’t wait to sleep in a real bed, the flight was so long.” 

Dean took back your suitcase and you let him, while Beau grabbed your bag. His car was parked near the airport exit, which was a blessing because you were exhausted. Beau opened the passenger’s seat door for you, but you dragged him with you behind. 

“I want to sleep, so I’ll need something comfortable. You.”

The moment you laid down, you fell asleep. 

“Is she asleep?” Dean asked in a low voice. 

“Yep, out cold.”

“Good,” Dean nodded and then looked at his friend through the rearview mirror. “Whore Dean?” 

Beau laughed. “That’s the nickname she came up with,” he shrugged.

“From where? Based on what?” Dean laughed. 

“From what I tell her. She loves gossip, and your lives are like soap operas to her.”

“Well, does she have nicknames for everyone?”

Beau took a minute to think about it. “Nope. Just you, guess you’re special.”

The rest of the ride was spent in silence because Beau fell asleep too, still tired from the last day’s party. When the car stopped, you had been awake for a while already, but you kept your eyes closed, not wanting to get out of the car. You felt Beau carefully remove your head from his lap, and get out of the car. You heard them whispering and then you felt two hands wrap around you and lift you up to get you out of the car. 

“Just take her bag, and I can drop you two off after,” Dean’s voice was very close to you. 

You opened one eye and it was indeed Dean holding you. It felt nice, he felt nice. You closed your eyes back and sighed into Dean. 

“I know you’re awake princess,” Dean whispered. 

“Mmh, worth it,” you opened your eyes. “You can put me down now.”

Dean nodded, and then pretended to drop you off which made you yelp and grab onto his neck. But then, he just laughed, and tightened his grip around you, and walked up the stairs to the house. 

“What is wrong with you,” you slapped his chest, your heart racing. “Put me down you whore.”

Dean gently put you down, and when you turned around, you realised you weren’t alone. There were a lot of people. You were going to murder Beau for not warning you earlier. You glared at Beau, and then a gasp made you turn your head around. 

“Oh my god, y/n y/l/n, Olympics gold winner in figure skating,” a short-haired brunette stood up, smiling. 

“I actually won silver for women’s singles,” you faked a sad pout. 

“Yeah but you won gold in 2022, and won gold in the pair skating category a few months ago! Ah,” a wavy, long-haired brunette squeaked. “I’m Allie by the way.”

“I’m Hannah,” the other girl smiled. 

“Nice to meet you,” you smiled back. 

Beau leaned into you, and put his arm around your neck before dragging you closer to the group. Dean was following very closely behind.

“This is y/n, my childhood and oldest—”

“–and best,” you pointed out.

“And my best friend, who is also an Olympic superstar, and she transferred to Briar for this year.” Beau pointed at the guy sitting next to Hannah. “This is Garrett, the hockey team captain,” Beau then pointed at the guys sitting around the kitchen counter, “this is Logan, and Tucker who are also on the hockey team.”

You waved at them all. 

“Hannah and Allie,” Beau pointed at the girls. “And Dean, but you already met.”

“Beau talks about you a lot,” you put your hands behind your back. “I’m really happy to finally put a face on all these familiar names.”

“Well, now that the introductions are done,” Beau turned to you, “do you want something to drink?”

“Water?”

Beau nodded and went to grab some drink. You felt Dean leaned closer to you, with his hand on your back. 

“You can sit on the couch you know, they won’t bite,” Dean whispered. 

“I know,” you turned your face to look at him. 

Dean’s face was very close to yours because he had leaned down to be on your level. He pushed you slowly toward the couch and sat next to you. He left you the spot on the outside of the couch, so you wouldn’t be sitting next to someone you didn’t know yet. Beau gave you a bottle of water straight from the refrigerator, and sat between Garrett and Dean. 

“What are you guys playing?” you pointed at the TV.

“It’s their little hockey video game,” Hannah explained. “We could put on something else if you want.”

“Oh no,” you smiled. “I’d love to watch… you play this.”

“We’ll change it,” Logan laughed, grabbing the remote. 

He pushed a few buttons, and he put on a sports channel, which was covering the winter Olympics. Well, it wasn’t technically about the sports, but it was coverage of the sex ban lift for the Olympics. You let out a laugh escape you.

“Care to elaborate about this?” Dean smirked at you. “I heard Olympic athletes fuck like rabbits, is that true?”

“Dean!” they all shouted in unison.

You kept your eyes on Dean, your head looking up. 

“Yeah,” you smiled. “Like, all the time. Non-stop. I’m sure you would’ve loved that.”

“I would’ve. Especially if it was with–”

“Please stop talking about sex with the person I see as my sister in front of everyone,” Beau grimaced. 

Dean pouted, looking at his best friend. 

“Don’t worry,” you leaned into him, “I’ll tell you about it later,” you winked. 

You all watched TV, and then they replayed the highlights of the winter Olympics. You all talked together, and commented on the athletes and their sports. It was fun, they were fun and very nice and they all included you in their conversations. Hannah and Allie were the nicest. They told you about their majors, music composition and theatre, while you told them that you studied history with Beau. 

While the boys talked among them, you and the girls were in deep conversation, but no one changed places on the couch which meant you were slumped over Dean’s thighs. He had his arm lazily laying on your back, while talking to the boys and that lasted for a while until the TV started showing highlights of figure skating. 

“y/n y/l/n, the only skater this year to compete both in the single’s category and the duo category. During the last Olympics, y/n y/l/n won gold with a score of 178. Let’s take a look at what her routine looked like in Beijing in 2022.”

A montage of your training, the routine, the podium and you biting your gold medal was shown on the screen. 

“I can’t believe people are just able to do that on ice,” Allie sighed. 

“It’s incredible,” Dean agreed. 

They showed your whole routine on the pair skating and the zoom in on the throw jump, which was the scariest throw of your life. Everyone could see the smiles you and your dance partner had, but no one knew about the falls, plural, you had the day prior. But then thanks to the gods of winter sports, the throw was high, the spins came out good, the landing was stable, and then you continued to skate in sync. So everything was perfect. 

“My ego tells me I can do all of that,” Dean commented. 

“We can try it later if you want,” you laughed softly. “We could all do it someday, it’d be fun.”

“Mh, ‘scuse me,” Beau intervened. “I tried and you banned me for life,” he scoffed playfully. “Remember, ‘Maxwell, you are the worst skater I have ever seen’,” he imitated your voice. “I’m still wounded by those words, just so you know.”

“Well, you should move on, it’s been half a decade,” you hit him in the arm.

“I can confirm that Beau isn’t at his best when he’s on skates,” Dean shook his head. 

The day went on smoothly and very quickly. At some point, Tucker started to make dinner with Hannah’s help and you helped Garrett setting up the table. The meal went on very smoothly, conversation flowing through. 

When they all started to load the dishes into the dishwasher, and started to clean things up a little bit, Beau went to retrieve your coats, and your bag. 

“Dean, time to go,” Beau grabbed his friend. 

Dean nodded, went to grab his keys and the three of you left together to get in the car. Beau and Dean were in the front, and you went behind alone this time. You sat in the middle, so it’d be easier for you to see both of them. 

“So where am I dropping you off to?” Dean turned back to you.

“Beau’s place, my apartment isn’t ready yet.”

“And I told you it was a waste of money,” Beau added. “You could’ve just stayed with me.”

“Actually I’m not renting anymore,” you said, “the tenants in my parents’ apartment are moving out, so they decided to not rent it anymore and just give it to me,” you smiled. “But they’re not moving out until the end of the month, so I’m still waiting.”

“That’s nice of them,” Deann nodded, starting his car. “So you’d be living alone?” he glanced at you through the review mirror. 

“Yep,” you smirked. “No disturbing anymore, no need to be quiet for anything.”

“Good to know.”

Beau just stared at his phone, glancing back and forth between the two of you, but he said nothing. 

“Can’t wait,” you whispered before leaning back into the seat. 

Then Beau put on music, and he knew exactly what he was doing because when the first notes of Satisfied played, you gasped and started to sing along Renée Elise Goldsberry. The rest of the car ride was spent with you duetting with Beau. 

When Dean stopped the car, you all got out of the car. Dean grabbed your suitcase, and your travel bag before handing them to you. 

“Thank you for driving us around,” you smiled. “I will make sure to give you a five star review for your Uber skills.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Dean leaned against his car. 

“Alright,” Beau took your suitcase. “Let’s go.”

“Ok,” you waved Dean goodbye, before following Beau.

“If you need a car ride,” Dean shouted, which made you turn around. “You can call me. I hear my reviews have been stellar.”

You chuckled. “I will.”

There were still a few weeks left of vacation before school started again, so you spent your days hanging out with Beau and his friends. And when you weren’t, you were shopping for the apartment. Your mom had called you, telling you that the tenants were taking all the furniture with them since they had bought everything. You laid lazily on Beau’s bed while he was on his desk. 

“Is everything going to be shipped on time?” Beau asked. 

“Yep, I paid extra so I’d have everything delivered tomorrow before noon,” you continued to look through online furniture. “Oh now that I think about it, thank you for asking the guys if they could help me move tomorrow. That was nice of you.”

“It was all Dean actually, he heard me talking about it and volunteered himself and the rest of the team.”

“Oh,” you looked up from your phone, smiling. “That’s… really nice of him.”

“He always is,” Beau laughed. “So,” he jumped on his bed, “are you planning to sex with him?”

Your eyes widened, and you gasped.

“Excuse me, who do you think I am? A common whore?”

Beau looked at you knowingly.

“Fine, I am,” you shrugged. “Would I love to have sex with your very hot and very nice friend? Sure. But, would it make things weird for you? For me?”

“Why would it?”

“Because, from your very detailed stories, he hooks up with people and then that’s it. So if we were to hook up, we’d still see each other because you’re friends, and you’re my friend so we’d all still hang out together as friends.”

“I mean if it’s only casual, why would it be weird?” 

You sighed, looking at Beau, nodding. He was right, hooking up at the Olympic village didn’t make things weird or awkward at all. But then again, you didn’t even know the names of some of the athletes. No strings attached. Casual. But this couldn’t be casual when you knew Dean’s name, and how he volunteered to help out his friends without a second thought, and how nice he was. 

“You’re overthinking this,” Beau shook you out of your thoughts.

“I know. We should do something else instead.”

“Like?”

“Let’s shop, I still need a few things for tomorrow’s move.”

You ended up buying a lot of things. A new adjustable desk so you can work while standing, plants, a bunch of them, new clothes, a few notebooks, a few new pens and then, you made a stop at Barnes & Noble. Every trip to Barnes & Noble was expensive. And with an extra pair of hands, strong ones at that, meant the trip ended being even more expensive than usual. 

“Worth it,” you smiled at Beau when you paid. 

Beau was driving you home, when you received a notification from Dean.

Moving day was busy. Everything you had piled up at Beau’s place had to be put in his car. And you had to get to the apartment early to sign off your deliveries. Beau dropped you off first thing in the morning, and then went back to his place to get the rest of your stuff. You were pushing some of the boxes inside when you received a message from Dean. You quickly pushed the box from the elevator to your apartment before running down the stairs.

“Dean!” you yelled when you opened the main door. 

He was leaning against his car on the other side of the street, and looked up from his phone. When his eyes fell on you, his face broke into a grin. 

“Didn’t know you were such an early bird,” you smiled when Dean was standing in front of you. 

“I’m full of surprises.”

“Good ones,” you nodded. “Well now that you’re here, can you help me bring these up?” you pointed at the boxes left on the sidewalk. 

These were all books you had bought or your parents had shipped to you. Dean leaned down and grabbed two of them effortlessly, and followed you to the elevator. 

“I hope it’s not too heavy,” you pressed on the tenth floor, the highest one. 

“No it’s fine.” 

Your eyes were glued on his flexed arms. The short sleeves stretched out, clinging onto his skin. How was that possible? Probably because of hockey. Dean brought everything you had very quickly, and while you waited for the first few deliveries, you rested on the floor of the living room.

“This place is nice,” Dean said, sitting across from you. “Very…” he looked around, “spacious.”

“Yeah, might be too big for just me here.”

“Well, if you’re scared of the dark, I’m only a call away.”

You stared at Dean. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So,” you dragged on the vowel. “Should I only call you when—,” you paused, “for the light issues?” 

Dean stared at you for a whole minute before shaking his head. “No,” he whispered. “You can call me for anything,” Dean’s dimple appeared. 

“Good,” you nodded, smiling back at him. 

“Maybe we could–”

But whatever Dean wanted to say was interrupted by your phone. The first delivery of the day. Soon after that, Beau arrived with the rest of your belongings. Around 9, Garrett, Logan, Tucker and Hannah and Allie arrived and after that, the deliveries didn’t stop. The boys worked hard under the hot weather. Logan built everything you had bought at Ikea, while Dean, Beau, Tucker and Garrett brought everything up. Allie and Hannah helped you put every piece of furniture where you wanted. Around noon, the sidewalk was full of your stuff. 

“It’s so hot,” Hannah sat on the couch you had just moved. 

“I know right!” you sighed, already tired and irritated from the heat. “How are the boys doing this?”

“Naked,” Allie laughed, standing next to the window. 

Hannah and you ran to stand next to her, and indeed, the boys had all taken off their shirts. Your eyes couldn’t leave Dean’s body and how his muscles flexed whenever he moved or grabbed something. You cleared your throat and stepped back. 

“I ordered some fresh drinks, and some food. We all deserve a big break,” you announced. 

When the food came in, you all sat around your table and dug in the food. Dean was sitting very close to you, feeling the heat his body was producing. 

“This place is starting to come along nicely,” Tucker looked around. 

“It is!” you smiled. “Thank you so much for this again.”

“That’s what friends’re for,” Beau smiled. 

“Yeah,” they all agreed. 

This much love could make you cry, but the heat made you sweat out all the water you had in your body. You all continued to talk, and joke around while you ate, and after the meal you went to cut out some fresh watermelon. Two gigantic watermelons that were inhalated by these five athletes. 

Once everything was fixed, and built and put at the right place, they all started to leave one after the other. You hugged them all, thanking them again. Beau stayed behind to help you tidy some things up, and Dean insisted on the fact that he needed a shower before leaving. 

“I’m gonna go, have to wake early tomorrow for practice,” Beau hugged you. 

“Oh, ok,” you hugged him back. “Thank you again for helping.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

“Tell Dean I said bye,” Beau put his shoes on. “‘Kay, love you, bye.”

“Love you too, bye!” you waved at him until the elevator’s doors closed.

You put your phone to charge next to your bed, when you heard your name being called from the bathroom. You ran, and knocked on the door. 

“Is everything ok?” you asked, slightly worried.

“Yep, just hm, there aren't any towels.”

“Oh! Right, I’ll be right back!”

You ran around the house, looking into a few boxes before you found the towels and knocked back on the door. 

“My eyes are closed, you can open the door,” you said.

You heard the door opening, and he grabbed the towel. You could still feel his body being close to yours, and you opened your eyes slowly. He had wrapped the towel very low around his waist. Your eyes drifted down, and you kept them there on his V line. You noticed your breathing coming out in rapid-fire, and then you slowly looked up to see that Dean was already looking at you. 

“Enjoying the view?” Dean whispered. 

“I could get used to it,” you shrugged. 

“I’m still waiting for you to tell me all about the athletes’ sex drive during the Olympics.”

“I could tell you,” you nodded, “or I could show you too.”

“Mmh, I am a kinesthetic learner. I learn best when I’m practicing.”

“Oh, is that so? Then,” you trailed your fingers along his chest until they reached the towel, and you tugged on it to bring him closer to you, “we should probably do something about it.”

“Anything,” Dean nodded hazily. “Anything you want.”

Dean hung his head low, and you had to stand on your tiptoes to reach him and kiss him. The moment your lips touched his, Dean lost all composure and grabbed your hips, gliding them down until they reached your thighs and lifted you up. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and your legs around his waist. 

He kissed you hungryly, pressing you against the wall. Your hands travelled up to his hair and tugged on it lightly which made him stop momentarily. 

“Good?” Dean frowned. 

“Very,” you panted, “it’s just, I can feel your dick against my ass, and I think we should go to my bedroom.” 

“Ok,” Dean nodded. 

His towel was long gone by the time he put you on your bed. He stood naked, while admiring you laid out on your bed, slightly out of breath. 

“You have too much clothes on baby,” Dean leaned down on you. 

His hands trailed down your body until they reached the hem of your skirt. He pulled it off in a single tug, with your panties with it. And you took off your top and threw it with the rest of your clothes. 

“Better,” Dean stared at you hungrily. 

Dean grabbed your calf and pulled you closer to the edge of your bed before leaning down to kiss you again. His kiss trailed down your neck, slowly, and then he continued to go down until his mouth was on your breast. You moaned, tugging on his hair hardly. 

“I love that sound,” Dean smiled smugly. 

Dean went down further, and his mouth finally reached your sweet cunt, which made you let out a sigh of relief. 

“So wet for me,” Dean smiled.

His hand went up and grabbed on your breast, while you pushed on his head harder. Dean kept on going until you came. You looked down, panting, and watched Dean staring at you as he went to grab his dick and stroke it while continuing to eat you out. 

“Dean,” you moaned, “I’m—”

Close is what you were going to say, and so was Dean. He came to kiss again, and you found out you didn’t mind the fact that his mouth was on your pussy just a second earlier. 

“Go grab a condom on my nightstand,” you smirked. 

Dean nodded and followed your instructions, put it on and went back to you. 

“Ok?” Dean grabbed your thigh to put it around his waist. 

“Yeah,” you breathed out. 

He slowly slid his dick inside of you, and stayed still for a second. Dean was staring at you and it wasn’t until he felt you moving your hips around that he kept going. It kept going on and on and on, until you pushed Dean around so he’d be the one laying on his back. You rode him, while his hands roamed free around your body. You finally collapsed on him, panting for your life. 

“Good?” Dean asked smugly. 

“Incredible,” you pulled yourself off of him and laid on your back. 

Dean turned around and laid on his side, his fingers tracing around your body. He planted another kiss on your lips before he got out of the bed. He came back a minute later with a clean towel in his hands before wiping off his cum.

“Thanks,” you smiled. “But I think we should take a shower after everything we did.”

The shower lasted longer than you’d expected because Dean insisted on having shower sex which you couldn’t say no to since you always wanted to try it out. 

“Never again,” you moaned once you came. 

“Didn’t like it?” Dean asked between kisses. 

“You were perfect,” you smiled. “Being under the hot water was uncomfortable, and if I wasn’t under it, I was freezing my tits off.”

“I can see that,” Dean smirked looking at your breasts. 

You went to the kitchen and grabbed some leftovers before you went back to your bedroom. You both laid down and turned off the lights. Dean wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you close to him. 

“Didn’t take you for a hugger,” you chuckled. 

“I am, so get used to it.”

“Dean,” you said after a moment of silence.

“Mmh?”

“I can feel your hard dick again.”

“Sorry,” Dean pulled away. 

“Don’t be,” you climbed on top of him. “I can go for another round.”

You did, but as soon as you came, you fell asleep on Dean.

The warm sun in your room woke you up slowly. You tossed around in your bed, noticing it was empty before you grabbed your phone to check the time. It was already past 11, and Dean was nowhere to be seen. No in the room, not in the bathroom next to your room. And there were no messages from him either. 

Fuck, you thought. Did he regret what happened the previous night? You groaned into your pillow and stood to grab some clothes. You went to wash your face and brush your teeth before finding new underwear and a t-shirt, and then you stopped dead in your tracks when you heard noises coming from outside. You grabbed your phone, pulling out Beau’s contact just in case. You slowly walked toward the living room, and then the kitchen when you saw Dean preparing food. 

“Is that the treatment you give to everyone after sex?” you joked, sighing in relief. 

“No,” Dean chuckled, looking you up and down. “Just you.”

“I thought I was getting robbed by the way,” you quickly changed the subject. “I was ready to call Beau while getting murdered.”

“That was your first thought?”

“Well, yeah,” you sat down next to Dean. “You were gone, I didn’t think you'd stay.”

Dean smiled softly. “I did leave for an hour to get food. I took your keys by the way.”

“You can keep it,” you said. “Beau has a double, and I feel like someone else should have another set just in case.”

“Sure,” Dean nodded. 

You both started to eat in silence. The TV wasn’t on, there wasn’t any music, and you were still exhausted from the night. 

“So,” Dean started, turning his chair a little to face you, “how was last night?”

You smirked. “Mmh, decent.”

“Decent?” Dean laughed. “You came like so many times.”

“I know… I guess,” you paused, then stared at him, “we’ll just have to keep doing it for your rating to get up.”

“Yeah?” Dean leaned in. 

“Mmh hm,” you hummed.

Dean pushed the food away, placed his hand around the nape of your neck and brought you closer to him. You moaned into his mouth, and you were glad to be sitting because your knees couldn’t handle all his prowess. Your hands quickly found his pants, and unbuttoned them. You pulled his pants off slowly, gliding your fingers along his erected dick, never once breaking off the kiss. 

“I didn’t get to last night,” you kneeled down, smiling up at him.

Dean was already panting, his cheeks a rosy tint. He had his legs spread to give you all the space you needed.

“I’m all yours,” Dean breathed.

Dean came to your place at least once a day. And the sex was mindblowing, better than anything happening at the Olympics. He paid attention to your likes and preferences, he put your pleasure above anything else and he was just very good at it. 

It was finally Thursday which meant Beau was at your place around 4pm to get you to hockey practice. Beau, being your longest and best friend, had the privilege to know everything about your life. From Olympics gossip to what food gave you a stomachache. But if you told Beau about the sex with Dean, then you’d have to tell him that it wasn’t just one hookup. It was a daily hookup type of situation. And you didn't want to yet.

“Are you ready to skate?” you smiled at Beau once you were in his car.

“Sure,” Beau laughed. “Are you ready to hold my hand when I inevitably die from a cracked skull on the ice?”

“Ha ha,” you rolled your eyes. “As if I’d let you get hurt. I will body slammed any of these fuckers to protect you, don’t worry about it. I got your back boo.”

“It’s actually pronounced Beau,” he chuckled.

“You’re hilarious,” you deadpanned. 

When you arrived at the rink, practice was still going on. So Beau and you sat on the stands and watched. They pushed each other, and ran into each other while an adult was shouting things at them. 

“What’s happening now?” you frowned.

“I have no idea,” Beau shrugged. 

“You should put skates on, I’ll help you tie them up.”

Practice ended right when your skates were on. Half of the guys left while your friends stayed. 

“You should run to Dean and tackle him,” Beau suggested with a grin. 

“I will,” you grinned back. 

Dean had his back to you, and the moment you came on the ice you sprinted toward him. Garrett’ eyes widened when he saw her which made Dean turn around. Your eyes were fixated on his jersey number, and wrapped your arms around his chest to tackle him just like how Beau taught you. Dean was a great hockey player, he was good on skates, he was solid. But when he saw you skating to him, he loosened up which ultimately made him lose balance. 

Dean’s first instinct was to wrap his arms around your head because you weren’t wearing a helmet and if you hit your head, then it’d be his fault. Then he did his best to fall first so you’d stay on top of him. 

“What the hell,” Dean worried, “are you ok?”

Dean held your body against his then stood slowly. Once he made sure you didn’t injure yourself, he backed away a little. 

“I’d be good at hockey I think,” you nodded satisfied. 

“I wasn’t ready,” Dean shook his head.

“Guys!” Beau yelled from the stands. 

You all turned to him, and he held out his hand so you went to fetch him. Beau was grabbing onto your shoulders tightly. You all helped Beau gain a little confidence on the ice before they could start teaching you the basics of hockey. 

When Beau could hold his own, you divided into two groups of three. Dean, Logan and you against Garrett, Tucker and Beau. The first first rounds were easy, they let you and Beau score a few points to build your confidence up. 

You were all skating around, playing hockey when Beau went for the puck, skating a little too quickly, and slammed his body into yours. As a figure skater, you learn very early on how to fall on the ice so you wouldn’t get hurt or break a bone. But falling while playing hockey was different, mainly because your body was thrown against the barriers before you fell on the ice. 

“Beau! What the fuck!” you moaned. 

“I’m sorry!” Beau tried to help you up. “I couldn’t stop.”

He tried to squat down to help you up, but Dean quickly came to you and helped you up, and the rest of the guys gathered around.

“Your sport is too dangerous,” you mumbled. 

“My sport?” Dean snorted. “Yours is just as bad, have you seen some of the falls you can get, and how dangerous a throw is?”

“It’s not,” you looked at him and then smiled. “You guys should try out some figures. You’re comfortable on ice, so it should be fun!” 

It was so much fun. All of them were great, trying out spins and little jumps. There were some falls, but they were used to it. And then Beau suggested trying out your duo routine. Skating with someone who had to throw you in the air required a lot of trust. It didn’t happen overnight, but you trusted these people. Or you trusted them enough to know you wouldn't die. 

Garrett and Tucker opted out because it felt dangerous, but Logan and Dean were in. You all gathered around the edge of the rink, and Beau took out his phone to show your routine.

“We can try out some of the simpler figures, and we’ll do another type of throw,” you said confidently. “Ok, Logan you first,” you held out your hand. 

You skated around a bit before you positioned his hands firmly on your waist. 

“I can hear your teeth grinding from here dude,” Beau laughed at Dean.

“I’m not,” Dean laughed it off. He was definitely grinding his perfect teeth.

“We have to skate a bit, and then you just bend your knees a little, lift me up to throw me away,” you explained very badly. 

Training usually started off the ice, with harness and on ground training. But you were good, so if half of the duo knew what they were doing, then it should be fine. 

It definitely wasn’t. First of all, your explanations weren’t nearly as good as your coach’s. Second, maybe you should’ve told Logan to not use all his force to throw you away. Hockey players had more brute force in their arms than figure skaters. 

The fall wasn’t bad at all. It was controlled, with minimum damage and you got up immediately. But that wasn’t enough to convince them. 

“I’m sorry,” Logan winced. 

“It’s fine,” you repeated. “I swear I had worst falls with a professional. So stop apologising, honestly.” You turn back to Dean. “Your turn.”

“Uh, I don't want to anymore,” Dean frowned. 

“What, why?”

“Because you just fell on hard ice without any protection!” Dean choked out. 

You stared at Dean, just like everyone else in the room. Was he worried about you? 

“Dean, I’m fine,” you assured him. “And you said you wanted to try this out.”

“When?” Beau wondered out loud, with a smug look on his face.

“Fine, let’s do this,” Dean ignored his friend.

He took your hand and you both skated away from the guys. He planted his hands firmly on your waist, a place he knew too well.

“Just, don’t use too much force,” you warned him. 

“I won’t,” Dean said. “You know what I’m thinking about?” he whispered in your ear. 

“What?” you looked up, smiling.

“How fun it’d be if we had sex here.”

You felt goosebumps forming all over you, and you knew Dean could too. That little fucker. And then, Dean lifted you up and threw you away. Your spin and landing were perfectly done, and it was met with applause and whistling. After a few more rounds of skating around, it was time to leave. 

They all walked to the changing room, and you meant to follow them too but Beau had other plans.

“Where are you going?” Beau asked.

“Following your friends, where are we supposed to go?”

“Home.”

“You’re ruining things for me,” you complained. 

Dean, who was the last one to go in, laughed. He stopped at the door and took off his jersey, revealing his broad, toned, and very familiar chest to you. He winked and smiled at you, and started to untie the lace of his pants before going into the changing room. 

“That little shit,” you snickered. “Right?” you turned to Beau.

“Meh,” Beau shrugged. “He’s naked all the time, so you’ll see it someday. Eventually.”

If only he knew.

“Right,” you nodded. “Let’s just go.”

Your headache didn’t go away, it got worse. It turned into a sore throat, and a fever and an even worse headache. Your body ached so much you couldn’t get any medicine, which meant recovery was even slower. Dean volunteered to come but you refused categorically, insisting that you only needed rest. A day before the party, you called Beau to get you medicine because you were still determined to go. 

“You look really bad,” Beau gave you the meds. 

“Gee thanks,” you coughed. 

“You don’t have to come tomorrow you know,” he sat on your bed. 

“Don’t come too close or you’ll get sick too,” you scootched away. 

“Fine, just take your meds and I’ll–” Beau’s phone rang. “Dean… Yeah she’ll be fine… She just didn’t check her phone. Don't worry… Yep… Yea I’ll tell her, bye… See ya tomorrow,” Beau hung up his phone. 

“Wha’ d’he say?” you mumbled into your pillow. 

“He was worried you didn’t answer any of his texts, and he said you should rest instead of trying to come tomorrow.”

“Mmh, so he doesn’t wanna see me ‘nymore,” you wined. “Great.”

“That’s not what I or he said. Just take your meds y/n,” Beau insisted. 

Beau helped you take your meds and a few minutes later you were out cold. Beau made sure you were all covered up with a fresh bottle of water on your bedside table before leaving your room. He cleaned up your house, put your dirty clothes in the washing machine, did your dishes, opened the windows to get some fresh air and checked on you again. You were still sleeping heavily, snoring a little. He had to wait for the clothes to be done before he could leave and once that was done, he left. 

When you woke up again, you did feel slightly better. Your first instinct was to check your phone. A few messages from Dean, one from Beau saying he was home and that you shouldn’t forget to take your meds and another one from your dad, sending you a funny video. 

You took your meds, and slept for another few hours before waking up. The first thing you did was take a long and cold shower because of the mild, persistent fever. You put on your bathrobe before dragging yourself to the living room.

“Fuck!” you shouted, clutching your heart. “Beau I will fucking kill you right now! What are you doing here?”

“Driving you to the party even though you shouldn’t go,” Beau looked up from his phone. 

“Then why are you here?”

“Because the alternative was to let you take an Uber and that’s not safe enough.”

You sat next to him, resting your head against his shoulder. Beau put his hand around you.

“Thank you,” you mumbled. 

“Promise me if you start to feel like you’re going to faint, you’ll come to me or Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah. I promise,” you nodded. “Now, help me pick an outfit.”

Once you picked your outfit, Beau handed you your meds.

“Wait,” Beau frowned, “when was the last time you took ‘em? It has to be at least eight hours apart.”

“It was this morning, very early.”

You took them with some water, and grabbed your bag before you left for the boys’ house. It was already past 8 when Beau parked his car. The house was packed, loud music, lots of light and people making out outside. 

“Are you ok?” Beau walked beside you.

“Surprisingly fine,” you admitted. 

The house inside was even fuller, people dancing around and singing along the music. You hands were glued to Beau’s shirt so you wouldn’t lose him.

“Jules!” Beau waved. “Logan,” he dapped him up.

“Hey you alright?” Logan asked you. “Dean has been worried about you for days.”

“I’m fine,” you nodded, smiling at him. 

“This is Jules,” Logan introduced you two. “They’re managing the fifth line’s account, and Jules, this is y/n, Beau’s dearest friend.”

“Hi,” you gave Jules a hug. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“Hm, what’s fifth line by the way?”

“An account dedicated to Briar’s hockey team,” Jules explained. 

“Oh,” you smirked. “I’ll have to check that out.”

Beau started to talk but your name being called made you all turn around. Dean.

“What are you doing here?” Dean frowned, worried. “Are you ok?” he gently held your face, checking if it was hot. 

“I’m doing better than this morning so yep, all good.”

They all observed the scene with great interest, so you backed away a little. If Jules managed a gossip account about them all, then you were in gossip territory. 

“Drinks,” you shouted. “Beau, let's get something.”

“Alright,” he threw Dean a questioning look. 

On your way to the kitchen where all the drinks were, you bumped into Hannah and Garrett. You talked a little while Dean handed you a cup. You clanked your cups before drinking it down in one go. First mistake of the night, as that cup held a shot of vodka. 

“Couldn’t have found something softer?” you slapped Beau’s arm.

“Sorry, it was the first thing I found.” 

You danced with Hannah, and Allie who joined a little later and sang all together. You were alternating between dancing around and going in the kitchen to find alcohol. Fresh canned beer, or weird homemade cocktails, that was the question. 

“You should drink water,” Dean’s voice appeared behind you. 

“Water robing,” you slurred out. “Robing? Boring.” 

Dean placed his hands on your stomach and brought you closer to him, your back pressed against his chest. 

“I missed you,” Dean whispered. 

“You missed having sex with me,” you chuckled. 

“Two things can be true.”

“Well,” you turned around, wrapping your arms around his neck, “I missed having sex with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“But let’s have a drink before,” you pushed Dean away.

You filled your cup with the mixture, and grabbed a beer to pour it into your cup before gulping it all down in one go. You grabbed another beer and pressed it into his chest.

“Drink, and we should dance!” 

Dean gulped the beer in one go, before tossing it aside. He grabbed your hand and led you to the corner of the living room where there were less people. His hands on your hips kept you held on to him. You moved together with the music, and then suddenly, you were facing him. 

“I want to kiss you,” Dean whispered. 

“Mmh,” you paused to think about it, “you should then.”

Dean leaned down and kissed you slowly, his hands sliding down to rest on your ass. 

“I’ve missed this,” Dean mumbled against your lips. 

“Mmh,” you closed your eyes, leaning against Dean. 

You were very grateful for Dean’s strong hands, because you would’ve fell on the floor if it weren’t for him. 

“Dean,” you whispered. “You’re so hot.”

“Yeah?” Dean smirked, looking at you smugly but his smile fell once he realised how warm your face felt. “Fuck, how much did you have to drink?”

“A lot,” you laughed, eyes still closed.

“Fuck,” Dean looked around, looking for Beau, but when he couldn’t find him he let it go.

Dean carried you in his arms to his bedroom.

“Ooh, are we going to have secret sex in your bedroom?” you bit your lips.

“No,” Dean put you in his bed. “You’re going to sleep because you’re clearly out of your mind.”

“Aren’t you gonna stay with me?” you pouted. 

Dean stared at you, and sighed. He touched your forehead and it was warm, too warm for someone who wasn’t still sick. 

“I’m staying,” Dean whispered, stroking your cheek. 

Dean watched your breathing slowly become more even before he cracked his window open. He went back to the party, looking for Beau but that was difficult with all these people. And then, people handed him drinks, and shouted his name and he found himself doing shots. After a few drinks, he finally spotted Beau outside. 

“Dude!” Dean ran after him. “Where’re you goin’?”

“Looking for my very sick and drunk best friend,” Beau sighed. 

“She’s in my room, I was looking for you.”

“Is she ok?” Beau frowned, going back into the house.

“I don’t–” Dean hesitated, following his friend.

Beau was walking very fast, and he ran up the stairs two at the time and reached Dean’s bedroom in record time. You were still sleeping soundlessly, Dean’s comforter on the ground, with your clothes too, and you had one of Dean’s t-shirts on. 

“Hey,” Beau squatted down next to you. 

“Heeey,” you opened your eyes. 

“Do you want to go home?” 

You shook your head. 

“‘m gonna sleep here,” you mumbled into Dean's pillow before falling back asleep.

“Ok. Let’s hope it’s just the alcohol,” Beau sighed. 

“She has a fever,” Dean leaned against his door. “I don’t think she had fully recovered yet before coming.”

“Yeah… Just-- I’ll check on her again tomorrow, can you keep an eye on her until–”

“Of course. I’ll call if anything happens.”

“Thanks, I’m gonna head home,” Beau stood, and then stopped in front of him. “Please don’t have sex with someone when she’s in your bedroom.”

Dean scoffed, slightly offended. “I know!”

“Just to be sure,” Beau put up his hands. “Thanks.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

The party was still going on strong, but Dean didn’t go back. He made a promise to his friend, and even if Beau didn’t ask, Dean would’ve stayed and looked after you. He took a quick shower before laying in his bed next to you. It wasn’t the first time you two slept in the same bed, Dean often spent the night when he came to your place. 

Dean was a physical touch type of person, which meant he loved to hug the person he’s sleeping with. He loved sleeping with you wrapped around him, safely tucked away in his arms. You usually enjoyed the feeling, but that morning, it felt anything but nice. 

It felt suffocating, with a touch of hungover and sickness. You tried to leave the bed, but Dean had his leg over your body, his arms wrapped tightly around you. 

“Dean!” you tapped lightly on his leg. “I need to get up.”

Dean groaned and let you go, and went back to sleep, his limbs sprayed out. You needed to take a shower. You opened a few doors before you found it and took a quick shower. You weren’t going to risk it and use one of the towels in there, which meant putting Dean's t-shirt back on while you were still damp. You took some toothpaste and used your tongue to spread it around your teeth, and rinse it off before going back to Dean. 

You didn’t want to wake him up. He looked peaceful, and he needed the rest but you had no other option if you wanted to go home.

“Dean,” you sat on his bed. “Dean,” you shook him a little. 

“Mmh,” Dean groaned, opening his eyes. “‘m awake.”

Dean rubbed his eyes to wear off the sleepiness and sat up. 

“Are you ok?” Dean frowned, slightly worried. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I just– I think I need to go home.”

“You can rest here if you need,” Dean took your hand in his. “We don’t have anything planned, you’ll be able to rest.”

“Uh…” you hesitated.

“Or not,” Dean finished for you. “Give me five minutes ok?” 

You nodded, relieved. You went to grab your clothes and put them with your bag on Dean’s bed. Then you went to his closet, and took one of his jackets to put on. The sleeves were too long, but it covered your ass. 

When Dean came back he froze for a second before he went to put on some clothes and helped you carry your clothes and bag before you went down. 

No one was up in the house yet, the party had ended late so they were all getting their beauty sleep in. You watched Dean grab two apples, wash them and a bottle of water and then, handed them to you.

“I’m not hungry,” you still took everything. 

“For later then.”

“Thanks,” you smiled weakly.

The moment you sat down in Dean’s car, you started to feel nauseous. You rarely regretted decisions you took in life, but coming to the party yesterday was one of them. You were definitely still sick, and when you had realised that you were drinking alcohol on an empty stomach it was already too late for you. And it turned out, sleeping didn’t help at all since you were still feeling like shit. You closed your eyes, trying everything to stop your head from spinning. You drank the water and it didn’t help. You focused on your breathing until Dean called your name.

“Are you alright? You look…” Dean grimaced.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. 

“We’re almost there,” Dean stroked your thigh with his thumb.  

By the time you reached your apartment, you ran out of his car and rushed to your place. You sprinted to the bathroom and vomited in the toilet. There wasn’t anything consistent since you hadn't eaten in a while, but still, it made you feel a little better. You flushed the toilet and went back to the living room. 

“Fuck,” Dean ran in your apartment. “You scared the shit out of me,” he took you in his arms. 

“I didn’t want to puke in your car,” you joked, a small smile forming on your face. “Thank you for driving me home, mh—,” you rested your face against his chest, “you can go back home and rest— I’m sorry again for waking you and—.”

“I don’t mind. Let’s get you back to bed.”

You couldn’t fight him even if you wanted to. You simply nodded and let him lead you to your bedroom. A place he was very familiar with. You took off his jacket and threw it on your bed.

“Call me if you need anything,” Dean sat on your bed.

“I will.”

“‘Kay.”

Dean leaned down, but you quickly pushed his face away with your hand. He gasped, and stood from your bed.

“I’m sick you weirdo,” you laughed. “Were you really going to kiss me?”

“Fine, but you owe me a kiss,” Dean stared at you and sighed. “I’m gonna go now.”

“Mmh,” you nodded. 

Once you heard your front door closing, you closed your eyes and tried to sleep again but unlike the few previous days, it didn’t come to you. You constantly felt you wanted to vomit made it impossible to rest, so you slowly stood. You went to your kitchen and drank a little bit of water. You should eat some chicken soup, but you certainly weren’t going to cook that. You could do some avocado toasts, but you didn’t have any avocados. You grabbed some plain bread and ate half a toast before you felt sick. You should call someone, call Dean back or call Beau but you couldn’t find your phone anywhere.

“Fuck this,” you sighed. 

You turned on your TV and watched your current series, Abbott Elementary, white munching on plain toasts to fill your stomach. That did not work because then, you spent a few hours laying on your bathroom floor to be close to the toilet. And without your phone, you couldn't even update your friends. 

You spend the day alternating between watching your series and the bathroom. You were dozing off on your couch when you heard your front door opening. You quickly stood, which was a mistake because it made you nauseous, and trip over your blanket. 

“Fuck,” Dean ran to you, “baby are you ok?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you grabbed his arms to steady yourself. 

“You don’t look like it,” Beau stood next to Dean.

“What are you two doing here?” you changed the subject.

“I was worried, and you weren’t answering your phone,” Beau said.

“I lost it!” 

“Then I called Dean, and turns out, your purse was in his car.”

“Oh.”

“And,” Beau stared at you, “we’re going to the hospital because you’re clearly dying over there.”

“I’m sorry,” you sighed. 

“It’s ok,” Dean reassured you, shielding you from Beau. “You’ll be fine.”

You looked up at him and gave him a shaky nod. 

“I’ll help her change into some clean clothes,” Dean held you against him, “and you can…” his voice trailed off, not knowing what to say.

Beau looked smugly at Dean, and waited for his friend to continue. 

“Or you could help her find some clothes because you’ve been friends forever and I’ll check her bag,” Dean frowned, “to see if… yeah.”

Dean smiled and handed you to Beau before leaving your apartment. Once it was only the two of you, Beau looked at you expectantly. 

“Your friend’s weird,” you shrugged, walking away slowly. 

“Ok,” Beau smiled, shaking his head a little.

The trip to the hospital wasn’t very long, but waiting for someone to get to you and take care of you felt never-ending. Then, unsurprisingly, you had alcohol poisoning and it got worse very quickly because you were sick and you hadn’t eaten anything. And then, the alcohol poisoning induced the vomiting and the severe dehydration made you feel lightheaded and weak. 

They were going to keep you overnight, and pump your stomach and rehydrate you through IV before you could go home. 

“I already feel better,” you smiled once you were settled in your room for the night. “At least I’ll be all good to go back to school next week.”

“You have weird priorities in life,” Beau commented. 

“I know…”

Then a nurse came in to tell you it was way past visiting hours, and they could come back tomorrow at 8am. Dean made sure your phone was charging next to your bed before they left. Another nurse came in to check on you before leaving you alone. 

That was a complete lie. You didn’t know how to answer Dean saying he didn’t want to have sex with someone else, so you lied. You still called Beau, because that way, it would only be partially lying. 

When morning came and you woke, Dean was already in your room. He was sitting on the chair next to the door, looking through his phone. 

“What time is it?” you yawned. 

“Past nine,” Dean looked up. “Are you feeling better?”

“A lot better,” you nodded.

“The nurse came in earlier.”

“Oh?”

“She said you were clear to leave when you were ready, just needed to check out. For the food, you’d have to eat chicken broth for a few meals before going back to full, real meals. And don’t forget to drink water. And she also mentioned that it was normal if you felt like you wanted to puke, just if you do puke a lot, you should come back to the hospital.”

“Ok,” you nodded. “That's– alright.”

“Beau is grocery shopping which is why he isn’t there,” Dean explained. “And, I picked up some clothes for you so you could change,” he handed you a bag. 

You’d thanked him so many times by now it felt like it lost its meaning. So you stayed silent, and just stood from your bed and walked to Dean. He looked at you with a hint of concern, but then you just wrapped your arms around him, resting your head on his chest. His arms instinctively went around you, one holding the back of your head. 

You could get used to this, to Dean. And that was something new that made your heart flustered. You could picture it, eating with him, going to his games, skating together, sleeping together, but then that wasn’t the lifestyle he was leading. But then again, these past few days, he hadn’t slept with anyone. 

You were overthinking this. This was casual, you could do casual, it’s all you knew how to do things. So, you grabbed your bag and left for the tiny bathroom to change. 

“Ready?” Dean stood when you came back out. 

“Yep.”

Dean held his hand out for you to take it, and you did only after a second of hesitation. How could you keep telling yourself that this was casual when he kept doing these things? These very couply things. It was fine, you’d just follow Dean’s lead. Whatever he did, you would do and keep things casual-ish. 

Things went back to normal once you were fully recovered. Meaning, Dean was spending every single day at your place, even if school started again, even if he had practice, even if there was a party at his house, he always ended up at your place. Some of these nights were spent watching your series, you had forced him to watch Abbott Elementary with you, some other nights were spent on working on school assignments, but most nights were spent with Dean naked. And you still didn’t tell Beau about it.

“Have you told anyone about this?” you asked Dean one night, while you were both in your oversized bathtub. 

“About?”

“Us having sex, you spending all your free time here.”

“The guys know, yeah,” Dean nodded, tracing his fingers along your arm. 

“Do ‘the guys” include Beau Maxwell?” 

Dean stayed silent for a moment. “No,” he breathed out. “Did you?”

“Nope. I–” you sighed, throwing your head back, resting it in the crook of his neck. “I’ve been thinking about it, and the more I wait, the weirder it is. What would I even say?”

“That you’ve been having the time of your life with his best friend,” Dean kissed your cheek, and then his kisses trailed down your neck. 

Sex in the bath was messy. Literally. Because you both spent at least fifteen minutes cleaning up the spilled water. But it was stil better than shower sex.

“Never again,” you glared at him knowing damn well you’d be doing it again soon. 

You were eating with everyone near the school’s restaurant, you all listened to Garrett talking about the next game they had. Beau, who sat in front of you, looked at you with a confused look and you only shrugged. 

“y/n?” a voice called you from behind. 

Garrett stopped talking, and you all turned around. You had to take a double take before standing up. 

“Jake!” you gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he laughed, giving you a tight hug. “But I go to school here, have been for a couple of years now. What about you?”

“I transferred here,” you turned around. “Hm, this Jake Huges and these are my friends.”

“Hi,” Jake smiled at them. “I saw you guys play hockey for Briar right?”

“Yeah,” Garrett nodded. “You’re–”

“Yeah, do you play?” Dean snarked.

You glared at Dean, because you knew for a fact he knew who that was. 

“I do play,” Jake laughed. “A little.”

“Yeah, a little at the Olympics,” you laughed. 

“Ah,” Dean nodded, still smiling politely. “Must’ve missed it.”

“Well, there were better programs,” Jake looked at you. “The best one, figure skating.”

“Ha, ha,” you gleamed. “Oh my god. We should have lunch someday, together.” 

“Yeah or we could catch up after you’re done here?”

“Yeah, sure,” you smiled.

“Well it was nice meeting you all,” Jake gave them a nod and then turned to you. “See you later?” 

“Yep.”

Jake gave you a quick embrace before joining his friends again. 

“Who was that?” Hannah asked.

“Jake Hughes, NHL player, playing for Montreal,” Garrett said. “Won silver at the Olympics.”

“And you didn’t know who that was?” Hannah looked at Dean suspiciously. 

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Dean shrugged.

“Right,” Beau smirked. “Must’ve.”

Dean glared at his best friend, and went back to eating. Garrett continued to talk about hockey strategy until Hannah stopped him and then you all talked about other things. School, assignment, the next drunk Shakespeare play. 

Dean was a casual type of guy, breezing through life, with little to no worries in life. He was having the time of his life ever since he met you, and everything was great until Jake came in, because why did he feel like starting a fight with that guy when he took you in his arms. That little fucker. 

When they were done eating, Dean watched you walk away to that guy while they all walked in the opposite direction. Dean took Beau aside while the rest of the group talked a little further away. 

“What’s wrong?” Beau asked.

“Nothing,” Dean shrugged. “We should go to Malone’s tonight.”

“Alright,” Beau nodded, “why are you being so weird about that?”

“I’m not.”

Beau sighed. “Fine, I’ll believe you. Is this about her,” he nodded toward the restaurant where you were still sitting with Jake. 

Dean looked back, and sighed, rolling his eyes. “No. Maybe. Yes.”

“We can go to Malone’s right now if you need.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah.”

They told the guys, and then Beau drove them to Malone’s. It was fairly empty, people had already eaten. They sat in a booth, far away from people, and they ordered drinks. Dean still didn’t know what to tell his friend, and stayed silent until their drinks were served. Dean took a sip of his drink before pushing it away. 

“I’ve been hooking up with y/n,” Dean blurted out, staring at Beau.

Beau stared at Dean for a minute before nodding. “I know.”

“You know?”

“Well, I suspected it and you’re only confirming it for me now,” Beau smiled. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“What?” Dean huffed. 

“You’re always together, you’re always the one driving her home when I could do it because she lives closer to me, you calling her baby. And when we’re spending time together, she’s always on her phone, smiling at it and I can see that she’s talking to you. You’re very comfortable with each other. You get weirdly jealous whenever there’s someone else close to her or touching her. I can go on.”

“No it’s fine, I get it.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Nothing,” Dean shrugged. “Not between us, it’s been great.”

“But?”

“But I fucking hate Jake,” Dean lashed out. “That fucker—”

“Because?”

“Because he’s with her right now, and maybe she’ll stop whatever we have and go back to–.”

“Olympic athletes she has had sex with before?” Beau finished for him.

Dean nodded.

“And you have a problem with that?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Dean sighed. 

“Dude,” Beau grinned,” you like her.”

“Of course I like her.”

“No, you like like her.”

Dean leaned back on the couch. 

“Dean you’re fucking awesome,” Beau crossed his arms on the table. “I know that, she knows that. You just gotta stop being a chicken and tell her about how you feel and what you want.”

“Yeah,” Dean smiled after a minute. “I know.”

“And gotta do it quick before she has sex with that Jake, hockey, Olympic medal guy,” Beau grabbed his phone.

“I will,” Dean stood. “I’m going back to that restaurant and I’ll—”

“She’s at her place,” Beau stood. “We share our locations,” he shrugged when Dean gave him a weird look. “Just, go to her and do your thing.”

“Yeah,” Dean walked away but then stopped. “You drove us here though,” Dean turned back. “Can you drive me to hers?”

Beau drove like a maniac, that man was on a mission. 

“What if he came back to her place?” Dean clenched his jaw.

“Then fuck that guy,” Beau said. “You got this.”

Twenty minutes later, they were at your place. Dean got out of the car, thanked Beau for his pep talk and went to your apartment. He stood in front of your door and hesitated. Should he ring the doorbell or just use his spare key? 

“Fuck,” Dean mumbled to himself. 

Dean banged his fist on your door. He waited a minute, then two and then three. And then he took out his key and came in. He directly went to your bedroom, and swung the door open. 

“Oh! What the fuck Dean!” you screamed, clutching your heart, taking off your headphones. 

“You weren’t—,” Dean coughed nervously, “answering your door.”

“Couldn’t hear,” you showed him your AirPods. “What happened?” you left your bed to join him. “Did something happen? Is Beau ok?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean frowned. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I saw you leave together earlier, and you look like something wrong happened.”

“Beau’s fine. I— How was your date with Jack?”

“Jack?” you laughed. “I know you know it’s Jake.”

“Do I?”

You stared at Dean. “It wasn’t a date, I was just catching up with a fellow athlete.”

“Good.”

“Good?” you smiled. 

Dean leaned against your door, crossing his arms. 

“I haven’t had sex with other women ever since we started to hook up,” Dean blurted out.

“Ok,” you nodded slowly. “Do you want to?”

“No! I just wanted to let you know. And I won’t and I don’t want you to… also.”

“I’m not,” you smiled. 

“Good,” Dean smiled, approaching you slowly. 

“Is that your weird way of asking me, us, to be exclusive and monogamous?” you joked. 

“Yeah.”

Dean pulled your face closer to his and sighed into the kiss, like something had been lifted off his shoulders. Dean continued deepening the kiss while bringing you to your bed. 

“We’re not leaving this place for the next twenty four hours,” Dean grinned. 

Garrett’s leaning against his Jeep under the car park light, arms folded. His hair’s messy from a shower, dark curls still damp at the ends, and he has that whole Garrett Graham thing going on. Broad shoulders. Stupidly easy confidence. Mouth already curving like he knows exactly what she’s thinking and has decided to be annoying about it.

Her stomach does something small and embarrassing. Very professional. Very composed. Very student nurse of her.

He pushes off the car when he spots her, and his grin pulls wider, warm and smug all at once. “Hey.”

“Hey, you,” she says, and hates a little bit how soft it comes out.

His eyes move over her face, then down to her scrubs, her badge, her shoes. Quick enough to pass as casual if she didn’t already know him too well.

“You look like the hospital won.”

She huffs, but it turns into a smile because she’s missed him, which is humiliating. “That’s just what clinical excellence looks like.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Back pain. Emotional damage. Mild dehydration.”

“Sounds prestigious.”

“It is. Very competitive.”

His mouth twitches as he reaches past her for the passenger door and opens it before she can. He stands there holding it, eyebrows lifted like he’s daring her to say something.

She looks at him. “I can open a car door.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” His eyes flick briefly to her mouth. “I’m being impressive.”

“With doors?”

“I’m starting small.”

She laughs despite herself and slides into the passenger seat, immediately hissing when the cold leather touches the backs of her thighs through her scrub pants. “Oh my god.”

Garrett leans one forearm on the top of the door. “You good?”

“No. I’ve died.”

“You’re still talking.”

“Final reflex.”

He laughs, shuts the door, and rounds the front of the Jeep. She watches him through the windshield, the loose, easy way he moves, one hand dragging through his hair as he comes around to the driver’s side. 

They’ve texted constantly over the last two weeks. Stupid things. Tired things. Her half-delirious updates from placement. His pictures of Dean passed out on the couch or Tucker making dinner like a man personally betrayed by vegetables. 

But it hasn’t been this. Him in the same space as her. His car smelling like clean laundry and cold air and whatever body wash he uses that she has absolutely no business recognising this quickly.

He gets in and starts the car, immediately blasting the heat. She holds both hands in front of the vents like she’s trying to resurrect herself.

“It’s so cold,” she says.

“It’s November.”

She turns her head slowly. “Thank you. That helped.”

“Anytime.” He shifts toward her instead of putting the car into reverse, one hand coming up to her jaw with that easy, devastating confidence of his. His fingers are warm against her skin, thumb settling just below her cheekbone. “C’mere.”

She goes torward him easily. His mouth is warm, familiar, faintly minty, and the kiss is supposed to be quick until she smiles into it and he makes that low, pleased sound in the back of his throat like he’s won something. His thumb presses a little firmer at her jaw. The hospital car park drops away for a second.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. “How was it?”

She hums, because words take a moment. “Okay. Busy. Fun, kind of. My brain’s not really working. Like, I think if you asked me my birthday right now, I’d need a minute.”

“Good to know. I’ll keep it simple.” His thumb strokes once over her cheek. “You eat?”

She makes a face.

Garrett’s expression flattens. “That’s a no.”

“I had coffee.”

“Babe.”

“And half a granola bar.”

“Babe.”

The word lands too easily. Warm. Exasperated. Like he has any right to sound that domestic when Garrett Graham doesn’t do girlfriends. 

He only picks her up from hospital placements at eleven at night, texts her to make sure she isn’t walking out alone, remembers her schedule better than she does, and looks personally offended when she hasn’t eaten dinner. Completely different thing.

She lifts her brows. “Don’t babe me in your disappointed captain voice.”

“My disappointed captain voice works.”

“It’s bossy.”

He finally leans back, hand dropping to the gearshift. “You wanna go to yours? I can drop you. The guys are throwing something at the house.”

“Something?”

“Dean said low-key.”

“So loud.”

“Probably.”

“And sticky.”

“Almost definitely.”

She scrunches her nose, already imagining the music, the yelling, Logan saying something insane across the kitchen while Tucker tries to make sure no one breaks a lamp. Usually, she likes the hockey house. Tonight, the thought of it makes her want to climb into bed fully clothed and become unavailable to the public.

“No party,” she says. “I’d fall asleep standing up and someone would draw on me.”

Garrett nods. “Dean would.”

“Tucker would stop him.”

“Tucker would try.”

“Logan would take a picture.”

She grins, nodding very seriously. “Unsafe environment.”

Garrett smiles, softer this time. “Home, then.”

She nods, but instead of sitting back like a normal person, she leans over the console and kisses him again. Slower this time. Less hello, more something she’s not going to name because he’ll get unbearable about it and also because she’s tired enough to be honest by accident.

His mouth curves against hers. 

“You staying over?” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” he says, too quick to pretend he had to think about it. Then, quieter, “If you want me to.”

She rolls her eyes before her face can do something stupid. “You’re very easy.”

“For you?” His grin turns lazy. “Yeah. Little bit.”

That shouldn’t make her stomach flip. It does anyway. To recover, she slides a hand into his hair and tugs lightly at the curls near the nape of his neck. His breath catches, barely, but she hears it.

She smiles. “Interesting.”

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

His hand lands on her thigh over her scrubs, big and warm and far too comfortable there. “You’re supposed to be exhausted.”

“I am.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “You’re harassing me for sport.”

“I can multitask.”

He laughs under his breath and kisses her again, and this one gets away from them fast. Two weeks of missed schedules and half-asleep phone calls and pretending none of it counts as missing each other. 

His hand slides a little higher on her thigh. Hers tightens in his hair. The heat blasts over her knees, and she leans closer over the console, smiling into his mouth when he makes another low sound that’s going to be a problem for her later.

Then someone walks past the front of the Jeep. Close enough that when her eyes open, she catches the white coat, the badge, the tired doctor face, and the unmistakable glance into the car before he looks away with the grim professionalism of a man choosing not to involve himself.

She freezes. Garrett starts laughing.

“Oh my god.” She drops her forehead into his shoulder. “No.”

His chest shakes under her cheek. “Was that one of your doctors?”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just asking.”

“That is so unprofessional.”

“You’re off the clock.”

“I’m in the hospital car park!”

He shrugs. “Completely different.”

She lifts her head to glare at him, but his face is bright and smug and delighted, and it only makes her want to laugh too, which is frankly rude of him. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. That man watched me miss an IV yesterday.”

Garrett’s grin gets worse. “Good. New association.”

“What?”

He gestures with one hand. “Now he won’t think about the IV.”

“He’ll think about me making out with you in your Jeep.”

“Exactly.” He looks deeply pleased with himself. “Rebrand.”

She stares at him, then smacks his chest. “Drive.”

“Okay, okay.” He catches her hand before she can pull it back and kisses her knuckles, still smiling like an idiot.

She groans dropping her head back against the headrest. “I’m transferring schools.”

“No, you’re not.”

She points at the windshield. “Drive, Graham.”

He pulls out of the car park still grinning, one hand on the wheel, the other finding its way back to her thigh as soon as they hit the road. 

Outside, the hospital drops behind them in glass and light, the streets stretching dark and quiet toward campus. The heat keeps blowing over her legs. Garrett’s thumb moves slowly over her scrubs like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

She tips her head against the seat and watches him in the passing streetlights, the curve of his mouth still there, stupid and pleased and familiar.

“What?” he asks without looking over.

She shakes her head softly. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

She turns her hand palm-up on her thigh, and after half a second, his fingers slide between hers like they were headed there anyway.

“Just drive.”

His hand tightens around hers. “Yes, ma’am.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

Two tables away, a group of hockey players was laughing, their loud, easy confidence echoing against the brick walls and rising above the hum of the espresso machine. You didn’t need to look up to check. You knew the exact cadence of that deep, gravelly laugh. But today, it sounded entirely off. He was smiling at whatever story his teammate was telling, but his eyes weren't bright. They looked completely hollow. He was putting on a damn good show for the rest of the room, giving the perfect change to everyone around him, pretending everything was fine. You knew he was faking it. You knew it because you had spent countless Mondays sitting right across from him after that very first afternoon in this café, learning every single detail of his face.

You, on the other hand, couldn't even manage to fake it.

John Logan was sitting just a few feet away, and the simple act of breathing the same air felt like inhaling broken glass.

Don't look, you told yourself, forcing your eyes strictly back to the open notebook in front of you. You tried to focus on the text, but the lines of ink had blurred into a meaningless mess minutes ago. You couldn't sit here much longer. Hearing his voice, knowing the heavy, shifting undercurrent of whatever had actually happened between you, was utterly suffocating. Every memory, every quiet look shared in the dark, now carried a strange, cold weight you couldn't fully parse. It felt like walking through a house where the mirrors had suddenly been tilted—everything looked familiar, but entirely distorted. You just knew that the ground beneath your feet had given way, and the boy who used to be your anchor was now the very thing making you sink.

Before everything shattered into a million bitter pieces, Mondays didn't feel like a punishment. Back when the weather was just starting to turn and the leaves were first hitting the pavement, a Monday was just the day a stupid, rusty bike chain started everything.

The chain on your bike hadn't just slipped; it had completely jammed itself between the gear and the frame, leaving your hands covered in streaks of black grease and your frustration hitting its absolute peak. You were already late for class, the sky was starting to open up into a steady, annoying drizzle, and you were aggressively tugging at the cold metal, muttering every single curse word you knew under your breath.

"Need a hand, or are you just trying to paint your bike black?"

The voice was smooth, laced with a quiet amusement. You snapped your head up, your jaw set, ready to fire back a biting, sarcastic remark to whoever was bold enough to mock your misery, but the words caught directly in your throat.

Standing there was John Logan.

You recognized his face instantly. Just a few weeks prior, your roommate had practically dragooned you into following Fifth Line and you’d then scrolled past pictures of the boys a dozen times. But while players like Di Laurentis or Graham were legendary for their very public escapades, Logan was different. It wasn’t that he had a reputation for being difficult or totally unattainable—people just knew less about his private life.

And right now, that exact guy was standing over your broken bike, wearing a backward Briar cap, a damp grey hoodie, and a soft, genuinely amused smile.

"I've got it," you lied flatly, wiping your forehead with the back of your arm, which undoubtedly just smeared black grease across your skin.

"Sure looks like it," he chuckled, completely unbothered by your defensive tone.

He didn't hesitate for more than a second. Dropping his duffel bag onto the damp grass, he knelt down right beside you, completely ignoring the dirt and moisture soaking into the knees of his sweatpants. His hands were large, his knuckles slightly scraped and heavily calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but they were surprisingly deft as he reached into the tangled metal.

"Name's Logan, by the way," he said casually, his shoulder brushing against yours as he leaned in to get a better angle on the gear.

"I know who you are," you muttered, watching his fingers work.

He glanced up at that, his piercing eyes locking directly onto yours from just inches away. A playful, unexpected glint danced in his dark pupils. "Should I be worried, or are you just a hockey fan?"

"In your dreams, hockey boy. Just fix the chain."

Logan let out a laugh that vibrated straight through the damp air and right into your chest. With one quick, expert wrench of his wrist, the chain popped back into place with a loud, satisfying click. He stood up smoothly, pulling a white rag from his back pocket to wipe his stained fingers. He leaned in just close enough for you to catch the sharp scent of mint and cold winter air. "There. Good as new. You owe me a coffee for the rescue. Next Monday. Same time?"

You looked at him, then down at your bike. He was a complete stranger, a star athlete, and entirely out of your usual social circle. Between the sheer intimidation of having his full attention and the dark cloud of your upcoming final exams looming over your schedule, you didn't have the time or the energy for whatever this was. So you chose safety.

"I can't. I have exams coming up and I really need to focus," you said, grabbing your handlebars. You gave him a small, too formal nod. "But thanks for the help, Logan."

You wheeled your bike away, keeping your eyes straight ahead, though you could still hear the low, faintly amused chuckle that followed you down the campus path.

During the days that followed, you spent an embarrassing, deeply frustrating amount of time thinking about that brief interaction. You tried to force him out of your mind, but every time you closed your eyes to study, you saw that easy, dimpled smile. You were completely certain you would never cross paths with him again anyway. Briar U was a massive campus, and even if you happened to attend a game, it wasn't like you'd ever actually interact. At most, you’d just find yourself staring a little too much from the upper decks. It had just been a random, meaningless fluke.

Until Sunday night, when your phone buzzed with an unknown number.

You unlocked the screen, eyebrows knitting together as you read the message.

Unknown: Hey. You left your book behind at the quad last Monday. I picked it up so the rain wouldn't ruin it.

You stared at the text, completely baffled. You tapped out a quick reply, your mind racking through everything you had been carrying that day.

You: Who is this? And I didn't lose any books.

The response came back almost instantly, making your chest tighten slightly with an odd sort of anticipation.

Unknown: Pretty sure it's yours. It has your name written clearly at the top of the page.

A second later, a photo message popped up. You clicked it, your breath hitching. It was a close-up shot of a crisp, white page, and your name was indeed written at the top in neat, precise ink. But the framing of the photo was so tight and the lighting so specific that it completely blocked out the title or any actual text. You couldn't see what the book was about at all. A spike of pure bewilderment hit you. Were you losing your mind? Was this some kind of elaborate prank? Or were you just so completely exhausted by the crushing weight of your approaching finals that you had genuinely forgotten buying and losing a completely random book?

And then, it clicked.

The quad. Last Monday.

There was only one person who fit that timeline. Only one person who had been anywhere near you while you were fumbling with a broken bike chain. Your mind immediately flashed to a backward Briar cap, grey sweatpants, and a lazy, dimpled smile.

John Logan.

But a heavy wave of skepticism immediately followed the thought. It was impossible. You hadn’t given him your number. You hadn't given him anything except a sarcastic attitude and a flat refusal to grab coffee. How on earth could he have tracked down your contact info?

Determined to call his bluff, your fingers flew across the keyboard.

You: What the hell? What book is that, Logan?

You held your breath, staring at the screen as the little typing bubbles appeared, vanished, and then appeared again.

Unknown: So you do remember me. I’m flattered.

A small, uninvited smile tugged at the corner of your lips, but you quickly bit it down. He was deflecting.

You: Answer the question. And how did you even get my number?

Unknown: Come to the coffee shop tomorrow at two and find out. I'll bring it. Both the answers and the book.

You chewed on your bottom lip, staring at the flashing cursor. Part of you was entirely intrigued, but that same wave of hesitation from the week before washed over you. Looking into those intense brown eyes without the distraction of a broken bike made your stomach do a nervous, complicated flip. You didn't want to deal with the distraction, especially with your GPA on the line.

You: I told you last week, I have exams coming up and I need to focus. Just leave it at the library front desk or something.

You locked your phone and shoved it under your pillow, determined to ignore it. But three minutes later, it buzzed again. You swiped it open, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Unknown: It'll take ten minutes. Two o'clock. Don't flake on me.

You let out a frustrated, breathless laugh, throwing your head back against your pillow. He was relentless. Yet, as you stared at the cryptic message, you knew you were going to go. It was a crowded coffee shop in broad daylight—it wasn't like you were walking into a dangerous trap, and you desperately needed to know how he'd pulled this off.

When you walked into the café the next afternoon, your eyes scanned the crowded room until they landed on him sitting in a back corner booth. John Logan didn't look like a guy holding lost property. Instead, he had two steaming porcelain cups already waiting on the table and a lazy, triumphant grin spreading across his face.

As you slid into the opposite chair, you dropped your heavy bag and leveled him with a steady look. "Alright, hand it over. Because I checked my notes twice and I definitely didn't lose anything."

With a soft chuckle, Logan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a brand-new, crisp paperback book, gently sliding it across the wooden table toward you.

You blinked, looking down at the cover. The title read: It's All About the Bike: The Pursuit of Happiness on Two Wheels.

You picked it up, flipping it open to the first page. There, written in bold, neat handwriting at the very top, was your name. You lifted your eyes to him, completely stunned, realization washing over you. "You bought this. And you wrote my name in it."

"Technically, I didn't lie," Logan said with a modest shrug, a massive grin breaking across his face as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It is your book. It has your name in it. I just hadn't officially given it to you yet. But I knew a regular text invitation would get me another 'I can't, I have to study' excuse," he shrugged. "I had to innovate."

"You are completely absurd, you know that?" you sighed, though a warm flush was rapidly creeping up your neck, your heart doing a stupid, uninvited flutter against your ribs. "And how did you get my number?"

"I asked around," he admitted smoothly, leaning his forearms on the table, bridging the distance between you without forcing it. "Turns out we have mutual friends." He pushed one of the steaming cups toward you. "Black coffee, right? Figured you'd want something strong enough to get you through all that studying."

You wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, your defenses beginning to crack under his easy, attentive demeanor. "Don't get cocky, Logan. You're barely pushing past mildly annoying right now."

"Mildly annoying?" he chuckled, leaning in a bit closer, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Ouch. Come on, give me a little credit. I got you a book. I'm a local superstar, you know. My ego is fragile."

He placed a hand over his heart, mocking a look of deep, tragic injury, though his tone was entirely sarcastic.

You let out a genuine laugh, leaning your chin on your hand, a sharp, playful smirk matching his. "Oh, please. A superstar? No. I have a much better title for you now. I'm calling you Mavis."

Logan blinked, thoroughly amused. "Mavis? Like someone's grandma? Alright, what's the breakdown on that?"

"Mildly Annoying, Very Irritating Superstar," you proudly declared. "Since you insisted on it."

He threw his head back, a rich, booming laugh escaping him that made a few people at the counter turn around. He shook his head, looking down at his coffee with a warm smile. "You’re brutal. But honestly? I'll take it." He looked back up, his brown eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, quiet intensity. "What about you? I'll need a counter-acronym."

You spent the next hour trading sharp, playful barbs. You found out he was surprisingly intelligent, matching your wit at every single turn. Before you left, you noticed a small, neon-yellow post-it note sticking out from the middle of the pages he’d given you. Intrigued, you opened it to the marked page, your eyes landing on a heavily underlined quote:

“It was always scary, Charlie replied, but that was why you did it, right? If it was safe... it wouldn’t be fun.”

You had looked up at him, the comfortable, electric chemistry between you becoming so heavy it was almost dizzying. You had smiled then, thinking about the thrilling, terrifying rush of letting someone like him into your life.

The loud, obnoxious sound of a hockey player throwing a crumpled napkin at Beau snapped you brutally back to reality, the warmth of the memory instantly evaporating into nothingness. It was replaced by the freezing, hollow ache currently rotting your chest from the inside out.

If it was safe, it wouldn’t be fun.

God, what a joke. You had jumped right off the cliff with him, thinking the thrill was worth the fall. But it hadn't been safe. Not even close. And now, you were left completely alone, staring at the wreckage of a shattered heart, realizing exactly how unsafe John Logan truly was.

Shoving your laptop into your bag with trembling, rigid hands, you pulled your hood even lower over your face, zipped your jacket all the way up to your chin, and finally stood up to leave. You couldn't be here anymore. You couldn't listen to him exist, laughing with his friends as if he hadn't completely destroyed you.

You kept your head down, navigating the narrow, crowded space between the tables, intending to slip through the front door like a ghost. He hadn't noticed you earlier, tucked away in your dark corner, and you wanted nothing more than to keep it that way. But as you passed the exact edge of his table, a sudden, involuntary shift in the air pressure made you glance up through the shadow of your hood.

Logan’s head had turned.

Up close, the easy smile he’d been forcing for his teammates vanished instantly. He just looked tired, the tight set of his jaw giving away the exhaustion he was trying to hide from the rest of the room.

The moment his brown eyes locked onto yours beneath your hood, he froze.

The color drained from his face instantly, his chest hitching in a sharp, subtle yet audible gasp. For one agonizing, volatile second, the entire noisy coffee shop stopped spinning. His lips parted, trembling slightly, looking as if he wanted to jump up and shatter the space between you.

You didn't give him the chance. You tore your gaze away, a sharp, suffocating sob catching in your throat, and pushed past the heavy glass doors of the coffee shop, stepping out into the rain.

You walked fast, the icy drops hitting your face as you crossed the quad, your chest aching so badly you could barely draw a full breath. The moment you rounded the corner of the building and found a bit of shelter under the concrete awning, you stopped, trying to force the freezing air into your lungs.

You were still shivering, rain dripping from the edge of your hood, when a sudden vibration buzzed against your thigh.

Your fingers trembled as you reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. Just as the screen lit up, a fresh notification popped up across the glass. It was an unread text message from an unlisted, nameless string of digits—a quiet reminder of the night you had finally deleted his number.

Unknown: Don't run. Just give me five minutes, please. - Mavis.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, your heart hammering a wild, painful rhythm as you stared at the short message. No desperate pleading, no grand explanations—just that familiar nickname, a sharp echo of the days when things were simple.

With a shaking hand, you locked the phone without typing a single letter, shoving it deep into your pocket. You pulled your wet hood tighter around your face and kept walking into the storm.

One day down. Six more to survive. Then repeat.

Walking towards the exit and out into the parking lot, the automatic lights flicking off behind me as I lock the door. It’s been one of those days where your whole body is just drained. A Marine finally asked for help after ten years of pretending he didn’t need any. I should feel proud but that wasn’t the case…and then I saw my best friend.

Jake Seresin, leaning against my car like he owns the parking lot. Arms crossed with his stupidly perfect grin. The one he uses on women he forgets by sunrise. “Rough day?” he asks, pushing off the hood taking two steps towards me.

“Long…..hard….the usual I suppose.”

“You okay?”

I should’ve lied and said yes. But I knew I couldn’t keep this massive crush on him buried any longer, especially since he could get called for deployment at any moment and then I’d never have the chance to tell him.

Reaching into the pocket of my blue jeans I drew out a St. Michael medallion. My dad carried it on both deployments. My brother carried it too. Rubbing my thumb over it the edges worn smooth from years of being held during moments when fear was louder than faith. “This was my dad’s, my brothers. They carried it on deployment…. I want you to have it.”

His gaze lowered to his palm that I had pressed the object into before his eyes went bug eyed with fear. “W-why?”

“For protection. For coming home……and because I care about you.”

Jake stared at me for a moment before he suddenly started laughing like I had told him a hilarious joke. “Sweetheart, I don’t need a lucky charm. I’m Hangman.”

My chest goes tight, but I keep my face calm. Years of practice taught me how. Dealing with men who were good boyfriends until we jumped into bed and then that’s when things changed. They swore they weren’t “looking for anything serious.” Men who made me feel stupid for wanting more.

“Right. Of course.”

“Y/n?”

He reaches for my wrist instantly seeing how my whole body stiffened once the words came out of my mouth. I stumbled backwards confidently knowing I’m done being the girl who gets hurt because she hoped too hard. “I’m not doing this again, Jake.”

“Doing what?”

“Being the girl who loves you more than a friend while you pretend you don’t.” I meet his gaze and for once I don’t look away when his mouth opens but nothing comes out. “I’ve had enough flings to know when I’m about to be another one.”

“That’s not what I meant. I just - how long have you had feelings for me?”

Shifting my feet backwards I quickly reached inside my bag grabbing my car keys. Giving him a gentle shove I opened the driver's door, sitting down in the seat with a huff starting the car. “I’m your best friend. And I can’t watch you treat me like I’m temporary.”

“Y/n, stop for a second.”

Pushing my foot on the gas driving off without another word leaving him standing by his truck in the empty parking lot. “I’ll see you around.”

A few days later the Hard Deck is buzzing, but the squad’s table is dead silent when Jake drops into the seat beside Coyote, jaw tight, pretending he hasn’t been checking the door every time it opens. All because Y/n’s not here. She hasn’t been here since the parking‑lot disaster. Phoenix watches him for three seconds before she speaks. “You screwed up, Seresin.”

Jake scoffs, leaning back. “Didn’t do anything.”

Rooster raises a brow. “Exactly.”

Coyote leans forward, voice low. “She gave you her dad’s medallion, man.”

“Do you have any idea what that means to someone from a service family?”

“She’s a VA caseworker, Jake. She spends her days helping people who’ve been broken by this life. She doesn’t give pieces of her heart lightly.” Jake swallows hard when Rooster’s voice softens. “And you laughed. Like she was just another girl trying to get your attention.”

“She’s not a fling. She’s not one of your bar girls. And she sure as hell isn’t going to let you treat her like one.”

Jake’s hands curl into fists as Coyote nudges him. “You know she’s had her share of crappy relationships too. Guys who only treat her nicely so she’ll climb into bed with them. Then the next time they act like they don’t know her.”

Bob adds quietly. “She pulled away because she thinks that’s all you want from her.”

“That’s not - I don’t-”

Rooster cuts him off, firm. “Then why do you act like it?”

“I don’t - I’d never do that to her. I’ve - I’ve seen her after most of those breaks ups and have to pick up the pieces when she thinks she’s the problem-“

Jake looks down at his hands trailing off in thought at the faint imprint of the medallion he’s been carrying in his pocket like a secret. Coyote delivers the line that finally cracks him open. “And she’s the only one you’d trust with your dog tags.”

“We’ve all seen it. You guard those things like they’re your heartbeat. But when she held them that one time? You didn’t even blink.” Bob added onto what was said.

“Shit!” Jake dragged a hand down his face in a huff.

He stands abruptly, chair scraping making

Coyote smirks watching him rush out of the Hard Deck. “What kind of friend am I?….I gotta find her.”

“Go fix it, Hangman.” Rooster lifts his beer. “Go get the girl!”

Laying on my small apartment living room couch scrolling through old pictures on my phone I was honestly winding down for bed for tonight until I heard a hard pounding knock on the other side of my door. I went to ignore it until it got even louder where I swore whoever it was might punch a hole through the wood. Tossing my phone down I huffed getting up from the couch going to open the door, firing back at the person. “Hey asshole, in case you didn’t realize it I have neighbors and they certainly won’t appreciate you trying to break into my apartment like the Hulk!”

“Then I guess I’m lucky Ms. Alice finds me charming.”

Jake gave me that typical smirk of his with me leaning my side into the doorway, arms crossing over my chest and a scowl on my face. “What are you doing here, Hangman?”

“Hangman, it’s always been Jake for you.”

Snapping back I watched pure hurt spread across his face. “It used to be that way. Until I realized what kind of relationship we have. You made it very clear I’m clearly not good enough for you that’s why you haven’t been trying to get into my pants. You just tell me you don’t want any serious relationship, friend or otherwise.”

“I never said anything close to that.”

“You laughed at my family’s medallion. You laughed at me when I said I like you, more than a friend. And now this conversation is over.” Stepping beside the door I began pushing it closed till he placed his boot in between the door and the doorway keeping it open. He pushed it open, walking up to me where my back hit the wall behind me before he closed the door with one of his boots.

“I wasn't laughing at you or the family medallion. I didn’t even really mean to do that.”

Dropping my arms down to my sides I bite my lip scowling up at the aviator. Jake and I have been best friends for years, knowing each other better than we know ourselves. “And why should I believe a word you tell me now. How can I know you aren’t just lying to me like all the others so you can end up getting laid tonight hmm?”

“Because of this…” He tugged down the collar of his shirt pulling out a long silver chain that had two dog tag clips hanging on it yet that wasn’t what caught my attention. The other piece that was hanging around the chain was none other than my family’s medallion. Jake met my teary filled eyes as he took another step closer mixing our breathing. “I haven’t taken it off since you gave it to me. I didn’t have the heart to. Because every time I think about it I feel nervous because I would only ever trust one person with my dog tags and that’s you. It’s always going to be you Y/n.”

“Jake…”

He held his hands up letting the chain hang loose out the front of his shirt. Green eyes welling up with tears which I rarely ever got to see because most things didn't get to him. “Just let me get this out please. I screwed up and I know that. The Squad told me and I am so sorry for not seeing that until now. I never - I never wanted you to see me like the past boyfriends you've had. I know I'm better than them and so do you. You definitely deserve better than being a fling.”

“Then why did you laugh and say you don't need luck?”

He slumped his whole body in defeat looking like a sad dog that I'd just yelled at when he responded. “Because you scared the hell out of me….because I was stupid enough to think you only saw me as a friend. That's why I was hooking up with other girls cause you were doing it with other guys.”

“Wait so you knew and didn't say anything?” The question slipped out where I just stared at him till a fit of laughter came from my mouth. Hitting my hands on my knees feeling some happy tears falling down my face now. “What kind of pair are we, Seresin?”

Jake joined in my laughter showing me a genuine smile not the cocky one he showed everyone else. “Clearly the painfully unaware kind.”

“Yeah it seems that way.”

“Well I say screw that. I should've done this a long time ago.” He closed the distance between us, crashing his lips down onto mine with a hungry yet gentle passion. A gasp got cut off by his lips and my hands instantly flew into his short blonde hair. Tugging on some of it he drew out a moan, snacking his arms around my waist trailing down until he could lift me up by my thighs. Hooking my legs around his waist we walked to my bedroom down the short hallway while managing to never break the kiss.

I couldn’t really register what was happening till my back was pressing into the soft mattress underneath me because the feeling of my best friend kissing me was far too intoxicating to focus on anything else. Jake removed his lips from mine trailing kisses down the side of my neck which only makes me tug on his hair a little more. He leaned up grabbing the back of his shirt and tugging it over and throwing it across the room somewhere. Parting my lips I scanned his muscular body carefully, feeling a nervous pit building in my stomach when he went to reach for the bottom of my tea shirt.

“Jake, wait.”

Upon hearing my voice his hands stilled and he sat back with his knees bent on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“I don't - I don't want this to be like the others…something casual. I refuse to go through that again, especially with you.”

Holding my breath I waited for the typical response. The one that I always dreaded. Yet that wasn’t what came from my best friend's mouth. He carefully lifted a hand brushing some hair out of my eyes. “Darling, we were clearly never meant to be casual. In fact ... .you have me just as much as the Navy does. You own my heart for however long you wanna love me. And I'll tell you right now I really love you a lot.” He grasped both my hands wrapping them around the chain of his tag and now the medallion. He pressed his forehead against mine.

“You love me?”

Butterflies spread across my body while I processed what he just said to me. Jake drew his head back cupping my face in his hands gently looking me directly in the eye. “Yeah, I do.”

“Jake.”

“You don’t have to say it back if you're not ready. Just know that I ain't looking for casual sex with you. I want more than that with the girl who calls her mama twice a week, who can pig out on cheese fries and dances around the kitchen in her pajamas to country music every chance she gets. I want her for the long hall.”

Laughing playfully at him I wrapped my arms around his neck climbing onto his lap, feeling his hands sneak underneath the back of my shirt touching my bare back. “I want the long hall with you, Jacob Seresin.”

“Urgh!.” He rolled his eyes pushing me onto my back, raging his body over top of mine. He glared down, shaking his head at me. “I can’t stand that name you know.”

“Yes, but I'm the only one you let call you it.”

He nodded his head connecting our lips starting another long make out session. “Damn straight, darling. Cause I love you.” He kept his hands pinned down on the mattress so as to not crush me with his body, keeping up a good pace of heated kissing.

Shortly after I push my hands on his chest making him pull away sending me a concerned expression on his face. “I - love - you too.” I slowly replied back to him watching a childish grin spread across his face. Wrapping my arms around his neck I instigated another long kiss, giggling when he flipped us so he was on his back and I was on top. And that's where we stayed, eventually getting tangled up with each other the next morning.

Maybe this was just a symptom of your intense dry spell. You hadn’t slept with anyone since you arrived at Top Gun, let alone gone on an actual date. Now you had agreed to a date with the biggest womanizer on base, so that was great.

You tried to remind yourself that that wasn’t fair to Jake. He hadn’t treated a date with you like a punchcard; he had put in the work to show that he was sincere. Jake had begged for a chance to prove himself, even going as far as to keep the whole ordeal a secret from his and your friends forever as long as it made you more comfortable. He had been different with you in a way you had never seen him act before, and you had seen him flirt with all types of women. Jake had been gentler and had listened like he actually cared about what you had to say. It gave you hope, in an anxiety-ridden sort of way.

Days passed like that, with quiet anxiety hidden in your chest while you tried to pretend that nothing had changed. You woke up, went to mission briefs, went to training, slept. No one mentioned any change in your behavior, no one was none the wiser. Jake acted the same, still loud and abrasive, but he seemed almost more subdued when it came to you. You had grown used to his constant jabs and innuendoes, which were all in good fun, but those were nowhere to be seen. You hadn’t realized how little things like that had become a part of your daily routine, in a weird sort of way.

“You good?” Natasha asked, breaking you from your thoughts. You quickly shook your head in agreement, continuing your task of changing out of the flight suit. Drills were a wonderful way to keep your mind focused, but your thoughts always wandered right back to your worries as soon as they ended.

“Yup, I’m good,” you reassured her, flashing a smile. “You don’t have to wait for me, Nat. Go back and nap.”

“Whatever you say, girl. I’m taking you up on that nap offer, though. Dinner tonight?” she asked as she hunched over to lace up her boots.

“Of course, see you then!”

“See ya!” Nat lazily called out, more than happy to get an hour of downtime in all to herself. You laughed to yourself at her antics. It didn’t take you much longer to get dressed, but it was better than having an antsy Phoenix breathing down your neck. You grabbed your stuff and headed out of the changing room, surprised to see Hangman leaning against the farther wall.

“Hey, you,” he said, pushing off the wall to stand in front of you. He looked nervous, which was so unlike his typical demeanor.

“Hey,” you hesitantly responded, looking down each side of the hallway. It was just the two of you; everyone else had gone back to their rooms. “Were you waiting for me?”

“Yeah, I was. I was wonderin’ if that agreement for a date was still good?” He shifted his weight from leg to leg, like he was genuinely worried you might revoke your decision. It pulled a smile at the corner of your lips.

“And if it was?” you goaded, wanting to hear him say it.

“Then I would very much like to take you out on a date tomorrow night,” he said, his eyes sparkling. He’d forgone the toothpick in his mouth for this discussion, which you were happy about because the damn thing always distracted you enough to keep looking down at his lips. “There’s a drive-in theater that I want to take you to.”

“A drive-in?” you questioned, imagining it. Driving, just the two of you to some theater far from base, parking in front of a giant screen, the cold night air surrounding you. “Seems kind of old school for you,” you teased.

“You know I can be a gentleman when I want to be, right?” he asked with a laugh, tilting his head down at you, his hands on his hips.

“Can’t wait for you to prove it, then.” You arched an eyebrow at him in challenge.

“So is that a yes?” You rolled your eyes at his eagerness, even as your stomach did flips.

“Yes, it’s a yes.” The setting sun shone down the hall, its rays hitting the two of you in golden hour glow.

“Great, see you tomorrow,” he said your name softly, his eyes never leaving your own. You tried to hide your small swallow, not used to the undivided attention. When, if ever, had someone said your name with such reverence before? “Pick you up at six.”

“See you then.” You were quick to leave, your heart racing. Your quick steps echoed loudly throughout the empty hallway, your thoughts running wild.

A five minute conversation with Jake had turned you into a blushing, overwhelmed mess. How were you going to survive the close proximity of a date with the man?

~♦~

Time seemed to move agonizingly slow. It was stupid, how excited you were to go on a date with Jake. You even lost sleep over the matter, so that’s how you knew how serious this whole thing was. Sleep was a commodity on base, and so for you to have been kept up thinking about his smile and dashing eyes and arms? Yeah, you were starting to fall into dangerous territory.

You wrung your hands, looking yourself over in the mirror. You’d lazed around for most of the day, which meant that you spent an ungodly amount of time getting ready. A dress was certainly out of the equation, so you had chosen to wear jeans and a shirt, but then came the problem of a regular shirt or sexy shirt. Without knowing what movie you were seeing or if there would be a secondary stop on the way home, you had eventually decided on a regular shirt. For warmth, you paired the incredibly safe ensemble with a flannel from back home.

What should have taken you less than ten minutes ended up being over two hours of careful deliberation. You hadn’t felt this way in ages.

A knock broke you from your thoughts before you could switch tops again. You quickly wiped your hands across your jeans, hoping to conceal any hint of sweat.

Silently, you tried to hype yourself up. Everything was going to go well tonight. Either you and Jake were going to have an amazing night that could turn into something down the road or it wouldn’t work out but the two of you would be complete adults about it and there wouldn’t be any hurt feelings on either side. Those were the only two options that were allowed to happen.

You opened the door and there Jake Seresin was, propped up against the doorframe. He wore jeans and a flannel like you, but where you had chosen sensible shoes, he was wearing cowboy boots. You suppressed an eyeroll; sometimes he was so Texan that it hurt. You had half a mind to ask where his cowboy hat was and if you were riding his horse to the drive-in.

“You look good,” he said after a moment, eyeing you up and down, his gaze catching on your face for a tad longer than the rest. You didn’t get the opportunity to wear makeup often, given how nonsensical it would be for piloting, but you had done your whole routine for going out.

“Thanks, so do you.” You stared at each other for a few awkward moments, neither willing or able to figure out what to do next.

“This is weird, right?” he suddenly asked, breaking the tension. Your anxiety melted away in a moment as all you could do was laugh, Jake joining in, as well.

“It’s a little weird,” you admitted, doing the finger motion. “I’ve never actually been on a date with a guy that I was friends with before, let alone working with.”

“I can’t say the same, although those were agreed upon flings so this definitely feels different.” Jake shut his mouth and examined you, like he was looking for offense.

You cocked your head at him. “I may rib you about it, but I don’t actually have a problem with your history with women, you know that right?”

“Right, sorry. It’s like date etiquette 101 that you don’t bring up past relationships, especially when we haven’t even left your door yet.” That earned him a laugh. “Speaking of–” He extended his hand out to you, which you took, and he led you out to the parking lot.

“So what are we seeing?” you asked, walking with him side by side. You had dropped his hand, all too aware of the personnel that buzzed around the area. He didn’t seem to take it personally.

“We are going to see a classic.” He led you toward his car: a red four door Jeep Pickup. A man and his truck, you thought with a roll of your eyes. Nevertheless, he opened the passenger door for you and you gratefully hopped up into the seat. You waited until he was also in the car to continue your questioning.

“A classic?” You narrowed your eyes at his nod. “A romance movie?” you asked sceptically. He avoided your eyes as he pulled out of the parking lot and made his way off base. The drive-in was apparently quite a bit away, so you settled in for the drive.

“...It has romance in it,” he said with a smile, eyes darting over to you.

“Uh huh.” Jake was utterly unhelpful in narrowing down even the genre of movie.

“Just trust me, please? You’re gonna love it.” You harrumphed and grumbled, but ultimately gave in and accepted that it would be a surprise.

The radio played lowly, but you itched to fill the relative silence.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“What?” Jake asked. He leaned over to grab something from the cup holder, finally procuring a fresh toothpick, and popped it into his mouth. Your eyes immediately followed the motion. Damn.

“I’m trying to get to know this version of you better, give me something.” You smirked, shifting in your seat so that you could face him.

“Okay, well, I grew up in Texas, of course. Uh, dad was military, Army, and mom was a school teacher. They’re both retired now. I won the superlative for biggest flirt at my high school and my highest grades were always for gym and auto shop. Joined the Navy as soon as I could and didn’t really look back.”

“Yeah, that somehow tracks perfectly for you.” The skin around your eyes scrunched with how big your smile was. “I always pictured you as one of those popular jocks that ran a kid up a flag pole or something.”

“Hey, I never did that.” Jake accentuated his outrage by cutting his finger through the air. “I did, however, get a cow into the school’s elevator for Senior Prank Day.” You devolved into a fit of giggles, picturing such a feat.

“No fucking way. Who’s cow was it?” Jake’s cheeks burned with a weird mix of embarrassment and pride, he hadn’t recounted his high school days like this in forever.

“She…may have been a neighbor’s cow,” he interjected before you could even open your mouth to speak, “but she was totally fine! I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t 100% safe.”

“I’m sure your principal loved that. Did you get caught?” You were itching to know, leaning over the console like it was a secret between the two of you. Maybe it was, you feel like you’d remember if Jake had told the rest of the Daggers such a tale.

“By my principal? No. By old man McGurdy when he noticed his cow was gone? Oh yeah, big time. Made me get up at dawn for the rest of the school year and help take care of her since I ‘wanted to be all up in her business anyway.’” Jake threw up air quotes, imitating his neighbor.

“Aw, who knew you were a big softy for farm animals?” you teased, settling back into your seat with satisfaction. You’d learned more about Jake’s character from one five minute conversation than you had in the entire time you’d known him. Amazing what a little proximity and privacy from societal norms could do.

The drive seemed to pass by in a blur, each of you sharing stories and anecdotes from your past. You told him about how the first time you met Natasha, she had almost broken a man’s toes by stomping on his foot after he wouldn’t leave you alone. He told you about the time him and Coyote ran a black market for various hard-to-come-by snacks during their academy days.

It was nice, to talk to him like this.

The conversation tapered off as he pulled his truck into the drive-in and you finally got a look at the movie slated to be shown on the ginormous screen.

TWISTER

You barked out a laugh, glancing at the man in the driver’s seat. “Twister? That’s your classic go-to date movie?”

“Okay, one,” He put the corresponding finger up. “I did not say it was my go-to movie, only that it was a classic and I was excited it was being shown. And two,” Another finger went up, wagging in your direction. “Twister is a fantastic movie, ten out of ten. It has everything anyone could ever want. There’s romance, there’s suspense, there’s goddamn tornadoes. What’s not to love?”

“Wow, did not expect you to be one of those natural disaster obsessed fanboys.” You raised an eyebrow at his excitement. Jake was practically vibrating in his seat, head ducked so that he could look up at the screen.

“I prefer storm chaser. Ya know, if I hadn’t joined the Navy, I probably would have spent my free time chasing tornadoes? There was nothing more I loved as a kid than watching a nasty storm roll in.” He fiddled with the radio, tuning it to frequency for the drive-in.

“That…actually does not surprise me at all,” you agreed, cracking a smile. “I can practically picture you driving head-on into a tornado.”

“Do I look as dashing as I do in my flight suit?” he asked with a coy smile.

“Mmm, better,” you teased back.

“Better?” he exclaimed, his eyes darting back to your face.

“Uh huh, tight jeans and a cowboy hat. Does more for you than that beige they have us wearing.” The flirting was coming to you like second nature, now that you were far away from the stresses of being on base.

“Well, sweetheart, if you wanted to see me in something like that, all you had to do was ask.” Jake winked at you, his hand tightening around the steering wheel.

“Oh yeah? I’ll just have to keep that in mind for the future, then.”

Before Jake could respond, another witty retort on his tongue, the lights of the drive-in dimmed and the screen flickered to life. The two of you were immediately entranced by the start of the film, the instantaneous chaos that filled the screen.

Somewhere along in the movie, you had scooched your body closer to Jake’s in order to lift your legs to rest on the seat. He glanced at you, taking in the way your skin pebbled up from the sudden cold, and reached behind your seat to pull out a blanket. Without ceremony, he draped the material across your body. You muttered your thanks, instead choosing to show your gratitude by laying your head on his shoulder.

Jake’s body froze under you and you almost lifted your head up to ask if it had been okay, but he was quick to recover and brought his other hand around to pat your head, smoothing loose hairs down. The darkness of his truck concealed your heated cheeks and smile.

The two of you stayed like that throughout the entire movie, eyes locked onto the screen, yet still completely aware of the limited space between your bodies. During the particularly tense moments of Jo and Bill’s tornado chasing escapades, Jake would continue to run his fingers through your hair. He was an unexpected grounding point for you.

By the time the credits started to roll, you were fully leaning against Jake, absorbing his heat. The sudden movement of cars leaving and the brightness of the drive-in caused you to blearily blink away your tiredness and drag yourself back into your seat.

“So, what did I say? It’s a perfect movie,” Jake boasted, although his voice cracked slightly, from not using it for so long or from your closeness, you couldn’t tell.

“I never disagreed with you, but I have to ask. Did you deliberately choose a drive-in showing Twister just for that scene?” you asked, referencing the moment from the film where the local drive-in was destroyed by a surprise tornado that nearly killed the protagonists.

“I thought it would be ironic, yes.” Jake and you shared a laugh. The two of you didn’t speak for a moment, just stayed in blissful silence. The echoes of your laughter was all that either of you could focus on.

“I guess we should head back to base now, huh?” Jake rhetorically asked, already putting the car into drive.

You actually felt quite sad at the thought. It had been refreshing and fun to spend the evening with Jake. Somewhere along the way, your heart had thawed when it came to Jake Seresin. He really was completely different from what you had expected. He’d been funny, charming, and respectful all night.

Maybe this could work.

You spent most of the ride back home lost in thought, the silence comfortable. Jake played the radio on a low volume, the only other sound from your combined breathing and the noise of his fingers smacking against the wheel to the various beats. He didn’t try to pry into your mind, letting you enjoy the night atmosphere. It was only when he had pulled back onto base that you finally spoke.

“I had a really great night, Jake,” you said, looking up at him from your seat. You slowly undid your seatbelt, wishing the night didn’t have to end.

“Yeah? Good, me too,” he said softly, his eyes finding yours. He looked at you with such warmth, like he was etching this moment into his mind forever. You’d never been one to feel overwhelmingly shy in the face of attention before, but Jake brought that side out of you.

“Maybe we could do this again sometime?” you asked before you could chicken out.

“Are you asking me out?” Jake joked, looking flustered.

“And if I was?” you shot back, steeling your nerves. “You proved me wrong tonight, Jake, and I want to see where this can go.” There, it was all out in the open now.

Jake blinked once, then twice. “Yeah, yes!” He cleared his throat. “Yes, we should do this again.” You smiled at his reaction, pleased that he was just as jittery as you were.

“Great, well, um, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” You opened the truck door and hopped down, turning to look at him.

“Right, tomorrow. Goodnight.” The lights of the parking lot cut across Jake’s face, casting shadows across his coiffed hair and sculpted jaw. Your heart seemed to skip a beat and before you could psych yourself out, you surged back into the truck to plant a kiss onto his cheek. Just as quickly, you removed yourself from the vehicle and settled back on stable ground.

“Goodnight,” you said, sweetly. You turned on your heel and began the walk back to your room, replaying the night’s events in your head over and over again. Meanwhile, Jake stayed rooted in his seat, his fingertips grazing the very spot you had pressed your lips to.

You’d kissed him goodnight.

Jake Seresin went to bed that night with a goofy, lovestruck smile on his face. And it wouldn’t be the last.

~♥~

Tucker, who has been quietly peeling the label off his beer bottle, looks up with a heavy sigh. “I swear to God, Logan. If you make me ask what that means, I’m leaving.”

“No Fun Permitted,” Logan deadpans, flashing that easy, charming grin that usually gets him out of trouble. “Garrett’s resting up. The captain’s gotta lead by example. Or whatever.”

“More like missing out by example,” Dean grumbles. 

Logan lets his friends bicker, his gaze sweeping over the crowded dance floor. The flashing neon lights paint the sweating bodies in shades of electric blue and violent pink. He loves this city, loves the start of the hockey season. Out on the ice, he’s one of Briar University’s top players, a forward with hands so fast the scouts practically drool over him. They did drool over him. Up until the draft. 

A familiar, heavy weight settles in Logan’s chest, dulling the buzz of the whiskey. He skipped the draft. Walked away from the NHL, from the millions, from the dream. The guys know he pulled his name, but they don’t really know the depths of the why. It’s easier to play the funny, sarcastic, reliable guy than it is to explain the deal he made with his older brother. His brother put his own life in a holding pattern to run Logan & Sons, the family mechanic shop, while Logan gets to play college hockey for four years. The shop was supposed to be run by their father, but their father is currently busy being a fall-down drunk. When graduation hits, the party is over. Logan goes back home, takes over the shop, takes care of the old man, and his brother goes free. 

“Earth to Logan,” Tucker says, waving a hand in front of Logan’s face. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The ’I’m plotting a murder or thinking up a terrible acronym’ look,” Tucker points out.

“JCT,” Logan counters smoothly. “Just Chilling, Tucker. Relax. I’m going to go get another drink. Try not to marry anyone before I get back.”

Logan pushes off the bar, leaving his teammates to their own devices, and weaves his way through the crush of bodies. That’s when he sees you.

***

Across the room, the heat of the dance floor is exactly what you need. You throw your head back and laugh as your Northeastern teammate, a fiery winger named Cammi, spins you around. 

“See?” Cammi yells over the pounding remix of a 2000s R&B track. “I told you coming out was better than sitting in your dorm organizing your hockey tape!”

“I don’t organize my tape!” You shout back, laughing as you sway your hips to the rhythm. 

“Liar!” 

You let the music wash over you, closing your eyes for a brief second. You’re a freshman. You made the Northeastern women’s hockey team as their starting center. You’re in Boston. You are finally, truly, free. 

Whenever things get too loud, too chaotic, your mind always drifts back to the quiet, suffocating terror of your childhood home in New York. Your father, a star defenseman for the Rangers, was a god to the public and a monster behind closed doors. The memories of his explosive rage, the sound of things breaking, the way he treated your mother — it’s a dark stain on your mind. Garrett, your older brother, had been your shield. He took the hits, both literal and metaphorical, hiding you in his room, turning up the TV, doing whatever it took to keep you safe. 

And then the lung cancer took your mother, and the house had grown even colder. But you survived. Garrett survived. You both got out. Garrett is across town right now, the captain at Briar, nursing a sprained ankle. You had texted him earlier to check in, and he’d ordered you to go out and celebrate the start of your own season. 

So here you are. 

You’re wearing a sleek, dark red slip dress that clings to your curves in all the right ways, paired with comfortable black combat boots because you refuse to ruin your feet in heels. Your hair falls in messy waves around your shoulders. You feel good. You feel electric. 

Someone bumps into you, sending a splash of someone’s drink onto your boots, but you barely register it. You just keep moving, letting the heavy bass guide your hips, losing yourself in the anonymity of the crowd. 

***

Logan freezes halfway to the bar. 

He’s seen a lot of beautiful girls in his time at Briar, but the sight of you in that dark red dress stops him dead in his tracks. It’s not just the way the fabric slides against your skin, or the way you move with a natural, effortless athleticism. It’s the sheer joy radiating from you. You look like you don’t have a single care in the world, like you own the space you’re occupying. 

He watches you laugh at something your friend says, the bright, genuine sound of it somehow cutting through the heavy thrum of the club’s speakers. 

“Well, damn,” Logan mutters to himself. 

He doesn’t think. He just moves. Logan has always been a player who acts on instinct — on the ice, and off it. He navigates the sweaty crowd until he’s right at the edge of your circle. He waits for the exact right moment, right as the DJ transitions into a slower, heavier beat. 

You step back, and Logan steps in. 

***

You feel the solid wall of a chest against your back before you even realize someone has approached. The sudden heat radiating from the stranger sends a shiver down your spine. A pair of large, strong hands settle lightly on your hips. 

Normally, you’d shove a guy away. But there’s something about the confident, gentle pressure of his hands that makes you pause. 

You glance over your shoulder. 

He’s tall. Much taller than you. Broad shoulders, a mop of messy, dark hair, and a pair of sharp, amused eyes that lock onto yours. He has a ridiculously handsome face, a sharp jawline dotted with a faint hint of stubble, and a smirk that screams trouble. 

“You’re in my way,” you say, shouting slightly over the music, though your tone is teasing. 

“Actually,” Logan says, leaning down so his mouth is hovering near your ear, his voice a low, raspy rumble that makes your stomach flip, “I think you backed into me. Standard MVA.”

“MVA?” You ask, turning around fully so you are facing him. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. 

“Motor Vehicle Accident,” he replies smoothly, his hands sliding from your hips to rest casually at his sides, giving you space, which you internally appreciate. “But in this case, a Dance Floor Collision. DFC.”

You arch an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Do you always speak in acronyms, or are you just trying to be annoying?”

“A little bit of Column A, a little bit of Column B,” Logan says, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer. The scent of him — woodsmoke, musky cologne, and something distinctly masculine — wraps around you. “I’m mostly just trying to keep your attention.”

“It’s a bold strategy.”

“I’m a bold guy.” He smirks, and there’s a genuine sweetness in his eyes that contrasts with the cocky tilt of his mouth. “You’re celebrating something. I can tell. Your vibe is extremely ... victorious.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. “You can read vibes now?”

“It’s a gift,” he nods solemnly. “So? What are we celebrating? A promotion? A birthday? Successful bank heist?”

“Start of the season,” you reply, the words slipping out before you can filter them. 

“Ah.” Logan’s eyes light up with recognition. “An athlete. Should have known. You’ve got that ... balance.”

“Balance?”

“Yeah. And the combat boots. Very intimidating. I like it.” He leans in again. “I’m celebrating the exact same thing.”

“You play?” You ask, looking at the breadth of his shoulders. Obviously, he plays. 

“I dabble,” Logan says, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. The shift in his attention is subtle, but it sends a rush of heat straight to your core. “What’s your sport?”

“Puck,” you say. 

Logan’s smile widens. “A hockey girl. My favorite kind.” 

He doesn’t ask what team. You don’t ask him either. It’s better this way. No names, no schools, no complications. Just the heavy, pulsing beat of the music and the electric tension pulling the two of you together. 

“You talk a lot,” you murmur, stepping into his space. You don’t know what’s come over you tonight. Maybe it’s the freedom. Maybe it’s the whiskey you had before leaving the dorms. Or maybe it’s just him. 

“I’ve been told I have a big mouth,” Logan whispers, his hands finding their way back to your waist. His thumbs brush against the bare skin at the low dip of your back, and you gasp softly. 

“Prove it,” you challenge. 

Logan doesn’t hesitate. He closes the distance, his mouth crashing down onto yours. 

The kiss is explosive. It’s not hesitant or sweet; it’s hungry, demanding, and incredibly hot. Your hands immediately go to his hair, pulling him down, deepening the kiss. He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your lips, and pulls you flush against his body. You can feel every hard line of him against the soft fabric of your dress. 

The club is too loud, too crowded, but right now, there is only the frantic slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of whiskey and mint, the desperate grip of his hands on your hips. 

“Too crowded,” Logan mutters against your mouth, his breathing jagged. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and dilated. “Let’s go.”

You don’t need to be told twice. 

He grabs your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and pulls you through the throng of dancing bodies. You follow blindly, your heart hammering against your ribs. The destination doesn’t matter, only the urgency. 

Logan navigates the club with practiced ease, finally spotting a secluded hallway near the back that leads to the bathrooms. It’s dimly lit, the pulsing lights of the dance floor reduced to a soft, flickering glow. He pulls you down the hall, pushing open the heavy wooden door of what looks like an employee or VIP bathroom that someone forgot to lock. 

He pulls you inside and kicks the door shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with a sharp clack. 

The silence of the tiled room is deafening compared to the club outside. The only sound is the heavy, ragged breathing echoing between the two of you. 

“You are absolutely gorgeous,” Logan breathes out, backing you up against the cool tiles of the wall. 

“Less talking,” you demand, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and pulling him back down to you. 

He laughs softly against your lips — a rough, breathless sound — before devouring your mouth again. His hands are everywhere, frantic and exploring. He maps the curve of your waist, the slope of your back, his large palms hot against your skin. You let out a soft moan as his lips leave your mouth to trail fiery kisses down your jawline and onto your neck. 

“So impatient,” Logan teases, though his own voice is tight with desire. He bites down gently on a sensitive spot just below your ear, making your knees buckle slightly. 

“You’re the one who dragged me in here,” you manage to say, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. You push the fabric aside, pressing your palms flat against his warm, hard chest. His heart is racing just as fast as yours. 

“Correction,” Logan groans, as your hands slide over his abs. “We dragged each other. Mutually Assured Destruction. MAD.”

“Shut up with the acronyms,” you whisper fiercely, pulling his face back up to yours. 

He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. With a swift, effortless motion that reminds you how incredibly strong he is, he lifts you off the ground. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, your combat boots scraping against his jeans. Logan presses you against the door, holding you up with ease, his body a solid weight keeping you pinned. 

The angle is perfect. The friction is maddening. 

You reach down, your fingers tangling in his belt loops, tugging him even closer. The raw, desperate energy between you two is overwhelming. It’s completely out of character for you. You don’t do this. You don’t hook up with random guys in club bathrooms. But the way he looks at you, the way he touches you like he’s starving for it, strips away every inhibition you have. 

“Tell me if I need to stop,” Logan says, his voice thick, his forehead resting against yours. Even in the haze of lust, that core of reliability, of fundamental goodness, shines through. He’s asking for consent. He’s making sure you’re okay. 

“Don’t you dare stop,” you breathe, your hands sliding up into his hair, pulling gently. 

Logan’s eyes flash with a dark, primal heat. He shifts his grip, one hand supporting your thighs while the other slides up to trace the edge of your red dress. He pushes the thin fabric up, his rough fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your upper thigh. You gasp into his mouth as his touch becomes more deliberate, tracing higher, sending bolts of pure electricity straight to your core. 

He kisses you harder, swallowing your moans, his tongue tangling with yours in a desperate, wet rhythm that mirrors the heavy thrusting of his hips against yours. The heavy denim of his jeans grinds against you, and it’s simultaneously the best and most frustrating feeling in the world. 

“You’re driving me crazy,” Logan mutters, his lips moving frantically over your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your collarbone. 

“Then do something about it,” you dare him, your voice shaking with need. 

Logan chuckles, a low, dangerous sound. His fingers expertly work the clasp of your undergarments, and when his skin finally meets yours, you let out a loud, uninhibited cry that is completely swallowed by his mouth. 

He moves inside you, and the sensation is so intense, so overwhelmingly perfect, that you see stars behind your closed eyelids. Logan groans loudly, his grip on your thighs tightening as he sets a frantic, punishing pace. He’s strong, so incredibly strong, pinning you against the heavy wood of the door, completely controlling the rhythm. 

Every thrust sends a shockwave through you. The heat in the small bathroom is stifling, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat and his intoxicating cologne. 

“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice ragged. 

You open your eyes, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of holding back. The sheer intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch. 

“You feel unbelievable,” he rasps out, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes the door rattle in its frame. 

“Faster,” you plead, your nails digging into his shoulders. 

Logan obliges, his pace doubling. You cling to him, entirely lost in the storm of sensation. The world outside the bathroom ceases to exist. There is no abusive past, no dead mother, no heavy burden of the mechanic shop or the alcoholic father. There is only here. There is only now. There is only the sliding heat of his body, the rough texture of the wall at your back, and the mind-shattering pleasure building in your chest. 

“I’m close,” you sob out, tossing your head back. 

“Let go for me,” Logan whispers against your neck, his thrusts becoming jagged and desperate. “Come on. Let go.”

His words, the deep, encouraging rumble of his voice, are the final push you need. The climax hits you like a freight train, a cascading wave of blinding heat that tears a loud moan from your throat. Your body shudders violently against his, your muscles clenching tightly around him. 

Logan grunts, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He gives one final, deep thrust, his entire body going rigid as he finds his own release. He holds you tightly against him, his chest heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own. 

For a long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the bathroom is the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing. Logan’s face is still buried in your neck, his lips pressing soft, absentminded kisses against your damp skin as his heart rate slowly begins to settle. 

Eventually, the reality of the situation begins to seep back in. The muffled thud of the bass from the club outside reminds you both where you are. 

Logan slowly lowers you down, his hands lingering on your hips until your boots hit the floor. Your knees are trembling so violently that you have to lean against the door for support. 

He steps back, looking slightly dazed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he buttons his shirt. He looks at you, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face, your swollen lips, and the messy tangle of your hair. 

“Wow,” Logan breathes, a genuine, awe-struck smile breaking across his face. “That was ...”

“Yeah,” you manage to say, smoothing down the front of your red dress, feeling a sudden, intense flush of shyness. “It was.”

You avoid his gaze, quickly fixing your clothes and running a hand through your hair. The magic of the bubble is bursting. The anonymity is starting to feel heavy. 

“Hey,” Logan says softly, stepping closer and lifting a hand to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The sweetness of the gesture makes your heart ache. “I never even got your name.”

You look up at him. You see the genuine interest in his eyes. He’s not just a frat boy looking for a quick lay. There is a depth to him, a heavy, quiet kind of reliability that you can sense even now. But you can’t. You’re Garrett’s little sister. You have a reputation to build, a life to start, and getting tangled up with a Briar hockey player — a guy who looks like trouble wrapped in charm — is a terrible idea. 

“It’s better this way,” you say quietly, stepping around him toward the door. 

Logan frowns, his hand dropping to his side. “Wait. Seriously? No name? No number?”

“No acronyms,” you reply, offering him a small, almost sad smile. 

Before he can argue, you unlock the door and slip out into the dimly lit hallway. You don’t look back. You merge back into the sweaty, pulsing crowd of the dance floor, letting the music swallow you whole. 

Back in the bathroom, Logan stands alone, staring at the closed door. He runs a hand through his hair, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. 

“Well,” he murmurs to the empty room. “FML.”

***

The Matthews Arena is freezing, smelling sharply of Zamboni exhaust, stale popcorn, and that distinct, metallic tang of fresh ice. For Logan, it’s a scent that instantly feels like home, even if he’s sitting in enemy territory. Northeastern University’s rink is packed for the women’s game against Harvard, the crowd a sea of red and black. 

Logan shivers, pulling the collar of his Briar University hockey jacket a little higher. He bumps his knee against the plastic seat in front of him, leaning over to look at his best friend. 

“I still can’t believe you dragged us out of bed before noon on a Sunday,” Logan complains, his voice raspy from sleep. “It’s practically a human rights violation.”

Garrett doesn’t even look away from the ice. He’s practically vibrating with nervous energy, a half-eaten pretzel abandoned in his lap. “Shut up, Logan. You slept until eleven. And it’s my sister’s first home game against a rival. I wasn’t going to miss it, and I wasn’t letting you idiots miss it either.”

“We’re honored, truly,” Dean drawls from Logan’s right, suppressing a yawn. “But couldn’t we have been honored from the comfort of our couch? With, like, breakfast sandwiches?”

“Focus,” Garrett commands, pointing a finger toward the ice. “Puck drop is in two minutes. And I swear to God, if any of you embarrass me, I’m making you run stairs until you puke at practice tomorrow.”

Tucker, sitting on the other side of Dean, chuckles softly. “Relax, G. We’re on our best behavior. We just want to see if the Graham hockey genes actually transferred over, or if you stole all the talent in the womb.”

“Oh, she’s got the talent,” Garrett says, and for a second, the cocky, commanding captain of the Briar team melts away, replaced by a fiercely proud older brother. “Just watch number twenty-one.”

Logan leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He hasn’t met Garrett’s little sister yet. He knows they’re incredibly close, knows a little bit about the dark, heavy history they share with their father — a topic Garrett rarely touches, but when he does, it’s with a protective ferocity that Logan respects. The timing just never worked out for them to meet. When you were visiting Briar, Logan was usually back home dealing with his dad or at the shop. And since you started at Northeastern a few weeks ago, their schedules have been a nightmare of overlapping practices and away games. 

The buzzer blares, echoing through the arena, and the starting lines skate out to the center circle. 

Logan’s eyes immediately scan the red jerseys for the number twenty-one. He spots you lining up for the face-off. Even under the bulky pads and the caged helmet, there’s a distinct posture to you. A coiled, aggressive energy that reminds him so much of Garrett it’s almost funny. 

The referee drops the puck. 

You win the draw instantly, a sharp, precise flick of the wrist that sends the puck straight back to your defenseman. And then, you explode into motion. 

“Whoa,” Dean says, sitting up a little straighter. “Okay. She’s fast.”

“Told you,” Garrett says smugly. 

Logan watches in genuine awe as the game unfolds. You aren’t just fast; you’re brilliant on the ice. Your hockey IQ is off the charts. You anticipate plays before they happen, finding open ice where there shouldn’t be any. Halfway through the first period, you receive a pass in the neutral zone, weave through two Harvard defenders with a blindingly quick deke, and fire a wrist shot that pings off the crossbar and into the net. 

The crowd erupts. Garrett jumps to his feet, screaming his head off, slamming his hands against the glass. 

“That’s my sister!” Garrett roars, looking back at the guys with a wild grin. “Did you see those hands? Did you see that?”

“NFD,” Logan mutters, his eyes wide as he watches you celebrate with your team, slamming your gloves against your teammates’. 

“Don’t do it, Tucker,” Dean warns. 

“I have to,” Tucker sighs. “What does NFD mean, Logan?”

“No Freaking Doubt,” Logan says, a grin spreading across his face. “She’s lethal. G, I think she might actually be better than you.”

“Don’t push it,” Garrett warns, sitting back down, though he’s practically glowing with pride. “But yeah. She’s incredible. Has been since she was five. I basically taught her everything she knows.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Logan laughs. 

For the rest of the game, Logan can’t take his eyes off the ice. It’s a distraction he desperately needs. For the past three weeks, his mind has been a broken record, constantly skipping back to the girl in the red dress from the club. It’s driving him insane. He’s the guy who lives in the moment, the guy who never gets hung up on a one-night stand. But that night in the bathroom wasn’t just a hookup. It felt like a collision. He’s spent the last twenty-one days scanning crowds, looking for that wild hair, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He doesn’t even know her name. He’s half-convinced he hallucinated the entire thing. 

But watching you play, the sheer aggression and skill you bring to the ice, it centers him. It’s a damn good game of hockey. 

By the time the final buzzer sounds, Northeastern has secured a 4-2 victory, with you notching a goal and two assists. You’re the clear MVP of the match. 

“Alright,” Garrett says, standing up and stretching. “Let’s head down to the tunnels. I texted her to meet us outside the locker room.”

The boys shuffle out of the stands, joining the flow of parents and friends heading down to the lower levels of the arena. The air down here is thicker, smelling strongly of sweat and sports tape. They find a spot against a cinderblock wall just outside the double doors of the Northeastern locker room. 

“So, what’s the protocol here?” Dean asks, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “Do we bow? Do we offer her a tribute for absolutely carrying her team today?”

“Just be normal,” Garrett snaps, suddenly looking a little anxious. “And keep your gross, flirtatious comments to yourselves. She’s my baby sister. Look at her, tell her she played well, and do not hit on her. I mean it. Especially you, Dean.”

“Hey! I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests. 

Logan chuckles, leaning his head back against the cold wall. “Relax, Garrett. We know the bro code. Best friend’s sister is strictly off-limits. Untouchable. It’s, like, the fundamental law of the universe.”

“Exactly,” Garrett says, pointing a firm finger at Logan. “I trust you, Logan. You’re the only one of these idiots who actually respects boundaries.”

“I am a pillar of morality,” Logan agrees solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. 

Tucker snorts. “You’re a pillar of something, alright.”

They wait for another fifteen minutes as players slowly trickle out, greeting their families. The heavy double doors swing open again, and Logan hears Garrett suck in a sharp breath. 

***

You push through the locker room doors, a heavy duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Your hair is still damp from the showers, falling in messy, natural waves around your face. You’re wearing a pair of comfortable gray sweatpants and a massive, oversized Northeastern Hockey hoodie that swallows you whole. Your muscles are aching, your legs feel like lead, but there is a triumphant, soaring feeling in your chest. 

You beat Harvard. You proved you belong here. 

You scan the crowd of lingering families in the hallway, your eyes searching for a familiar face. And then you see him. Standing tall in his Briar letterman jacket, looking exactly the same as he always does. 

“Garrett!” You call out, a massive, exhausted smile breaking across your face. 

You drop your duffel bag instantly, not caring where it lands, and practically launch yourself at him. Garrett catches you easily, wrapping his large arms around you and lifting you entirely off your feet, burying his face in your damp hair. 

“God, you were amazing,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “I am so damn proud of you. That goal in the first period? Filthy. Absolutely filthy.”

“I learned from the best,” you whisper back, squeezing him tight. 

In this moment, the rest of the world fades away. It’s just the two of you. The two kids who used to hide in a locked bedroom in New York, the two survivors who made it out to the other side. Every time you step onto the ice, you play for yourself, but you also play for him. Because he made sure you survived long enough to lace up your skates. 

“Okay, okay,” Garrett laughs, finally setting you down, though he keeps one arm securely draped over your shoulders. He looks down at you, his eyes shining. “Let me look at you. You look terrible. Exhausted.”

“Thanks,” you scoff, punching him lightly in the ribs. “I feel terrible. But winning takes the edge off.”

“I brought the guys,” Garrett says, his tone shifting into his captain voice. He turns slightly, gesturing to the three tall, intimidating hockey players standing a few feet away. “They’ve been dying to meet the mythical little sister. Guys, this is her.”

You turn, a polite, friendly smile already plastered on your face. You’re ready to meet the famous Briar boys you’ve heard so much about. 

“Hey, it’s nice to-” 

The words die in your throat. 

Your eyes sweep past a blonde guy with a cocky grin, past a tall, quiet-looking guy with curly hair, and land squarely on the third guy. 

The tall guy with the messy, dark brown hair. The sharp jawline. The broad shoulders. The guy who, three weeks ago, pinned you against a heavy wooden door in a club bathroom and made you see stars. 

The blood instantly drains from your face. The world tilts on its axis. 

***

Logan freezes. 

Every single muscle in his body locks up. He stops breathing. He stops blinking. The cinderblock wall behind him is the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor. 

He stares at you. At the damp hair, the gray sweatpants, the oversized hoodie. But it’s the eyes. It’s the sharp, expressive eyes that he spent an hour staring into in a dark, sweaty hallway. It’s the curve of your mouth that he had bruised with his own. 

*No. No, no, no.*

The realization hits him with the force of a freight train colliding with a brick wall. The girl in the red dress. The girl who tasted like whiskey and mint. The girl whose moans he still hears when he tries to fall asleep. 

It’s you. 

It’s Garrett’s little sister. 

Panic, cold and sharp, floods Logan’s veins. His heart begins to hammer violently against his ribs, a frantic, terrified rhythm. He is a dead man. He is literally going to die today, right here in the Matthews Arena. Garrett is going to murder him. Garrett is going to strip him of his hockey gear, drag him out onto the ice, and beat him to death with his own stick. 

“Earth to Logan,” Dean says, elbowing Logan sharply in the ribs. “Introduce yourself, weirdo.”

Logan swallows hard. His mouth is completely dry. He tries to form words, but his brain is short-circuiting. Code Red. CR. Catastrophic Failure. CF. I Am Going To Die. IAGTD.

He looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the exact same horror mirrored in your eyes. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Your lips are slightly parted, your chest rising and falling rapidly as the shock registers. 

“Hey,” Logan manages to croak out, his voice sounding entirely unlike his own. It’s an octave higher, strangled and tight. “I’m Logan.”

***

“Logan,” you repeat, the name slipping out of your mouth like a curse word. 

John Logan. Garrett’s best friend. The guy your brother trusts more than anyone else in the world. 

You slept with him.

You can feel the hysterical urge to laugh bubbling up in your throat, but you ruthlessly suppress it. Your mind races, trying to stitch together the pieces of that night. No names, no schools, no complications. What a spectacularly stupid rule that turned out to be. If you had just asked his name, if he had just mentioned he played for Briar ... 

“Yeah, this is Logan,” Garrett says, oblivious to the nuclear bomb currently detonating in the space between you two. He claps Logan on the shoulder, and you watch Logan flinch as if he’s been burned. “And this is Dean, and Tucker. Guys, my little sister.”

“Incredible game out there,” Tucker says smoothly, stepping forward to offer a fist bump, which you return mechanically. “Your vision on the ice is insane.”

“Uh, thanks,” you manage to say, tearing your eyes away from Logan to look at Tucker. “I appreciate it.”

“Seriously,” Dean chimes in, flashing a bright, flirtatious smile that instantly makes Garrett narrow his eyes. “You didn’t tell us she was a superstar, G. Or that she was this pretty.”

“Dean,” Garrett barks, his voice low and dangerous. “I will end you.”

“Just stating facts!” Dean raises his hands in surrender. 

You try to focus on the banter, try to act normal, but it’s impossible. You can feel Logan’s stare burning a hole into the side of your head. The tension radiating from him is palpable. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler. 

“So,” Garrett says, turning back to you, completely blind to the silent panic attack Logan is having three feet away. “We were thinking of grabbing food to celebrate. There’s a diner a few blocks from here. You up for it, or are you too dead?”

“I ...” You desperately want to say no. You want to grab your bag, run back into the locker room, lock the door, and never come out. But you look at Garrett, at the sheer happiness on his face. He’s so excited to have you here, to introduce you to his world. You can’t ruin this for him. 

“I’m starving,” you lie, forcing a bright smile. “Food sounds great.”

“Awesome,” Garrett beams. “Logan, you’re driving.”

“I am?” Logan stammers, his eyes snapping to Garrett. 

“Yeah, you drove us here in your truck,” Garrett points out, looking at Logan like he’s grown a second head. “Are you okay, man? You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“I’m fine,” Logan says quickly, too quickly. “Just hungry. Blood sugar is low. LBS.”

“Stop with the acronyms,” Garrett sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns to you. “He does this thing where he makes up acronyms. It’s annoying, but you learn to tune it out.”

“I know,” you say softly. 

The words slip out before you can stop them. 

The hallway goes completely silent. 

Dean and Tucker pause. Garrett frowns, looking between you and Logan. Logan looks like he’s about to sprint down the hallway and jump into moving traffic. 

“You know?” Garrett asks slowly, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “How do you know?”

Crap. Crap. Crap.

“I mean,” you backpedal frantically, your heart hammering against your ribs, “I assume it’s annoying. You know? Guys who do that ... it’s usually annoying.”

Garrett stares at you for a second longer before his face clears, and he laughs. “Yeah. See? Even she thinks you’re annoying, Logan.”

Logan manages a weak, strained chuckle. “Yeah. Hilarious.”

The walk to Logan’s truck is the longest walk of your entire life. Garrett walks beside you, excitedly breaking down the plays from the game, asking you about your linemates, while the three boys trail behind. 

You can feel Logan’s eyes on your back the entire time. It’s a heavy, burning weight. 

When you reach the parking lot, Logan clicks his keys, and a massive, beat-up black Chevy Silverado chirps. 

“I call shotgun!” Dean yells, lunging for the front door. 

“No way,” Garrett says, grabbing Dean by the back of his jacket and yanking him backward. “Sister gets shotgun. You animals get in the back.”

“Garrett, it’s fine,” you protest immediately, holding your hands up. “I can sit in the back.”

The idea of sitting in the passenger seat, mere inches away from Logan, in the enclosed space of his truck, sounds like absolute torture. 

“Nonsense,” Garrett insists, opening the passenger side door for you. “You’re the VIP today. Get in.”

You shoot a desperate, fleeting glance at Logan over the hood of the truck. His face is pale, his jaw clenched tight. He looks completely out of his depth, which is terrifying, because Logan is supposed to be the guy who has it all together. The cool, calm, collected one. 

You climb into the truck. The smell of the interior hits you instantly. It’s the exact same smell that clung to his skin that night in the bathroom. Woodsmoke and that same masculine cologne. It makes your head spin. 

Logan climbs into the driver’s seat. He shuts the door, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. 

Garrett, Dean, and Tucker pile into the back seat, instantly filling the cab with noise and chaos as they argue over legroom. 

“Alright, Logan,” Garrett says from the backseat, leaning forward to clap Logan on the shoulder. “To the diner. Let’s get some food in this champion.”

Logan starts the engine. The low rumble of the truck vibrates through the seat, sending a phantom shiver up your spine. He puts the car in drive, finally turning to look at you for the first time since the locker room. 

His eyes are dark, filled with a chaotic mixture of panic, disbelief, and something else — something dangerously similar to the raw hunger you saw in the club. 

“Buckle up,” Logan says, his voice a low, raspy whisper that is meant only for you. 

You swallow hard, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across your chest. The click of the buckle sounds as loud as a gunshot in the tense silence of the front seat. 

“Ready,” you whisper back. 

Logan tears his gaze away, staring straight ahead at the road as he pulls out of the parking lot. 

It’s going to be a very, very long lunch.

***

The bell above the door of Della’s Diner chimes a cheerful, tinny note that sounds entirely too happy for the funeral march currently playing in Logan’s head. 

The diner is a quintessential college town staple — smelling of old frying oil, burnt coffee, and maple syrup, with neon beer signs buzzing faintly in the grease-stained windows. It’s usually Logan’s favorite place to recover after a rough practice, but right now, it feels like an interrogation room. 

“Booth in the back,” Garrett declares, pointing to a circular corner booth upholstered in cracked red vinyl. 

It’s a tight squeeze. Too tight. 

Garrett slides in first, pulling you in right beside him. Dean drops into the opposite side, dragging Tucker with him. That leaves one spot left. Right in the middle. Directly across from you. 

Logan stands in the aisle for a fraction of a second too long, staring at the empty space on the vinyl seat like it’s a trap door. 

“Sit down, man, you’re blocking the aisle,” Tucker says, giving Logan a shove. 

Logan practically falls into the booth. His knees immediately bump against something soft under the table. 

You jerk your legs back so fast you nearly spill the glass of water the waitress just set down. “Sorry,” you murmur, your cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of crimson. 

“My bad,” Logan chokes out. He pulls his long legs back, pressing his knees firmly together. He feels like he’s trying to defuse a bomb with a pair of chopsticks. 

The waitress, a gum-chewing woman in her fifties named Stacy, pulls a notepad from her apron. “What can I get you boys? And the lovely lady?”

“Three orders of the lumberjack special,” Garrett says without looking at the menu. “Extra bacon for me. Tucker will have the chicken wrap, because he’s boring.”

“It’s called macronutrients, Garrett,” Tucker sighs. 

“And for the lady?” Stacy asks, giving you a warm smile. 

“I’ll just take a side of fries, please,” you say, peeling off your oversized Northeastern hockey hoodie to reveal the gray tank top underneath. “And a strawberry milkshake. Extra thick.”

Logan swallows. Hard. 

“Coming right up, hon,” Stacy says, clicking her pen and sauntering away. 

“Just fries?” Garrett frowns, shifting in the booth to look at you. “You played a hell of a game, you need protein. You want some of my eggs?”

“I’m too amped up to eat a heavy meal, G,” you say, leaning back against the vinyl. “You know how I get after a game. Adrenaline crash hasn’t hit yet.”

“Suit yourself,” Garrett shrugs. “But you’re eating at least half my bacon.”

Logan stares blankly at the laminated menu in front of him, seeing absolutely nothing. He is in hell. A very specific, vinyl-upholstered circle of hell. 

You are sitting directly across from him. The diner lighting is catching the faint sheen of sweat still lingering on your collarbones. He can see the subtle shift of your athletic shoulders under the thin fabric of your tank top, and all he can think about is the way those shoulders felt under his hands when he pinned you against that bathroom door. 

Stop it. Logan squeezes his eyes shut for a microsecond. Wayne Gretzky. 2,857 career points. 894 goals. 1,963 assists.

“So,” Dean starts, leaning his elbows on the table and giving you his best, most dazzling smile. The one that usually makes puck bunnies melt into puddles. “Northeastern, huh? Why didn’t you come to Briar with Garrett?”

You look at Dean, your expression perfectly composed. “Northeastern offered me a full ride and a starting position at center. Briar wanted me to sit on the bench for a year to develop. It wasn’t a hard choice.”

“Ouch,” Dean laughs, clutching his chest. “Brains, beauty, and she’s ruthless. You sure you’re related to Garrett?”

“Dean, I swear to God,” Garrett warns, his voice dropping an octave. “I will stab you with this fork.”

“Just making conversation!” Dean defends himself, picking up a sugar packet and tossing it at Garrett. “It’s nice to actually meet her. You’ve kept her locked in a tower for years.”

“I haven’t kept her in a tower,” Garrett grumbles. “She was back home. I was here.”

Logan keeps his eyes glued to the table, tracing the wood-grain pattern with his thumbnail. He needs to say something. If he stays silent, it’s going to look suspicious. He is the loud one. The funny one. The guy who never shuts up. 

“So,” Logan forces his vocal cords to work, glancing up to meet your eyes. “Center. You like running the offense?”

Your breath hitches slightly when his eyes lock onto yours, but you recover instantly. You are incredibly good at this game. 

“I do,” you nod, wrapping your hands around your glass of water. “I like controlling the pace. Setting up the plays. Better than waiting around for someone else to pass me the puck.”

Oh, Jesus. Logan’s brain completely short-circuits. She likes controlling the pace. Mario Lemieux. 1,723 points. 690 goals. 1,033 assists. Won the Stanley Cup in ‘91 and ‘92.

“She’s a control freak on the ice,” Garrett laughs, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Always has been. Even when we were playing street hockey as kids, she bossed me around.”

“Someone had to,” you shoot back, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face. It’s the exact same smile Logan saw in the club right before he kissed you. 

Stacy returns, balancing a massive tray of food. She deposits plates of eggs, pancakes, and greasy bacon onto the table. Finally, she places a tall, condensation-beaded glass filled with pink milkshake directly in front of you. It comes with a thick red straw and a mountain of whipped cream. 

“Enjoy, sweetheart,” Stacy says, winking before she walks away. 

“Thanks,” you say, grabbing the glass. 

Logan watches in slow motion as your lips wrap around the thick red straw. 

You take a long, deep pull of the milkshake. Your cheeks hollow out slightly from the effort, the thick ice cream requiring serious suction. You swallow, your throat working, and pull the straw away, your lips slick and shining with the pale pink liquid. A tiny drop of milkshake lingers on the corner of your mouth. 

You dart your tongue out and lick it away. 

Logan’s hands grip the edges of the table so hard his knuckles turn stark white. Bobby Orr. Number 4. Eight consecutive Norris Trophies. 270 career goals. It’s not working. The stats aren’t working. 

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust his jeans without anyone noticing the distinct, painful problem developing below the table. He is having a physical reaction to his best friend’s sister drinking a strawberry milkshake. He is a monster. A depraved, irredeemable monster. 

He just wants to finish the season. He wants to play his final year of college hockey, graduate, and go back to his dad’s mechanic shop. That’s the deal. He just needs to survive these next few months before Garrett inevitably finds out and murders him with his bare hands. 

“You okay, Logan?” Tucker asks, pausing halfway through a bite of his chicken wrap. He looks at Logan with narrow, analytical eyes. “You’re sweating.”

“I’m fine,” Logan rasps, reaching for his ice water and downing half the glass in one go. “It’s hot in here. HC. Heat Casualties.”

You let out a soft, sudden sound — a cross between a cough and a laugh — and choke on your milkshake. 

Garrett immediately drops his fork and thumps you on the back. “Whoa, easy. Breathe. You good?”

“I’m fine,” you wheeze, covering your mouth with a napkin. Your eyes, bright and watery, dart across the table to glare at Logan. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”

“It’s Logan’s stupid acronyms,” Garrett sighs, handing you another napkin. “I told you, he’s insufferable.”

“They’re not stupid, they’re efficient,” Logan says defensively, though his voice is still a little tight. “Saves time.”

“Saves time for what? More terrible jokes?” Dean quips around a mouthful of pancake. 

“Exactly,” Logan snaps back, finally finding his rhythm. The banter is safe. The banter is familiar. “At least I have jokes. Your entire personality is just hair gel and daddy issues, Dean.”

“Hey!” Dean protests, running a self-conscious hand through his perfectly styled hair. “I love my father, thank you very much.”

You laugh, and the sound does funny things to Logan’s chest. It’s warm and real, totally different from the dark, heavy lust that defined your first encounter. He realizes, with a sinking feeling of dread, that he likes you. Not just the physical memory of you, but you. The way you hold your own against his idiot friends. The way you look at Garrett with pure adoration. 

I am so dead, Logan thinks, watching you steal a piece of bacon off Garrett’s plate. I am absolutely, definitively dead.

The rest of the meal passes in a blur of hockey talk, arguments over NHL standings, and Tucker quietly destroying everyone’s logic with statistics. You fit into the group seamlessly. You speak their language. 

Under the table, it’s a different story. 

The booth is small, and Logan has long legs. Twice, your knee brushes against his. The first time, he flinches so violently he nearly knocks over his coffee mug. The second time, he freezes, holding his breath as the soft denim of your sweatpants drags slowly across the heavy denim of his jeans. 

He looks up. You are casually talking to Dean about Northeastern’s defensive lineup, sipping your milkshake, acting completely unaffected. But Logan sees the slight tremor in your hand holding the glass. He sees the high color in your cheeks. 

You are feeling it too. The electricity. The undeniable pull. 

It’s making the situation infinitely worse. If you hated him, if you were disgusted by him, he could back off. He could bury it. But knowing that the memory of that bathroom is playing on a loop in your head just like it is in his? It’s a ticking time bomb. 

“Alright,” Garrett says, tossing his napkin onto his empty plate and reaching for his wallet. “I got this.”

“You don’t have to pay for me, G,” you protest, reaching for your own bag. 

“Put it away,” Garrett orders, throwing a twenty-dollar bill onto the table. “Big brother privilege. Besides, you’re a broke freshman. Save your money.”

You roll your eyes but let your bag drop back onto the seat. “Fine. Thank you.”

“Okay, before we get out of here,” Garrett says, his tone suddenly shifting from casual to commanding. He looks at Dean, Tucker, and finally, Logan. “Phones out. All of you.”

Logan stares at him. “What?”

“Phones out,” Garrett repeats, pulling his own cell phone from his pocket. “You too, Y/N.”

You look just as confused as Logan, pulling your phone out of your hoodie pocket. 

“Exchange numbers,” Garrett instructs, gesturing between you and the boys. 

Logan’s blood runs cold. He stares at Garrett, convinced this is some sort of elaborate trap. “Why?”

“Because,” Garrett says, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looks at the three of them with deadly serious eyes. “You three are my brothers. You’re the only people I trust completely. My sister is living in this city now. She’s at Northeastern, dealing with a new team, new classes, new everything.”

Garrett pauses, looking at you, his expression softening slightly. “I’m not always going to be available. We have away games. I have practice. Sometimes my phone dies. If she ever needs anything — a ride, help moving a couch, someone to bail her out of a bad situation — and she can’t reach me, I want her to be able to reach you.”

You stare at your brother, your throat working. “Garrett, I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitting squad.”

“It’s not a babysitting squad,” Garrett says firmly. “It’s an insurance policy. Mom is gone. Dad is ...” Garrett’s jaw clenches, the muscles ticking violently. “Dad is dead to us. It’s just you and me. And these guys. This is our family now.”

The diner goes totally quiet. Dean drops the joking facade, his face sobering instantly. Tucker nods slowly. 

Even Logan feels a sharp, painful ache in his chest. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to deal with a toxic father. He knows what Garrett has sacrificed to protect you. Garrett is handing over the most precious thing in his life to his best friends, trusting them to protect her. 

“He’s right,” Tucker says quietly, unlocking his phone. “Read us your number, Y/N.”

You look overwhelmed, blinking rapidly as if fighting back tears, but you softly read out your ten-digit number. 

Dean types it in, saving the contact. “Got it. And hey, for the record? I’m honored, G. We got her back.”

“Always,” Tucker agrees. 

Garrett looks at Logan. “Logan?”

Logan’s hands are shaking as he unlocks his phone. He types your number into the keypad. The screen glows brightly, mocking him. He hits Save Contact. 

Y/N Graham.

“Got it,” Logan forces the words past the massive lump in his throat. He looks up, meeting Garrett’s eyes. 

“I need you to promise me,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion, looking specifically at Logan. “You treat her like a sister. All of you. She is off-limits to everyone on our team, everyone you know. You look out for her like she’s your own blood. Understood?”

“Understood,” Dean says solemnly. 

“Got it, Garrett,” Tucker nods. 

Garrett doesn’t look away from Logan. He knows Logan is the wild card. The guy who hooks up and moves on. The guy who never commits. 

“Logan?” Garrett prompts. 

Logan looks at his best friend. The guy who covered for him when his dad showed up drunk to a home game. The guy who let Logan sleep on his floor for a week when things got too bad at home. Garrett trusts him implicitly. 

“I promise,” Logan says, the lie tasting like ash on his tongue. “Like a sister. I swear, G.”

“Good,” Garrett exhales, clapping Logan on the shoulder. The tension breaks, the heavy atmosphere dissipating back into the background noise of the diner. “Alright. Let’s get out of here. I need to ice my ankle again before practice tomorrow.”

They all slide out of the booth. You grab your hoodie, pulling it over your head to hide your face for a second. 

As they file out of the diner into the crisp autumn air, Garrett walks ahead, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. You lean into him, laughing at something he says. 

Logan hangs back, trailing behind with Dean and Tucker. 

He stops on the sidewalk, looking up at the gray, overcast Boston sky. The clouds are thick, heavy with the promise of rain. 

He promised Garrett he would treat you like a sister. 

He thinks about the heavy wooden door of the club bathroom. He thinks about the way your nails dug into his shoulders. He thinks about the sounds you made when he pushed inside you, the desperate, uninhibited way you wrapped your legs around his waist and begged him not to stop. 

Logan closes his eyes, tilting his head back toward the sky. He lets out a long, ragged exhale that turns into a white cloud in the cold air. 

I have done things to her, Logan thinks, a feeling of absolute doom settling deep in his bones, that absolutely no one should ever do to their little sister.

He opens his eyes, staring at your retreating back as you walk to the truck with Garrett. 

Fuck his life.

***

The dashboard of your beat-up Toyota Corolla flickers violently, a dying strobe light of warning symbols, before the entire console goes pitch black. The engine gives one final, pathetic shudder and dies, leaving you coasting in terrifying silence down a dark, empty stretch of road just outside the Boston city limits. 

You wrench the steering wheel hard to the right, using the last of your momentum to pull onto the gravel shoulder before slamming the car into park. 

For a moment, the only sound is the frantic beating of your own heart and the rhythmic, aggressive drumming of the freezing November rain against your windshield. 

“Perfect,” you whisper to the empty car. “Just perfect.”

You slam your hands against the steering wheel, letting out a frustrated groan. It’s nearly midnight on a Tuesday. You were just driving back from a late-night study session at the library, your brain completely fried from staring at anatomy textbooks. Now, you are stranded in the freezing cold. 

You grab your phone from the cup holder. Your fingers are already starting to go numb. You pull up your favorites list and immediately hit Garrett’s name. 

The line rings once. Twice. Three times. 

“Hey, this is Garrett. Leave a message, unless you’re Dean, in which case, stop calling me.”

“Damn it, Garrett,” you mutter, hanging up. You try again. Straight to voicemail. He must have finally fallen asleep after complaining all afternoon about the massive bruising on his ribs from practice. 

You lean back against the headrest, staring blankly at the dark screen of your phone. You need a jump. Or a tow. Or a miracle. 

Your thumb hovers over the contacts list. Garrett’s mandate from the diner echoes in your head. If she ever needs anything ... I want her to be able to reach you.

You never thought you’d actually have to use the emergency hockey-player hotline. 

You scroll down. Dean? Absolutely not. He would show up with a stupid grin, probably hit on you while holding the jumper cables, and make the entire ordeal ten times more exhausting. Tucker? Tucker is a solid option. He’s quiet, respectful, and probably knows how to fix a car. 

But then your thumb stops on the last name. 

John Logan.

A hot flush of heat floods your chest, completely counteracting the freezing temperature of the car. It’s been weeks since the diner. Weeks of aggressively avoiding him. If you go to Briar to see Garrett, you make sure Logan isn’t around. If the boys come to your games, you keep a safe, polite distance. But avoiding him hasn’t stopped you from thinking about him. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in that club bathroom. 

You stare at his name. If you call Tucker, it’s safe. If you call Logan, you are willingly inviting the chaos back into your space. 

But there is a strange, twisted logic forming in your tired brain. Logan has already seen you completely unraveled. He knows what you sound like when you lose control. The barrier of intimacy is already so irrevocably shattered between the two of you that calling him almost feels ... easier. There’s no pretense to keep up. 

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press the green call button. 

It rings twice. 

“Hello?” His voice is rough, heavy with sleep, and the sound of it sends a sharp jolt straight to your core. 

“Logan,” you say, your voice trembling slightly — mostly from the cold, but partly from the sheer adrenaline of hearing him say your name. “It’s ... it’s Y/N.”

There is a split second of silence on the line, followed by the sound of rustling sheets and a loud thud, as if he just vaulted out of bed. 

“Y/N?” His voice is suddenly wide awake, sharp and entirely focused. “Are you okay? Where are you? Did something happen?”

“I’m okay,” you say quickly, not wanting to trigger a full-blown panic. “I’m not hurt or anything. I’m just ... my car died. I’m stuck on the shoulder off Route 9, a couple of miles past the exit for the campus.”

“Is anyone with you?” He demands, the protective edge in his voice so fiercely reminiscent of Garrett it makes your throat ache. 

“No, I’m alone. I tried calling Garrett, but he’s not picking up, and-”

“I’m on my way,” Logan cuts you off smoothly. “Lock the doors. Keep the hazards on if the battery has enough juice for them. Do not get out of the car for anyone but me. Understood?”

“Understood,” you whisper. 

“ETA is twenty minutes. Hang tight, sweetheart.”

The phone clicks dead. You stare at the screen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering gymnastics routine in your chest.

***

True to his word, exactly eighteen minutes later, the blinding headlights of a pickup truck cut through the rain, pulling up right behind your dead Civic. 

You unlock the door the second Logan steps out of his truck. He’s wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and a dark Briar hockey hoodie, the hood pulled up against the freezing rain. He walks over to your window, his jaw clenched tight, scanning the dark road around you before he looks down at you. 

“You okay?” He asks, his voice muffled by the glass. 

You roll the window down an inch. “I’m freezing, but I’m fine. The engine just completely died.”

Logan nods, immediately shifting into a mode you haven’t seen before. It’s not the sarcastic jokester from the bar, and it’s not the panicked guy from the diner. This is Logan in his element. He grew up in a mechanic shop. 

“Pop the hood,” he instructs, turning back to his truck. 

You pull the lever under the dash. By the time you step out of the car, wrapping your thin jacket tightly around yourself, Logan is already hooking up a set of heavy-duty jumper cables to his battery. 

“Get back in the car, Y/N,” Logan barks over the sound of the rain, glancing up at you. “You’re shivering. I’ve got this.”

“I want to help,” you insist, your teeth chattering. 

Logan sighs, walking over to the front of your car. He effortlessly lifts the heavy hood, propping it open. He moves with practiced, confident precision, attaching the red clamp to the positive terminal of your battery, then the black clamp to a piece of unpainted metal on the engine block. 

“It’s a dead battery,” Logan says, wiping his wet hands on his sweatpants. “Alternator might be shot, too, considering it died while you were driving. But this should get you enough juice to get to my place or back to your dorm.”

“Your place?” You echo, the words slipping out. 

Logan pauses, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. “Yeah. My place. Or your dorm. Whichever you want.”

He turns away, walking back to his truck. “Start it up!” He yells over his shoulder. 

You slide back into the driver’s seat, turning the key. The engine sputters, whines a pathetic, high-pitched noise, and then, miraculously, roars to life. The heat instantly blasts from the vents. 

You let out a massive sigh of relief, leaning your head against the steering wheel. He saved you. 

You step back out of the car into the rain. Logan is already disconnecting the cables, tossing them into the bed of his truck before slamming the tailgate shut. He walks back over to you, rain dripping from his nose and chin, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. 

“Good to go,” he says, his voice a low rumble over the idling engine. “SRO. Successful Rescue Operation.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up through the cold. You are so overwhelmed with relief, so utterly grateful that you didn’t have to spend the night freezing on the side of the road, that you don’t even think about what you’re doing next. 

You step directly into his space. 

“Thank you, Logan,” you say, looking up at him. “Seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”

Before he can respond, you rise up on your toes, press a hand flat against his damp chest for balance, and press your lips to his. 

It is meant to be a thank-you kiss. A quick, friendly peck on the corner of the mouth. But the second your lips touch his, muscle memory violently hijacks your brain. 

Logan freezes. For a millisecond, his entire body goes completely rigid under your hand. And then, with a sharp, desperate intake of breath, he breaks. 

His large hands come up, gripping your waist with bruising force. He pulls you flush against his body, opening his mouth over yours, entirely swallowing your gasp. The kiss is instantaneous fire. It’s exactly like the bathroom at the club — frantic, hungry, and completely consuming. You tangle your fingers into the wet hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, your mouth opening to the familiar, intoxicating slide of his tongue. 

The freezing rain soaking through your clothes suddenly doesn’t matter at all. The only thing that exists is the burning heat of his mouth, the solid wall of his chest, and the desperate, crushing grip of his hands on your hips. 

Logan groans into your mouth, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your toes. He walks you backward until your spine hits the wet metal of your car door, pinning you there just like he did before. 

But then, as quickly as it started, the reality of the situation crashes down on both of you. 

Logan tears his mouth away, his chest heaving violently. He rests his forehead against yours, his hands still gripping your waist in a vise. You are both panting, staring into each other’s wide, terrified eyes. 

“What are we doing?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling. 

“I don’t know,” you breathe back, your hands still resting on his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart. 

“Garrett is going to bury me under the ice rink,” Logan says, his eyes squeezing shut. “He is going to murder me. He’s going to use my bones to make a new hockey stick.”

“And I’ll be shipped off to a convent,” you add, your voice tight with panic. “I’ll be the first ever hockey-playing cloistered nun.”

Logan lets out a breathless, choked laugh, his forehead still resting against yours. “We can’t do this. You know we can’t do this.”

“I know,” you whisper. “We really can’t.”

You wait for him to step back. You wait for him to let you go. 

He doesn’t move an inch. 

Instead, his thumbs slowly begin to stroke the curve of your waist, right through the wet fabric of your jacket. The touch is so agonizingly slow, so heavy with intent, that a small, broken whimper escapes your lips. 

“I’ve been going insane,” Logan admits, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp. He opens his eyes, staring directly into yours. The raw vulnerability in his expression makes your heart shatter. “Since the diner. Since the club. I can’t sleep. I can’t think on the ice. Every time I close my eyes, I see you drinking that damn milkshake.”

“Logan ...”

“I know I’m supposed to be the reliable guy,” he continues, his hands sliding up your sides to grip the lapels of your jacket. “I promised Garrett. I swore to him. But Y/N, I can’t stop. You are all I think about.”

The admission hangs heavy in the freezing air between you, thick and undeniably true. You feel the exact same way. The rules, the brother, the consequences — none of it feels real compared to the overwhelming, magnetic pull you have toward this man. 

“My backseat is practically a living room,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting down to your lips. 

“Logan ...” you say his name again, but this time, it’s not a warning. It’s a surrender. 

“Tell me to get in my truck and drive away,” Logan pleads, his face inches from yours. “Tell me right now, and I will.”

You look at him. You look at the rain dripping from his lashes, at the desperate, agonizing hope in his eyes. 

“I don’t want you to drive away,” you say, your voice perfectly clear over the sound of the storm. 

Logan lets out a sharp exhale, his restraint finally snapping completely. He kisses you again, hard and bruising, before grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your car. He drags you toward the truck. He throws open the heavy back door, practically lifting you off your feet and tossing you onto the wide, expansive upholstered bench of the backseat. 

He climbs in after you, slamming the door shut. 

The sudden silence inside the truck is deafening. The windows are heavily tinted, shielding you from the outside world. The only light comes from the faint glow of the dashboard in the front. 

Logan wastes absolutely no time. He crawls over the leather seats, caging you in against the soft upholstery. He straddles your hips, looking down at you with a gaze so hot it could melt glass. 

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands instantly reaching for the zipper of your wet jacket. He pulls it down with frantic haste, tugging the damp material off your shoulders and tossing it onto the floorboards. 

“You talk too much,” you breathe, reaching up to grab the collar of his hoodie, pulling him down to you. 

The kiss is explosive. It’s different from the club. At the club, it was pure, anonymous lust. This is heavier. This is loaded with weeks of pent-up desire, forbidden attraction, and the terrifying realization that there are real feelings involved. 

Logan’s hands are everywhere, exploring you with a desperate reverence. He pushes your tank top up, his large, warm palms flattening against the bare, shivering skin of your stomach. You gasp into his mouth as he trails his hands higher, mapping the curve of your ribs before pushing the fabric up entirely. 

“God,” Logan groans, pulling back just enough to look at you in the dim light. His eyes trace the lines of your body, filled with a deep, consuming hunger. 

“Don’t stop,” you plead, your fingers tangling into his wet hair. 

Logan leans down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of your breast. The contrast of his scorching mouth against your cold skin sends a violent shiver down your spine. He traces his tongue along the edge of your bra, biting down gently on the sensitive skin, eliciting a loud, uninhibited moan from your throat. 

“You like that?” Logan rumbles against your skin, his hands moving to the button of your jeans. 

“Logan, please,” you beg, arching your back off the leather seat. 

He works the button and zipper with practiced ease, his fingers sliding beneath the denim. The second his rough skin brushes against your center, your entire body completely locks up. 

Logan watches your face intently as his fingers begin to move. He sets a slow, maddeningly precise rhythm, his thumb circling and pressing exactly where you need it. You throw your head back into the leather seat, your hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. 

“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice thick with lust. 

You force your eyes open, meeting his dark, intense gaze. 

“You are mine,” Logan whispers fiercely, the words slipping out of him like an undeniable truth. He increases the pressure, his fingers moving faster, deeper. “You hear me? You’re mine.”

You can’t even form words to agree. The pleasure is too absolute, too consuming. The heat inside the cab of the truck is suffocating, completely fogging up the windows and isolating you both in a cocoon of raw, desperate need. 

You feel the climax building rapidly, a tight, coil of energy in your lower stomach. 

“Logan,” you sob out, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders. 

“Let it go, sweetheart,” he encourages, leaning down to capture your lips in a devastating kiss. “I’ve got you.”

You shatter completely. The orgasm rips through you with a violent intensity, pulling a loud, muffled scream from your throat directly into his mouth. Your muscles clench tightly around his fingers, your entire body trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. 

Logan holds you through it, his chest heaving, waiting until the violent tremors begin to subside. 

When you finally open your eyes, you are gasping for air. Logan is looking down at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Without a word, he reaches down and grabs the hem of his own hoodie, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. He tosses it aside, revealing his broad, heavily muscled chest. 

He reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants. 

“My turn,” he whispers, his eyes completely dark. 

You reach up, helping him push the fabric down. The second he is free, he settles back over you, parting your knees with his thighs. He aligns himself perfectly, pausing for just a fraction of a second to look at you, to make sure you are ready. 

You nod, lifting your hips to meet him. 

Logan pushes inside you in one long, smooth, devastating thrust. 

A sharp gasp leaves your lips, your eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming sensation of being completely filled by him. It is infinitely better than the club. There is no door to pin you against, but the heavy, solid weight of his body pressing you deep into the leather seat is so much better. 

Logan lets out a low, guttural groan, resting his forehead against yours as he takes a moment to adjust. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice shaking. “You feel perfect.”

“Move,” you demand softly, your hands tracing down the hard, sweaty planes of his back to grip his hips. 

He obeys. He sets a slow, agonizingly deep pace. Every thrust is deliberate, completely burying himself inside you before pulling almost entirely out. The friction is maddening. The truck rocks gently on its suspension with the force of his movements, the only sound inside the cab the wet slide of bodies and the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing. 

“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan whispers harshly. 

You immediately do as he asks, crossing your ankles over the small of his back, pulling him even deeper. 

The change in angle is all it takes for Logan’s restraint to snap. The slow, deliberate pace vanishes, replaced by a frantic, punishing rhythm. He grips your hips so tightly it’s definitely going to leave bruises, his hips snapping forward with a force that drives you further and further into the seat. 

You cling to him, entirely lost to the storm. The feeling of him inside you, the way his body covers yours perfectly, the desperate sounds he makes against your neck is intoxicating. 

“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic and entirely unhinged. “I’m going to-”

“Do it,” you sob out, your own second climax building with terrifying speed. “Logan, please.”

He thrusts deeply one final time, a harsh, jagged cry tearing from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid as he finds his release, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The force of his climax pushes you directly over the edge, your body shattering around him simultaneously. 

For a long time, neither of you moves. 

Logan is a heavy, completely exhausted weight on top of you. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your chest, his skin slick with sweat despite the freezing temperatures outside. The windows of the truck are entirely opaque with condensation. 

Slowly, the reality of the situation begins to creep back in. The rain is still drumming relentlessly against the roof of the truck. 

Logan slowly lifts his head, looking down at you. His eyes are soft, devoid of the frantic panic that usually accompanies your interactions. He brushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, his touch remarkably gentle. 

“Garrett is going to kill me,” Logan says quietly, the words lacking their usual terror. 

You let out a soft, tired laugh, running your hands through his messy hair. “Yeah. He really is.”

“It’s worth it,” Logan says, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “For the record. I would let him kill me a thousand times if it meant I got to do this again.”

Your heart does a painful, stuttering flip in your chest. You look up at him, seeing the utter sincerity in his eyes. He isn’t joking. He isn’t deflecting with acronyms. 

“Me too,” you whisper. 

Logan smiles, a devastatingly soft expression that completely alters his face. He rolls off you gently, reaching down to grab his hoodie. 

“Come on,” he says, pulling the hoodie over his head before handing you your damp jacket. “Let’s get you back to your dorm before you catch pneumonia. SVD. Safe Vehicle Drop-off.”

“You’re an idiot,” you laugh, sitting up and starting to re-dress. 

“Yeah,” Logan agrees, watching you with an expression you can’t quite place. “I am.”

Three weeks after the hockey game, you realized you had accidentally developed routines around John Logan.

Routines like stopping at the garage after class “for ten minutes” and leaving three hours later. Like expecting a good morning text before you were fully awake. Like automatically reaching for his hand whenever you walked anywhere together. And, knowing which nights he stayed late at the garage.

It had happened quietly.

“Hi, Y/N,” Jeff said, as you looked up from your textbook, where you sat at the counter at Logan & Sons.

“Leave her alone,” Logan called from beneath the hood.

You smiled. The garage had become your favorite place without you noticing when it happened. Not because of the cars, of course, but because of Logan.

The second he would spot you arrive at the garage with a coffee in hand, his whole face softened automatically now. It was like seeing you reset something in him after a long day.

Logan slid out from beneath the car, grease smudged across one forearm, and an old Briar t-shirt stretched across his shoulders.

Your stomach flipped every time you saw him.

“You done pretending to study?” he asked, walking toward you.

“…maybe.”

“Thought so.”

He stepped between your knees where you sat on the counter, one hand resting automatically against your thigh.

“You smell like motor oil,” you informed him softly.

“And you keep stealing my hoodies.”

“That’s unrelated.”

A grin tugged at his mouth before he leaned down and kissed you. Jeff gagged dramatically somewhere behind you.

“Workplace misconduct,” he yelled. Without breaking the kiss, Logan lifted his middle finger in Jeff’s direction.

You laughed against Logan’s mouth, and he smiled into the kiss in a way that you’re your chest ache.

Logan casually brushed his thumb against your knee. Three weeks ago, touches like that made you spiral internally. Now? Now they happened constantly. Not in a settled, years-long relationship way, but in a we physically cannot stop touching each other way.

Later that night, you ended up at Logan’s place again after the garage closed. At this point, you’d been there enough that Garrett greeted you with, “Thank God, somebody responsible is here.”

You blinked. “What happened?”

Dean pointed toward the kitchen.

“Tucker tried making a turkey and almost set the house on fire.”

“I said I was sorry!” Tucker yelled from deeper inside the house.

Logan dropped onto the couch beside you while Garrett handed you a drink. Just like that, you had settled naturally into the chaos of the house.

Just a few weeks ago, these people had just been hockey players; strangers. Now, Dean stole fries off your plate like an annoying older brother. Life was weird.

You curled one leg beneath yourself on the couch while Logan’s fingers found yours beside your leg on the couch. You looked down briefly at your intertwined hands and felt your chest tighten softly.

Later, after the boys disappeared upstairs one by one, you and Logan stayed downstairs alone. The house was quiet, rain was tapping lightly against the windows again.

His hand moved gently against your jaw, and then he kissed you again. You kissed him harder immediately because you suddenly felt too full of feeling to do anything else.

All you could do was focus on Logan’s hands, his mouth, and the overwhelming feeling that you were falling for him much faster than you knew how to stop.

He kissed just below your ear absentmindedly, sending heat immediately spiraling down your spine. Logan noticed, of course, he did. His mouth brushed your skin again, slower this time.

“Logan.”

“Hmm?”

“That was intentional.”

A quiet laugh vibrated against your shoulder. “Yeah.”

Thunder cracked loudly outside, but you barely heard it now because Logan’s hands had tightened slightly against your waist, and suddenly all you could focus on was his mouth against your neck, the warmth of him against you, and the fact that you were alone.

The kiss became heated almost embarrassingly fast. Logan lifted you onto his lap without breaking the kiss, and you laughed breathlessly against his mouth.

“You’re very determined right now.”

“You noticed?”

His hands slid beneath the hem of your shirt, carefully, like he was still giving you every chance to stop this. You kissed him harder in response. Logan made a low sound against your mouth that nearly destroyed your emotional stability entirely.

At one point, Logan rested his forehead lightly against yours.

“Come upstairs with me,” he whispered.

You kissed him once softly before whispering back, “Okay.”

The two of you made your way upstairs, Logan’s fingers tangled through yours. By the time Logan closed his bedroom door behind you, your pulse was racing hard enough that you were pretty sure he could hear it.

You reached for him this time, pulling him into another kiss. When Logan kissed you back, one hand gentle against your waist while the other brushed softly through your hair, you realized she’d never felt safer with another person.

The rest unfolded naturally after that: hungry kisses, soft laughter, whispered reassurances, and hands learning each other carefully. Nothing rushed, nothing careless, just want and trust and the overwhelming feeling of finally letting yourself have something you’d already fallen into emotionally.

Later, you lay curled against Logan beneath the blankets while rain tapped softly against the windows.

His fingers traced slow patterns against your bare shoulder absentmindedly. You tilted your head slightly to look up to him in the dim room. Logan was already watching you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You laughed softly against his chest. You looked at him for one suspended second, then answered honestly.

“Yes.”

For the first time in a long time, you meant it completely.

--

You woke up slowly the next morning. Sunlight was streaming through the window, and you could hear Dean yelling.

Honestly, at this point, it was becoming a pattern. You felt Logan stir underneath you.

You smiled faintly and tilted your head up. That was a big mistake.

Morning Logan was unfairly attractive. His dark brown curls were messy, his eyes were still heavy with sleep, and he had a soft expression on his face as he looked at you.

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.

“You’re staring.”

“Yeah.”

You shifted slightly closer beneath the blankets, one hand sliding lazily across his chest while he brushed his thumb slowly against your naked hip.

“You know what’s concerning?” you murmured sleepily.

“What?”

“I think I sleep better here.”

Something in his expression softened even further.

“You definitely sleep better here,” he said quietly.

Before you could spiral properly, the bedroom door burst open. Dean stopped mid-step and then looked between you dramatically.

“Oh, this is revolting.”

You buried your face immediately into Logan’s shoulder as you clutched the blanket higher up, and Logan groaned.

“Have you ever heard of knocking?”

“Nope.”

“Get out,” Logan said.

Dean grinned.

“Breakfast in ten, Loverboy’s on breakfast duty.”

Then, he disappeared. Logan looked exhausted already.

“You live with actual chaos,” you laughed.

“Yep.”

“I love it here, though.”

“You fit here,” Logan said, and leaned down to kiss you.

“Let’s get up, we have breakfast to make!” you said, breaking the kiss as Logan laughed.

Breakfast downstairs was chaotic. Logan cooked, as Tucker supervised. Dean criticized as he leaned on the counter, and Garrett ate some of the ingredients before they made it into the pan.

You sat on a barstool near the kitchen, watching everything unfold. The domesticity of it all felt deeply dangerous.

After breakfast, Logan drove you back to campus so you could change before your afternoon class.

“We saw each other literally all night and this morning, and I’m annoyed I have class,” you blurted as you pulled up outside your dorm.

A grin spread slowly across his face.

“You’re way too pleased by that,” you said.

“I’m choosing to think it’s romantic.”

You laughed softly and unbuckled your seatbelt.

He leaned over and kissed you again.

“Alright, I should probably go,” you said, kissing him one last time.

He laughed as you forced yourself out of the truck before you ruined your GPA permanently. The second you shut the door and were a few steps away, Logan rolled down the window.

“Y/N.”

You turned back immediately. He was leaning across the console.

“You forgot something.”

You frowned slightly. “What?”

Logan crooked one finger toward himself. You laughed helplessly but stepped closer again anyway. The second you leaned near the window, he kissed you quickly.

You stared at him in betrayal.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You like me.”

You laughed, stepping back, as a grin took over his entire face.

You knew, just from the way Logan looked at you or touched you, that if he’d asked, you’d skip your entire day and forget the outside world existed entirely.

The realization sent warmth flooding through you immediately.

Part 6 already, I wanted to fit more into this post but because of the ten pics limit we only have one Logan part

Don’t worry though I’ll have the next part out soon!!

AND I JUST REALISED I NAMED THE FIC WRONG😭😭

Tag list:

@thatdesigirl17

@monayyy-21

@camie18

@bloodysnow15

@homeslices

@starinisstuff

@mariamadison6-blog

The heat between you is stifling, making the air in the room thick and impossible to breathe. You try to find your voice, but the words die in your throat as soon as they form. “Well, I-“ You stumble, your voice barely making it to his ears. Your hands, still curled tightly around his biceps, tremble slightly. The sheer presence of him, the solid weight of his muscular thighs beneath you, and the radiating heat of his chest send a jolt through you as your nipples harden against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Everything is making your brain feel like it’s short-circuiting; you squeeze his arms harder, grounding yourself.

“Even before you started drawing, I saw you having a hard time focusing on studying,” Garrett murmurs, his voice dropping into a lower register. He doesn’t pull away; he’s somehow able to lean in closer, his forehead still firmly pressed against yours, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. “You’ve been looking at me all night long, baby. Let me look at you now.” 

His eyes aren’t just watching you, they’re consuming your entire being. They track the frantic pulse in your neck, the way your lips are parted and damp from your heavy kisses, the way your eyes are wide and unfocused. Even after all this time, he still finds a way to make your breath catch, to make you feel this undone. 

You try to find a retort, something to reclaim the composure you lost the moment his gaze locked onto yours. Your eyes keep dropping to his lips and he can’t help but do the same. “The light was perfect… ‘nd you were there, so-“ You voice, but it’s so breathless. 

Garrett lets out a low laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and echoing against yours. It’s warm, indulging and devastatingly fond. “A mess,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing your jaw with a softness that makes your eyes flutter shut. “You’re a beautiful and breathtaking mess.”

He doesn’t give you time to protest (truthfully, there’s nothing to protest about). With a sudden, effortless strength that makes your heart lurch, he shifts. His hands slide from your waist to the underside of your plush thighs, his grip unyielding. He lifts you, his muscles flexing underneath his skin, and settles you back against the pillows. The mattress shifts under you, the springs creaking in the quiet room.

He hovers over you, smirking down at your dumbfounded reaction. “It seems we’ve found ourselves in this position once again.”

You giggle at his words, a softness in the sound, but you cease once his hands begin their slow, agonising journey. He traces the swell of your hips, his palms warm and slightly calloused, pressing into the soft give of your skin. Garrett’s gaze remains locked on yours, intense and unswayed, before he reaches for the hem of your t-shirt. He moves with a steady confidence; he pulls the fabric up and over your head, tossing it somewhere into the shadows of the room, leaving you shivering slightly in the cool air of the bedroom. You are left in nothing but your underwear, your skin flushed and sensitive under the amber glow of the lamp.

His eyes darken as they sweep over you, a low appreciative grunt vibrating in his chest. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the sound close to a moan. 

He leans down, his large, warm hands sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs grazing your nipples until they are aching. He licks a slow, wet path, upward from your stomach, his tongue tracing the curve of your ribs before he focuses on your breasts. He takes one in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing you, making you cry out. He licks and nuzzles, his breath hot against your chest, making you roll your hips in a desperate search for more.

The sound of your own ragged breathing fills the quiet space, highlighted by the wet sounds of his appreciation. Your hands instinctively find their way into his dark curls, your fingers tangling deep in the hair to anchor him to you. You pull him closer, as you arch your back to meet his mouth. At the sudden tug of your fingers, a guttural moan escapes him, vibrating against your skin. 

He is devastatingly thorough. He alternates between your breasts; one moment, your left breast is being engulfed by the warmth of his mouth, and the next, he has shifted to the right, his tongue swirling around the peak. His hands are never still; they are a constant presence, fondling the weight of your breasts and twisting your nipples between his calloused fingers. Every time he tugs at a nipple, a small, broken sound escapes your throat.

The heat of his mouth starts to shift. He doesn’t pull away entirely; instead, he begins a slow descent. His kisses move from the swell of your breasts to the valley of your cleavage, his lips grazing the skin of your stomach. You find yourself gasping, your hips lifting off the mattress in anticipation, your body needing the contact. 

“Garrett…” you whine, the name breaking with a breathy exhale. You’re chasing him, your hands still anchored in his hair, guiding his head downward. 

He responds in a low chuckle that vibrates against your abdomen. As he looks up with a mischievous glint in his eyes, you can tell he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His hands slide down from your waist, his large palms sweeping over the curve of your hips to hook into the elastic of your underwear. With a gentle, deliberate tug, he slides the fabric down your legs. The cool air of the room hits your skin for only a second before the warmth of his breath replaces it. He pauses there, hovering just inches away. His eyes lift for a moment; it’s a silent, heavy question, as if he’s looking for permission to carry on further. When you answer by arching toward him, a desperate invitation, he moves in closer. 

His gaze drops, taking you in. The dim light of the lamp catches the glistening sheen of your skin, and his eyes narrow, noting the way you’re already slick for him. Your body responded to the way he’s been worshiping you, leaving you helplessly wet. He doesn’t look away; instead, he memorises the way you reacted to him, feeling prideful. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his rough voice making your toes curl. “So ready and beautiful for me, baby.”

“Please,” you gasp. Your voice is thick, the word sounding more like a broken plea than a request. “Garrett, please. Don’t make me beg, baby.” 

He finally gives in, his gaze never leaving yours. The first brush of his tongue against you is so sudden and intense that your entire body jolts. A loud cry breaks from your chest, breaking the silence of the room once again as your head tosses back against the pillows, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulder. 

He devours you completely. Garrett’s focus has narrowed down to the way you taste and the way you sound. His warm, wet mouth leaves you gasping for more; his tongue lapping and pressing against you with a hunger. He wants to be as close as possible to you; he reaches up, his large hands sliding beneath your knees to lift and drape them over his broad shoulders, opening you up even further, tilting your pelvis to grant him more access. 

Somehow, in your delirious state, your hands find his, your fingers intertwining. You squeeze his hands so hard, nails digging into his skin as you try to anchor yourself to him. Every time his tongue grazes the sensitive bud of your clit, your fingers tighten and a broken sound escapes you. His mouth moves from the soft, swollen folds and back to your clit; his breath hot and ragged against you. He licks and laps, his tongue flattening before narrowing to focus on the center of your pleasure. 

As he intensifies his pace, his movements become more urgent. He separates your hold on his hands; instead, he uses them to spread you out even wider. Your hands make their way back to his hair, tugging on the curls, causing him to moan against you, sending a shiver up your spine. He drives his tongue in and out of you, the sensation overwhelming-a heat that makes your hips buck against his face. His hands move onto your hips, pulling you closer and closer. He focuses his attention on your clit with a sharp intensity. 

The sound of his heavy breathing and wet lapping against your heat, the firm grip of his hands all create a sensation that urges you closer and closer to the edge. Your breath is coming in short, jagged gasps, as the tension in your lower belly coils tighter, ready to snap.

Garrett senses you. He feels the way your muscles are beginning to quiver. He doesn’t pull back, his tongue flattening and his fingers make their way to your clit, applying increasing pressure. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your folds, his voice a rumble that you feel more than hear. “Just let go. Give it to me like a good girl.”

His words send you over the edge. The tension snaps, and a surreal wave of pleasure crashes through you. Your hips buck hard against his face, your body arching off the mattress as a long, broken moan escapes your throat.

But Garrett isn’t finished with you, not even close. Just as the first wave of climax begins to ebb, he leans back in, refusing to let the sensation fade. His tongue returns to your clit with a sudden intensity that has your legs shaking, still propped up on his shoulders. In your delirious state, your eyes drift upward, changing the view of Garrett’s face between your thighs with the hazy reflection of the mirror behind him. You see the shape of his broad back, his shoulders tensed as he pleasures you. 

Overstimulation settles in, urging you to make him cease the onslaught. Overwhelmed, you try to pull away, but his hands shift. He clamps down on your hips, fingers digging into your skin. He holds you in place, pinning you down so he can continue his work, like a man starved. You moan in protest, feeling another orgasm forming, waiting to crash over you.

“Garrett, stop, it’s too much-“ Your voice breaks. “I can’t.” You try to shake your head against the pillows, your fingers tangling in his hair, trying to pull him away. “You’re too greedy! You-you’re going to kill me,” you whimper, but a breathless laugh escapes you. 

His response is a low growl against your skin. “Don’t fight it,” He murmurs, his fingers tightening on your hips. You try to find the breath to argue, but the words die in your throat as one of his hands leaves your hips and makes its way to your center. His fingers slide between your thighs, now accompanying his wet tongue. As his tongue swirls against your clit, his middle finger slides deep inside with ease. “Look at you, baby. It slipped right in.” he looks up at you, finding your eyes half open, already staring at him.“Just a little longer. Can tell you’re almost there.” His words are slurred against your skin.

He picks up the pace, his tongue lashing against you while he slips another finger in,  stretching and filling you. The sensation is so strong; you cry out, eyes closing tightly, hands now finding the tensed planes of his back grounding, nails leaving behind moon crescents on the skin. He doesn’t flinch, the sting fuelling the want. “That’s it, angel.” 

You come panting for the second time tonight, moaning his name over and over again. Your hips buck against his face one last time, before your muscles give up, turning to putty beneath his hands. 

He doesn’t pull away; instead, he reaches up and guides your legs off his shoulders, sliding them down until they wrap around his waist. He readjusts his weight between your thighs, pulling you flush against him. Garrett lowers his head, pressing his face against your lower stomach. He lingers there, his nose brushing against your skin, breathing steadily. When you open your eyes, you see him looking at you with a soft, tender gaze.

You can’t help it; the stark difference between him now and him earlier makes you giggle. “Hmm, what happened to the guy who was trying to tear me apart?” 

He lets out a quiet sound, something between a chuckle and a sigh. He doesn’t take his eyes away from you, staring at you lovingly. Slowly, he rises, his body sliding up against yours until his chest is pressed against your breasts. He captures your lips in a sweet kiss; there’s no urgency in him now, no rush to take your breath away. 

When Garrett pulls back, he stays close, his eyes searching yours. Before he can say anything, you lean closer, rubbing your nose playfully against his. “Hi, baby,” you say, closing your eyes and smiling in response to the comforting presence of him. He grins at your warm smile, eyes softening.

“Hi.” he breathes back, the word a low, vibrating caress. For a long moment, you just stay there, together; his eyes trace every line of your face as if he’s memorizing you. The air in the room is thick, heavy with the scent of skin, but the desperate edge has been replaced by a simmering, intentional heat.

"You're still shaking," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that quiet register that makes your toes curl. He leans down, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses along your jawline, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear.

"Garrett," you whisper, your breath hitching as his hand slides from your hip to the soft curve of your waist, his thumb tracing the dip of your side. "You're going to make me lose it all over again."

He lets out a low, melodic laugh against your neck, the sound vibrating through your entire body. "Is that a warning or an invitation?"

"An invitation," you murmur sheepishly, the word a breathless confession.

Garrett doesn't need to be told twice. He shifts, his large hands sliding under your thighs to lift you. He doesn't lay you back down; instead, he maneuvers you so you’re straddling him, your back to his chest as he settles you onto his lap. 

The position forces you to face the large mirror at the foot of the bed, through which you had earlier been admiring Garrett. In the dim glow of the lamp, the reflection is a hazy blur of skin. You can see the broad, tensed expanse of his chest behind you and the way his powerful thighs frame yours. The sight of the two of you intertwined, flushed, and messy is enough to make your head jump.

As he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his, he takes the opportunity to lean forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. He shifts, his hips tilting upward to press firmly against you. The sensation is immediate: through the thin fabric of his gray sweatpants, you feel the unmistakable length of him pressing right against your center. The shape of him is searing, making your breath hitch. 

You tilt your head back against his shoulder, looking at your own dazed reflection in the mirror. "You know," you tease, your voice trembling slightly as you catch his eyes in the glass, "for a man who's supposed to be studying psychology... you're being very... unscientific right now."

Garrett lets out a laugh. He nuzzles the sensitive spot behind your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. "Psychology can wait," he murmurs. He tightens his grip on your waist, his fingers digging into the soft curve of your hips. "Right now, there's only one thing that’s on my mind."

"And what's that?" you whisper, your hands reaching back to grip his forearms, feeling the hard muscle of him.

"You," he says.

"Well," you murmur, a sudden spark of defiance lighting up your gaze as you meet his eyes in the mirror. "You should do something about that… Actually, maybe I’ll start.”

Before he can react, you slide off his lap, but you don't pull away. Instead, you turn around, your hands sliding to his chest as you press him back. Garrett lets out a surprised, low grunt as you guide him down, his muscular back hitting the mattress with a soft thud. 

You settle back over him, straddling his hips, your knees digging into the bed on either side of him. The look on his face is a mixture of shock and hunger; his eyes meet your mischievous gaze, a smirk painted on your lips.

His hands fly to the waistband of his sweatpants, his movements uncharacteristically hurried. "Let's get these off," he rasps, more to himself, his voice breaking on the last word. 

You reach down to help him, your fingers trembling slightly as you hook them into the soft fabric. You peel the sweatpants down, along with his boxers, exposing him. Even after all this time, the size of him still steals the air from your lungs. His member is a thick, heavy weight, looking even more imposing as it stands proud and hard against his stomach. His chest is heaving, the skin slick with a sheen of sweat. His abs ripple with every breath, the deep ridges flexing unconsciously. As you place your hands on them to balance yourself, your gaze fixes on the two, small, faint indents on the left side of his stomach, intimate details only you’re able to admire from so close. 

Guiding the head of his cock towards your entrance, you sink onto it; the first contact of him against the entrance of your pussy making your head fall back in a silent, soaring moan. The sensation is overwhelming, a slow, stretching fullness. You stop for a second, letting your body adjust to the size of him, your eyes fluttering shut.

"There you go," Garrett whispers, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. He doesn't push; he waits, his hands steady and strong on your hips, guiding you as you begin the slow, rhythmic motion of taking him in. "Just like that. Look at me, pretty girl."

You open your eyes, finding his in the dim light as you begin to move. His eyes are dark, darting from your eyes to your lips, searching for any reaction that might suggest you’re not comfortable. His thumbs trace circles against your hip bones, enjoying the stretch of you around him. 

“That’s it,” he rasps. “You feel amazing, baby. So tight for me.” 

His words of encouragement make you pick up the pace, a needy rhythm; the sound of your skin slapping against his fills the room. You lean forward, your breasts brushing against his heaving chest, and a small sob escapes your mouth, overwhelmed by the position. 

“Shh, easy,” he murmurs, his hands taking a firmer grip on your hips. “Don’t rush, I got you.” He tilts his hips up, meeting you in the middle with a force that makes your entire body jolt.

“Garrett,” you gasp, your voice breaking as you arch your back, trying to let him sink even deeper into you. “It’s too much... you’re so big.” 

The sound of your voice, the way you whimper his name, causes a long moan to exit his mouth. His head lolls to the side, and his gaze drifts toward the mirror. He freezes for a second, his breathing getting deeper as he catches the reflection. 

In the faint light, he sees you. He sees the curve of your back and the way your skin glows as you move rhythmically atop him. From his angle, you are a vision of desire, your head thrown back in pleasure.

"Don't stop," he commands, his voice dropping to a rasp. He reaches up, one of his large hands sliding from your hips to your jaw, directing your eyes to the glass, his eyes locked on your reflection in the mirror as he watches you take him. "Look at yourself, baby. Look at how you're taking me."

You look back over your shoulder to catch the reflection. In the mirror, you see the arch of your spine and the heavy, rhythmic bounce of your ass as you ride him, the friction creating a filthy, squelching sound that makes your face flush. You are so drenched; as he thrusts up to meet you, you coat his shaft in a translucent sheen that smears across your skin and his.

"God, you're so fucking wet," Garrett groans, his eyes now fixed between you, on your pussy stretching around him. He’s admiring the way he easily slips inside, engulfed by your swollen folds. 

You’re moving with a desperate, rhythmic hunger, but as the peak nears, you feel the first hint of your strength beginning to fray at the edges. Your muscles are trembling, your hips feeling heavy and sluggish.

Garrett notices; he sees the way your movements are starting to falter, the way your breath is hitching in a way that sounds like exhaustion.

Instead of letting you slow down, he decides to take the burden from you.

With a grunt, he shifts his weight. He guides you back, his large hands gripping your hips to guide you down until you're pinned against the mattress. Before you can even process the change, his massive frame is looming over you.

Garrett tilts your head back to catch your lips against his. The kiss is eager, but sweet, as if he’s checking in with you. He shifts his weight, settling over you. He supports himself on his elbows. 

His hips rock into you unhurriedly, but you urge him closer, locking your legs around his waist. “Faster, please.” you say.

"You're sure?" he murmurs, his eyes searching yours. Your nod causes him to lean down, his chest pressing firmly against yours, and the slow thrusts transform into a relentless rhythm. The tempo picks up, his hips slamming into yours with a purposeful force that leaves you gasping.

The sound in the room changes, it deepens into a wet, frantic slapping accompanied by the deep breaths and moans. He fills you so completely that the deep sensation pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

You’re grasping at the sheets, your knuckles straining against the fabric, your breath coming in jagged gasps that barely count as breathing. Garrett notices the way your body is beginning to tremble, the way your eyes have clouded over. He doesn't slow down; instead, he keeps up the pace and leans closer into you, his voice a rasp in your ear. "Almost there," he murmurs, his breath hot and ragged. "A little more."

He drives into you once more, harder and deeper than before, and the tension finally snaps. 

A violent wave of pleasure crashes over you, and you arch your back, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you cry out his name. Your internal muscles squeeze around him in rhythmic pulses, and the world disappears, leaving nothing but the white-hot intensity of the release.

Garrett lets out a guttural groan, his own composure finally fracturing. He thrusts one last time, burying himself as deep as possible, and you feel him come, filling you completely. He collapses against you, his face buried in your neck, his body shaking with the aftershocks of his own release.

For a long time, neither of you moves. The only sounds are your shared, ragged breaths.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark and clouded, but there is a tenderness in them. He kisses your forehead, a brief, lingering touch, before sliding off the bed. He disappears into the bathroom and returns a moment later with a warm, damp washcloth. 

He doesn't ask; he just sets himself between your legs and begins to clean you up with gentle care. His hands are steady, his touch light; he doesn't say anything, but he focuses on the task, making sure you're perfectly comfortable.

Once you're clean, he reaches for the duvet, pulling it up over both of you and drawing you against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head. 

"’m here. Just rest." he whispers, his voice low and grounding.

You feel the weight of your own limbs, the pleasant, heavy ache of your muscles. You find yourself tracing the faint lines of his forearm with your fingertips, the skin is soft and warm.

Garrett doesn't say much, but he doesn't have to. He shifts slightly, pulling the duvet higher up your shoulders. His fingers, large and warm, start tracking soothing circles in the palm of your hand.

You find yourself leaning into him, your cheek pressed against the warm and slightly sweaty plane of his chest, listening to the thrum of his heart. A sleepy warmth settles within you. 

“Garrett?” you mumble against his chest.

“Yeah?” His voice is sleepy, his chin still resting on the top of your head.

“I love you.”

At the words, his arms tighten around you. He shifts, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against your temple.