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Summary: Y/n transfers to Briar to play on the women's soccer team and reunite with her childhood best friend— Hannah Wells. Overly protective and convinced that John Logan is in love with Hannah, Y/n is determined to keep him away. Logan is intrigued, and mildly annoyed at the new girl that keeps scaring women away from him.
TW: allusions to SA (not really), cursing
a/n: thanks for all the support for my random story idea <3 <3!! i'm definitely a little rusty, so bare with me pls! also, i haven't read the books (sorry sorry), so this is based off of the show. comment or send me a dm to be added to the tag list!
previous | part 1 | next
Y/n stared at the acceptance email on her laptop screen for the third time that hour, the Briar University logo gleaming at the top like a beacon. Her finger hovered over Hannah's contact in her phone. She'd been sitting on this for exactly thirty-seven minutes— a record for her, if she was being honest. But the words full athletic scholarship and women's soccer team kept blurring together with the single thought that mattered most. Hannah.
She hit the call button before she could overthink it anymore.
Hannah picked up on the second ring. "Hey! What's up?"
"So," Y/n started, unable to keep the smile from seeping into her voice, "hypothetically speaking, how would you feel if your most favorite person in the world happened to be transferring to a certain school in Hastings?"
There was a beat of silence. Then, "Wait. Wait. Are you—"
"I got an offer," Y/n said, her words tumbling out faster as the anticipation grew. "Full ride. They want me on the team as their main center mid. I'd start in January. I literally just finished all the paperwork."
The scream that erupted from the other end of the line was so loud Y/n had to pull the phone away from her ear. She was laughing now, the kind of uncontrollable, childish giggle that only Hannah could pull out of her.
"Oh my god, oh my god!" Hannah was practically shrieking. "Are you serious right now? Please tell me you're serious, because if this is a joke I will literally kill you."
"No, Han, I made up this elaborate story just to get you excited over nothing," Y/n joked, still grinning like an idiot. "Of course I'm serious. I mean, unless you don't want me there. Which would be a bit awkward, 'cause I already signed the—"
"Shut up! Of course I want you here! This is—" Hannah's voice cracked slightly, and Y/n felt her chest tighten. "This is the best news I've gotten in like ever. When are you coming?"
"January. I'll have to sit out fall season, obviously, but spring training starts right after winter break." Y/n paused, biting back a smile. "I know it's kind of last minute, and I don't even have housing sorted yet, but—"
"Oh my god, housing," Hannah interrupted, her voice suddenly intense. "Wait, Allie and I have that extra bedroom in our suite. We've just been using it for storage and random shit because our assigned roommate switched last minute. You have to move in with us."
Y/n felt something warm unravel in her chest. "I'd love to. Only if it's okay with Allie, though."
"Are you kidding? She's going to lose her mind. Remember when you visited last year? She literally nagged me for a week asking when you were coming back." Hannah laughed. "Okay, I'm at Garrett's with everyone right now, I have to go tell them! But we're going to plan everything. I'm talking room setup, class schedules, where to get actually good coffee—"
"Han," Y/n cut her off softly, her voice catching just slightly. "I'm really excited."
"Me too," Hannah said, quieter now, and Y/n could hear the smile in her voice. "I've gotta go tell everyone! I'll call you later, okay? I love you."
"Love you too."
The line went dead, and Y/n sat back in her desk chair, staring up at the ceiling. She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Briar. She was actually doing this. She was leaving, and she was going to be with her best friend again.
Hannah had always seen her. Had always chosen her.
And now, finally, Y/n was choosing herself.
Hannah stood in the hallway of the hockey house, phone still in hand, trying to process what had just happened. Y/n was transferring to Briar. Her Y/n. Her best friend since kindergarten, the person who knew her better than anyone, who'd been there during the worst time of her life.
She was coming here.
Hannah didn't realize she was crying until she felt wetness on her cheeks. Happy tears. The kind that made her chest feel too full.
She took a deep breath, wiped her face, and then ran back into the living room.
"ALLIE!"
The entire room jumped at the noise. Tucker, who'd been half asleep on the recliner, nearly fell backwards out of the chair. Logan looked up from his phone with raised eyebrows. Garrett, who'd been leaning against the arm of the couch next to Hannah's empty spot, straightened immediately.
"Jesus Christ, Wellsy," Dean muttered, though he was grinning. "Little warning next time?"
Allie, who'd been tucked into Dean's side on the couch, sat up with wide eyes. "What? Did Dexter finally break up with that piece of shit from the musical theatre department?!"
"Y/n's transferring to Briar!" Hannah practically shouted, bouncing on her toes.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Allie screamed.
"OH MY GOD!" She jumped off the couch, almost elbowing her boyfriend in the face. "Wait—wait." Her eyes went wider, if that was even possible. "We have an extra room! Tell her she has to move in with us!"
Hannah was already nodding, beaming so hard her cheeks hurt. "I already did. She said yes."
The two girls grabbed each other's hands and started jumping up and down like they were thirteen, neither caring how ridiculous they looked.
"Okay, what the hell just happened?" Tucker asked groggily, looking between them in utter confusion. "Who's Y/n?"
"And why are you two literally jumping for joy?" Logan added, clearly amused.
Hannah finally stopped bouncing and turned to face the guys, still grinning. "Y/n is my best friend from back home. We've known each other since we were kids. She just got offered a full ride to play on Briar's women's soccer team, and she's starting in the spring semester!"
"That's awesome, babe," Garrett said, standing up to wrap an arm around her shoulders. He pressed a kiss to her temple. "I know you've missed her."
Hannah leaned into him, grateful. Garrett had heard plenty about Y/n over the past few months, but had never actually met her. "She's amazing," Hannah said. "Like, seriously. Best soccer player I've ever seen."
"Cool," Logan said, turning back to his phone. "When does she get here?"
"January," Hannah said. "She'll be here in January."
Allie was already pulling out her phone, making a Pinterest board. "I already have ideas for her room. And we should throw her a welcome party or something!"
"Alright," Hannah nodded, clapping her hands together. "Who wants to help me plan the best 'welcome to Briar' surprise ever?"
Allie grinned. "I'm already on it."
The boys exchanged casual glances, but Hannah didn't care.
The suite was chaos in the best way possible.
Y/n stood in the doorway of her new room, taking it in. The empty walls, the bare desk, the twin bed with its plastic mattress cover still on. It was small and slightly falling apart, but it was perfect.
"Okay, so we cleared out the closet," Hannah was saying, already moving around the room with the kind of purpose that Y/n had come to appreciate. "And Allie and I keep the common area neutral so you could add whatever decorations to it."
"We're thinking of adding string lights," Allie smiled brightly, appearing in the doorway with a box of Y/n's belongings balanced on her hip. "Make it more homey."
Y/n felt something in her chest loosen.
"Hey," Allie said, setting the box down and pulling Y/n into a tight hug before she could respond. "Welcome home."
It was such a simple thing to say. Such a small gesture. But Y/n found herself holding on for a beat longer than necessary, breathing in the familiar vanilla scent of Allie's perfume.
Before they could pull apart, Hannah was already wrapping her arms around both of them, sandwiching Y/n between them.
"I can't believe you're actually here," Hannah whispered into Y/n's shoulder.
"God, me neither," Y/n said, and she meant it.
They stood like that for a moment. The three of them huddled together in the small dorm room, the bright afternoon light filtering through the window.
Allie pulled back with a clap of her hands. "Alright, let's get you unpacked before dinner. I'm thinking we order pizza, blast some music, and make this room actually livable."
The next two hours passed in a blur. Y/n's small Honda Civic had been packed strategically— clothes on one side, school supplies and soccer gear in another, and the few personal items she'd bothered to bring in a separate box up front. It wasn't much. She'd never been one to hold onto things.
Hannah and Allie, however, seemed determined to fill the space with life.
"This poster should definitely go above the bed," Allie declared, holding up a print of some rock band Y/n had picked up a few years ago. "And we have to get you some plants! Plants make everything better, even the fake ones."
Y/n hung her clothes in the closet while Hannah organized her books on the small shelf beside the desk, arranging them by color in a way that made Y/n roll her eyes affectionately.
"Your soccer trophies go here," Hannah said, pointing to the shelf space beside the books. "So everyone knows what's up."
"No one's going to care about my trophies," Y/n said, but she was already pulling them out of the box.
"I care," Hannah said simply. "And Allie cares."
Allie nodded enthusiastically from where she was now arranging Y/n's bedding. "Damn right. You're a badass athlete. Own it."
Y/n set the trophies on the shelf, feeling more seen than she had in a long time.
By the time they finished, the room had transformed. It still looked like a shitty dorm room, but it was hers. The walls were still bare, but Allie had a plan for that. Her books were organized, clothes were hung up. Her soccer stuff was tucked neatly in the corner. The string lights Allie had mentioned were already strung up around the window, casting everything in a warm glow.
"You like it?" Hannah asked, standing in the small doorway with Allie.
Y/n looked around and felt something in her chest loosen. Something that had been wound tight for so long it had become normal.
"Yeah," she said quietly, smiling to herself. "It's great."
"Pizza's here!" Allie called, already heading toward the common area. "And I may have splurged on garlic knots."
Hannah grabbed Y/n's hand and pulled her along, and Y/n let herself be led out of her room. The three of them settled onto the worn couch in the suite's living area, pizza box open on the coffee table, music playing softly from a speaker.
Hannah tucked her feet underneath her, leaning against Y/n's shoulder in that easy, comfortable way she had. Allie was already halfway through her first slice, talking animatedly about her classes and the drama filled theater department.
Y/n listened, ate, and felt that knot continue to loosen.
This was what she'd been missing. Not just Hannah— though that was a big part of it— but this. The feeling of being wanted, of being chosen, of being home with people who actually care.
"So," Allie said, turning to Y/n with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Tell us everything. How was the drive? Are you ready to absolutely destroy the women's soccer team?"
Y/n smiled. A real one, not the polished version she'd perfected over the years. "The drive was fine. Stopped for coffee somewhere in Pennsylvania. And yeah, I'm ready."
"That's my girl," Hannah said, squeezing her hand.
Y/n squeezed back, letting herself sink into the couch. Everything finally felt right for once.
➷ summary: after plowing down john logan during one of your volleyball games, you catch the man’s eye. and, to be totally honest, he caught yours, too. but you know you can’t give in that easily; you’ve got to make him earn it, and during that process, you discover that through getting to know and understand john logan, you’ve unlocked a whole new chapter of your life that you didn’t even know was possible to exist.
pt.2 of plowed down
➷ word count: 5919
➷ warnings: cursing, little bit angsty during one part (just about family stuff, nothing to do with their relationship so don’t worry), you’re the main character (sure me, idc), definitely inaccurate volleyball references. also, i know that with ncaa championships, they’re typically like a few days after the semifinals BUT FOR THE PLOT, we’re gonna pretend it’s like two weeks after (again, sorry, just bear with me).
omg also guys thank you so fucking much for the love that i received on plowed down!!! like it was genuinely bonkers waking up to all those notifications, so thank you so much!!!!
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
You weren’t exactly sure what you had going on with John Logan.
It had been two weeks since you plowed the man down– two weeks since you made out against your apartment door, since you told him you didn’t do casual; that you didn’t do hook-ups.
Two weeks since the guy started practically worshipping the ground you walked on.
You aren’t sure what you did to warrant this; you had quite honestly been playing hard to get after making out with him. Partly because you were maybe a little bit embarrassed by how easily you gave into his charm, but also partly because you knew how guys like John Logan worked. They were athletes who had sex with different girls every few days, who were texting multiple girls at once. Guys like John Logan were players, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing when they were honest about it.
But you didn’t like to engage with players more than once, because, again, casual didn’t work for you. It was just something you swore off on in your sophomore year of college because for you, flings and hook-ups came with too much emotional baggage.
It was your own fault, quite honestly.
To you, intimacy was much more than a quick fuck. It always meant more to you. It had to be with someone you trusted, someone you had gotten to know over a certain amount of time. You learned that through a messy situationship, which is what created your personal rules.
That is why you tried to let John Logan down the easy way. With a playful grin, you had whispered the words, “I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”
And John Logan had fucking grinned.
Like he understood– like he was on the same page, which you knew he wasn’t.
Or, at least, you thought you knew.
But apparently you didn’t, because after you had said those words, he backed off you, his fingers lingering on your hips. He had still been smiling as he looked at you with gentle eyes and nodded, “Okay. Nothing casual, no hooking up. I can do that.”
“What?”
You blurted out the question, and you’re positive your face revealed how fucking shocked and baffled you were, because John had laughed, the sound warming your chest in the scariest way for a man you had only known for a few hours. He was dangerous, and yet you still felt the urge to dip your fingers into his flames.
He shrugged, and then said, “I can do that.”
“Okay, no.”
“No?”
“No! Isn't it your thing, to like, hook up with girls at parties?”
“I haven’t done that for weeks now–”
“Oh, how tragic,” you drawl, but you’re still smiling despite yourself. You let your hands trail up his arms and to his shoulders. You give them a quick squeeze, and then nod, “Well, this was fun.”
Now he looks baffled.
“So we’re done?”
“I don’t do hook-ups.”
“I won’t either.”
“That’s a lot of commitment for a girl you just met.”
He sighs, and he looks down at you, as if he’s searching your eyes for something, anything– and, you don’t know how, but the motherfucker seems to find what he’s looking for, because he nods, grins, and says, “Can I get your number, then? You should get to know me before you decide to get rid of me completely.”
“We’re following each other on Instagram now.”
“This is different.”
You’re slightly shocked by his words, but you’re watching his face, and you can’t help the way your lips quirk up. But you don’t nod, and you don’t give in. You smile and watch as his eyes glimmer when you respond.
“You’ve gotta earn it, Logan.”
As you said those words, you figured he’d get bored of you within a couple days. Forget about you completely, be a failed sexual encounter in the back of his mind, who he would forget about in a few months time.
Yeah, that absolutely did not happen.
Not even two days later the man somehow found your practice schedule– you had deep suspicion Jade was his source– where he had waited outside for you to finish up, standing on the cold with not even an ounce of exasperation.
“... You waited for me to finish practice?” You question, your practice bag slung over your shoulder. You stared at John Logan, dumbfounded. He was standing outside of the Briar gymnasium where your practice was held, hands shoved in the pockets of his Carhartt jacket, a happy smile on his face.
“You said if I wanted your number, I’d need to earn it. Here I am, earning it.”
“You’re being serious?” You question, and you look back to your teammates, all of whom had stopped in their tracks, watching the scene with a mixture of expressions. Some shocked, some giddy. The only part of the expressions that stayed consistent was how everyone was smiling from ear to ear.
“Yes.”
You falter– stammer, quite honestly– and you feel like your head is about to explode, because you never expected that John Logan would take you to your word. You stand there for about thirty seconds, baffled into silence, when Louisa finally nudges you in the ribs, knocking your thoughts back into your head.
“I mean, a deal’s a deal,” you say after leaving the poor guy standing in silence for far longer than necessary. You don’t miss the way his face lights up, and you watch as he hurries over to you, digging out his phone from his pocket.
He unlocks it, passing you the phone, and you go to his contacts, creating your own.
You look back up at him, face held with faux seriousness, “What number should I be? Girl thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
“Number one works.”
You snort, “Number one? Be serious.”
“I am,” he says with a playful grin. “I’m not a total player. Anymore, at least.”
“Mhm,” you nod. “Well, you’re number fourty-seven in my phone, so–”
He snorts at that, a loud laugh escaping him, and his smile is still wide on his face as you hand him his phone back. He looks down at the screen, clicking onto your contact. You’ve written your name and put a little volleyball emoji next to it, which has him looking up at you with a raised eyebrow.
“Just so I won’t get lost in your sea of girls,” you elaborate.
“It’s more like a plastic fair bag now, but okay.”
For whatever reason, that had you seeing hearts because holy shit he was funny. But you compose yourself enough to not tackle him to the floor with a frenzied kiss.
In fact, ever since that encounter, you’ve learned to compose yourself in many ways. Basically whenever you guys hang out. Because, despite wanting to kiss the ever-loving shit out of him every time you guys were together, you had composed yourself with major difficulty. In the two weeks he’d had your number– the two weeks that you guys had been doing random, stupid shit together– you had only made out with John Logan three times. And each time, it had only been making out. Nothing more.
As it turned out, John Logan really was a man of his word. He had no expectations for whatever the fuck was going on between you two. During the three times you two had made out, it had caught him by surprise each time. Not that he wasn’t into it; he was extremely into it. He just hadn’t been expecting any kissing.
You had been the one to initiate it each time, and he was there to happily oblige.
Which, unfortunately for you, only made him hotter.
Still, most of your hangouts would be what many would deem as boring. He’d pick you up from your practice most nights, and then you guys would get food; always your choice, even when you tried to make him choose. You’d sit in his car and talk about whatever– you had even gone on a rant one time on how a block of cheese was technically a loaf of milk, and the guy had nodded along with full seriousness as if you had just said the most logical thing he’d ever heard.
You’d also gone over to his house a few times, gotten to know the teammates that he lives with (his best friends). And their girlfriends, of course. As it turn outs, Allie and Hannah were fun as fuck. The number of times you guys had played Just Dance on the guys’ TV was astronomical for the limited amount of time you’d known the group; you had become fluent with the Rasputin dance. And, God, you didn’t even want to calculate the number of late nights you had stayed at the house, beating the absolute shit out of Tucker and Dean in Mario Kart with Allie.
You swore sometimes you had more fun with John’s friends than him.
You had even told John that to his face once; his response was to give you the most dramatic pout he could muster, which, in turn, caused you to make out with him for the third time. He was smiling after that.
Out of all your hangouts, though, most of them were dedicated to you doing something of importance while he just sat beside you and watched.
Such as right now.
You were in the Briar U library, flipping through one of your textbooks as you took notes for an upcoming midterm. You weren’t all that worried about it since the class was relatively easy, but you still wanted to study. Just in case.
You would’ve been nearly done with studying had a little leech not been bothering you the entire time.
You side-eyed Logan as he flipped through your stack of notecards, watching as he let out a bored breath of air. He then reached over, grabbing your pencil pouch, where he opened it, grabbing an orange sparkly pen from inside.
Instantly, you snatch it from his grip.
“Absolutely not.”
“What?” He asks, eyes wide in a playful manner. His boredom was swept away in a matter of seconds, and he straightened up, leaning closer to you.
“That’s my lucky pen, and I swear to everything if you took away its luck with your grubby hands–”
“Grubby?”
“– I will kill you.”
He smiles, something he can’t seem to stop doing around you, and sinks back into his chair. “Fine.”
“Good,” you say, returning to your notes. But not before you lift your eyes to look at him, where you mutter, “Just sit there and look pretty.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
“Why else would I have kept you around?”
He laughs quietly, “So my looks are all I’m good for?”
“That and your friends.”
“Wow.”
This time it’s you who smiles and you can’t stop yourself as you lean over, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
You’re quick to get back to the task at hand– studying– because if you don’t, you know you’ll see the dopey expression on John’s face. If you see that, you know that three make-out sessions will immediately turn into four. And you know that can’t happen in the middle of a fucking library where people are studying, so you distract yourself instantly, flipping back through the pages of your textbook.
It’s silent for a couple minutes as he watches you, completely content with where he’s at. But he sits up suddenly, seemingly remembering something, and then he says, “You should come over tonight.” His fingers were tapping against the wood of the table as he spoke, his eyes watching your hands as you paused on a page, a flash of confusion corrupting your expression. His eyes soften as a result, “Tucker said he’s trying out a new dish. You’d like it.”
“I can’t,” you respond without much thought, furrowing your brows as you flip back a few pages in your textbooks, and then in your notes. You’re trying to find a specific concept that you remember reading, but for some reason, you can’t find it anywhere; it’s the pure source of your confusion and it will stay that way until you find what you’re looking for. “The fuck?” You mumble, and then you look at John when he lets out a little snort, “Sorry– what’d you say?”
“You should come over,” he repeated, this time with a soft grin as he watched you. His eyes flickered over your face, scanning. It was something he always did when you spoke, like even the tiniest change in your facial expression was a portal to something holy.
“Oh, right,” you nod. You shake your head immediately after. “Can’t.”
“I heard.”
“Sorry,” you apologize, but your tone isn’t very sincere. Not as you flip a few more pages in your textbook, looking for the concept that seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. John doesn’t seem to care, his pretty smile still on full display.
“Why can’t you?”
“Late practice tonight,” you say, and then you turn to look at him, finally smiling at the softness in his eyes. “Y’know, for the championship in a couple days.”
“After, then. Come over. I’ll pick you up.”
“I won’t get out of practice until after 9. I’ve been sloppy with my saves these past few practices, and Coach Peters is really getting worried, so–”
“God, I love it when you talk volleyball to me,” he interrupts, to which you lose your smile and shoot him a harsh look because he knows what that does to you.
It was the reason for the other two times you had made out with him. And, fuck, it was about to be the fourth, because the man was unreasonably hot. You shake your head, deciding to scoot your chair away from his. Your self-restraint is quickly wavering, especially after you glance him over, allowing you to really absorb how good he looks in the sweatshirt he’s wearing. And, watching as you scoot away from him, he lets out a small sigh, scooting his chair closer. You give him a look, and he grins, scooting even closer, the side of his knee pressing against yours. Your eyes turn annoyed, and he innocently asks, “What?”
“You’re distracting me, and you know it,” you answer. “You do this on purpose.”
He hums, “So you’ll come over?”
“Yeah,” you say, as if it was the most obvious answer. When he smiles, you quickly add on, “only for the meal, though.”
“Obviously,” he nods with fake seriousness. “Why else would you?”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“No ideas are coming to mind.”
“Good. Because I’m just coming over to eat.”
“Yep.”
“So no kissing.”
“No kissing?” He whines, completely dramatic and not at all serious. You can see him fighting to keep the smile from his face, “Why not?”
“Keep it in your pants, Logan.”
“Oh, it hasn’t left my pants. My pants have remained perfectly intact, thank you.”
You laugh, covering your mouth with your hand before you piss off the librarian. You shake your head, and you look at him with a level of affection that is far stronger than it should be with how little time you have known the hockey boy.
“You’re insufferable,” you whisper with a big smile.
“I think you love it.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
You get out of practice at 9:34 p.m.
It’s later than you had been expecting, and you’re absolutely exhausted as you trudge over to John’s truck. You pull open the passenger side door, and he looks up from his phone with a soft smile as you toss your back to the floor, pulling yourself into your seat with a long sigh.
“You okay?”
“Sleepy,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes before turning your head to look over at him.
“You want me to take you back to your apartment?” He asks, his tone gentle as he watches you buckle your seatbelt. “You don’t need to come back to mine if you’re too tired. We can hang out another time–”
You shake your head, “No, I’m starving, and all I’ve been imagining for the past two hours is Tucker’s food.”
He laughs softly and nods, “Okay.”
When you finally get to the house that’s situated off campus, John cuts his engine, exits the vehicle, and walks around the front of his truck. He opens the passenger side door before you can even unbuckle, and you smile softly as he reaches over you, unbuckling the seatbelt for you.
“I could’ve done that myself, y’know?” You say, taking the hand that he held out for you. “I’m perfectly capable.”
He gave your hand a short squeeze as you hopped out of his truck, and he nodded, “I know. But you’re tired.”
Your eyes follow as he grabs your practice bag and slings it over his shoulder, using his foot to shut the passenger. His hand remains threaded with yours, and you him softly, “You’re playing gentleman tonight?”
“I’m always a gentleman. Get it straight.”
You laugh softly, giving him a slight nudge with your shoulder as you guys reach the front door. John opens it, and you walk in alongside him, instantly greeted with the delicious smell of whatever the hell Tucker cooked. Your stomach growled as a result, and your hand– still linked with John’s– squeezed his as you tugged him along to the kitchen, where his entire friend group was gathered, hanging out casually as they usually did.
Hannah notices you first, and she smiles softly, “How was practice?”
“Tiring,” you respond, finally releasing John’s hand. You slip into one of the island chairs next to Allie, and you thank Tucker quietly as he slips a bowl of fancy looking pasta in front of you. You grab your fork, twirl some pasta onto the prongs, and bite into it with a satisfied hum, “This is so fucking good, Tuck.”
He grins happily, “Logan said you would like it. It has parsley!”
“It’s delicious,” you nod, taking another bite. And as you do, you feel Logan come up behind you, his arms snaking around your front, his chin resting on the top of your head. You promptly ignore the warm feeling that flutters in your chest, eating more of the amazing pasta dish.
After finishing up the food, you and the rest of the group somehow migrate to the living room. You’re sitting on the couch beside Logan, tucked beneath his arm, your head resting against the crook of his shoulder as you watch Dean and Garrett play the worst game of silent charades that you had ever seen. Allie seemed borderline aggravated as she yelled out words that she thought aligned with the movements of the men only to then be pissed off because ‘Dean, what the fuck even was that?’.
You had to admit, it had been the funniest thing you’d witnessed in awhile.
And, you’re not sure when you fall asleep, all you know is that you’re woken sometime later in the evening by the soft touch of Logan, his eyes gentle as he carefully shifts you awake. You blink your eyes open, only to realize that all the others are heading to bed, and reach over Logan, grabbing his phone from his lap. You tap on the screen, checking the time; 12:17 a.m.
“Want me to drive you home?” He asks, using his thumb to swipe an eyelash from your cheek.
You groan in response.
“No?” He laughs, the hand that’s around your shoulders rubbing up and down your arm.
“Can I just stay here tonight?”
“Absolutely.”
He says the words immediately, and you’re caught entirely off guard as he stands from the couch, scooping you up in his arms with a scary amount of ease. Your eyes widen, arms scrambling to latch around his shoulders as you let out a quiet sound of panic, voice rushed as you breathe out, “John, what the fuck–”
“You’re tired.”
“Yeah, but I can still walk, you idiot. Oh my God, put me down–”
“We’re half way up the stairs and you want me to drop you?”
“If you drop me I’m never speaking to you again.”
He laughs again, this time filled with pure amusement as he continues scaling the stairs with you in his arms. Your arms stay hooked around his shoulders as he walks in the direction of his room, and carefully opens the door, stepping inside. Still, he doesn’t bother to put you down just yet. He holds you as he shuts the door behind him, his grip on you steady while he walks over to his desk, switching on the lamp.
When he finally sets you down, he plops you onto his mattress, not giving you much time before he’s draping himself over you with a satisfied sigh, and you can’t help the smallest giggle that leaves your chest, your hands pressing against his front.
“You’re crushing me.”
“Whoops.”
He makes no attempt to move, and again, you push against his shoulders, “You’re comfy, but I’m still in my volleyball clothes, and I want to change–” You stop suddenly, groaning with dismay.
Instantly, he pushes himself off you.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed with concern.
“I have no clothes to change into.”
“Just wear my stuff,” he says, pulling himself from you completely. He stands with a stretch, and you watch as the bottom of his sweatshirt rises just enough for you to see a sliver of his stomach. Fuck, you were going to go feral.
You clear your throat, and clap your hands once, “Then chop chop, hockey boy.”
It only takes him a few seconds to grab you something to wear; he comes up with a pair of plaid boxer shorts and a Briar hockey sweatshirt with the number 22 on the back. As you take the clothing, you raise your eyebrow, “No other sweatshirts?”
“Nope, that’s my only clean one. Sorry.”
And the man’s a fucking liar because behind him, where is closet is just partially open, you can see at least four more regular sweatshirts hanging, completely clean.
“Huh,” you mutter. “You must be blind.”
“That’s the only clean one,” he repeats. “So, better go ahead and change into it.”
You laugh, shaking your head. Standing, you clutch the clothing in your hands, and as you pass him, you press a soft kiss to his lips– which, holy shit, it’s the first time you’ve ever done that as if it were second nature– and you mumble, “You really are insufferable, Logan.”
He hums against your lips, his hand going to your jaw as he presses a couple more soft kisses to you. You can’t help but smile, and you lean back, gazing up at him. You don’t say anything, just run a hand through his hair, and your smile turns giddy as you pull back fully, your bottom lip tucking beneath your teeth as you try to bite back your grin.
You point to the bathroom that’s connected to his room, “I’m gonna go change.”
He nods with a happy smile, responding in that soft voice that you realized he only uses with you, “Okay.”
Once changed, you exit the bathroom, finding John already in his bed, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt. You walk over to his bed, not saying a thing as you plop down on his mattress, stretching out across his mattress.
“Cozy?” He asks as he turns on his side to face you.
“Yeah. It’d be better if we were cuddling, though.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Not that I expect you to do that, though,” you say the words playfully. “I mean, I’ve never watched you play, but I assume you’re the same on and off the ice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not good at taking the shot, if you get what I mean–”
“Shut up,” he laughs, and he grabs your arm, gently tugging you to him. You grin, getting situated against his body, one of your legs draped across his while your arm rests over his torso, your head settled comfortably on his chest with your ear pressed right over the beating of his heart.
And you stay like this for a while, just until you’re on the brink of falling asleep. But before you can slip into that peaceful state of bliss, a question you had been meaning to ask– a question you had been too nervous to ask– comes to mind.
You’re not able to stop yourself from asking it.
“You wanna come to the championship and watch me play?” You question from where your head is still tucked against his chest, your voice whispers into the fabric of his sweatshirt and against his skin that lies beneath it. “It’s a three hour drive away.”
You feel him let out a soft breath of air, his fingers dancing gently along the fabric of his sweatshirt that covers the dip of your back. His voice is low and gravelly as he speaks, coated with a layer of sleepiness, “I want to, and I tried to find tickets, but they’re all sold out. Even Allie tried to find some and she couldn’t, which means I’m shit out of luck.”
“I’ve got tickets,” you say. “My teammates and I each got six tickets. Thought you might want them. You and your friends can go. They’re good seats.”
You can practically feel the frown in John’s expression as he asks quietly, “You’re not gonna give them to your family?”
“No,” You swallow thickly and do your best to keep your eyes shut because you know John’s looking at you now. His fingers stopped trailing along your spine as a result of the change in your tone and your body language, and you sigh against him. Might as well get it out of the way. “I just– I did everything I could to get out of my house as a teenager. To get away from my parents and the rest of my family. I don’t really feel like giving them a straight ticket back into my life, y’know?”
He’s quiet for a second before he nods, speaking softly, “Yeah, I know. I get it.”
“I’ve never had anyone in any of the seats during my games,” you continue. “I just thought it would be kinda nice to have that for once. You don’t need to, though. I know it’s really last minute, and–”
“No, I’ll go,” John interrupts you before you can finish. “We all will. Me and the guys. And Hannah and Allie. The six of us will go.”
“You sure?”
He laughs softly, tiredly, and nods, “Yeah, baby, I’m sure.”
Oh my God, you were going to fucking implode. But you hold in the desperate need to squeal like a dumbass, and instead bite the inside of your cheek to fight against the wide grin that wants to break out on your face.
After composing yourself enough to not make a complete and utter fool of yourself, you nod, and tilt your head up, pressing the softest kiss to his jaw.
He smiles as a result, the smallest shade of pink flushing his cheeks.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m excited.”
“Me too.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
John Logan was your goodluck charm.
The guy had to be, because this was the best fucking game you had ever played in your life. Sure, the first set wasn’t the best for Briar U, but that was okay given you guys were playing against Penn State. The team had won every single game so far this season, so, in short words, they were good as hell. They’d also won the NCAA Championship for the past five years, which was devastatingly nerve wracking knowing you were against the best team D1 volleyball currently had.
Still, tonight, you and your teammates came with a mission; you were going to win.
And, fuck, was it looking promising.
Despite Penn State winning the first set, Briar U had won the other two.
They weren’t wipeouts, but that didn’t matter, because you had won them.
That meant that if you and your teammates somehow managed to win this fourth set, you’d place Briar as the fucking NCAA Women’s Volleyball Champions for the first time in over ten years. It’d be an insane feat, and you had to fight from getting too excited about the possibility, especially because right now, it was looking very likely.
So far, you’ve saved every stray ball, hitting it back to your teammates or over the net with ease. As you played, your smile never left your face. Not even as you dove for the ball, saving it as you slid across the polished wood floor.
That didn’t mean Penn wasn’t doing good, though. Because they absolutely were.
They were playing with a fierceness of a team who wanted this win just as badly as you did; it felt like an even playing field, and while that could be fun, tonight it was terrifying.
Right now, the score was 22 to 23. The set was almost over, and it was in Briar’s favor. If you guys got two more points, you were winning the match. If you won, you’d be the first captain in over ten years to lead Briar to a volleyball victory and that’s exactly what you were planning on doing.
No way did you fight this hard only to lose.
You were hovering near the back of the court, watching as Jade surged forward, tapping the ball over to the right of the court. Instantly, your teammates rallied toward the ball, leaving the left side of the court completely unguarded, and your eyes lingered on the ball, watching as Louisa sprinted forward, feet fast as she jumped up, spiking it over the net.
The middle hitter on the Penn State team hurried forward, blocking the spike with a bump of her arms, and you watched as the ball practically hovered over the net.
Right to the spot that was unguarded.
You’re not sure how you moved as fast as you did– one second, you were at the back right of the court, and the next, you were flying in the upper left, body in the air as you threw yourself forward, your right hand bumping the ball back to your teammates just before it hit the ground on your side of the net.
Your body hit the floor with a thud, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, because the moment you had successfully executed the move, your side of the room erupted in loud cheers. It shook the floor as you stood up, and you didn’t waste any time as you sprinted back to the center of the court.
Just in time, too, because the setter of Penn State sent a lethal spike in your direction, and you dropped to a knee, forearms out as the ball bounced from your skin and back over the net. Two saves in a matter of seconds, and you could literally see your coaches losing it from pure happiness in the corner.
You probably looked like a cocky motherfucker, your lips upturned in the smallest of smiles as you shuffled backward, and then dove sideways, saving yet another ball from being spiked into the ground.
And yeah, you were definitely right– John Logan was totally your lucky charm tonight because holy fuck, you were even impressing yourself.
More cheers sounded throughout your side of the room, increasing tenfold as Liliana jumped, spiking the ball down to the back corner of Penn State’s side, earning Briar U their 24th point of the fourth set.
It was an exhilarating sound, and you laughed with pure joy as you ran over to Liliana, the rest of the girls on your side of the court meeting halfway. You huddled with pure glee; one more point, and you guys were winning.
All you needed was one more point.
Leaving the huddle, you guys got back into your positions. You watched as Macey served the ball, starting what would hopefully be the final round of the night.
The Penn girls were quick to rally on the ball; they moved it over the net with ease, and you watched as Jade ran, hitting it back over the net. It went back and forth for a bit, the round intense. It felt like it was purely silent save for the cheers from supporters that erupted when either side had a good save or hit.
You watched as the libero for Penn bump the ball with her wrist, causing it to go over the net. And then you see as the entire team moves away, going near the back of the court, like they knew what the next play was going to be; a spike ball.
Except it wasn’t that at all.
No, it’s the complete opposite, because you’re in the exact spot that you’re meant to be in for this current play. You’re close enough that the ball clearly belongs to you at this moment, and you run up, arms carefully bumping the ball over the net.
It barely catches the top before it topples over to Penn State’s side.
The girls hadn’t been expecting it; they’re unable to move fast enough from where they had migrated to the back of the court with the expectation that Liliana or Louisa were going to spike the ball over the net, a move that had earned you guys many wins this season.
They hadn’t been expecting you to run up and hit the ball with your forearms in such a way that it only just made it over the net.
You watched as the volleyball hit the floor on Penn’s side.
Holy fuck.
You’d scored the winning point.
You can’t even process the fucking thing, because you’re instantly bombarded by your teammates– ones both on and off the court– as they swarm into a pile around you, the deafening cheers of the crowd blocking out the cheers from your own teammates who stood around you.
You guys are jumping up and down, and you’re not even sure when you stop, because one moment you’re celebrating with your teammates and coaches, and the next you’re following after your teammates, running towards the people who had come to watch you in the stands.
And you find him instantly.
John Logan is standing in the front row– because, yes, the seats were great– with his friends next to him, all of them grinning ear to ear as they cheered for you.
Your feet moved like they had a mind of their own; you’re sprinting to John like he’s the only thing you’re even capable of thinking about at the moment, and that’s because he is.
When you finally reach him, you practically leap into John’s arms, your hands threading around the back of his neck with a tight grip, and you have the widest smile on your face as you press your lips firmly against his.
He reciprocates the kiss instantly, hands clutching your waste as he leans down to match your lips.
It’s soft, not anything over the top, but fuck does it have you wanting more.
As you pull away, you stare up at John with an excited spark in your eye.
“So kissing’s a thing we do regularly now?” He asked, the happiest grin you’d ever seen on his face. “That’s okay now?”
“Yeah,” you nod, your grin matching his. “I’d say so.”
SUMMARY: A frustrated figure skater who transferred from Illinois has only one goal: keeping her athletic scholarship this season, and she’ll do anything to change the way people on campus see her — especially if it means improving her image for pairs skating. Even if it costs her a fake relationship with the same person who spread the nickname that turned her into “Ice Heart.”
WARNING: SMUT AHEAD CONTENT RELATED TO SEX, RELATIONSHIPS, AND DISORDERS CONTENT CONTAINS FACTS, BUT REMEMBER THIS IS FANFICTION, IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, LEAVE!
MASTERLIST
0.5 Hurricane
Slowly opening my eyes, I looked around the room, my vision still unfocused at the edges, and let out a quiet groan. Large hands rested against my body, one fallen beside where my left hand lay near my face, while the other rested between my stomach and chest as his arms wrapped perfectly around me.
I was fully aware of everything that had happened last night. Every stupid thing I’d had the courage to say out loud because apparently my brain only filtered thoughts after I spoke them.
But honestly, I believed it would be easier to pretend I remembered nothing. So yes, when I denied remembering anything, I was going to do it with the straightest face possible.
I took another deep breath, my senses finally waking as I inhaled the scent of John’s cologne. A name I vividly remembered dreaming about. He made me dizzy, incoherent, and I felt ridiculous for letting a single kiss affect me like that.
No wonder I’d never allowed myself to date many guys. I had always hated getting attached, and that was exactly what I avoided.
I tried moving slowly to understand the situation I was in, but the most I managed was glancing over my shoulder, where Logan’s head rested near the back of my neck and his hair brushed against my shoulder.
The moment I became aware of my other senses, discomfort hit me. The oversized shirt I was wearing had ridden up around my waist, leaving the black lace thong I had on fully exposed like some kind of feast for John Logan. His hard morning erection pressed hot and firm against my skin in a way that made me want to moan, whimper, act like a bitch in heat. Which made no sense because my head was pounding and my stomach still felt awful. The second I fully registered my condition, bile rose in my throat and I shot out of bed, throwing myself out of the sheets and running toward the bathroom in the hallway. Completely ready to throw up.
I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet and emptied everything that had entered my system the night before. The bitter taste burned my throat as I gripped the edge of the toilet tightly, breathing hard between waves of nausea. My whole body trembled lightly—weak, sensitive—and my head felt like it was about to split open with every heartbeat.
“Shit…”
I muttered hoarsely, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand before shutting my eyes for a few seconds. I hated drinking. I hated even more remembering why I’d drunk that much.
I inhaled through my nose and exhaled through my mouth, trying to keep the nausea under control. I heard heavy footsteps approaching before I could even lift my head, and though I didn’t see him, I felt him stop in the doorway.
“How are you feeling?”
His voice came out rough and fuck me, if I hadn’t felt so terrible, I probably would’ve soaked the bathroom floor right then.
“Like shit.”
“Well, you look hot in that position, if that helps.”
He joked, and I glanced over my shoulder. Huge mistake. Because all I found was a messy-haired John Logan, shirtless, wearing nothing but boxers, with a hard-on clearly visible in my line of sight while he watched me through half-lidded eyes like he was trying to decide whether I was about to pass out or not.
And honestly? Maybe I was.
The thought alone made my stomach churn again, so I bent back over the toilet as another wave of nausea hit. Logan approached slowly until he stopped beside me, crouching down before pulling my hair back with one hand. The gesture caught me off guard. Simple. Natural. Far too intimate.
My stomach twisted again, but this time it had nothing to do with alcohol. Still, it was enough to make me throw up once more.
“Easy, easy…”
His hand kept my hair back while the other slowly moved up and down my back in firm, slow strokes. That didn’t help. Actually, it helped way too much. Because Logan had this infuriating way of touching me like he knew exactly what to do with me without even trying.
I spit into the toilet again before taking a shaky breath, tears burning in my eyes from the effort.
“This is fucking humiliating.”
My voice came out rough.
“Nah,” he answered calmly behind me. “I’ve seen worse.”
“Liar.”
“One time Carter threw up inside his own helmet.”
A weak laugh escaped me despite the disaster.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Agreed.”
I stayed silent for a few seconds while I caught my breath, still kneeling on the cold bathroom floor. My whole body felt weak, heavy, overly sensitive.
Especially with Logan still so close.
Too close.
I felt his fingers carefully brushing a few strands of hair away from the side of my face before his warm palm pressed against my forehead.
“You’re burning up.”
“Hangover.”
“Or maybe you’re dying.”
“Stop trying to manifest that.”
He let out a quiet laugh through his nose, and I hated how that sound made my stomach flip in a completely different way now. I slowly lifted my eyes.
Terrible mistake.
Because he was still crouched beside me wearing only boxers, absurdly big inside that tiny bathroom. His bare chest rose slowly as he watched me with a level of calm attention that felt unfair for someone who had very clearly woken up with a hard-on pressed against me five minutes ago.
My brain kindly reminded me of that immediately. My throat dried and I wanted to cry again.
“Stop looking at me right after I threw up.”
I grumbled, turning my face away.
His low laugh came almost instantly.
“Hard to when you still look pretty even completely wrecked.”
“You clearly have some psychological issue.”
“Possible.”
I rolled my eyes, but I still felt my face heat up despite the humiliating situation. Logan stayed way too close. One hand still held my hair while the other lazily moved along my back in slow, absentminded strokes, like he didn’t even realize he was slowly ruining me. Or worse. Maybe he did realize.
I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the unbearable tension filling that tiny bathroom.
Bad idea....again.
Because his scent was everywhere. On the shirt I wore. On my skin. In the air. And I remembered exactly why.
“I’ll be fine. That was enough.”
I nodded to reassure him while pushing myself up from the floor. "And man, let me tell you, I kept making terrible decisions because the room started spinning violently the moment I stood up.
“Hey...”
Logan’s hand caught my waist far too quickly for someone who supposedly had just woken up. My body crashed against his before my legs could fully give out. A frustrated little groan slipped from me as I grabbed his shoulders on instinct.
Shit.
Way too many mistakes at once. Because now I could feel everything. The warmth of his chest against mine. His large hands gripping my waist. His scent. His skin. The fact that he was practically naked. And worse: the fact that my body still reacted to it even though I felt like a walking corpse.
“I’m okay,” I murmured automatically, resting my forehead against Logan’s bare chest and shutting my eyes.
“Sorry.”
“It’s all good,” he said, bringing one hand to the back of my neck and gently stroking my hair.
“Do you remember anything?”
I kept my forehead pressed against his chest, breathing slowly while Logan’s fingers moved against the back of my neck in lazy circles.
That was dangerous.
Dangerously comfortable. Because it made everything feel easy. Natural. Like I could simply stay there. I squeezed my eyes shut before answering:
“Not much.”
I felt Logan’s chest vibrate with a low chuckle. He knew. That asshole knew I was lying.
“Hm.” That was all he said.
I slowly lifted my head, only to find his eyes already fixed on mine. Mistake.
Huge mistake.
Because he was too close. Too attractive. And looking at me in that way that slowly shut my brain down.
“I need to go.”
I pulled away from him quickly and turned my back, splashing water onto my face and rinsing my mouth with mouthwash. The words came out too fast. Almost desperate. I untangled myself from him before my brain decided to make another catastrophic mistake and immediately turned away, opening the bathroom cabinet just to look busy with literally anything other than the fact that Logan was still behind me, half naked and dangerously quiet. My hands shook too much when I grabbed the mouthwash.
Ridiculous.
I swished the liquid around my mouth while trying to ignore his presence behind me. It didn’t work because I could feel his eyes on my back. I dried my face and left the bathroom quickly enough to avoid questions.
“Do you at least remember the guy who gave you the drink?”
He asked, and I looked over my shoulder while pulling on my jeans from the night before.
“Evan… Ethan? That’s all I remember.”
I finished zipping my jeans. When I looked at my bodysuit, I blinked twice before turning toward Logan, who stood in the doorway with his jaw clenched and dark brown eyes fixed on me.
“Can I keep your shirt and give it back later?”
“Sure. You know you have to be careful accepting drinks from random guys.”
His voice turned hard, and I straightened slightly at the seriousness on his face.
“I know.”
“No, apparently you don’t.”
I narrowed my eyes and searched the room for my shoes.
“I do know. I’m careful. I have friends who’ve gone through that. I am careful.”
He laughed bitterly, and I looked back at him.
“Oh yeah, so careful that you literally got drugged last night. Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you if I hadn’t come get you away from that guy?”
My body instantly stiffened at the harshness in his voice. I clenched my teeth immediately. Because he was angry and I understood why. But the way he spoke made it sound like I was completely irresponsible.
“I knew what I was doing.”
Logan let out an incredulous laugh.
“You literally blacked out.”
“Because someone put something in my drink, Logan. Not because I’m stupid.”
“Taking a drink from a stranger at a packed party is stupid.”
The sentence hit me like a slap. I looked up instantly.
“Oh, so now this is my fault?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s exactly what it sounded like.”
He dragged a hand over his face in frustration before stepping closer.
“I’m saying you needed to be careful.”
“And I was.”
“Clearly not.”
“I knew you were there.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
“And if I hadn’t been?”
His voice rose slightly, and I blinked twice.
“Well, you were.”
I answered in the same tone. Logan’s jaw locked tightly. His brown eyes stayed fixed on mine like he was trying to decide whether he wanted to shake me or kiss me again.
Maybe both.
“That’s not an excuse.” His voice dropped this time. Too controlled. I crossed my arms immediately in a pathetic attempt to hide how much his words affected me.
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Then stop acting like it’s normal to trust someone will always show up to save you.”
That irritated me instantly.
“I didn’t ask you to save me.”
That wasn’t entirely a lie, but I had blindly trusted his presence. The second I saw Logan at that party, I relaxed. I accepted the drink because I knew he was nearby. I wanted him to see me.
“Fuck that.”
Logan answered immediately, irritation thick in his voice.
“Fuck you,” I shouted back, throwing my arms out in frustration. “Why are you fighting with me over this?”
“Because it’s you!” he practically exploded, taking another step toward me. “And you acting reckless just because you saw something you didn’t want to see is fucking stupid. You could’ve been raped!”
The word landed in the room like a slap. My entire body froze for a second. Because he sounded furious. I swallowed hard, my chest rising too fast while I tried to hold onto my pride.
“Fine!” My voice rose too. “I fucked everything up, okay? But don’t call me stupid. You don’t get to act like my boyfriend because you’re not!”
His eyes darkened instantly. His jaw tightened so hard I could see the muscle flex.
“No. I’m not.” His voice dropped lower now. Worse. Colder. “That’s why I can fuck whoever I want and still have to deal with the consequences of a spoiled girl who thinks we have something.”
That hit me directly in the chest. It tightened so painfully I almost couldn’t breathe.
“Great, thank you so fucking much, John Logan. So now I’m a spoiled brat because I got drugged? This is my fault?” I let out a disbelieving laugh before jabbing a finger against his chest. “I don’t think a fucking thing about us!”
Logan looked down at my hand pressed against him before lifting his eyes back to mine. And that was a mistake. Because there was anger there. But there was much more than that too.
“Oh really?” He laughed humorlessly. “Then why did you spend the whole night asleep calling my name?” I stared at him wide-eyed before looking away with an exasperated laugh. “Why were you mumbling nonstop about how the neighbor’s grass looked greener because I wanted to fuck her?” His voice grew louder with every sentence. “Don’t act like a hypocrite now.”
My face burned instantly.
“I’m not being hypocritical. I know exactly what I am to you, and I always knew what I’d be. But you’re fucking with my head.” I growled, feeling tears threatening to spill. “Then maybe we should stop, whatever that is.”
That seemed to hit him just as hard as every previous word had hit me. The anger on his face faltered for a second.
Just one second.
But I saw it.
And that was exactly what made my eyes burn even more. Because I didn’t want that conversation. Didn’t want that fight. Didn’t want to like him that much in that ridiculous way.
I took a deep breath, trying to stop myself from crying. I failed miserably.
The silence in the room became immediate.
Heavy.
Painful.
I didn’t even wait for an answer. I pulled his shirt off my body too quickly, completely ignoring the scent of him soaked into the fabric before tossing it onto the bed. Cold air hit my skin immediately as I pulled my top from the night before back over my body. It still smelled like alcohol, perfume, and cigarette smoke. But it was better than walking around wearing LOGAN across my back like some lovesick idiot.
Logan didn’t move.
Didn’t say anything.
And somehow that hurt even more. I grabbed my purse with frantic movements while trying to wipe away the tears before they could fully fall.
“I hope you get every girl you fuck pregnant, Logan.”
The words came out bitter. Childish. But in that moment, I wanted to hurt him too. His eyes widened slightly. But I was already leaving. I yanked the bedroom door open and slammed it behind me hard enough to shake the wall. And it was only the second I found myself alone in the hallway that the first tear fell. A broken breath escaped me along with a small, humiliating sob.
Shit. I wiped my face quickly and hurried down the stairs before he decided to come after me.
But the voices downstairs died immediately the second I appeared. Silence swallowed the living room. And I realized too late why. Everyone was staring at me.
“Hey… do you want me to call Hannah…”
Garrett started asking, but I was already at the door, shaking my head.
“No, I’ll walk. Thanks, Garrett.”
I sighed and left the house completely shaken and nauseous.
At practice later that day, I gave everything I had despite the headache, despite the nausea, despite the overwhelming urge to cry. For the first time since I’d been here, I didn’t miss a single movement on the ice. It felt like I was anchoring myself to it, and for the first time in four years, I skated the way I used to when I was fifteen.
When the music stopped, the trance I’d been completely absorbed in broke at the sound of applause—not only from my coach, but from someone else too. Someone who appeared at the worst possible moment. At my most vulnerable.
My mother stood there with her impeccable blonde hair falling over narrow shoulders so perfectly straight they looked like they’d never relaxed a single day in her life—which they probably hadn’t.
Alicia used to be Centauri’s best figure skater. She and my father, Luke, met on the ice, fell in love on the ice, had me—though probably not on the ice—but my mother’s heart turned cold when my father drowned while skating across unstable ice on a frozen lake in Hungary. After that, she no longer had time to skate because she couldn’t bear it, but she decided to blame her lack of time on me instead. From then on, skating stopped being passion and became an obligation to impress Alicia Ivens.
I swallowed hard while looking at her and vaguely heard Will mumble something to me, but I only answered with an absent-minded “Mm-hm.”
I skated off the ice toward Coach Hayes and my mother and silently clipped the blade guards onto my skates. I kept my eyes lowered while securing the guards onto the blades, trying to completely ignore my mother standing directly in front of me.
It didn’t work.
It never worked.
Because Alicia Ivens had the kind of presence that dominated every room without ever raising her voice. Everything about her was too perfect. The flawless posture. The perfectly tailored clothes.
Her impeccable Christian Louboutin heels.
But her eyes…
Her eyes were always the worst part.
Coldly analytical. As if she were never really looking at me, only evaluating a performance.
“That was different.”
Her voice cut through the silence, and I slowly lifted my eyes.
“I’m sure it’s hard to make assumptions from a single practice.”
I answered—not rudely, but coldly.
“And it’s a good thing I didn’t see the others, because according to your coach, you’ve been awful.”
Her arms crossed, and I looked toward Hayes with eyes that weren’t angry, but clearly resentful. Hayes cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable with the tension that instantly filled the rink.
“I just meant she seemed more… connected today.”
My mother kept her eyes fixed on me for a few more seconds before slowly nodding.
“Connected doesn’t win medals. Consistency does.”
Of course. Always that. Consistency. Discipline. Control. As if emotion were some kind of technical flaw. I tightened my fingers around the blade guard while trying to ignore the pain throbbing through my head and the bitter taste still lingering at the back of my throat.
“I’m training.” My voice came out short.
“Are you?” She arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Because your performance over the last few weeks suggests the exact opposite.”I swallowed hard. Hayes immediately looked away. “Coach Hayes, your opinion matters. What do you think has been causing Y/n’s inconsistency in practice?”
“Honestly? You told us you were almost dating someone, Y/n. Don’t you think that inconsistency in your relationship could be causing inconsistency on the ice?”
“Absolutely!”
My mother agreed instantly, uncrossing her arms and placing her hands on her hips as she looked at me more seriously now.
“You’re dating someone?”
My stomach dropped immediately. Of course. Because out of all the things that could’ve caught my mother’s attention, it had to be that. Hayes realized his mistake too late.
“I didn’t mean that...”
“You’re dating someone?”
My mother repeated, completely ignoring him. Her pale eyes stayed fixed on me in a suffocating way.
Analytical.
Calculating.
Like she was already reorganizing my entire schedule in her head. More training. More control. Fewer distractions.
I took a slow breath.
“No.”
The answer came out too quickly. She narrowed her eyes immediately.
“So your coach is making things up?”
Hayes looked like he wanted the ice rink to swallow him whole.
“I only meant that maybe there’s some… emotional situation affecting her lately.”
“Emotional situation.” My mother repeated the words like they were ridiculous. “Interesting.”
I crossed my arms instantly.
“Can you stop talking about me like I’m not standing right here?”
Her eyes slowly returned to mine.
“I can when you start acting like a professional athlete.”
That irritated me instantly. Because I was tired. Tired from the hangover. Tired from the fight with Logan. Tired of her.
“I literally just had the best practice of my season.”
“And yet you still left the performance emotionally unstable.”
My jaw tightened and she noticed. Of course she noticed. My mother noticed everything when it came to flaws.
“Can we talk somewhere else?”
“Why? It would be good for you to stay here while I point out exactly where you’re failing.”
“The hockey team is having issues at the other rink, so while the renovations are happening they’re practicing here after us.”
Coach Hayes explained.
My mother’s expression shifted immediately. Small and subtle.
But I knew Alicia Ivens too well not to notice the look of disapproval on her face.
“Hockey?”
The word left her mouth almost like a personal insult. I closed my eyes for half a second, already feeling my headache worsen. Of course. Because apparently this day still hadn’t humiliated me enough. Hayes nodded quickly.
“Yes, the cooling system at the other rink broke, so we’re temporarily sharing the space.”
“Charming.”
Her sarcasm came sharp as her eyes swept across the rink like hockey players were wild animals about to invade the building.
“Mom...”
“Honestly, that explains quite a lot.”
My blood boiled instantly.
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
She crossed her arms again.
“It means perhaps it’s difficult to maintain discipline in an environment like this.”
Hayes was clearly reconsidering every life decision he’d ever made.
“Alicia, hockey athletes are extremely disciplined too...”
“Oh, please. They slide around on ice smashing into each other like animals while a drunk crowd screams. Don’t compare that to figure skating.”
My jaw locked so tightly it hurt. Because of course she’d say that. And of course my brain immediately thought of Logan. The way he held me in the bathroom. The way he yelled at me. The way he looked at me when I said maybe we should stop.
“You really can turn absolutely anything into an unbearable criticism.”
Her cold eyes snapped back to me instantly. “And you seem particularly defensive about hockey. Interesting.”
Shit.
Hayes cleared his throat quickly.
“Maybe it’s better if we continue this conversation another time…”
The sound of the Briar University Men's Hockey Team echoed through the hallway as they entered the rink, and while the team spread across the ice, I bit the inside of my cheek, anxiety twisting in my stomach at the thought of seeing him. Seeing Logan. When Garrett Graham passed behind my mother, he instantly slowed his pace.
His eyes flicked between me and my mother twice before his expression shifted into badly disguised shock.
And honestly? I understood. Because Alicia and I looked absurdly alike.
Same light hair.
Same eye shape.
Same nose.
But everything about her looked too refined. Too polished. Like she’d been designed by someone obsessed with perfection. While I looked like the exhausted, emotionally unstable version of her. He stepped onto the ice, followed by Tucker, Dean Di Laurentis, Birdie, Joe Rogers, and then the terrifying man who made my heart race, my panties wet, and my eyes sting with tears.
John Logan walked past us with his head lowered, but the second he stepped onto the ice, he skated backward and looked at me.
My chest tightened the moment his eyes found mine. It was quick. So quick maybe nobody else noticed.
But I noticed.
Because Logan always looked at me like he was trying to pull some kind of reaction out of me.
Like he wanted inside my head so he could tear down every wall I built.
And in that moment?
I wished he wouldn’t look at me.
I wanted him angry. I wanted him ignoring me. I wanted him gone.
But not like that.
Because there was something wrong in his eyes now.
Something heavy.
Exhausted.
His jaw tight as he looked away again when Dean bumped his shoulder and said something I couldn’t hear. I looked away quickly, trying to move fast enough not to get caught by Alicia Ivens. Which obviously didn’t work. Because my mother let out a low, cynical laugh as she crossed her arms again, her eyes following the rink until they landed directly on the number printed across Logan’s jersey.
“Oh,” she murmured slowly. “So it’s number twenty-two.”
My stomach dropped instantly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I swallowed hard, crossing my arms tighter and avoiding her gaze.
My mother hummed in amusement. The worst possible reaction. Because Alicia Ivens never made accusations unless she was certain.
“Interesting,” she commented calmly. “Because you looked at him like the rest of the rink disappeared for a few seconds.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“No. You just inherited your father’s terrible habit of thinking emotions don’t show on your face.”
That irritated me instantly.
“Can you not do this?” My voice came out sharper than I intended as I looked away from her and directly at Coach Hayes, who looked desperate to vanish from the rink entirely. “You can go, Coach. Thanks.”
Hayes blinked twice, clearly caught in the crossfire, before awkwardly pointing the clipboard toward his chest.
“Oh… right. Yes. Of course.”
Coward. He cast one last cautious glance between me and my mother before practically fleeing toward the side exit of the rink. The silence became worse the second he left. Because now it was just the two of us. Like always. My mother watched Hayes leave before slowly turning back to me. Far too calm.
“You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Sending away anyone who might soften your emotional reactions before you explode.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh.
“You turn absolutely everything into some unbearable psychological analysis. Don’t you think you should’ve gone into psychology instead?”
“And you turn every comment into a personal attack and childish sarcasm.”
“Maybe because everything that comes out of your mouth sounds like criticism.”
She tilted her head slightly. Elegant. Controlled. Frustratingly perfect.
“Do you know the difference between you and me?”
I tensed my jaw and prepared myself for another perfectly sharpened blade aimed directly at my chest. Because talking to Alicia Ivens had always been like this.
A competition I entered already knowing I’d lose.
My mother kept her eyes fixed on mine for a few long seconds before speaking.
“The difference between us is that I never let emotions interfere with what needed to be done.”
Ah. Of course. There it was. The perfect sentence. Cold. Surgical. I let out a humorless laugh and looked toward the rink where the boys were already warming up.
“Really? Because you definitely didn’t let Dad’s death interfere with who you are now, right? You’re so righteous.”
Silence dropped heavily between us. It was subtle. But I saw it. The way her fingers tightened around her leather purse. The way her jaw locked. The way her cold eyes blinked once, slower than usual. Alicia Ivens hated losing control. And I had just hit the exact place that hurt.
“Don’t speak about things you don’t understand.”
Her voice came out low. Which was worse. Because my mother never yelled. She destroyed people calmly.
“I understand perfectly.”
I shot back immediately, my chest rising too quickly now. “I spent my entire life watching you turn grief into cruelty.” Her eyes darkened slightly. “Emotions aren’t weakness.” I continued, breathing harder now. “You just decided to act like they are because feeling anything reminds you of him.”
That hit.
This time it really hit.
Because her expression faltered. Only for a second. But it did.
And somehow that only made me angrier.
“You think I don’t see it?” My voice dropped lower now. Worse. Shaking. “You look at me and get angry because I remind you of him. Because I skate like him. Because I feel things the way he did.”
“Your father was disciplined.”
“My father was kind.”
The answer came too quickly and instinctive.
“He may have been kind, but he knew exactly what it took to reach the top, and that’s what made him special. Resilience. Your father never stopped skating well because he had to skate pairs, or gain muscle to lift me, or lose weight to glide better. He searched for balance because he was good. And you are nothing like him.”
That shattered my heart into a thousand sharp pieces, and bile rose in my throat for the second time that day. A knot formed painfully in my throat and I wanted to throw up again.
“Logan, number twenty-two, come here.”
I heard my mother call from the edge of the rink, and my eyes—already shining with tears desperate to fall—widened in panic.
“Alicia, we’re not even dating or anything, stop!”
I said it low but desperately, begging her to stop. I warned her, and then I heard her call again, louder this time, making Logan stop and turn toward us. Logan slowed immediately on the ice the second he heard my mother’s voice. My heart dropped.
No.
No, no, no. He turned toward us, still holding his hockey stick against his hip, clearly confused by the sharp, commanding tone she’d used. And then he saw my face. The trapped tears. My trembling jaw. The ruined expression I hadn’t managed to hide in time.
His posture changed instantly.
“Is there a problem?”
Yes!
Logan’s voice turned serious the second he stopped beside the barrier. His stick still rested against his hip while his chest rose slowly from practice. But his eyes weren’t on my mother. They were on me. On the tears I was trying to hold back. On my shaking jaw. On the miserable expression I clearly hadn’t hidden fast enough.
And worse?
He noticed immediately. His posture changed on the spot. My mother smiled slightly. The kind of smile she used in interviews and charity events while destroying people beneath perfectly polished words.
“What’s your name?”
I wanted to die right there.
I immediately dropped my gaze, my face burning as I prepared myself for whatever was coming next. My fingers dug into my crossed arms. Alicia had always had a talent for humiliating me in front of the people who mattered to me—friends, boyfriends, it didn't matter. When Dad was alive, he always managed to stop her before she crossed the line. But after he was gone, her cutting comments became far more frequent.
“John Logan.”
His voice came out steady now, but cautious. Because he understood too. Understood this wasn’t a normal conversation. It was an interrogation.
“Well, John Logan…” my mother began smoothly. “I’ve been trying to get some information out of my daughter, but apparently she prefers hiding certain things. So I’d like to ask you directly…are you two dating?”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
Logan’s answer came too quickly. Instinctive.
But there was hesitation, because his eyes stayed fixed on mine while he answered, like he was trying to figure out which response was correct, and I looked away, completely exhausted. My mother nodded slowly, like she was arranging puzzle pieces in her mind.
“Excellent.”
Her smile widened slightly.
“So you’re sleeping together?” My entire body burned with humiliation. “Are you trying to ruin her life, John Logan?” she continued like I hadn’t spoken. “Because do you know the biggest problem with talented girls?”
The silence turned heavy and for the first time, Logan looked away from me to look directly at her. And something in his expression hardened instantly.
“Ma’am...”
“They confuse emotional distraction with love,” my mother interrupted coldly. “And men adore that. Especially college athletes.”
“Are you done?”
I asked, staring directly at her while my eyes burned. My mother finally looked back at me. Calm. Precise. Cruel in that elegant way only Alicia Ivens could manage.
“No. Not yet.”
I let out a short laugh completely devoid of humor, dragging a hand over my face in a useless attempt to stop the tears.
“Of course not.”
“You want to act like an adult? Then start accepting adult conversations.”
“This isn’t a conversation.” My voice cracked slightly. “You’re just feeding your ego.”
Her smile slowly faded. Not entirely. But enough.
I swallowed the knot lodged in my throat and wrapped my arms around myself in a pathetic attempt to stay together. My head still throbbed from the hangover, my chest still burned from the fight with Logan, and now this.
This.
The horrible feeling of being dismantled in front of dozens of people. I looked away for a second and found Logan still standing beside the barrier. His eyes fixed on me in that intense way that only made everything worse.
“You can go back to practice, Logan.” My voice came out smaller now. Tired. “Sorry about this.”
I could barely look at him after saying it. Because humiliation was suffocating me. The silence lasted one second too long. Then I heard the sound of his stick being slowly rested against the barrier.
“Are you sur...”
He started, but I cut him off immediately with a quick glance. A tired look. Silently begging him not to make this worse.
“Go back to practice please.”
My voice came out low. Broken. His eyes stayed locked on mine for a few more seconds.
And I realized the exact moment Logan understood what I was truly asking. Not distance. Dignity. Because I was already shattered enough without having to watch him defend me like I was too fragile to do it myself. His jaw tightened. I saw his fingers clench around the stick before he finally nodded once.
But before he could skate away, my mother opened her mouth again.
As always.
“Impressive,” she commented coldly. “You give orders and he obeys.” Logan stopped immediately.
My stomach dropped.
No. Don’t provoke him.
Slowly, Logan turned toward her. And for the first time since the conversation began, there was something genuinely dangerous in his expression. Not explosive anger. Worse. Control.
“With all due respect, ma’am…” His voice came out far too calm. “I think Y/n already made it clear this conversation is over.”
My mother held his gaze without hesitation.
“And you think you have the authority to decide that?”
“No,” he answered immediately. His jaw tightened before he continued. “But she does.” His eyes flicked briefly toward me before returning to Alicia. “And honestly? I’ve heard a lot about performance, discipline, and results… but I haven’t heard a single genuinely good piece of advice come out of your mouth for her.” The silence became unbearable. Logan rested the stick against the ice with a sharp sound before continuing. “So maybe we need to reconsider who exactly should be pointing out flaws here.”
My heart pounded so hard it hurt.
My mother stood completely and her fingers slowly tightened around her own arm before she let out a quiet laugh.
“Interesting,” she murmured. “So in addition to being emotionally distracted, my daughter also chooses arrogant men.”
I watched Logan smile slowly. Sarcastically. Then he ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair in a way that was simultaneously irritating and devastatingly attractive. The kind of gesture that made half the girls on campus lose their train of thought. Unfortunately, myself included.
“Funny…” he replied calmly. “She usually says the exact same thing to me.” My heart skipped painfully. Because the look he threw me afterward was quick. Almost invisible. But filled with something dangerously intimate. “Honestly?” Logan continued, finally looking back at Alicia. “I don’t think emotional distraction is the biggest problem here.” My mother’s smile disappeared completely.
“And what would that be?”
He tilted his head slightly. Far too calm.
“The way she looks like she has to survive every time you open your mouth.”
That completely knocked the remaining air out of my lungs. Because nobody had ever said that out loud before.
Nobody.
And the worst part?
He was right.
Logan skated away from us, leaving us standing there.
My mother turned toward me with a sarcastic smile and slowly shook her head in disapproval before walking away, her heels echoing sharply across the rink floor. But before she fully left, she turned back, looked me up and down, and said the sentence that shattered my heart even more.
“Your father would be disappointed in what you’ve become, Y/n. He would hate this unfocused person you turned into.”
My entire body froze instantly as the sound of her heels echoed across the rink again. The air vanished from my lungs. My vision blurred immediately, and for one second I genuinely thought I might throw up right there on the ice.
Because she knew.
She knew exactly where to hurt me.
She always had.
I swallowed hard, my throat tightening painfully as I watched my mother walk away like she hadn’t just ripped something living out of me.
And the worst part?
Part of me believed her.
The worst part.
That cruel voice in my head that sounded exactly like hers.
You’re distracted. Weak. Emotional. Pathetic.
My chest rose too quickly now, and I wrapped my arms tighter around myself in a ridiculous attempt to stay whole.
But the moment she left…I disappeared too.
Disappeared from the rink. Disappeared from myself. Disappeared from the version of me that could still breathe without feeling my chest cave in. I barely even remember how I got home...I only remember kicking my shoes off in the hallway, ignoring every message vibrating on my phone, and crawling under the blankets like they could somehow hide me from the entire world.
Or from her.
Or from myself.
The room was dark, stuffy, far too quiet.
And even then, my mother’s voice still echoed inside my head, repeating every word like a curse.
Your father must be disappointed.
Your father would hate who you’ve become.
Bile burned the back of my throat again as I pressed the pillow against my face, trying to muffle the pathetic sobs that escaped anyway.
My pillowcases became soaked far too quickly.
The crying came in violent waves that made my head pound even harder, feeding the horrible migraine that already felt like it was splitting my skull in half.
Then I cried harder.
And the pain got worse.
And then I cried again.
A miserable, endless cycle. At some point my nails started scratching against my own arm beneath the blankets in a desperate attempt to keep myself grounded.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
But even breathing hurt. Because everything hurt. My head. My chest. My pride. My stupid heart.
Logan.
The fight. The way he looked at me in the bathroom. The way he defended me at the rink even after everything. The way my mother destroyed every part of me that was still trying to stay standing.
I never would’ve imagined everything could turn into such a complete disaster in less than twenty-four hours. Yesterday I was drunk at a party trying to pretend I didn’t care about John Logan. Now I was crying in the dark like a broken child while my mother’s voice made me question whether my own father would still be proud of me. And honestly? That was the thing that destroyed me the most. Because for the first time in a very long time…I didn’t know how to answer.
English isn't my first language, so pls forgive any grammar mistakes.
This chapter was a bit dramatic, and I'm sorry abt that, but I'll be honest—our couple's relationship is kinda complicated bc I made them both emotionally stubborn and complicated.
I'll try to post 2 more chapters for u guys tomorrow. Hope you're all doing well. xoxo
If you want to join my tag list, let me know down below 🫶💗
summary: When you confessed your love to the idiot on the hockey team and he rejected you like a coward… only to write you 22 letters later, ignore your silent treatment, and confess everything to you in the rain like he’s in a Nicholas Sparks movie. Because of course, talking like a normal person is too hard, but declaring eternal love while soaking wet is totally reasonable.
warnings: Prepare yourself for some angst with a happy ending, fueled by heavy pining and absolute emotional constipation. This story features miscommunication (but make it dramatic) and, yes, literal kisses in the rain. Expect Logan being a simp in denial, lots of crying in aprons and on shoulders, and friends who consistently give much better advice than the main characters actually listen to. Fair warning: you will experience severe secondhand embarrassment, endure excessive dramatic monologues, and encounter plenty of swearing along the way.
a/n: hey guys, I’m back! I hope you like it. You have no idea how fucking much I love kisses in the rain. Sending you a kiss — I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. xoxo
part one.
'Cause all I know is we said, "Hello"
And your eyes look like comin' home
All I know is a simple name
And everything has changed
(Guys, you lost me.)
I don’t know what to do with this. With all this love I have for him. I don’t know where to put it now.
The world kept spinning like nothing had happened. And I hated it a little for that.
Every morning I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror of my room with that question stuck somewhere inside me, unanswered, with nowhere to go. Love doesn’t disappear just because you want it to. It doesn’t work like that. There’s no switch, no drawer where you can stash it and lock it away. It was just there, huge and useless, taking up space that no longer had anyone to belong to.
When was the last time I actually slept?
I couldn’t remember.
I wasn’t trying to be dramatic, but fuck, not talking to him had hit me hard.
I washed my face with ice-cold water until my cheeks burned to bring down the swelling, then I put on concealer under my eyes and a little blush so I wouldn’t look so dead. War paint, I told myself. As if calling it that turned it into something that required courage instead of just the small, sad act of trying to look like a functional person.
Today I finally decided to leave my cave—my incredible, comfortable bed—to dignify myself with going to work. One of the perks of your mom being the owner is that she really doesn’t care if you miss work. I think she’s even at peace when I’m not at the café. It must be exhausting to see me moving around like a ghost in an apron.
The walk was twelve minutes. Janis was still at the car wash, so I had no choice. I usually didn’t mind walking, but now I couldn’t stand those twelve minutes alone with my thoughts. Before, I’d spend them with music or my phone in my hand, answering Logan’s messages like a dumb teenager. Now I just wore the headphones without playing anything. Just the dead weight of them as an excuse for no one to talk to me. So I could be, for those twelve minutes, exactly as broken as I was before having to pretend I wasn’t.
I’d been replaying the same moments all weekend. The feeling of his lips against mine. His big, warm hands closing around my hips. The way he looked at me right before he kissed me, like he’d been holding back for years. The hoarse sound that escaped his throat when I kissed him back. Everything played on loop, sharp, cruel, perfect.
And then came the memory of the next morning. His voice in the kitchen.
“I fucked everything up.”
“I need you to leave.”
I shook my head and picked up my pace, as if I could leave the memories behind on the sidewalk.
“The only thing I learned that night,” I muttered, dropping my forehead onto the table with a dull thud, “was that I should’ve stayed home.”
We were sitting at one of the outdoor tables in the central courtyard at Briar, under a sun that felt way too cheerful for my mood. I had a coffee that had already gone cold between my hands. Sarah was nibbling on an apple with a bored face, and Alison was stirring her chocolate milkshake with a straw while listening to me repeat the weekend story for the thousandth time.
Sarah let out a snort and ran her hand down my arm in a caress that was supposed to be comforting but mostly looked like she was holding back laughter.
“What if he’s gay and just hasn’t realized it yet?” she whispered mischievously, leaning toward me.
Alison let out a short, dry laugh.
“Men,” she said ironically, clinking the ice in her drink. “Tell them you love them and you’ll never see them again. They disappear faster than my patience on a Monday morning.”
“God, my life sucks,” I lamented, letting out a pitiful groan against the cold wood of the table.
The silence lasted barely two seconds before Sarah leaned in closer.
“For God’s sake! You’re twenty-two years old, what do you know about life?” she exclaimed, though her voice had that protective tone she always used when she saw me like this. “You’re beautiful, smart, and never apologize for feeling things, for setting boundaries, or for having ambitions, babe. Got it?”
I lifted my head enough to look at her. Sarah had that kind of confidence I envied with all my soul: short hair, sharp gaze, and a tongue that could destroy male egos in less than ten words. Alison was the same, only more cruelly funny. Both of them were like a man’s ego put into the bodies of beautiful, fearless women. The exact opposite of me right now.
“Besides,” Alison continued, pointing at me with her straw, “if John ‘Eat Me’ Logan is dumb enough to let you go after you told him you loved him, then fuck him. There are more guys at Briar. Most of them are worse, but at least some know how to use their mouths for something more useful than babbling excuses.”
I tried to smile, but it only came out as a crooked grimace. I knew they were saying it to cheer me up. I knew their words came from a good place. But none of that took away the weight I felt in my chest.
“Who needs therapy when I have you guys? Hooray…” I said in a tired but sincere voice.
But then I saw him.
Logan was walking along the path that crossed the courtyard with that stride of his I knew by heart—not too fast, not too slow, that way of moving that had always felt somehow inevitable. Tucker was beside him talking about something, hands in his pockets, and Logan had his head slightly tilted toward him with no expression at all.
And then he looked up.
I don’t know if it was instinct or bad luck, but his eyes went straight to mine. Without searching. Without hesitation. Like he already knew exactly where I was before he looked.
His brown eyes locked onto mine.
And I saw everything on his face in the space of a second: the impact of finding me there, the tension that rose up his jaw, something that could have been relief or pain or probably both at the same time. He had dark circles. A tight line between his eyebrows that I hadn’t seen before, or maybe I had and just didn’t know what it meant at the time.
Now I did.
He stopped dead.
Tucker took two more steps before realizing and turning around. I saw the exact moment he processed the situation—his eyes going from Logan to me and back to Logan—and something in his face closed off with an expression that wasn’t exactly pity but was too close for my comfort. Logan watched me with a mix of pain, regret, and something else I didn’t dare name. He took an involuntary step toward our table, like his body reacted before his brain. Tucker, beside him, noticed immediately and grabbed his arm firmly, stopping him.
Logan didn’t even look at him.
His eyes moved quickly over mine, my mouth, the line of my jaw, scanning my expression with an urgency that almost hurt.
He didn’t even like me. Why was he torturing me like this?
His lips parted slightly and then closed. I could see him working inside, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers briefly clenched into a fist and then opened. His entire posture was a question. Almost a plea.
Give me something. Anything.
I felt my heart rise to my throat and stay there, huge and inconvenient, pulsing with a force that I’m sure showed on my face.
No. I’m not going to be the one who does it this time.
I can’t be the one again.
I looked away with effort, breaking the contact like I was tearing off a piece of my own skin. I lowered my head and tightened my fingers around my coffee cup until my knuckles turned white.
“I’m not taking the first step,” I whispered, more to myself than to them, though the words came out loud enough.
“Bravo girl, Bravo” Sarah said proudly, giving me a gentle pat on the back. “Let him crawl this time.”
----
J.L
I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands, feeling like my chest was going to explode. In my head, the same image played on loop without stopping: the way her eyes filled with pain. And then she looked away. Like looking at me burned her. Like I was something she could no longer stand.
Like I was something she could no longer stand.
The three of them looked at me in silence. It was weird seeing the guys so quiet. Disturbingly weird. Normally Dean would’ve already said some shit to lighten the mood, but even he didn’t dare. Garrett had his arms crossed and his jaw tight, staring at the floor. Tucker was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking at me… with a lot of pity.
How fucked up was I?
“…I ruined everything,” I muttered, my voice hoarse.
Dean let out a dramatic sigh and threw himself onto my bed like it was his.
“Yeah, we already know that. The question is: what the hell are you going to do about it?”
I stayed quiet for a long time. The knot in my throat was choking me. I ran my hands through my hair, pulling harder than necessary, as if the physical pain could organize the chaos inside me.
“I’m in love with her,” I admitted almost angrily. “I love her eyes… fuck, I love the way she looks at me like I’m someone decent. I love her hair, the way it falls in her face when she’s focused. I love her smile when she hears the stupidest thing that comes out of my mouth… like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her.” My voice was shaking by the end. I stood up without really knowing why. I needed to move, I needed to do something with my body because if I stayed still I was going to explode. I stood in the middle of the room like an idiot. “She confessed everything to me… and I told her I couldn’t. What kind of son of a bitch does that? After what happened that night?”
Dean, for the first time in a long time, didn’t make a joke. He just looked at me seriously.
“Bro… you’re really fucked.”
Garrett moved.
He’d been silent the whole time, staring at some point on the floor, and that silence from Garrett was what had me the most nervous since they arrived.
He leaned forward. Looked straight at me.
“So what are you going to do now? Because avoiding her and looking at her like a lost puppy isn’t working.” He said it without cruelty, but without softening it either. “Listen to me, Logan. You’re a mess, I know. But you can’t go dump all of this on her at once.” He paused, choosing his words. “She’s hurt. Really hurt. If you go now and tell her everything you’re feeling, she’s going to think it’s pity or that you’re confused. You have to take it slow… but don’t drag your feet. Do it right. Approach her little by little. Start by asking for forgiveness. Be honest, but gentle. Give her room to breathe.”
Garrett continued:
“You know where she works. You should go. Not like an ambush, just you. Order a coffee, sit down… and talk to her. On her turf. No pressure.”
Tucker pushed off the wall. He nodded slowly.
“Fast, but careful. Show her with actions that it wasn’t a mistake.” His voice was calmer than Garrett’s, quieter, but just as firm. “That she wasn’t a mistake.”
-
-
-
I stood in front of the café door for almost ten minutes, hands in the pockets of my jeans, my heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted to get out. The smell of fresh coffee and sweet bread reached me from inside, but it didn’t calm me. It did the opposite. It reminded me of her. Of her hands moving with that calm motion behind the counter, of how she bit her lower lip when she focused on making a latte.
Breathe, Logan. Don’t fuck this up again.
I pushed the door open and the little bell sounded way too loud in my ears. There weren’t many people. A couple of occupied tables and her behind the counter, cleaning the espresso machine. She was wearing the black apron she always wore, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail with some strands falling in her face. God… she looked beautiful.
I approached the counter with heavy legs. She looked up for a second, her eyes passing over my face without stopping, like I was just another customer. No surprise. No pain. Nothing. Just cold indifference.
Ouch. I deserve that.
“A black coffee, please,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
She nodded without meeting my eyes and turned toward the machine. Her shoulders were tense. I knew that body language. She was holding herself back.
Say something, John. Now.
“…I need to talk to you,” I murmured, lowering my voice so only she could hear. “Alone. Please.”
She didn’t respond. The sound of the espresso machine filled the silence between us. She served the coffee with precise movements, placed the cup in front of me, and wrote something on the order slip like I hadn’t said a word.
“That’ll be four fifty,” she said, looking at a point over my shoulder.
“Hey… please,” I insisted, leaning a little over the counter. “Just five minutes. I know I don’t deserve even that, but…”
She took the bill I held out without brushing my fingers. She gave me the change with the same empty expression, like she was serving a stranger. Her eyes didn’t meet mine even once. It was worse than if she had screamed at me. That indifference was destroying me inside.
She’s hurt. Really hurt. Shit, Garrett was right.
“I understand that you don’t want to see me,” I continued, almost in a whisper. “But I can’t keep going like this. What I did… was shitty. I was shitty. I need to explain…”
“Here’s your change,” she cut me off in a neutral voice, placing the coins on the counter. Then she turned back to the machine and started cleaning again, giving me her back.
The knot in my throat tightened so much I thought I was going to choke. I stood there like an idiot, the coffee burning my hand and my chest on fire. I wanted to jump over the counter, grab her by the arms, and force her to look at me, to see everything that was eating me alive inside. But I couldn’t. Not after what I’d done to her.
I took the coffee and sat at one of the tables in the back, where I could see her. I wasn’t moving from there. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for as long as it took.
I’m not giving up on you. Even if you ignore me. Even if you look at me like I no longer exist. I’m going to prove to you that you weren’t a mistake. That you never were. That you’re the only thing I want in this fucking life.
-
-
-
“Hey, kid!”
A strong, decisive voice snapped me out of my sleep. I blinked, confused, my cheek stuck to the table and a trail of drool that didn’t even embarrass me. The café was empty. The chairs were already up on the tables and the main lights were off. Only the dim light from the counter remained.
In front of me was her mom. And fuck… she was just as pretty as her daughter. The same expressive eyes, the same way of tilting her head when she was half amused and half serious, the same hair falling softly over her shoulders. Seeing her was like seeing a more mature, confident version of her. It hurt my soul.
“What, you think this is a hotel?” she said in a half-mocking, half-annoyed tone. “You’ve been sleeping there for like three hours, drooling on my table. We closed a while ago.”
I sat up quickly, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, my face burning. I looked around desperately.
“Did she… already leave?” I asked, my voice thick.
She let out a soft, almost maternal laugh and shook her head while picking up a rag.
“My daughter left a while ago. She said she had things to do.” She looked at me for a second longer, with that warmth she’d always had toward me. “You okay? You look… tired.”
Ma’am, I’m trying to prove to your daughter that I’m not a complete son of a bitch.
“Yeah, I’m… I’m fine,” I lied, standing up. My neck hurt like hell. “I just wanted… to talk to her for a bit.”
She pointed at the door with the mop. “Come on, out. I have to open early tomorrow and I’m not leaving you here as decoration.”
I got up unsteadily, still half-asleep and with a sore neck. I tried to keep some dignity, but it was hard with the table mark on my cheek and my hair a mess.
She took the mop and gave me a gentle but firm push toward the door, like she was shooing out a big, clumsy dog that didn’t want to leave.
“Ma’am, I just—”
“Out, out,” she cut me off playfully, opening the door. “I open early tomorrow and I’m not tripping over you drooling on my tables. I don’t know what happened between you and my daughter, but I hope you can fix it soon. It kills me to see her walking around like a ghost. Good night.”
The cold of the night hit me as I stepped out. The door closed behind me with that cheerful little jingle that now sounded like mockery.
I stood there on the dark sidewalk, running my hands over my face.
How pathetic. Ugh.
---
“Hi…” The low, close voice startled me so much I let out a small scream and nearly dropped the cup from my hands. I spun around, heart hammering in my throat.
Tucker took a step back and clutched his chest with one hand, eyes a little wide.
“Fuck… you scared me,” he muttered, breathing deeply, clearly surprised by my reaction. “Got a minute?”
I didn’t answer. Instead I stood there, pressing the cup against my chest like a shield. My pulse thundered in my ears.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck, uncomfortable, and looked down for a second before speaking. “I’m sorry,” he said simply, with that calm but heavy voice. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
I looked at him in silence. Tucker had always been the quietest. Seeing him here apologizing squeezed something in my chest.
“It’s not your fault, Tucker,” I answered quietly, forcing a weak smile. “Really. You didn’t do anything. You don’t have to apologize for something that wasn’t your responsibility.”
He frowned slightly, like he didn’t fully agree, and still insisted, but before he could say anything I beat him to it:
“It’s okay,” I added, trying to sound firmer than I felt. “I’m fine. I don’t need anyone carrying this. Not you… not anyone.”
What a huge lie. I’m not fine. Nothing is fine. But what else can I say?
Tucker nodded slowly, still with that pitying look I hated so much. He stayed one more second, like he wanted to add something, but in the end he just murmured:
“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly. “Don’t lie to me.”
Crack.
I couldn’t hold it anymore.
The knot that had been tightening in my throat for days, weeks, broke all at once. Tears flooded my eyes and I started crying uncontrollably, right there. Everything came out in a shaky, broken torrent.
“I really… I really didn’t want to like him,” I sobbed, covering my face with one hand. “I didn’t want to, Tucker. I tried not to… but it just happened. And now I miss him so much it hurts to breathe. I miss his stupid voice, the way he looks at me… I miss feeling safe with him. But he told me he couldn’t and… and I had to walk away. I needed to walk away. I don’t know how to keep pretending I’m okay when everything reminds me of him. He’s been coming nonstop, leaving these stupid letters I haven’t even bothered to open, and fuck, it complicates everything when I see him on campus… I’m drowning. I regret going to that stupid party. I regret confessing my feelings. If only… if only I’d held back a little.”
The tears kept falling, soaking my cheeks and my apron. I felt pathetic, exposed, but I couldn’t stop.
Tucker walked around the counter without saying anything. His steps were quiet, steady. Suddenly his arms wrapped around me carefully, pulling me against his chest in a warm, protective hug. I tensed for a second, but then I collapsed against him, crying harder into his sweatshirt.
“Shh… it’s okay,” he murmured against my hair, rubbing my back with slow, comforting strokes. “Cry as much as you need. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”
I felt pathetic. I admit I really tried not to cry, but I just couldn’t hold it back anymore.
When will this suffering end?
I had to rip it out by the roots.
Maybe not right now. When I’m ready.
“Eight days!?”
They said it at the same time. Both of them. With the same incredulous face that made the lady at table three look up from her newspaper and stare at me like I was the problem.
“Shh, lower your voices.” I leaned on the counter with my arms crossed and waited for the echo to fade. “Eight days in a row,” I confirmed, lowering my voice.
Alison and Sarah were sitting on the high stools in front of the counter, their half-finished milkshakes in front of them and that look on both their faces that meant they weren’t letting me out of this conversation easily. The café was quiet at that hour, only four tables occupied and my mom in the kitchen making muffled clattering noises from the back. It was the kind of afternoon I normally liked. Calm. Manageable.
Until they showed up.
“And what does he do?” Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow while pointing at Logan’s table with her straw.
“He writes.”
“He writes?” Alison repeated, like the word didn’t quite fit, looking at me with a “Seriously?” face.
“He sits down, takes out paper, and writes. At first I thought he was studying, taking notes, whatever. Something normal.” I grabbed the rag from the counter and unfolded it, wiping the drops of chocolate Sarah’s straw had left. “But then on the third day he slipped a folded letter into the tip jar when he left.”
Both of them looked at the jar. It was there in its usual spot next to the register, completely innocent.
“In the tip jar?” Sarah pointed out, still not believing it.
“In the tip jar.”
“Why there?”
“Because I was giving him the silent treatment and every time he tried to talk to me I found something super urgent to do in the kitchen.” I folded the rag. Unfolded it. “So he stopped trying and found another way.”
Alison turned her stool slightly toward Sarah. Then looked at me.
“And what do the letters say?” Sarah asked.
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Alison said slowly, her voice showing that something didn’t add up.
“That I haven’t opened them.”
“None of them?”
“None.”
Alison stared at me. Then at Sarah. Then back at me.
“How many letters total?” she asked, and something in her tone told me she was already bracing for the answer.
I wiped a part of the counter that was already perfectly clean.
“Twenty-two.”
The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
“Twenty-two,” Alison repeated, toneless.
“Sometimes he leaves me three in one day. He sits, writes, folds the paper, puts it in the jar, and starts again. Like he always has something more to say.”
“But why?” Sarah frowned, not in judgment but with the genuine confusion of someone trying to solve a puzzle. “I mean, what’s the point of him writing you letters if he’s the one who told you no?”
“Exactly what I keep asking myself.”
“And you have no idea what they might say?”
“None.” I shrugged, though the gesture came out a little forced. “Maybe it’s an apology. Or he wants us to stay friends and doesn’t know how to tell me in person. Or he just feels guilty and this is how he’s dealing with it. I don’t know.”
“Or maybe,” Alison said finally, measuring her words, “they say something that has nothing to do with any of those things?”
“Alison.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well, don’t say it.” I grabbed the rag again. “He made it pretty clear where things stood. The letters will be what they are, probably something I don’t need to read, and when I get the courage I’ll open them and that’s it.”
Sarah rested her chin on her hand and looked at me with that calm of hers that always felt slightly destabilizing.
“Do you have them on you?” she asked.
Of course I had them on me. I’d been carrying the wad folded in my apron pocket since Monday, but I had no explanation that made me look good. I took them out and placed them on the counter between the two milkshakes.
Alison and Sarah looked at them.
“Can we take a look?” Alison asked.
I glanced sideways at the table in the back. Logan was sitting with Dean Di Laurentis, a ridiculously hot blond who had always seemed almost unfairly attractive. They both had muffins they’d ordered a while ago in front of them. Logan was saying something with his elbows on the table and Dean was listening, leaning back in his chair with that half-smile of his, like he found the world generally entertaining. Neither was looking at me.
I shrugged.
“Whatever you want,” I said, and turned to clean the coffee machine. “They’re probably just apologies or something. I don’t think they’re a big deal.”
I heard the rustle of paper unfolding.
Silence. More silence.
The kind of silence you notice because there should be some comment and worryingly there isn’t. There should’ve been an “aw how sweet” or “look at his handwriting” or anything, but there was nothing, and that nothing started to itch somewhere I tried to ignore.
I turned around.
Alison had the letter in her hands and an expression I’d never seen on her. It wasn’t exactly surprise. It was something quieter, deeper, something that had settled on her face while she read and hadn’t moved when she stopped. Her eyes were still fixed on the paper.
“Oh,” she said.
Just that.
Oh.
Oh?
She passed the letter to Sarah without looking at her, pointing to a specific spot with her finger. Sarah read. I saw the exact moment she reached that part because her shoulders dropped a centimeter, she let out a very slow breath through her nose, and then she looked at me with an expression that was half tenderness and half something pretty close to “oh, sweetie.”
“This…” she started.
“What?” I said.
“This is pretty…”
I leaned over the counter without realizing it.
“Pretty what?”
The two of them looked at each other like accomplices and let out a small laugh.
“Give it to me,” I said.
Alison picked up the letter from Sarah’s hands.
“No.”
“Alison.”
“Nope.”
“Come on, it’s probably just a long apology—”
“It’s not an apology.” She said it without thinking and then closed her mouth like she’d said too much. Sarah pinched her.
I stayed still for a moment.
“What do you mean it’s not an apology?”
“Nothing, forget it.”
“Alison, if it’s not an apology then what—”
“When you’re ready you’ll read it and that’s it.” She leaned on the counter with a firmness that left no room for negotiation. “And don’t look at me like that, I’m serious. This is something you have to read alone and at the right moment, not here in the middle of your shift because we pressured you.”
“But I didn’t even want to know—”
“And now you do, right?”
I shut up. She was right. Damn it, she was right, because ten minutes ago I was perfectly convinced those letters were probably some elaborate apology or a request to stay friends and I didn’t need to read them to know they’d hurt anyway. And now I was leaning over the counter with my heart doing weird things because Alison had said “it’s not an apology” in that voice and—
A shadow fell over the counter.
The three of us looked up at the same time.
Dean Di Laurentis was standing on the other side of the counter. He didn’t say anything. He simply reached out, took the letter from Alison with a calmness that left no room for argument, grabbed another from the stack still on the counter, and placed them in front of me with startling ease.
I looked at him.
He held my gaze for a second, nodded slightly like he’d just done the most reasonable thing, then turned his head toward Alison.
And winked at her. Slowly. With total and absolute premeditation.
And he walked back to his table with his hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just dropped a grenade, leaving calmly.
The silence he left lasted exactly three seconds.
Sarah and I looked at each other.
Alison’s cheeks were flushed. Alison, who had once told a guy trying to hit on her at a party that his technique was conceptually deficient. Alison, who in the three years I’d known her had never lost a millimeter of composure in front of any male human being.
She had flushed cheeks.
She picked up her milkshake. Took a long, absolutely deliberate sip while looking out the window.
“Don’t even think about it,” she muttered.
Sarah opened her mouth.
“Don’t. You. Dare,” Alison repeated without looking at her, with a calmness that didn’t match someone with cheeks that color.
Sarah closed it. But no one could wipe the smile off her face.
I looked down at the two letters in front of me on the counter. White paper, folded in three, nothing written on the outside. Just the paper. And underneath all of that, that phrase spinning nonstop: it’s not an apology.
If it wasn’t an apology, then what was it?
I didn’t want to know. Lies. Yes, I did.
It was past midnight. I was sitting on the floor of my room in my pajamas, with the twenty-two letters spread out on the rug around me in roughly chronological order of when Logan had left them in the tip jar. They formed a semicircle that completely surrounded me. From the outside it probably looked pretty bleak, but there was no one watching so it didn’t count.
I’d taken them out of the drawer where I’d been saving them one by one, with that weird mix of care and denial that didn’t make much sense if you analyzed it. I’d organized them. I’d been staring at them for a while, convincing myself that as soon as I opened them I’d find something manageable. An apology. Maybe several apologies, one per letter, with different wording because Logan had always been that meticulous when he wanted to be. Something that would hurt a little but that I could fold back up, put in the drawer, and move on with my life.
It’s not an apology.
Damn Alison.
I picked up the first letter.
I held it for a moment without opening it, fingers on the fold of the paper, staring at it like I could read through it. Logan had spent eight days sitting in the café writing things I didn’t understand why he needed to write.
He had told me no. He had chosen to reject me. Those were concrete, verifiable facts and there was no reason for any of this to mean something different from what I had already assigned it.
No reason.
I unfolded it.
Logan’s handwriting was exactly as I remembered, a little careless at the edges with some words crossed out and rewritten.
I read the first line.
I froze completely. This can’t be real.
“Oh, shit,” I said out loud.
Hockey.
I wasn’t really into hockey until I met Logan. Before, it was just that sport they showed on TV that my dad sometimes watched and that I completely ignored. Noise, ice, guys crashing into each other at speeds that made no sense. I didn’t get the appeal.
Now I know exactly how many points the team needs to advance to the next round. I recognize the plays. I can tell for sure when a referee is calling too many penalties and when a defenseman is being deliberately dirty. Which says a lot—and nothing good—about what John Fucking Logan does to a person’s critical judgment.
I sighed and sank deeper into my seat.
The stadium smelled of popcorn and that weird mix of sweat and excitement that exists in sports venues. The stands were full, Briar colors everywhere, and the noise was that constant, dull kind that after a while just becomes pressure. Sarah was gripping her soda cup with both hands like it was the only thing anchoring her so she wouldn’t lose her mind, while Alison had been taking pictures of a certain player wearing number sixty-six for twenty minutes.
Meanwhile, I just couldn’t stop looking at player number twenty-two.
You’re an idiot.
My conscience scolded me. We’ve hurt each other and I’m still sighing and staring at him like an idiot. Why can’t feelings have an off button? What’s the point of loving him if he doesn’t feel the same about me?
“You okay?” Alison leaned toward me with genuine concern that, in the three years I’ve known her, had never once fooled me.
“Perfect.”
“Sure,” Sarah said from my other side, without taking her eyes off the ice. “That’s why you have that face.”
I didn’t answer because I didn’t have a response that didn’t incriminate me. Technically, it was the idiot with number twenty-two skating on the ice who had unfinished business with me. Though “unfinished business” was a very generous way to describe a situation that basically boiled down to: I had made the huge mistake of feeling things I shouldn’t, he had told me he simply couldn’t (or didn’t want to) be with me, and since then I’d been trying to disappear from my own life as discreetly as possible.
I shouldn’t have come.
I knew it since this morning. I knew it the exact moment I opened the reminders app to see what I had pending and found “Briar Game — 8pm” marked in red. I’d written it down weeks ago, in another life almost, when Logan and I were still whatever we were before I ruined everything by being honest. And then, without meaning to, without looking for it, with that masochistic tendency I have and should probably work on with a professional, I went to the messages.
Just to see. Just to remind myself why what happened was the right thing.
And there it was, among three unanswered messages I had left on read with absolute cowardice. One that simply said: Hope to see you tonight.
The message that made me want to check my reminders list and the reason I was here tonight.
I should have ignored it. I should have stayed home with a movie, a pack of cookies, and some dignity intact.
Instead here I was, in the stands at Briar’s stadium, flanked by Alison and Sarah who were pretending—not very effectively—not to monitor me every thirty seconds, with my stomach in knots and my eyes fixed on one spot on the ice so I wouldn’t keep unconsciously searching for number twenty-two.
Because I was searching for him. That was the worst part. That despite everything, despite the days avoiding him and the speeches I’d given myself and the times I’d repeated that I was fine, my eyes found him on their own. Like they had their own memory. Like no one had told them the memo.
Logan skated well. That was the fundamental problem—that he was really good and knew it without being arrogant about it, and when he moved on the ice there was something about him that settled, that relaxed.
I looked away.
The scoreboard was two to one in favor of Briar and the atmosphere had that electricity of the final minutes of a close game. Alison had put her phone down and was standing without realizing it. Sarah was muttering something under her breath.
And then it happened.
Logan intercepted the puck in the offensive zone. He dodged the first defenseman with a turn that seemed physically impossible, the second with an acceleration that made the whole crowd collectively hold its breath, and shot.
Score.
The stadium exploded.
I stood up with everyone else. I clapped without thinking. Alison grabbed my arm screaming something I couldn’t hear over the shouts. Sarah whistled with her fingers in her mouth.
Then Logan raised his hockey stick.
He turned toward the stands with a smile—that smile I knew by heart and that right now was doing damage to me that had no name—and I saw it before I could prepare myself.
He pointed at me. What the fuck is that supposed to mean.
Straight. Unmistakable. With his arm extended and his eyes locked exactly where I was standing, like there weren’t three hundred other people in the stadium, like there was no chance he was pointing at anyone else, like he wanted to make sure there was absolutely no doubt.
The stands made that collective sound. That “oooh” people make when they smell drama from afar. And the commentator, the damn commentator, didn’t miss the moment:
“Looks like one of our favorite guys had his heart stolen tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t cry all at once, girls—there are still more players on the ice—”
Heat shot up my neck to my ears in about half a second.
Alison let go of my arm.
Sarah turned her head toward me very slowly, still looking stunned at what had just happened.
They both looked at me. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. And thank God they didn’t.
“No,” I said.
I grabbed my jacket from the seat. I put it on wrong, one arm inside out, and fixed it with more violence than necessary. My stomach was in a tight knot, my cheeks were burning, and my ears were ringing. I needed to get out of there.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I lied.
“Sure,” Alison said, glancing sideways at Sarah, who returned a worried look.
Neither of them made a move to follow me.
I went down the stands almost tripping twice, dodged three groups of people still celebrating, pushed the exit door with both hands, and the cold air hit me in the face the second I stepped out. Honestly, it was a relief. I needed that hit. I needed something to remind me that it was real, that I was real, that what had just happened inside that sweaty, noisy stadium had also been real.
He had pointed at me. In front of everyone. What the fuck.
I’m overthinking this.
I shouldn’t let it affect me. I shouldn’t let it break my decision to stay away from him.
I closed my eyes for a second and the commentator’s voice came back like a horrible echo: “Looks like one of our favorite guys got shot by Cupid tonight, don’t cry ladies—”
I wanted to die. For real. Not metaphorically. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole and not even spit out the bones.
I started walking fast. Then faster. The parking lot was dark and the streetlights made those blurry orange spots that multiplied on the wet asphalt, and I was only thinking about getting to the car, getting inside, and crying with dignity where no one could see me. I had parked Janis in the fifth circle of hell because I arrived late and there were no spots nearby, so when I finally found her I was going to be completely soaked.
Good. Perfect. Great. And it was raining.
Not just raining. Pouring. Like the entire universe had decided that tonight wasn’t humiliating enough and needed a little more drama. The water soaked my hair in seconds, ran down my neck, my shoulders, got into my shoes. Good. Perfect. Great.
I kept walking.
I had spent entire days convincing myself that what we had was just a friendship I had misinterpreted, that I had seen things where there was nothing, that when he told me no—when he simply told me he couldn’t give me what I wanted—it was the most honest truth anyone had told me in a long time. I had forced myself to accept it. I had forced myself to keep functioning.
And then he scored and pointed at me. Son of a bitch.
“Wait!”
I stopped.
I didn’t want to have stopped. It was a reflex, a betrayal by my own body recognizing that voice before my brain could tell it no, to keep walking, to pretend to be deaf, to die a little.
I turned slowly.
Logan was running toward me. With his hair completely stuck to his face and still in his team uniform darkened by the water, and his eyes—God, his eyes—searching for me with an urgency I didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. Didn’t want to understand.
Wait.
Did he just leave his game? Just to talk?
“Stop,” he said when he reached me, breathing hard. “Please, stop.”
I looked at him. I tried to make my face say nothing. I tried to be a wall. I swear.
“Logan.” My voice sounded calmer than I felt. That was the only miracle of the night. “Seriously, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to apologize or explain anything, okay? It was me. I misread things, I was stupid, and—” I swallowed. “And when you told me about Hannah and I felt this bad, that was my problem. Not yours. So really, seriously, you can go back inside and—”
“For God’s sake, shut up.”
I blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Shut up.” He didn’t say it cruelly. He said it with something like desperation, jaw tight, eyes bright, rain running down his face like it didn’t exist. “Don’t regret anything. Please. Don’t.”
“Logan, I just—”
“I realized too late that she wasn’t you.” His skin was wet from the rain too (obviously), and one drop hung from the tip of his nose, about to fall. His brown eyes traced my face, moving over my eyes, my cheeks, and my mouth, before he said in a hoarse voice:
“I ruined everything.” He ran a hand through his soaked hair, a nervous, desperate gesture, like he didn’t know what to do with his own body. “I didn’t want Hannah. I never did. I just wanted someone to love, someone to spend the rest of my days with, and I was such an incredibly idiot, so completely blind, that I didn’t realize the person I actually loved was standing right in front of me.”
“Logan, stop—”
“It’s you.”
Oh God. My heart stopped. Literally. I swear it stopped.
“Stop—”
“And if your feelings are still the same, if you still love me, then right now—” his voice cracked a little there, just a little, but I heard it, I heard it clearly over the rain—“right now I’m telling you I want to spend the eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours, the five hundred and twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes of every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days with you.”
The rain was starting to get heavier. The parking lot lights became orange and white spots behind him and I didn’t know if what was running down my cheeks was water or tears and honestly it didn’t matter anymore because no one was going to notice anyway.
“Don’t pity me,” I said, and my voice was no longer calm. “Don’t. You don’t have to—” I bit my lip. I was nervous, mostly because I really wanted to tell him how I felt and what I wanted. I took a deep breath and he cut me off instantly.
“Every single one,” he continued, like he hadn’t heard me, or like he had heard me perfectly and decided to ignore it. “No exceptions. No conditions. If I stay quiet, if I let another day go by without telling you that you’re the only thing that has made constant sense, I’m going to spend the rest of my life unable to forgive myself.”
“Stop, Logan, seriously, stop—”
“And I’m not going to let you give this story that ending.”
He took one step closer. Just one. But I felt it in my chest like he had closed miles.
“Nor will I allow myself to give our story an ending.” His voice had something broken and something completely certain at the same time and I didn’t understand how those two things could coexist. “A story that hasn’t even begun and that I’m already anxious to know the next chapter of. I’d rather die tomorrow knowing I loved you than live a hundred years wondering what it would’ve been like to be with you.”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
“Even it would be an honor if you broke my heart. Over and over, as many times as it took. Because even broken, even in pieces—” he paused and looked at me, and in his eyes there was something I had never seen before, something I recognized because it was exactly what I had felt all these months—“my heart would come back to you. Thirsty. Without conditions. Without holding anything back.”
My hands were shaking.
“I’ve always been a better person when I’m near you.” He said that lower, almost to himself, and it was what hurt me the most because I believed him. I believed him without wanting to. “And that’s something I haven’t told anyone until now. Because my heart is yours. Not from today. From way before I had the courage to admit it.”
He closed the last few feet between us.
“Forgive me. I’m asking you please.”
I shook my head. I tried to articulate something coherent.
“Don’t… don’t do this to me.” It came out broken, fuck. “Don’t do this to me now that I had already… that I had already…”
“What do you want me to do?” he cut in, and there was something urgent in his voice, something bordering on a plea. “Do you want me to pull the fucking moon down for you? I’ll become an astronaut for you. Tell me. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”
The rain pounded my shoulders.
“But I love you,” he said. “And that’s not going to change.”
I don’t know how long I stood there without saying anything. It could have been ten seconds or ten years and neither would have surprised me. I only heard the rain and my own breathing and the beating of something I had been trying to kill for weeks by ignoring it.
It was still there.
Stubborn. Damn stubborn heart. Damn body that doesn’t listen. Damn it.
I threw myself at him, wrapped both arms around his neck, and pressed my lips to his. The smell of his cologne mixed with the rain and completely intoxicated me. John froze for a second, motionless while my mouth was pressed against his. I thought, too late, that maybe he didn’t.
Shut up. He literally just bared his heart to you.
But then, as if lightning had struck him, John took a breath and cupped my face with his hands. He was kissing me back. I was kissing John Logan and he was kissing me. I went from being scared and breathless to a fire burning inside me in an instant.
John tilted his head and kissed me the way John was supposed to kiss—wild, and sweet, and entirely too confident in himself, all at the same time. He knew exactly what he was doing when his big hands slid into my hair, but it was the shudder in his breath and the slight tremble in his hands that drove me crazy. The fact that he had lost control as much as I had.
John pulled me even closer until we were pressed together, chest to chest. For the first time in my life, I understood why people said they could forget where they were, and he gave me a little bite on my lower lip, and then I touched his face, felt the rigid solidity of his jaw, and he kissed me like it was his job and he wanted a raise. He made a sound when I sank my fingers into his hair, like he liked it, and I wished it would keep raining like this forever, and never stop. Until he said my name, until he whispered it against my lips three times, I didn’t come back to reality.
“Huh?”
I opened my eyes, but my vision was unfocused.
Logan laughed. Softly, with his forehead almost resting against mine, his thumbs still on my cheeks, he laughed in that way of his that crinkled his eyes and that I had secretly collected for months like they were worth something.
They were. God, how much they were worth.
“Your name,” he said, his voice still hoarse. “I was calling you by your name.”
“Yeah.” I blinked. “I know. It’s just…”
“What?”
I looked at him. With his hair completely soaked and stuck to his forehead and that expression on his face I had never seen and now couldn’t stop looking at. The rain kept falling on both of us with that absolute indifference water has, that doesn’t distinguish between the most important moment of your life and any other Tuesday.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Look,” I said, “I’m not… I mean, I’m not good at this. At saying things. The important things, I mean, the ones that really…” I made a vague gesture with my hand that meant nothing concrete. “You just told me a bunch of really big things and I’ve spent weeks convinced that this was all in my head and that you didn’t… that there was nothing and…” I breathed. “And right now my brain is completely fried and the words aren’t coming out in the right order.”
Logan didn’t say anything. He just looked at me.
“But I love you,” I blurted out, all at once, without elegance, without the firm voice I would have wanted. “I mean, I love you a lot. Too much, probably. For longer than I think is smart to admit out loud. And I tried to let it go, I really did, but it turns out I’m pretty bad at letting go of things that matter to me and you matter to me an amount that frankly seems excessive for my own well-being and—”
“Hey,” Logan said.
“What?
“Shut up.”
And he kissed me again. And for the first time I was glad I had parked Janis so far away.
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blurb: a rich uptown girl with car issues keeps visiting the small garage off the highway where the owner’s super hot son works.
warnings: fem!reader, fluff, lowk ditzy!reader but not really, yummy mechanic!logan.
Logan heard you before he saw you.
He memorized the sound of those heels clicking against the rough pavement like a second heartbeat. After all, not many girls around this side of town wore vintage Prada pumps to an off-highway garage.
And even if they did, they most certainly did not own a BMW 6er f12 convertible.
Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”
The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.
Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.
Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.
Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.
You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”
He smiled politely, “Hey…”
“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.
Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.
You clapped your hands, “Yay!”
He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.
You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.
Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”
You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.
You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”
He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.
You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.
You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.
He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.
Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.
“Cash or card?” He asked.
You held up your metal black credit card.
Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.
“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.
He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”
You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“
Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.
He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.
+
A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.
He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.
“Hi, Logan!”
“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”
You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.
Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“
“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.
He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.
“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.
As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”
People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.
“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.
You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.
“Did you win?” You asked.
He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”
You clapped your hands, “Yay!”
Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.
“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.
You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”
Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.
“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.
You smiled shyly and said, “You…”
His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.
He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”
“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.
He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.
You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.
He smiled at that.
He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.
“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.
“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.
“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.
“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.
Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”
His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”
Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”
Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”
Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”
His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.
+
Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.
By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.
But now he was noticing a pattern.
So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.
But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.
“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”
You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“
“No, she doesn’t.”
You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.
His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.
Yet, you did.
Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.
Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.
Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.
“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”
“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”
Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”
“You do?” You asked.
He nodded, “I do.”
He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.
He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”
You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”
He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
✶ you make garrett believe he forgot about date night.
002. WARNINGS !
✶ garrett calls you ‘honey’. another old tiktok trend.
word count : 1,6k
gif by @clary-jace
Garrett was staying at your dorm after a long day of hockey practice.
It was one of your favourite routines. He’d show up exhausted, his hair still slightly damp from a post-practice shower, and immediately collapse onto your bed beside you. The two of you would curl up together, pick a movie, and inevitably end up falling asleep halfway through it. Between your classes and his practices, you were usually both too tired to make it to the credits.
But today, you had a different idea.
Today, you had let boredom take the reins and found yourself influenced by a viral trend.
Your boyfriend was one of the most attentive men on the planet. In fact, you’d go as far as to say he was the most attentive. Which meant him forgetting about date night was simply impossible.
If Garrett made a commitment to you, he followed through. Every single time.
Sometimes, it was honestly a little annoying how attentive he could be, because he remembered everything.
The day you first kissed. The first time you said “I love you”. Even the exact moment you stole one of his hoodies and never gave it back.
You weren’t sure if he kept some secret list hidden somewhere or if an entire section of his brain had simply been taken over by thoughts of you, but one thing was certain: if there was a date night planned, Garrett Graham would remember it.
Which was exactly why it would be so funny to convince him he’d forgotten one.
You could already picture the confusion and disbelief on his face. The way he’d rack his brain trying to figure out how he could have possibly let something like that slip his mind.
A few minutes later, a knock sounded at your door.
You quickly adjusted the black dress you were wearing—far too formal for the quiet movie night you’d originally planned with Garrett—and crossed the room to answer it.
The second you opened the door, a smile tugged at your lips.
Your boyfriend stood there, bag slung over one shoulder, looking unfairly handsome for someone who had just spent hours getting checked into boards by grown men.
Almost immediately, his brows drew together as his gaze swept over your dress. But before he could ask any questions, you rose onto your toes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
The effect was immediate.
His bag slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud as one hand found the small of your back, pulling you closer. He kissed you back without hesitation, already melting into the familiar greeting.
When you finally pulled away, you tilted your head.
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
Garrett blinked, then he looked down at himself. Gray sweatpants and a black hoodie. Standard post-practice attire.
“Uh... yeah?” He said slowly. “Why?”
You arranged your features into the best combination of confusion and disappointment you could manage. “Did you forget?”
His frown deepened as he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him and shrugging off his hoodie. Beneath it was the black compression shirt he always wore after practice.
A criminal piece of clothing, in your humble opinion.
The fabric stretched across his shoulders and arms far too well, making it significantly harder to stay focused on your prank. For a brief moment, you considered abandoning the whole thing altogether in favour of admiring your boyfriend.
Unfortunately for Garrett, you were committed to the bit.
“Forget what, honey?”
His eyes drifted around your dorm room, taking in details automatically. From the makeup bag spread across your vanity, to the leather jacket draped over your desk chair that looked suspiciously similar to the one currently missing from his closet.
Then his attention returned to you.
“Our date?” You said, tilting your head as if he was the one being ridiculous. Which was especially unfair considering you had invented this entire situation purely for your own entertainment.
You watched him go completely still for a second.
Then, very slowly, he repeated, “...Our date?”
“Yeah.” You smiled brightly. “I’m really excited. You picked a good spot.”
“I did?”
The uncertainty in his voice nearly made you break. He bent down to grab his phone from his bag before sitting on the edge of your bed.
“Yeah,” you said casually, settling onto your desk chair in front of your makeshift vanity. “You didn’t really forget, did you?”
“No. No...” He shook his head, already scrolling through his phone. “Just checking our reservation.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
“I’m so glad you picked that restaurant. We haven’t been there in forever, and their food is amazing.”
Continuing your performance, you grabbed your mascara and began applying it as if this conversation were completely normal.
Across the room, Garrett was staring at his phone with the concentration of a man trying to defuse a bomb.
“What did you…” He lowered the phone and cleared his throat. “What did you order last time?”
“We ordered a bunch of things to share, remember?”
He hummed, the sound coming out noticeably higher-pitched than usual.
To be fair, it wasn’t an incredibly descriptive answer. Garrett’s appetite was enormous thanks to hockey, and you could never decide what looked best on a menu. Most date nights ended with the two of you ordering half the restaurant and splitting everything between yourselves.
Still, you could practically see him filing the information away, desperately trying to determine whether this was a real memory he’d somehow lost or one you were creating in real time.
“You’ve been looking forward to this for a while, huh?”
“Mhm.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Do you remember the last time we went?”
“Not really, no.” You unscrewed your lip gloss and began applying it. “But it’s been a while.”
“Huh.” A few seconds passed, then he asked, “And I can’t wear what I’m wearing right now?”
“Garrett, you planned this date.” You turned in your chair to look at him. “You specifically told me to dress semi-formal.”
“Yeah, obviously. I know.” The immediate response was reassuring, but the lingering frown wasn’t. “Just checking,” he added quickly. “Keeping you on your toes and all that.”
You stared at him and he stared right back, attempting what was perhaps the worst act of confidence you'd ever seen.
“Sure…” you said slowly, fighting to keep a laugh from escaping.
Garrett nodded once, as if he’d successfully recovered the situation, immediately grabbing his phone again. Apparently, whatever fictional reservation he was searching for had yet to reveal itself.
“Are you excited?” You asked innocently. “Because from where I’m sitting, you don’t exactly look excited for our date night.”
His head snapped up.
“What? I’m so excited.”
Before you could respond, he pushed himself off the bed and crossed the room, coming to stand behind your chair.
“Honey,” he said, resting his hands on your shoulders, “This is going to be the best date of your life.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” The answer came in the most ‘duh’ tone imaginable.
As if the very suggestion that he wouldn't be excited to take you on a date was completely absurd. As if he hadn’t spent the last ten minutes conducting a full-scale investigation into a restaurant that didn't exist.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
At that point, you decided it was probably best to abandon the prank before things escalated any further. Because now Garrett Graham had something to prove.
And knowing your boyfriend, that was a dangerous thing.
Another five minutes and he’d probably be making dinner reservations, buying flowers, and somehow chartering a helicopter just to demonstrate that he was, in fact, capable of pulling off the best date night of your life on a moment's notice.
“It's just…” You rose from your chair and turned to face him, leaving only a few inches between you. Tilting your head back, you met his gaze. “How can you be excited for a date that doesn't exist?”
For a second, Garrett simply stared at you, and then you watched the realization hit in real time. Confusion flashed across his face first, followed quickly by suspicion, before finally settling into understanding as all the pieces clicked into place and he realized exactly what you’d been doing.
His eyes narrowed at the burst of laughter that spilled from your lips.
“Baby, there’s no date,” you admitted, burying your face against his chest as you wrapped your arms around his waist. Looking up at him, you were immediately met with the most offended expression you’d ever seen on your boyfriend.
His mouth opened, then closed again as he searched for a response. For a moment, it looked like he was about to launch into an argument, but instead he simply shook his head, pulled you closer, and wrapped his arms around you.
“There can be, though.”
Another laugh escaped you.
“It’s okay. It was just a prank.”
“Yeah, but you’re already dressed up for that fake date, so…”
“So?” You prompted.
“I’m taking you out.”
You blinked. “Oh, really?”
“Yup.”
The answer came without a second of hesitation. Still holding onto you with one arm, he reached over and grabbed the leather jacket hanging from your chair, along with his bag.
“Let’s go,” he said matter-of-factly. “We’ll stop by my place so I can change, and then we can go to that place you’ve been wanting to try.”
You huffed out a laugh.
“There is no place, Garrett.”
“Then make one up.” He slung his bag over his shoulder and pointed at you. “You’re the one who invented an entire date night. Surely you can invent a restaurant, too.”
You laughed again as he reached for your hand.
Somehow, despite being the one who’d gotten pranked, your boyfriend had still found a way to turn it into an actual date.
Which, admittedly, was a very Garrett Graham thing to do.
NOTE : listened to ‘girls’ by kid laroi basically on loop while writing this. also, tell me if these tiktok trend pranks are something you guys like and want to see more of! (and tell me which pranks you’d like to read…). let’s wake up the garrett graham is the boyfriendest boyfriend agenda.
summary: angst/hurt comfort. logan finds you crying in the bathroom during a party. short fic. requested here and here!
Logan isn’t there when it happens, but he certainly hears the commotion around it through the grapevine. The whispers dancing around the party, spreading the news of a girl slapping a Sig Tau frat’s face after he tries (or rather, forces) a move on her, your name mixed within them.
He shares a brisky look with Tucker, who quickly mumbles something among the lines of “I’ll take care of it. Go.” before pushing him back inside the house. Logan runs through the crowd of people, eyes scanning every face, then up the stairs storming a bunch of rooms occupied by couples who definitely should’ve locked the door. He only finds you when he starts banging on the locked doors of the upstairs bathroom.
“Go away!” You yell from the other side.
“It’s just me.” He answers, loud enough for you to hear but never to scare you, “Would you open the door, please?”
There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of the lock turning.
Logan opens the door to find you sitting on the bathroom floor, hiding your face behind your hands. “I’m so embarrassed.” You say, voice muffled by your own palms, “I didn’t know he’d– I didn’t mean to–”
“Hey, no– You’re good. You did nothing wrong, ‘kay?” He cuts you off, crouching down to sit by your side on the floor, hand going for your shoulder in a comforting move, asking in a lower voice, “Wanna tell me what happened?”
You lift your head up, and Logan sees your tear-streaked face and wobbly underlip, feeling almost light-headed with the sudden flush of emotions. He feels ready to go out there and give a proper finish to the damage you’ve started on the guy’s face, yet, he knows that there’s no way in hell he’d ever leave you alone in those cold bathroom floor tiles — especially when he feels your hand curving around his upper arm, seeking his assurance.
“I was just grabbing a drink.” You say, voice cracking in such a way that makes his ribs hurt. “In the kitchen. Then this guy– I don’t know, I turn around and suddenly he’s too close, and– And he’s trying to push me against the wall, so I–”
You start growing antsy and take a moment to breathe, eyes closing. You drop your head into his shoulder, “I wasn’t thinking. I just had to get him away from me.”
“You did good.” Logan repeats himself, his arm tentatively going around your shoulders, careful not to startle you. You curl up against him, and he goes on saying, his low voice a litany of assurances, “You got him away, yeah? That’s what matters. You did great, honey.”
You breath in, staying still where your head lands on his shoulder, and Logan won’t dare to move either until you do. A knock on the door is the sole reason for your disturbance.
“Occupied.” Logan says, but the voice that comes out the other side is from Garrett.
“Everything okay there?”
“Fine.” You say, “Just– Yeah. We’re good.”
“Okay. Uh, the girls are waiting in the car. We’re, uh, ready to leave if you are.” His voice says.
Logan turns to face you, your eyes blinking slowly like you’ve just been pulled out of sleep. “You ready to go?” He murmurs.
You nod, “Yes, please.”
He lifts himself off the floor, offering you a hand.
When he opens the door, Garrett isn’t the only one on the other side. Dean and Tucker stand there, one on each side of him, all three standing like guards waiting for orders. Logan’s eyes fall down to their hands, and if you notice the redness around each their knuckles, you don’t mention it. None of them really say a word other than a quick “c’mon” and know that you understand it exactly as they mean to — as in “We got you too.”
It’s a quiet drive in the backseat of Garrett’s car.
There’s a silent agreement, reinforced by you saying that you don’t wanna go to your dorm, that everyone’s staying the night at the boy’s house, and Logan doesn’t care if he has to sleep on the couch, or rather force Garrett out of his own room so you can share the bed with Hannah, but he knows is that you’re not staying alone tonight.
You keep your head on Logan’s shoulder, hands intertwined with his. He closes his eyes, focusing solely on the softness of your fingers as he calms himself down. There’s a lot of emotions to unpack and possibly hard conversations to get through in the following days. Right now, all he cares about is keeping you safe by his side, fast asleep on the road home.
notes: quick psa, if you or anyone you know has ever been affected by sexual harrasment, please know that it's not your fault and finding support is always the best choice. thank you for reading <3
Summary: Dean Di Laurentis is loud, arrogant, and has a smirk with dimples that makes you want to throw something at his face. You called him a playboy to his face. Now he won't leave you alone. You tell yourself he's just annoying you for fun and you want nothing to do with him. Until one day, you realize you're looking for him in every crowd. And that's when you know you're in trouble.
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader
Tags/warnings: Introvert girl. Enemies to lovers. Slow burn. Jealousy. Denial. Hockey romance. Anxiety. Angst. Pining. Hurt/comfort. Mild language. Suggestive theme. No explicit content. Using the word (Name).
Word count: 3.2k
Author's note: More drama, I guess? 💁♀️ Let me know what u think about this part haha, anyway enjoy! 💗
Taglist: @starinisstuff @sonnensplitter @hufflepuffobsessedwithmarvel @thecraziestcrayon @alice07ea @monayyy-21 @khanealb @myunperfektstorys @enemiestoloversfan @wilmonyibo7 @glittergirly78 @hey-its-kayla-claire @outpostsworld @needtokeepfeelingsincheck @f1flowergirl @shannon-1355 @liltacogurl @awesomebunnyqueen @historygeekqueen @sandrellymendonca @legendarychrattgirl @thewiselionessss @kristyjane22-blog @dina2223 @puertoricanborricua777 @tillslvt @velvetsighs @iwishiwasironman @yvonne-dump @whimsical-anongirl @ravenclawvioletevergraden @ihatepeanutss @my-name-is-baby @c-a-b3002 @brianna28483 @deadpool15 (let me know if u already commented but i haven't added u yet)
The presentation day you dreaded so much finally arrived. Professor Miller’s History classroom looked twice as crowded as usual. You stood at the front of the room, right next to the podium with Leon and Dean. The moment Professor Miller looked at your group with a sharp, judging gaze combined with dozens of your classmates' eyes locking onto you, your chest suddenly felt tight.
Stage fright was hitting you hard. As someone who hated being the center of attention, standing up here was a total nightmare—the worst kind. Your mind went completely blank. All the lines you had practiced over and over since last night vanished in a second. Terrible thoughts started rushing into your head. What if your voice shook? What if you messed up your words and completely embarrassed yourself? Even worse, you could see a few girls in the front row, the ones who usually always crowded around Dean, staring at you with judging eyes.
When Leon finished reading his first section and signaled that it was your turn, you stepped forward. You held the presentation remote with a cold, shaking hand.
"G-good morning, I will continue the presentation from my partner about..." Your voice came out too quiet, almost getting stuck in your throat. The mic in front of you didn’t seem to be working either.
You stared at the text on the PowerPoint slide, but the letters suddenly looked blurry because of the panic taking over your body. The silence in the classroom as everyone waited for you to finish your sentence made the room feel suffocating. You froze, completely stuck in a blank state.
Right when you thought your day was ruined and your grade was in danger because of a failed presentation, a tall shadow stepped forward calmly and stood right next to you.
It was Dean.
Without saying much, Dean’s large hand moved calmly over the podium desk, pretending to organize your physical research drafts so it wouldn't look weird to the professor and the class.
However, beneath the stacked sheets of paper, the tip of Dean’s pinky finger gently brushed the side of your shaking hand.
The touch was incredibly light and just for a brief moment, but it magically sent a wave of calm through you. You looked up quickly and found Dean staring at you. There was no annoying smirk on his face. His green eyes looked at you with a very warm, reassuring gaze, as if telling you that he was here and you could absolutely do this.
Dean then turned to face the professor and the whole class. He pulled the mic closer to his lips and finished your sentence with a loud, confident voice. "Apologies, Professor, it looks like a few pages of our draft got mixed up in this section," Dean lied easily to save you in front of everyone. "Let me help open the first point. Our group found the impact of this war..."
Dean explained the two opening sentences of your section perfectly, as if he had predicted this would happen and was ready to back you up. It made you so grateful because it gave you time to breathe and calm down before continuing your presentation. Plus, Dean’s action— which other people might think was just a small thing, managed to make all your panic disappear.
Once you got your focus back, Dean adjusted the mic toward you. He gave a very slight, brief nod before stepping back to his original spot.
You took a deep breath, locked your eyes on the slides, and finally managed to finish the rest of your presentation with a smooth, steady voice until the end.
When the presentation and the Q&A session were over, Professor Miller gave an approving nod, making your heart beat like crazy. Besides the fact that the presentation went smoothly, it was also because of Dean who was currently helping Leon pack up the laptop and projector. You really appreciated his help.
The moment Professor Miller dismissed the History class, you quickly packed your notes and laptop into your bag. Leon, who was sitting between you and Dean after the presentation ended, looked at you. "It would be great if we could celebrate our successful presentation by grabbing some lunch together."
You looked at him, "That would be great." Then you glanced at Dean, who was focused entirely on his phone.
"But unfortunately I can't, because I have to head to work right after this." Leon looked at you sadly, feeling guilty.
"Oh, that's totally fine. We can plan it for another time." You smiled at Leon.
Not feeling like Dean was going to join the conversation, you got up from your seat at the same time as Leon. Leon walked out of the classroom first.
Now you were confused about whether you should say goodbye to Dean. You didn't want to look rude, especially since he had just helped you. But Dean seemed busy with his phone and was completely ignoring both you and Leon.
"Dea—"
"Dean! Your presentation was so cool earlier!"
Before you could even say his name, three girls who you knew were Dean's fans arrived, cutting you off.
You weren't mad about that because your voice was quiet and a bit hesitant anyway. But what actually made you feel annoyed was that Dean instantly turned off his phone and welcomed them with his dimpled smile. It was like his natural flirty playboy mode just turned on automatically in front of them. The guy looked so used to all that attention.
The warm feeling in your heart from Dean’s subtle action at the front of the class vanished instantly. You scoffed to yourself, turned around quickly, and walked out of the classroom with long steps.
Idiot, you scolded yourself in your mind. He was still Dean Di Laurentis, the campus’s number one playboy. That touch earlier was just one of his stupid tricks, and unfortunately, you had actually been charmed for a second.
"Hey, (Name)! Wait up!"
By the time you had walked far down the hallway, which was starting to get empty, a voice called out to you. You didn't look back or stop because you knew it was Dean's voice.
However, with his long legs, Dean easily caught up and was now walking right next to you. His voice sounded more relaxed and friendly, without any of the cocky, annoying tone from before all of this. "My acting in front of Professor Miller earlier was pretty cool, right? I think we deserve to celebrate with some lunch together."
You stopped walking and looked at him as cold as ice, completely ignoring how his face turned confused after seeing your expression. "Your acting was great, Di Laurentis. But sorry, I’m not interested in celebrating with you."
You tried to start walking again, but Dean blocked your way. "Hey, what’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?" he asked.
You threw him a lazy look. "Our group business is done. So there’s no need to pretend to care by asking me out to lunch."
"(Name), hey... I thought you had forgiven me," Dean looked at you, confused and panicking.
"Yeah. And you got your presentation grade, right? So now you can go right back into the arms of your girls."
Dean froze, his eyes widening at your sharp answer. A look of pure panic slowly appeared on his handsome face, making his overconfident energy disappear completely.
"Wait, what girls?" Dean asked with a very confused voice. "The girls in class just now? (Name), they came up to my desk! I was just being polite because they complimented our presentation!"
"But you welcomed them with a huge smile, Di Laurentis!" you cut him off quickly with a cold tone, crossing your arms over your chest. "Leon was planning to ask us to lunch together to celebrate this project. But you? You wouldn't even look away from your phone to listen to us. You ignored your own group partner, but a second later, you instantly turned on your friendly playboy mode when your fans showed up."
You let out a cynical scoff, looking at him with pure disgust. "That just proves you never change. Your hero act at the front of the class earlier was probably just a way to get attention in front of Professor Miller. So stop pretending to care about me. We're done."
"I wasn't ignoring you guys! I-I was looking for a good lunch spot recommendation on my phone for us!" Dean defended himself in a panic. He moved quickly to block your path again as you tried to walk away. "I swear to God, (Name), I'm not lying. I didn't mean to ignore you or Leon. And that smile... it was just a reflex because I’m used to being friendly on campus."
"Whatever you say," you replied lazily.
You glared at him, signaling for him to get out of your way. "Go back to them, Di Laurentis. Don't waste your precious time pretending to care about me."
Without giving Dean another chance to defend himself, you walked past and intentionally brushed your shoulder hard against his, leaving the hallway of the academic building behind.
Meanwhile, Dean stood frozen in his spot. His grip tightened on the strap of his hockey bag. He cursed under his breath, hating himself for his own stupidity that had just ruined the trust he had almost won back from you.
Since the argument in the hallway that day, you completely cut off all contact with Dean. You blocked his number and deleted his request to follow your private Instagram account. Whenever Jules tried to bring up his name, you immediately changed the subject.
However, once a week, you were forced to be in the same room with him because of your History class. But you found ways to avoid him. The moment you walked into class, you either took a seat right next to the class representative—your only close friend—or next to Leon. If you absolutely had to sit alone, you buried yourself in your laptop screen. Every time Dean tried to come close to you, whether to start a conversation or just say a simple hello, you only gave him short answers or a freezing cold response.
This successfully left Dean looking incredibly awkward, which he tried to hide behind his handsome, cocky face. But deep down, Dean realized that if he forced his way into your space, it would only push you further away. Eventually, Dean chose to give up and step back.
Every single time he pushed open the classroom door and walked in, the very first thing he did was scan the room until his eyes stopped right on you. It didn't matter if you were busy chatting with your friend or laughing along with Leon. Dean would just let out a soft sigh, find an empty seat in a completely different row, and try his best to focus on the lecture material.
Meanwhile, from your perspective, you felt that your decision to stay away from him— going back to how things used to be before you knew each other, was absolutely right.
Then, right after class was dismissed one day, you accidentally heard giggling and flirty laughter from a group of girls. When you glanced over at the noise, you saw a crowd of girls surrounding Dean’s desk. To make things worse, Dean looked completely relaxed, enjoying the female attention just like he always did.
See? you thought cynically, rolling your eyes. He never changes. All his sweet actions before were just a game. With that thought, you tried even harder to completely erase the guy from your mind.
You felt like your old life was slowly coming back to normal, until two weeks later when the universe decided to mess with your peace again.
That night, you were walking through the campus park after spending the whole day at the library. Suddenly, you saw a familiar face jogging toward you from the opposite direction. You didn’t know whether to pretend you didn’t see him or pretend you didn’t know him so you wouldn't have to say hi. You weren't sure if he even remembered you. But just as you decided to look down, pretending to focus on your phone, you heard someone call your name.
You stopped and looked up to find him jogging over to you with his smile.
"Is that really you, (Name)? I can’t believe we finally ran into each other again!"
"Oh hey, Hunter," you greeted him back. You felt a little guilty for trying to ignore him, especially since the tall guy in front of you actually remembered you. "I didn’t expect to see you here either. Wow, you’ve grown so tall now."
The grandson of the Davenport family who live next door to you, let out a soft chuckle.
"Yeah, I'm a freshman here. How have you been? I haven’t seen you in forever since you moved to the dorms."
You smiled. "I’m doing good. Do you still visit your grandmother often?" you asked, remembering how Mrs. Davenport used to ask you to play with a young Hunter whenever his parents came over.
"Not really. I was too busy preparing for college last year, and my hockey schedule is pretty packed."
"Wait, you play hockey?" you asked, surprised.
Hunter laughed softly. "Yeah. I’ve been playing since high school, since you stopped hanging out with me and got busy with your adult life."
You laughed. "Hey! That’s not my fault! I was getting ready for college back then, you know. And I knew you were busy with your friends too. Let me guess, are you a celebrity among the freshmen?" you teased.
"Do you even need to ask? Look how handsome and charming I am."
You instantly swatted his shoulder, smiling. Because it had been so long, you forgot that your childhood friend could be incredibly confident. Plus, he really had gotten more handsome, and he knew it.
But his attitude suddenly reminded you of someone. Someone very familiar. A hockey player, handsome, and also overconfident.
The exact person you were trying so hard to avoid and forget.
Your smile disappeared the moment you thought of him.
You cleared your throat. "Did you join our campus hockey team?" you asked, curious.
Hunter shrugged his shoulders. "I guess. I said no at first, but they said they really needed me, so..."
"So?" you asked, waiting for him to finish.
"So I’m joining. Now, give me your life update. Who’s your boyfriend?"
Hunter’s sudden question made you blink, not expecting him to ask something so random. You laughed. "Why are you being so random?"
"Don’t change the subject. Are you still as shy as you used to be, huh?"
"I’m not shy," you cut him off quickly.
"Then tell me, do you have a boyfriend?"
"I don—"
"Wow, what an interesting view." A sarcastic voice made both you and Hunter snap your heads around.
It was Dean. He was standing not far away, with both hands shoved inside his pockets. He looked back and forth between you and Hunter with a sharp, angry glare.
You frowned in confusion, feeling how weird it was that Dean suddenly approached you and was being a jerk again—actually, he seemed even worse than during your first meeting at the birthday party.
Dean stepped closer, giving you a smirk. "No wonder you’re always so cold and play hard to get around me, (Name). Turns out your taste is pretty low." Dean turned his eyes to Hunter, fixing him with intimidating glare. "Stay away from her, Davenport. Go find another prey on this campus."
Hearing such a mean and ridiculous accusation come out of Dean’s mouth made your chest feel tight. You stood frozen in disbelief and deep hurt. You thought Dean was starting to change, or at least becoming a better person. But today he proved the exact opposite by acting like an arrogant jerk who throws fake accusations and insults you in front of someone else.
Meanwhile, Hunter could feel Dean’s anger and jealousy, but he wasn’t scared at all. Hunter raised an eyebrow, a challenging smirk appearing on his face. Hunter stepped forward, intentionally placing his body slightly in front of you, as if shielding you from Dean. "Wow, take it easy, Di Laurentis," Hunter replied in a lazy, teasing tone.
His smirk grew wider when he noticed Dean’s fists clenching tight. "You sound like a jealous boyfriend. But... a very bad one."
"I’m not her boyfriend," Dean muttered back, but his eyes stayed sharp.
"Oh, interesting," Hunter paused. "Then what’s your problem, huh? Are you scared that after I beat your ass in hockey, I’ll beat you in romance too?"
Hunter’s words completely snapped the last bit of Dean’s patience. Dean’s jaw tightened, his green eyes flashing with pure rage. Without another word, Dean rushed forward and grabbed the collar of Hunter’s hoodie roughly, pulling the freshman forward. "Don't talk shit, Davenport! You are no match for me on the ice, or off the ice!" Dean hissed, breathing heavily as he lost his temper completely.
Hunter didn't fight back, but the challenging smirk on his face only grew wider, intentionally pushing Dean’s buttons to see how far he would go.
Seeing the situation suddenly turn into a complete mess and notice other students passing by staring, you panicked. Putting aside your hurt from Dean's mean words, your instincts kicked in to stop a physical fight in public.
You stepped forward, using all the strength you had to push Dean’s broad chest away from Hunter.
"Dean, enough! Let him go!" you shouted in a low but firm voice.
Your sudden push made Dean lose his grip on Hunter’s collar. Dean took a step back, his eyes widening in shock as he looked down at your hands still resting on his chest. He stared at you in pure disbelief— completely shocked that you had just called him by his first name and pushed him to protect Hunter Davenport.
You quickly pulled your hands back, staring at Dean with eyes full of anger, disappointment, and hurt all mixed together.
"You have seriously crossed the line, Dean," you said, your voice shaking with anger. "You came here just to insult me with that accusation? And you even want to fight Hunter? Are you crazy or something? I was wrong to ever think you were changing into a better man. The truth is, you’re still an arrogant jerk. You have absolutely no right to comment on my life! So stop interfering with who I talk to!"
Those sharp, disappointed words flew from your lips, hitting Dean right in the chest and breaking through his playboy pride. Dean froze in his tracks, his mouth opening slightly, but not a single word could come out of his throat.
The fiery anger in his eyes suddenly turned into deep regret when he saw the hurt in your eyes.
Without wasting any time or waiting to hear what Dean had to say, you turned around, grabbed Hunter’s hand, and walked away from the campus park with quick steps.
Meanwhile, Dean could only stand there frozen. He stared blankly at your back as you walked away, holding Hunter Davenport’s hand tightly.
A million questions rushed into Dean’s head about who Hunter was to you, but one thing was certain. You felt comfortable enough with Hunter to hold his hand tightly.
Dean gripped his blonde hair with both hands, trying to calm his breathing, which was still heavy from the anger and regret filling his chest. "Fuck!"
He knew right then, that he had completely ruined everything.
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summary: Three months ago, you and Logan quietly became something. You forgot to tell anyone. That was fine, it was yours, and you liked it that way. Then you found out your friends had started a betting pool on when you'd finally get together, and suddenly keeping the secret became a lot more fun.
or: four times someone almost caught you, and one time someone did.
notes: hii i'm back!! okay so this one is a little different from my usual so no angst, no parking lot confessions, no rain. also this pic of antonio is just so boyfriend that i had to write something. thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think!!
warnings: swearing, implied intimacy, a missing bra, hannah being a terrible secret keeper and fluff.
word count: 6k
You and Hannah were not often scheduled to work the same shift at Malone's, for the simple reason that you two were dangerously prone to a severe case of the giggles that management had clocked early and worked around. But today was different, another server had called in sick and your manager had called you in a tone that left very little room for negotiation. You said yes, of course. You always said yes.
Arriving, you spotted Hannah immediately, weaving between tables with three plates balanced on her arm. You passed her on your way to the staff locker room and gave her arm a quick squeeze. She grinned at you over her shoulder.
The lunch rush was the particular kind of brutal that didn't leave room for anything except moving, table to table, order to order, the focused blur of a busy service. By the time it slowed down your feet ached and your ponytail had developed a life of its own.
Hannah found you at the counter, mechanically polishing glasses.
"So busy we couldn't even talk today," she said, sliding in beside you and stealing a glass to polish.
"It was genuinely awful," you agreed. "My feet are going to file a formal complaint."
Hannah laughed. And then the door opened.
Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Dean came in with the energy of people who had just finished practice and were extremely confident about their right to exist in any space they chose. Garrett made a beeline for Hannah with the focused intention of a man who had one priority. Behind him, Logan drifted toward the counter, casually, like he just happened to end up there, and leaned against it, watching you serve a customer with an expression that was doing nothing for your professional composure.
You almost dropped the bag the customer was reaching for.
"Hi, Logan." You kept your voice completely neutral. "Do you mind not staring at me? I'm working, you know."
He laughed, low and unhurried. "No, I don't think I can manage that."
"You could try."
"Not when you look this pretty."
"This pretty?" You gestured at yourself. "My hair is dirty and I didn't even have time to put on makeup."
"Still the prettiest," he said, and winked, and wandered back to the table where his friends had settled in like they owned the place.
You looked back at the counter. The glass you had been polishing was now somehow less clean than when you started.
Hannah had materialized at your elbow with the expression of someone watching something inevitable unfold.
"When," she said reverently, "are you two just going to date like normal people?" She sighed. "I hope it's soon. I kind of want to win that betting pool Tucker made."
You put the glass down. "What betting pool?"
Hannah's expression cycled through several things in rapid succession.
"No betting pool," she said. "I meant a real pool. Tucker said something about you guys and a real pool. Can't think of what it actually was. Because it was so long ago."
You looked at her.
"Hannah Marie Wells."
"That's not my middle name."
"Tell me the truth right now."
She looked left. She looked right. She found no exits. She exhaled.
"All right. Tucker organized a bet where everyone has to guess when you two will finally become a couple. I said three weeks from the day the bet was made, which is actually — tomorrow — so if you two could maybe just —"
"I cannot believe you guys would bet on something like that." You shook your head. "Actually, I can believe them. But you, Hannah. I expected better."
"Allie too," Hannah offered, as though this was helpful.
"What does the winner get?"
"Pride and glory. Also we each put in twenty dollars."
You set down the glass and made a direct line for the boys' table. Logan spotted you coming and started to smile, that smile, the one that was specifically for you.
"Logan," you said pleasantly, "can you help me with something? The door on one of the staff lockers is jammed. Do you mind taking a look? Your bill will be on the house if you fix it."
He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, sure." He pushed back from the table, nodded to the others, and followed you toward the back.
Dean watched you go with an expression of mild suspicion. Tucker didn't look up from his menu.
The staff locker room smelled like industrial cleaner and someone's forgotten lunch, which was not exactly the atmosphere you would have chosen, but it would do.
"So where's the door?" Logan said, looking around.
"There's no door."
He turned. "What?"
"There's no door. I needed to get you alone." You crossed your arms. "Your friends are running a betting pool on us."
"What do you mean there's no door?" He looked genuinely betrayed by the architecture. Then: "And they're your friends too."
"Not when they're betting on us. There's no door, Logan, I made it up. Focus."
He laughed and crossed the small room toward you, his hands finding your waist and pulling you in with the unhurried ease of someone who had been doing it for a while, not long enough that it felt ordinary, long enough that it felt inevitable.
"It's not a big deal, you know," he said. "The bet. They're just nosy."
"I know." He was very close, which made it difficult to maintain the appropriate level of outrage. You found yourself pressing small kisses to his lips almost without deciding to, punctuating your words between them. "I just — don't want — to make it — a whole thing yet."
Logan pulled back far enough to look at you properly.
"Yeah?" he said. Not pushing. Just asking.
"It's ours," you said, which came out simpler and more honest than you had intended. "For a little while longer. I just want it to be ours."
Something in his expression settled, warm and unhurried, the specific look of someone who understood completely and wasn't going anywhere.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Yeah." He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. "Okay."
You pulled him in by the front of his shirt and kissed him properly this time, the locker room and the betting pool and Hannah's guilty face all receding into irrelevance.
Logan pulled back.
"Wait," he said. "So no bill on the house, then?"
one — tucker
The thing about Logan's shirts was that they were extremely comfortable.
This was not a controversial observation. They were soft and worn-in and smelled like him which was a feature rather than a bug on cold Sunday mornings when getting dressed felt like an unnecessary commitment.
You had not planned to be at the house on a Sunday morning. You had planned to be at your own place, in your own bed, wearing your own clothes, like a person who had their life together. What had actually happened was that Saturday night had turned into Sunday morning in the way that it sometimes did around Logan, and now it was nine-fifteen and you were in his kitchen in his grey shirt making coffee while he was still asleep upstairs.
Which was fine. Which was completely normal and fine.
The house was quiet. Tucker's door had been closed when you passed it. Dean and Garrett weren't home, Logan had said. You were alone with the coffee machine and a comfortable Sunday silence and absolutely no reason to think anyone was going to come downstairs for at least another hour.
You had just found the good mugs when you heard footsteps on the stairs.
Tucker appeared in the kitchen doorway in a hoodie and the expression of someone who had not yet fully committed to being awake. He was looking at his phone. He walked to the refrigerator. He opened it. He stared into it with the vacant focus of someone hoping food would appear through willpower alone.
Then he turned around and saw you.
The silence that followed had a very specific quality.
Tucker looked at you. He looked at the shirt. He looked at the coffee you were making, looked at the two mugs, and something moved across his face that went through approximately six stages before landing on stunned comprehension.
"Hey," you said, with the casual energy of someone who was not wearing their boyfriend's shirt in his kitchen on a Sunday morning. "Coffee?"
Tucker opened his mouth.
"I stayed over," you said pleasantly. "The couch is really comfortable actually."
Tucker looked at the shirt. He looked at the mugs. He looked at the shirt again.
"...Right," he said slowly.
"He let me borrow this because my top had a thing. A stain. From last night." You gestured vaguely. "Very embarrassing, actually. Pasta related."
Tucker was still looking at the mugs.
You picked up both mugs, tucked them against your chest in what you hoped was a casual gesture rather than an incriminating one, and smiled at him.
"I'm just going to bring this up," you said. "You should have some. There's plenty."
You walked past him and up the stairs before he could say anything else.
Logan was sitting up in bed when you came back, hair doing something architecturally ambitious, squinting at the light.
"Tucker's awake," you said, handing him his coffee and sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed.
Logan processed this. "And?"
"And I told him I slept on the couch because my shirt had a pasta stain."
Logan looked at you for a long moment.
"Did he believe you?"
"Absolutely not," you said cheerfully, and drank your coffee.
Downstairs, Tucker stood in the kitchen for another full minute. Then he took out his phone.
tucker: i just saw (Y/N) in the kitchen wearing logan's shirt
tucker: making TWO coffees
tucker: and she said she slept on the couch because of a pasta stain
dean: WHAT
garrett: what
tucker: I THINK I JUST WON THE BET
hannah: you didn't win the bet tucker. it was clearly just a pasta stain situation
tucker: HANNAH
allie: omg omg omg
tucker: do i win?? does the pasta stain story count as them getting together???
dean: i don't think pasta counts as confirmation tucker
tucker: I WILL NEVER FINANCIALLY RECOVER FROM THIS
two — hannah
The thing about Malone's on a Friday night was that it had exactly one staff bathroom and one customer bathroom, and the customer bathroom had been out of order since Wednesday, which meant that the staff bathroom had become public property by necessity, which meant the line for it snaked along the back wall and required a wait time that was genuinely unreasonable.
You had been waiting for four minutes when you remembered that you knew where the staff entrance was.
The staff hallway was quiet and dim, the sounds of the bar muffled behind the door. You had worked here long enough to know the code, and the bathroom was unlocked, and you were inside and washing your hands within ninety seconds, feeling extremely smug about the whole thing.
You were just reaching for a paper towel when the door opened.
Logan slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind him, and looked at you with the expression of someone who had just made the same efficient calculation.
"Oh," he said. "You had the same idea."
"Staff entrance," you confirmed.
"Smart."
"I know."
He crossed to the sink beside yours and turned on the tap, and for a moment you were just two people washing their hands in a small staff bathroom, which was either extremely romantic or extremely unromantic depending on how you looked at it. His shoulder was warm against yours in the small space. You handed him a paper towel.
"Tucker's texts have been unhinged this week," you said.
"The pasta shirt thing really broke him," Logan agreed, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"He texted me three times yesterday asking if I wanted to talk about my feelings."
Logan laughed. You loved the sound of it in small spaces, the way it filled them. You turned toward him and he turned toward you and you were very close, and he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with the absent, habitual tenderness of someone who had been doing it long enough that he didn't think about it anymore, and you went up on your toes and kissed him quickly.
"Separate," you said against his mouth. "We should go back separately."
"Separate," he agreed, not moving.
You kissed him again, less quickly this time, his hands finding your waist, the paper towel entirely abandoned.
The door opened.
Hannah stood in the doorway.
The three of you looked at each other.
"The customer bathroom is out of order," Hannah said, very carefully, "so I used the staff code."
"Same," you said. You and Logan had separated with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before. "Just washing our hands."
"Both of you."
"It's a two sink bathroom," Logan said.
Hannah looked at the two of you. She looked at the very small bathroom. She looked at the single paper towel that was inexplicably on the floor.
"Right," she said. "Of course. I'll just —" she pointed at the toilet. "I'll just use this."
"We were just leaving," you said.
You and Logan filed past her. You did not look at each other in the hallway.
Behind you, you heard Hannah take out her phone.
hannah: ok so i just walked into the staff bathroom at malone's and (Y/N) and logan were BOTH in there
allie: WHAT
tucker: I TOLD YOU ABOUT THE PASTA SHIRT
hannah: they said they were just washing their hands
dean: both of them. in the staff bathroom. together.
hannah: there were two sinks
garrett: hannah
hannah: i mean it's a completely reasonable explanation!!
tucker: HANNAH YOU ARE LITERALLY DATING GARRETT YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS
hannah: i mean. yes. but also. two sinks.
allie: hannah i love you but two sinks is not an explanation
hannah: i just think we should give them the benefit of the doubt!!
tucker: hannah you literally have twenty dollars on this
hannah: ...i said three weeks
hannah: from a month ago
hannah: i may have already lost
three — allie
Allie considered herself an observant person.
This was not arrogance, it was simply a fact, documented over years of being the person in any given group who noticed things. Who left early. Who had argued with whom. Who liked whom. The small social architecture of any room was, to Allie, essentially readable at a glance.
Which was why she could not understand why no one else was seeing what she was seeing.
It was a random week night, the kind that had somehow evolved from a study session into a full group hangout without anyone formally announcing it, and now there were seven of them spread across the living room , Logan and Dean on the floor with Tucker's terrible taste in television providing background noise, Garrett and Hannah on the armchair that was technically too small for two people but they had been making work for months, and you and Allie on the big couch with your respective laptops.
Normal. Fine. A completely normal Tuesday.
Except.
Allie had been reaching for her water bottle when she saw it.
Logan had said something to Tucker, something quiet, barely audible over the television, and Tucker had responded, and then Logan had looked across the room at you. Just looked. For maybe two seconds.
And you had looked back.
It wasn't a loaded look, exactly. It wasn't the dramatic eye contact of a romantic comedy. It was quieter than that, it was the almost imperceptible look of two people who were sharing a private thought from across a room. Easy. Habitual. Like a conversation conducted entirely without words by people who had been having it for a long time.
Allie's water bottle missed the table entirely.
"You okay?" you asked, looking at her.
"Fine," Allie said. "Totally fine."
She looked at Logan. He had gone back to whatever Tucker was saying. Completely normal. Nothing to see.
Allie looked back at you. You were typing something on your laptop. Also completely normal.
I saw that, Allie thought. I absolutely saw that.
She leaned over to you. "Hey," she said, very casually. "What was that?"
You looked up from your laptop. "What was what?"
"That —" she gestured vaguely between you and Logan. "That look."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You and Logan just —" she did the gesture again, which in retrospect was not a very descriptive gesture.
"Allie," you said pleasantly, "I genuinely don't know what you're referring to."
You went back to your laptop. Allie stared at the side of your head.
I saw it, she thought. I definitely saw it.
She turned to the room. She needed a witness.
"Dean," she said.
Dean looked up from the floor. "What."
"Did you just see —" she started. But Dean had already looked back at the television. Tucker was saying something about the episode. Logan was responding. You were typing. Nothing was happening. The moment was completely gone, absorbed back into the ordinary texture of a Tuesday night, leaving absolutely no evidence.
Allie sat back on the couch.
I know what I saw, she thought.
Twenty minutes passed.
And then Logan got up to refill his water bottle in the kitchen, and on his way back he passed the couch, and his hand dropped briefly to your shoulder, barely a touch, a graze really, the kind that lasted less than a second and you didn't even look up from your laptop, just tilted your head toward it slightly, like a plant toward light, like the most natural thing in the world.
Allie's laptop slid off her knees.
"I SAW THAT," she said.
Everyone looked at her.
"Saw what?" Tucker said.
"Logan's hand — and her shoulder — they just —" she pointed. Logan was back on the floor. You were looking at Allie with an expression of polite confusion. "He touched her shoulder and she —"
"Are you okay?" Dean said.
"I'm fine, I just —" Allie looked around the room. Six faces looked back at her with varying degrees of concern. "Did anyone else see that?"
"See what?" Logan said.
"You touched her shoulder," Allie said, pointing at him.
"I was just walking past," Logan said.
"She leaned into it!"
"I have a stiff neck," you said.
"YOU HAVE A STIFF —" Allie stopped. Took a breath. "I know what I saw," she said, with dignity.
"Allie," Dean said carefully. "Have you had enough water today?"
"I've had plenty of water, Dean, I'm not —"
"Sometimes dehydration causes —"
"I am not dehydrated!" Allie said. "I know what I saw and what I saw was —" she looked at you. You were looking back at her with an expression of patient concern. She looked at Logan. He was also looking at her with patient concern. Both of you at the same time, with the same expression. "— you know what, never mind," she said. "Never mind. I'm fine."
She picked up her laptop.
Across the room, completely undetected, Logan looked at you.
You looked back.
The corner of your mouth moved. His did too.
Allie, who had her eyes fixed resolutely on her screen, did not see this.
She was choosing not to look anymore. For her own mental health.
allie: OKAY SO
allie: I JUST SAW SOMETHING
tucker: WHAT
allie: logan touched (Y/N)'s shoulder while walking past and she LEANED INTO IT
allie: and before that there was A LOOK
dean: allie we were all in the same room
allie: YOU WEREN'T PAYING ATTENTION DEAN
hannah: what kind of look
allie: the kind that MEANS SOMETHING
garrett: i mean they're friends
allie: garrett
garrett: what
allie: i love you but you have the observational skills of a golden retriever
garrett: ...fair
tucker: ALLIE YOU MIGHT HAVE JUST WON THE BET
allie: i can't win on a shoulder touch and a look tucker i need more evidence
tucker: THE PASTA SHIRT WAS EVIDENCE
allie: the pasta shirt was circumstantial
dean: none of us are going to win this bet are we
three and a half — garrett
It was a Wednesday afternoon, the house quiet in the way it got between practice and evening, and you had let yourself in with the key Logan had given you two weeks ago, casually, like it was nothing, tucked it into your palm and gone back to whatever he had been saying, and you had put it on your keychain without making a thing of it either.
You were in the kitchen making tea when Garrett came downstairs.
He was in sweats, hair still damp from the shower, moving with the unhurried ease of someone with nowhere to be. He went to the refrigerator, opened it, considered it, closed it. Then he leaned against the counter across from you and looked at the mug situation with the mild, unreadable expression that was, you had come to understand, just his face.
"Logan's still at the rink," he said. "Film session ran over."
"I know," you said. "He texted."
Garrett nodded. He picked up an apple from the fruit bowl. He looked at it. He looked at you.
"You should tell him about the Boston thing," he said.
You looked up. "What?"
"The conference. The one your professor forwarded you." He bit into the apple with the casual certainty of someone stating something obvious. "You've been sitting on it for two weeks. You should just tell him."
You stared at him.
The Boston conference was something you had mentioned exactly once, in passing, weeks ago, in the middle of a conversation about something else entirely. You had said three sentences about it and then moved on. You had not mentioned it since. You had not mentioned it to Logan because you hadn't figured out how yet because Boston was four days in February and it was a good opportunity and you didn't know what it meant for the thing that was still, technically, just yours.
"How did you —" you started.
Garrett shrugged. "You got quiet when someone mentioned February plans at dinner last week." He took another bite of the apple. "Logan noticed too. He just didn't want to push."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"He'll be fine with it," Garrett said, simply, like that was the part you needed to hear. "He's not going anywhere." He pushed off the counter and headed toward the living room. "Tell him about Boston."
He disappeared around the corner.
You stood in the kitchen holding your mug, looking at the space he had just occupied.
You had not told anyone about Boston. You had not told Hannah, who told you everything. You had not told Allie, who noticed everything. You had mentioned it once, in passing, and Garrett who had the observational skills of a golden retriever, according to Allie, according to everyone had filed it away and waited until you were alone to say the thing you needed to hear.
You looked down at your mug.
Then you took out your phone and texted Logan.
can we talk tonight? nothing bad. just something i've been sitting on.
His response came back in under a minute.
yeah. i'll bring food. what do you want?
You smiled at your phone in the empty kitchen.
surprise me.
four — dean
You weren't really supposed to be there.
You had come over earlier in the afternoon with the genuine intention of spending a couple of hours with Logan and then going home like a responsible person. What had actually happened was that Logan had been very convincing about the staying part convincing in the specific way that involved kissing you before you could finish your sentence and pulling you back against the mattress until leaving felt like a genuinely unreasonable idea.
So now it was late, and you were sprawled across his bed while he kissed your neck, his hands finding the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head.
"I missed them," he said, with complete sincerity, cupping your chest in both hands, unclasping your bra with an easiness that frankly made you jealous.
You giggled and pushed his shoulders. "You idiot."
He kissed you again slow and soft, his tongue lazy against yours, the unhurried quality of someone with absolutely nowhere to be. You were certainly not going home now. You reached up and pulled his shirt over his head, and your fingers found a purple mark spreading across his stomach.
"What's this?" you said, tracing it gently.
"Practice got tough."
"Oh, my poor baby." You shifted, pressing a line of soft kisses across his stomach. You felt him shiver underneath you. "My poor, poor baby —"
The knock on the door made you both freeze.
"Logan?" Dean's voice, from the other side. Another knock. The sound of the handle being tried. "You in there, man?"
You and Logan looked at each other with the wide-eyed, frantic energy of two people who had absolutely no good explanation for the current state of the room.
Logan started moving toward the door.
"No," you whisper-screamed.
"Hide," he said, at the same volume.
"Where?"
You looked around the room in rapid, increasingly desperate assessment. The bathroom — no, what if Dean needed it. The wardrobe what if Logan opened it. The only viable option was under the bed, the duvet long enough to reach the floor and conceal the gap completely.
You rolled off the mattress and slid underneath it in one graceless motion. You heard Logan muffle a laugh by converting it unconvincingly into a cough. In your frantic scramble you had grabbed your shirt, clutched against your chest, but your bra was somewhere out there discarded, incriminating, absolutely in the middle of the room.
Fuck, you thought.
Logan opened the door.
Dean walked in. There was a brief silence of the kind that meant someone had immediately spotted something they were not expecting to see. From your position on the floor you had a very clear view of Dean's socks stopping in the middle of the room.
Then not moving.
You watched Dean's socks stand very still for approximately eight seconds.
"I need to borrow your charger," Dean said.
His voice was extremely, carefully normal. The voice of a man making a decision in real time.
Logan turned and retrieved the charger from the bedside table. "Here."
A pause. Dean's socks did not move.
"Leave, Dean," Logan said.
Another pause.
Dean's socks backed slowly toward the door.
He stood in the hallway for a moment, you could hear him through the door, just standing there, processing, and then his footsteps retreated down the hall. You waited until you heard his door close before sliding out from under the bed, pulling your shirt back on and looking at Logan, who was leaning against the wall with his hand over his mouth doing an extremely poor job of not laughing.
"Your bra," he managed.
"I know."
"It was just — right there —"
"I know, Logan."
He was fully laughing now, silent and shaking, and you threw a pillow at him, which did nothing to help.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
dean: dude…
logan: say nothing
You watched him type it, one eyebrow raised. His phone buzzed back almost immediately.
dean: i have twenty dollars on the line
logan: dean
dean: i'm just saying
logan: goodnight dean
dean: does tucker know
logan: GOODNIGHT DEAN
Logan put his phone down. You looked at him. He looked at you.
"He's not going to say anything," Logan said, with the confidence of a man who was not entirely sure of this.
His phone buzzed again.
dean: for what it's worth i called it from the beginning
Logan turned his phone face down.
You looked at him for a moment longer.
Then you retrieved your bra from the corner of the room where it had been sitting like evidence at a crime scene, and you got back into bed, and Logan pulled you against him with the easy, unhurried certainty of someone who had won the argument about staying a long time ago.
Down the hall, Dean lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, charger plugged in, feeling extremely vindicated about everything.
He did not tell Tucker.
He did not tell Garrett.
He did not tell Allie, who sent him three texts the following morning about the shoulder touch that he left on read.
He did not tell Hannah, which was the hardest one, because Hannah asked him directly at breakfast if he had noticed anything and Dean had looked her in the eye and said no.
He was, he decided, a good friend.
He was also, he decided, definitely going to win that bet.
five — garrett
The hit happened in the second period.
It wasn't malicious, just the particular physics of two large bodies in a confined space moving fast, the kind of collision that happened in every game, that everyone who had ever watched hockey understood to be part of it. Logan went into the boards hard and stayed down for a moment longer than usual, and the arena went quiet in a collective way that meant everyone was holding the same breath.
You were on your feet before you had decided to stand up.
He was moving. He was getting up, slowly, with assistance from a teammate, skating to the bench under his own power. The arena exhaled. You sat back down.
Your heart was doing something extremely inconvenient.
"You okay?" Hannah said, from your other side.
"Fine," you said. "Totally fine."
She looked at you for a moment. You looked at the ice.
Logan was on the bench. The trainer was with him. He was talking, responding, doing all the things that meant he was okay, and you sat in the stands and watched with the stillness of someone who was doing a very good impression of a person who was just watching a hockey game and not mentally composing hospital directions.
He came back in the third period.
You exhaled properly for the first time in forty minutes.
After the game the group filtered down to the corridor outside the locker room the way they always did. You went because you always went, because it was a group thing, because it meant nothing in particular.
The players came out in ones and twos. Garrett first, immediately absorbed by Hannah. Tucker departing with a couple of the other guys. Dean getting into a conversation with someone near the exit.
Logan came out last.
He had a bruise forming along his jaw and he was walking with the slightly careful gait of someone who had taken a hit, and when he saw you he smiled, that specific smile, the one that was yours, and something in your chest did the thing it always did, except louder tonight, turned up by forty minutes of sitting in the stands holding your breath.
You crossed the corridor and hugged him, which was normal, everyone hugged after games, that was a completely normal thing to do.
Except then you pulled back and looked at him, at the bruise, at the careful way he was holding himself, and you said his name, quietly, in the way that was only for him, and he looked back at you in the way that was only for you, and the thing you had been keeping quietly for months was right there at the surface, obvious and warm and entirely done being kept.
You kissed him.
Not a quick kiss. Not an ambiguous one. A real one, his hand coming up to your jaw, yours finding the front of his jacket, the kind that had three months of ordinary Tuesday nights and Sunday mornings and staff bathroom detours in it.
The corridor went quiet.
You pulled back.
The group was looking at you.
Tucker's mouth was open.
Garrett had an expression cycling through several things very quickly , and then it landed on something that looked, more than anything, like quiet relief. Like someone who had been waiting for a particular thing to resolve and was glad it finally had.
Hannah was smiling in the particular way of someone who had known something for a while and was very glad to finally be allowed to show it.
Dean looked, more than anything, deeply smug.
"Wait," Tucker said. "Are you two — have you been —"
"Three months," Logan said, still looking at you, the corner of his mouth doing the thing.
"THREE MONTHS?"
"We forgot to mention it," you said.
"YOU FORGOT TO —"
"Tucker," Logan said.
"I HAD TWENTY DOLLARS ON THIS." Tucker pointed at you both. "I HAD — the pasta shirt! I KNEW about the pasta shirt! Does the pasta shirt count? When was the pasta shirt? If the pasta shirt counts then I —"
"Who won?" Allie said. "Technically who —"
Everyone looked at each other. A rapid, chaotic calculation passed through the group.
"Garrett," Hannah said slowly. "Garrett said —"
"After a game," Garrett said, with the equanimity of someone who had never been particularly worried about it. "I said after a game."
"You said after a game," Dean confirmed.
Tucker made a sound that had no letters in it.
"So Garrett wins?" Allie said.
"Garrett wins," Hannah confirmed, and immediately turned to Garrett with an expression of pure delight. "You won, baby."
Garrett looked at Logan. Logan looked back at him.
"You've been together for three months," Garrett said.
"About that," Logan confirmed.
"And you didn't tell anyone."
"We wanted to keep it for a while," you said, which was the simplest and most accurate version of it. "It was ours. We just wanted it to be ours for a bit."
Garrett looked at you for a moment. Something in his expression was entirely unsurprised. He nodded once, like a thing confirmed, and then looked at Logan with the small, easy smile of someone who had never doubted the outcome.
"Okay," he said. "Good."
Tucker pointed at both of you. "I want my twenty dollars back."
"You didn't win," Dean said.
"I KNEW ABOUT THE PASTA SHIRT."
"Tucker —"
"THE PASTA SHIRT WAS EVIDENCE AND NO ONE LISTENED TO ME —"
Logan looked at you. You looked back at him.
"Worth it?" he said quietly.
You looked at Tucker, who was now gesturing with both hands. You looked at Allie, who was consoling him with the resigned energy of someone who had expected this outcome. You looked at Hannah, who was collecting twenty dollars from Dean with the serene satisfaction of a person who had always known. You looked at Garrett, who was watching all of it with the calm, unhurried expression of a man who had called it months ago in a quiet kitchen on a Wednesday afternoon and had simply waited.
"Completely worth it," you said.
Logan kissed your temple.
Tucker made the sound with no letters in it again.
tucker: I WANT IT ON THE RECORD THAT I KNEW
tucker: THE PASTA SHIRT WAS REAL EVIDENCE
tucker: I CALLED IT FROM DAY ONE
dean: garrett won tucker
tucker: GARRETT WASNT EVEN PAYING ATTENTION
garrett: i was paying attention
tucker: YOU HAVE THE OBSERVATIONAL SKILLS OF A GOLDEN RETRIEVER
garrett: allie said that first
allie: it's true both times
allie: okay fine. garrett wins. i respect it.
tucker: I DO NOT RESPECT IT
tucker: TWENTY DOLLARS. GONE.
garrett: worth every penny honestly
allie: okay fine it was very cute
allie: i still saw the look though
allie: i want that acknowledged
dean: acknowledged allie
allie: thank you
tucker: I WILL NEVER FINANCIALLY RECOVER FROM THIS
summary: figure skater!reader has some issues with her skating partner. logan gets protective over you. requested!
“Right here?”
You shift, “A little to the left, I think.” Logan moves the ice pack to your left, and you hum satisfied, “Yes, right there. Thank you.”
“No problem,” he says, hand adding a little pressure, “How did that even happen?”
“I don’t know. Moseley insisted on Hale lifting me again, but his grip just isn’t right,” you groan, the cold soothing your muscles, “I should’ve gone to single skating, you know? I could’ve been doing a fun routine to some hyperpop song instead of this bullshit situat–”
“Wait.” Logan interrupts you, hand on your hip to turn you over, a pained whimper from the extra pressure on your bruise coming out of your mouth. He winces, “I’m sorry, honey– Did you say he dropped you?”
“Oh, yeah.” You say, resting your head on his pillow again, “Not the first time, too. He keeps dropping me.”
“I thought you said Moseley partnered you with a talented skater?”
Coach Moseley is nothing short of the best you could’ve asked for. A petite, dark-haired woman with a background of a former Olympics champion trained by a Russian ballet instructor and the perfect amount of short-temperedness to make her a perfect coach. It’s easy for you to have your full trust in her, even when she pairs you up with someone you don’t like.
“He is talented.” you shrug, “Takes some time to build a solid routine, I guess. I’m sure we can both do better.”
Logan then moves a little closer, “Uh-huh. All I’m saying is, I’ve seen you do your routine hundreds of times. It’s perfect, every single one of them,” his voice gains a softer tone, “You have nothing to worry about.”
You sigh, murmuring a thank you once his attention goes back to icing your hip bruise.
—
You do, actually, have things to worry about.
“Moseley, you can’t possibly think he’s fit enough for that.” you whisper to your coach, “He can’t throw high enough! We’re still having issues with the triple twist.”
“You are having issues with your twists,” Hale says pointedly.
“Because you’re not giving me anything to work with!” You answer, raising your voice, “You can’t possibly expect me to give four twists with that height!”
“You’re the one not doing the twists, my throw is perfectly fine!”
“Oh, you gotta be fucki—”
“Enough.” Moseley interjects, banging her hand on the acrylic pane, boom echoing around the ice. “Hale, she’s right, you gotta work on your throws. And you,” she turns her pointy finger in your direction, “Will be doing the quad twist, period.”
And with that, she leaves.
You run your hands over your face, sighing before turning to your partner, “Look, Hale, we don’t have to act like—”
“I don’t need a pep talk from you.” He cuts you off, “I need you to do better. Spin fucking faster, if you have to.”
—
Logan sits on the player’s benches, watching you start the routine over and over again with a whiny Hale by your side.
“Okay,” he hears you say to your partner, “We’re almost there. From the top.”
“Oh, my god.” Hale snaps, “We’re fine. You told me to work on my throws, fine, I did. You’re spinning just at the right time. We’re good.”
“We need practice, Hale.” You say, and Logan thinks you must be channeling the patience of a saint right now. “Now, from the top, please.”
He rolls his eyes before assuming position. You move to your side of the ice and start the routine, Logan’s eyes following, in awe of your clean moves. The bright blue of your sweater makes a nice contrast with the ice, and the way you spin makes your flowy skirt look like you’re flying. It's beautiful.
That is, of course, until Hale misses his throw, dropping you from over his head with a loud bang.
“What the fuck, dude.” Logan shouts, quickly lacing his own boots and getting on the ice to help you, kneeling by your side, “Hey, slow down. Are you okay?”
You grunt as you sit up, hand over your back in a wince, “I’m fine. Just bad timing.”
Hale chuckles, murmuring, “Like always.”
Logan turns around, getting up from the floor, “What the fuck did you say?”
“I, uh–” Hale stammers, “I meant–”
“Because it seems like you’re being a pain in the ass about my girlfriend and I know damn well she is the one putting the effort here.”
“Well, you know how she is—”
“Yes, I fucking do.” Logan moves closer to him, “And I don’t like seeing her going the extra mile just for you to do some shitty work and blame her for it. Get it together, man.”
Logan skates away from him, helping you get up from the floor. You don’t say anything to Hale, just offering him an icy look before leaving him behind. Logan carefully throws his arm over your shoulders, pulling you closer as you leave the rink,
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, just wanna get some rest.” You look at him, smiling, “Thank you, by the way. You didn’t have to say all that.”
“I know it’s not my place.” He answers, “But Hale really was lacking. You know that, right? It wasn’t your fault.”
You nod, “I think it’s time to talk with Coach Moseley. See if I can switch partners.”
“She’ll understand.” He says, plain and simple, “She likes you, and she trusts you. If you say you can’t work with him, she’ll take your side.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
Logan smiles at you, shaking your shoulders, “You know, some say I’m very good on the ice.” Logan says, a hint of humour in his voice, “Maybe I could be your partner.”
You turn to face him, a smirk on his lips. You push his arm as you giggle, “Shut up. This isn’t The Cutting Edge.”
“What, you think I don’t have the moves? I can throw you up my head!”
You laugh at his ridiculousness, pulling him down and pressing a kiss on his lips, “I think I’d rather just have you bring me ice packs in bed. No offence.”
“None taken.” He says, kissing your cheek, “What’s The Cutting Edge, by the way?”
“Oh, god. You have to watch that.” You say, “Get the boys together, tell them we're having a movie night.”
notes: this is a ploy for me to get everyone into watching the cutting edge (1992). thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
Just Us Two: Damian loves intruding on your and Jason's alone time.
Third time's The Charm: The two times Jason almost told you he liked you, and the one time he finally did.
Baby Came Home: After you lose your powers while trying to take down a partnership between Lex Luthor and Penguin, Jason and you confront your deepest fear — being each other's second choice. When the rest of the batboys lock you in the Batcave, though, the confession becomes inevitable.
How Can We Go Back to Being Friends: You hook up with your best friend, and now you don’t know how to act around each other.
Damian, You Are So Psyched: Damian came home from school yesterday acting off, so now it's your goal to cheer up the distant little boy.
Don’t Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket: Jason has been telling himself he's visiting the little coffee shop at the end of the block for its cheap coffee, but it's his only way to see the cute barista every day and quote "Pride and Prejudice" at her until she falls for him.
Don't Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket (sequel)
Not what you think: Jason went snooping and thinks you're cheating on him. Good luck explaining yourself!
A shear disaster: Your boyfriend is acting suspicious and won't take off his helmet.
Guilty pleasures: You cheat on your boyfriend, Jason, with the Red Hood.
Unexpected Guests: Damian finds out you're dating Jason.
Rough Night: Your secret relationship with Jason is accidentally revealed the morning after a rough night.
The Babysitter: After being hired to babysit Damian Wayne, you end up putting a masked intruder in a chokehold, only to realize you’ve just tackled his older brother, Jason Todd.
Making an Ass of U & Me: Jason didn’t mean to keep your existence secret from his family. At first, it was for his and your own protection more than anything; his double life wasn’t just for any average person after all. But, even after the whole marriage and settling down thing, he may have just forgotten to mention it.
Careless Accidents: You get hurt, and Jason’s pissed.
So This is Love: You show each other what love is supposed to be like (4 in 1)
The Gift of Truth: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his “nightly activities.” When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him
Pride & Prejudice: When you first meet Jason Todd, he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him.
Good With Kids: You never really had an opinion on your colleague Red Hood, that is until you walk into him interacting with some kids.
The Investigator: The Batfamily discovers Jason's been hiding a long-distance relationship with someone who might be even more terrifying than Batman himself.
Are You Dating My Teacher: Bruce decides to cash in a favor that Jason owed him, and now the Red Hood- the most ruthless vigilante of Gotham- is chaperoning his youngest brother’s field trip to the zoo.
Who Do You Love: You're hopelessly in love with your classmate, Jason Todd. And you just so happen to be quite good friends with Red Hood. drunk one night, you admit you have feelings for Jason to your vigilante friend, not knowing the man behind the mask is the man you're in love with.
When She Sees Me: Your best friend Dick Grayson took you to one of Bruce's galas a while ago. When Dick finds out his brother has a crush on you, he decides to play Cupid.
Blah Blah Blah: Jason is angry after watching Wuthering Heights. You are horny watching him get angry.
Cover Blown: You and Jason cannot stand one another. Unfortunately. you both go undercover as a married couple, and that should'nt change things between you two... right?
La Vie en Rose: The four times Jason wildly preferred you over everyone else.
Kiss or Miss: A quiet Saturday at the shooting range becomes anything but when Jason decides hands on help is the best kind.
Can I: It’s your last year of university and Jason Todd has been in your classes, plotting on you. You’d promised yourself you’d make the most of this year, go to more parties, finally lose your virginity, and step out of your comfort zone, while Jason steps into yours.
Glad It Was You
Prove It To You
Hit Me
The Magic Words: You’ve been urging to tell your boyfriend that you love him and you finally do.
Ice Skating With Jason: Ice skating, jealousy, and accidental confessions... what could go wrong?
Scuff Marks: Your car breaks down, and you meet your best friend's brother, Jason.
Brother's Best Friend: Sleepover at Wayne Manor with a side quest of making out with your secret boyfriend.
Wait…We're Not Dating: For the entire year you and Jason have known each other, he assumed you two were dating and had no idea you weren't.
It's Just a Crush: You have a crush on Red Hood, and your best friend stephanie brown thinks it’s so funny. Funny enough, she introduces you to her brother, Jason Todd.
Delayed Confession: Jason is trying to confess his feelings, but you already thought you were dating.
Domestic Disputes: Jason cannot handle having such an independent girlfriend.
Random blurbs
Old habits
Revealing Secrets
I'm still right though
Jason accidentally reveals he has a soon-to-be fiancée
Interrupted Dates
First Time
Shy (but experienced) Jason and his freaked-out (but inexperienced) girl
Jason Todd who makes everything in your home kiss
Random Headcanons
My pretty, pretty girl
Collar
Jason has a wet dream while you’re trying to wake him up
Jason is insecure about his scars
Jason Todd is hungry and impatient
Dick Grayson
Sweater Weather: Dick just wanted to have lunch with his best friend, but he didn't expect you to show up in some other guy's sweatshirt.
The Light Behind Your Eyes: A week spent at Dick’s apartment leads Damian to discover what unconditional love looks like.
Hard to Impress: Dick Grayson can't seem to make you swoon, no matter how hard he tries, until he finally does
The "She's With Me" Is The New Gaelic Shrug (sequel)
Easy lovers: After a series of dates, dick finds himself desperate and decides that tonight will not end until he gets to walk home with a kiss from you.
Miraculous partners: Basically, a "Miraculous Ladybug" plot between you and Dick.
Territory, Marked: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park, and when his older brother tags along one day, he takes a little too much interest.
Dinner Was Not Served: Dick had one goal: to seduce his girlfriend. He forgot the part where he should check for unwanted guests first and narrates his plans in very, vivid detail.
Stakeout at Table Nine: Dick Grayson just wanted a normal date. No suits. No masks. Definitely no Batkid stakeout at a fancy restaurant. Too bad his siblings brought disguises, drama, and a front-row seat to his love life.
Lightning Strikes Twice: Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
Whatever You Say Teach: Damian gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isn’t picking up the phone, so Damian’s eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brother’s English Lit teacher.
His Person: You and dick have been close friends for years now, and that's all it would ever be, but after he snaps and upsets you, things change.
Random blurbs
Take him back, please!
Revealing Secrets
Interrupted Dates
Sleeping in his bed turns into something more
Damian Wayne (aged up ofc!!)
Near: He hates contact, except apparently when it’s you he’s inching toward.
Nepo Vigilante: After your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. Bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with Damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with Tim instead, sparking Damian’s outrage.
When The Spite Dies: You were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite, you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man and vice versa.
When The Spite is Desire (sequel)
The Heart Remembers: Damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happened—and his missing memories dissolve all defenses and unravel the true depths of his undying devotion for you.
The Only Exception: Getting a list of everything Damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that list—and try to fix that, not knowing that you’re Damian’s only exception.
Animal Interests: Damian’s father drags him along to an old acquaintance's house for intel, only to find that her teen also has an interest in animal rescues. In other words, she has a rescued panther as a pet.
Who Said The Waynes Were Cold: Damian Wayne, son of Batman, grandson of Ra's al Ghul, capable of neutralizing a threat in thirty seconds flat, is completely, irrevocably incapable of speaking to the girl he loves. The solution: an anonymous note slipped into a locker. Dick Grayson finds it hilarious. Damian doesn't.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Damian Wayne and Reader Get Domestic
Tim Drake
If I Was Your Boyfriend: Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.
Dairy Queen Closes in 10 Minutes: You broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Bruce Wayne
The Wrong Man’s Wife: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.
Like Real People Do: Bruce's wife goes missing, and the media and family are both in shambles. Bruce grows colder as the family tries their best to find her. To try and cheer him up, they find old video diaries from the couple’s early dating lives and witness a new side of Bruce.
The Watchtower's Worst Kept Secret: The Justice League suspects something is happening between Batman and Bruce Wayne's wife.
Seven Smacks: Bruce Wayne was a stubborn and fiercely independent man, which meant that his children were too. Unfortunately for you, that meant that scolding one of them was practically a moment to scold both.
The Bat's Wife: Some members of the league are still surprised by the way the Dark Knight's wife looks.
Oh, It's... Gold: Bruce made a small mistake on a gift he gave you, and everyone judged him for it.
summary: john logan was your best friend and the guys, allie, and hannah were your family. everyone knows that you had liked logan for forever but you knew that he didn't feel the same way about you. logan was with grace and you respected it. you couldn't even hate her for it - she's perfect and she's perfect for him. it's okay though, your family's got you.
warnings: nothing really - but angst, sad!!! and yearning!! smoking, drinking? swearing
author's note: i love off campus!!! its too good, already on my 3rd re-watch and i just felt inspired to write :) pls be nice lol also garrett is a protector for sure and i love their friendships so much! also no, nothing is going on with yn and garrett - he's very much so in love with hannah wells, as he should because she's such a cutie i love her so much
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The music in the hockey house was way too fucking loud, the laughter too easy, and the air just a little too warm. It was a typical Friday night house party where there were so many people you literally didn't know except for your friends even though the guys lived here. There was yelling, beer pong, people making out and it was just a messy. Classic Friday night around here. You were over it though.
I sat on the arm of the couch, a half-empty solo cup in my hand, watching the room. My eyes, entirely against my own willpower, kept drifting to the kitchen counter.
To Logan.
Everyone called him Logan, but to me, the name always felt different in my mouth. It wasn’t a sharp syllable thrown across a crowded room; it was a quiet rhythm. I loved the way it sounded when I said it, loved the stupid, effortless way he’d look up and grin whenever I used it. I had been in love with him for months, a slow-burning ache that I kept tucked away behind easy banter and casual shoulder bumps.
But tonight, the ache was sharp.
Grace was standing next to him. She said something, her hand resting lightly on his forearm, and Logan threw his head back, laughing that rich, infectious laugh that usually made my chest ache. Tonight, it just made it tight. He looked down at her, his expression softening in a way that had nothing to do with friendship. He reached up, his fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
It was a tiny gesture. She had every right.
It was completely devastating.
I forced a swallow of my drink, the burning liquid doing nothing to wash down the lump in my throat. I knew Grace was amazing. I liked her. Everyone did. That was the worst part—you couldn’t even be mad at her. But watching the way Logan’s gaze lingered on her face, the way his body naturally leaned into her space... it felt like watching a door quietly click shut right in front of me.
"You're going to burn a hole right through his jacket if you keep staring like that."
The quiet, low voice right beside me made me jump. I spilled a few drops of my drink onto my hand.
Garrett was standing there, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He wasn't looking at Logan and Grace; he was looking straight at me.
Garrett was like a brother to me. He was the anchor of our chaotic group—the guy who noticed when someone’s drink was empty, when someone was too quiet, or, in this case, when someone's heart was breaking in real-time. He was entirely too observant for my own good.
"I-I'm not staring," I lied, my voice a little too high, a little too quick. I wiped my wet hand on my jeans. "Just... zoning out. Tired."
Garrett didn't say anything right away. He just stepped closer, shifting his weight so he blocked my view of the kitchen counter. It was a small, protective movement, shielding me from the exact thing that was hurting.
"Yeah," Garrett said softly, his eyes full of a quiet, heavy sympathy that made me want to cry. "You look terrible. Have you been sleeping at all?"
I swallowed hard, looking down at my shoes. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to me," Garrett murmured, bumping his shoulder against mine. "Because I know you. And I know how you say his name."
A breathy, humorless laugh escaped my lips. I looked up at Garrett, my eyes stinging. "I really thought I was hiding it better."
"You're okay," he lied gently, offering a small, sad smile. "Come on. Let's go out on the balcony and get some air. It's fucking suffocating in here."
I glanced past Garrett's broad shoulders one last time. Logan was still talking to Grace, his hand now resting casually on the small of her back. He looked happy. He looked completely oblivious.
"Yeah," I whispered, letting Garrett guide me away from the noise and into the cool, quiet night. "Okay."
The cool night air hit my skin, making me shiver instantly. I grabbed a stray hoodie off the back of the kitchen chair on our way out—judging by the faint scent of laundry detergent and old spice, it belonged to one of the guys—and threw it over my tiny tank top and short skirt. It engulfed me, the hem reaching nearly to the bottom of my skirt, but it was exactly the shield I needed.
Garrett pulled open the heavy glass door, and we stepped out onto the porch. The chatter of the party instantly muffled into a low, thumping hum.
We sank into the two faded wooden deck chairs in the corner. The ones you'd see at overnight camp. Some of the boys stole it from somewhere - you don't even really know where. They're mismatched but they're your favourite. You pulled out a pack, tapping a cigarette loose and offering it to him first before lighting your own. He took a long, slow drag, the orange cherry glowing in the dark, before letting out a quiet puff of smoke. He’d only take a few hits tonight; he had a brutal practice tomorrow, and he never messed with his lungs before a training day. It was just a ritual to give his hands something to do. To give me some company. You tap the ashes on the little tray on the ground.
I took a drag of my own, staring out at the dark backyard, letting the silence stretch between us until the tightness in my chest loosened just a fraction.
“She’s literally perfect,” I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. I let out a breathless, self-deprecating laugh, shaking my head. “Even I love her so much. I'd be in love with her too, seriously. That's the worst part.”
Garrett didn’t interrupt, he rolled his eyes slightly. Grace was whatever to him, don't get him wrong - he liked her, he was fine with her around - he just hated how down you get because of some idiot oblivious guy to your feelings. He just exhaled another small puff of smoke, watching me intently.
"She's kind, she's funny, she's gorgeous," I continued, pulling the oversized sleeves of the hoodie down over my hands. "Grace is perfect—and I know that. I can't even be mad at him because his taste is flawless." You slurred your words as you sipped your drink again.
It sucked. It sucked so entirely, because Logan and I weren't just standard friends—we were best friends. For over a year, I had fought so hard to prove the stereotype wrong. I wanted so badly to be the living proof that a guy and a girl could be fiercely loyal, incredibly close, and completely platonic. I had prided myself on it. I had built a wall of "just friends" logic around us, telling myself that what we had was rarer and better than a stupid crush.
But somewhere along the line, the foundation had cracked. And while I was busy trying to prove a point to the world, I went and fell completely, irreversibly in love with him.
"You tried really hard," Garrett said quietly, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. He flicked a bit of ash over the railing. "To keep it just friends. I watched you do it."
"I failed miserably," I whispered, leaning my head back against the cold plastic of the chair.
"What? The fuck. You didn't fail," Garrett countered softly, bumping his sneaker against mine. "You just humaned, rules-be-damned. You can't logic your way out of how you feel about Logan. Especially not when he's... well, Logan."
I looked over at Garrett, grateful for the dark masking the hot tears threatening to spill over my lashes. "What am I supposed to do now?"
Garrett took his last puff, stubbing the cigarette out entirely against the wooden arm rest before tossing it in the tray. He looked at me, his expression fiercely protective. "Y/N -seriously. Fuck him - who cares, Logan is my best friend but he's also an idiot. We sit out here, you wear that giant hoodie, and get to be sad." You sighed and gave a slight smile to him making fun of Logan for the sake of making you feel better. Garrett was a protector - you knew that. "For the record-" he said quickly, "You're the prize okay. Stop this self deprecating bullshit. State champ cheerleader, miss top of your class, makes us stop at the side of the road to help stray cats get to safety even when you make me fucking late to things. He's a loser for not seeing you but expects you to be there for him. Seriously pisses me off," Garrett spat. He gets annoyed at Logan because it's almost like he uses you. "Just drop it, it's okay," you say as you take another hit. You didn't want him to get worked up anymore or else he'll actually might go fight him or something.
Garret was right. He always was when it came to reading people, and right now, his quiet solidarity was exactly the anchor I needed.
We sat out there for a while, the initial heavy silence giving way to a comfortable, familiar rhythm. We split a couple of beers, the cold aluminum freezing my hands inside the giant sleeves of the hoodie. I smoked, and Garrett just leaned back, keeping me company and occasionally knocking his sneaker against mine to remind me he was there. Slowly, the tight knot in my chest began to loosen, replaced by the easy, comforting warmth of a friendship that didn't require me to pretend.
The heavy glass door slid open again, letting out a brief burst of the party’s bass before it clicked shut.
"Oh, look at this. The secret patio smoking society," Tucker’s voice boomed, completely shattering the quiet.
"And they didn't invite us. How cruel," Dean teased, shaking his head with mock offense as he stepped out right behind him.
Tucker was already holding two fresh cans of beer, and Dean had a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand. Without asking, Tucker practically threw himself into the empty space between our chairs, dropping onto the deck floor and leaning his back against my legs. Dean grabbed a plastic crate from the corner, flipped it upside down, and claimed it as his throne with a satisfied sigh.
"Give me a hit of that," Dean said, nodding toward my cigarette. I handed it over, watching him take a drag before passing it back.
"What are you guys even doing out here? It's freezing," Tucker muttered, though he made absolutely no move to go back inside. Instead, he reached up and yanked the oversized hood of my jacket down over my eyes, laughing when I shoved his hand away.
"Getting away from your loud mouth, mostly," Garrett replied smoothly, a faint, genuine smirk finally touching his lips.
"Hey, my mouth is a national treasure," Tucker shot back, cracking open a beer and handing it up to me. "Drink. You look like you're drowning in that hoodie. Whose is that anyway? Is that Wellsy's?"
"Think it's mine, actually," Dean said, squinting at the faded logo in the dark. "Keep it. It looks better on you anyway."
Sitting there, surrounded by them, a sudden wave of fierce affection washed over me. The sharp, bitter ache in my chest from earlier didn't magically disappear, but it dulled into something manageable. Logan was inside, falling for Grace, and my heart was still a little broken about it—there was no denying that. But looking at Garrett, Tucker, and Dean, I realized I wasn't alone.
We were a little family. A messy, loud, fiercely loyal family built on hockey road trips, shared apartments, and unsaid understandings. They were my boys, and I was their girl. Logan was a part of this family too, but tonight, these three were holding the perimeter for me, keeping the cold at bay without even realizing they were doing it.
I took the beer from Tucker, took a long sip, and laughed out loud at some stupid joke Dean made about their coach. Out here on the porch, wrapped in a friend's oversized hoodie with my brothers around me, I knew I was going to be okay.
It really was the most beautiful, unspoken thing about them.
As the night wore on and the beer cans started piling up on the deck floor, it hit me with a sudden, warm wave of clarity. They all knew.
It wasn't just Garrett. Tucker might have acted like a loud, oblivious golden retriever, and Dean might have been focused on his pizza, but they weren't stupid. They had seen the way I looked at Logan when he wasn't paying attention. They had noticed how my voice softened when I called his name, and they had absolutely noticed the quiet, devastating shift in my posture the second Grace walked into the room tonight.
But the incredible thing about these boys was that they never made me feel pathetic for it. There were no pitying glances, no awkward silences, and absolutely no unsolicited advice. In total, fierce solidarity, they completely locked it down. They drew a protective line around me, ensuring that whatever heartbreak I was nursing stayed out here on the dark porch, completely safe from the rest of the party.
"Hey," Tucker said, nudging my shin with his elbow from where he was sitting on the floor. "You're getting that look on your face again. The 'I'm thinking too hard' look. Stop it."
"I'm not thinking too hard," I laughed, reaching down to shove his shoulder.
"She is," Dean pointed out, blowing a smoke ring into the crisp air. "She's definitely doing the deep-dive brain thing. Don't make me go inside and get the karaoke mic to distract you, because I will, and it will be terrible for everyone involved."
"Jeez, please don't," Garrett murmured, a rare, relaxed grin breaking across his face. "None of us deserve to hear your rendition of Shania Twain again."
"It's a crowd-pleaser and you know it, Gar," Dean shot back, gesturing with his beer.
I looked at the three of them, my heart swelling so much it almost eclipsed the ache from earlier. They were actively keeping the vibe light, throwing up a shield of stupid jokes and easy banter so I wouldn't drown in my own head. They knew Logan was inside with Grace right now. They knew he was probably holding her hand or leaning in close to hear her over the music. But out here, they made sure none of that existed. Out here, I was just their girl, wrapped in Dean’s oversized hoodie, being looked after by the best brothers anyone could ask for.
"Thanks, guys," I said softly, the words slipping out before I could think better of it.
Tucker looked up at me over his shoulder, his expression uncharacteristically soft for a split second before his usual grin returned. He reached up, taking a sip of his beer. "For what? Being incredibly handsome? You're welcome."
"For being tolerable," Garrett corrected smoothly, giving my shoe another gentle tap with his own.
I smiled, leaning my head back against the chair and looking up at the faint stars above the campus. The pain of loving Logan wasn't gone—it would probably be there for a long time—but with this little family around me, I didn't feel so heavy anymore. I felt protected.
She´s the eldest daughter. She's always the same age as Jason and is close to both Dick and Jason. She is the mother to her siblings, to her dad, in every friend group. She loves hard and gets hurt even harder. She is calm on the outside, but has so much anxiety that she cries like a little child in the shower when she can't hold it in.
She pushes her emotions so deep down that she no longer knows how to feel them. And when it becomes too much, the emotions explode, and she turns mean in those moments.
But she is kind, so kind that she is seen as weak and easy to use. And she knows it. And it breaks her heart. Because she has so much love and wants to share it, to make others feel loved. But that usually backfires. Because not everyone believes they deserve to be loved, they see her as overbearing and naive.
She was the "easy" kid, the mature one. The one that everyone said had great potential. The one you didn't need to worry about, cause she could handle herself. She could handle the weight of everything and a little bit more. So Bruce doesn't have to worry about her, which leads to him spending less time with her. He never really remembers what she likes or is doing or what she dreams about. He doesn't know what her future plans look like, even though she has told him 100 times.
Which leaves Batsis to believe that her father barely knows her, and she gets proof of it, here and there. He will say something about her that will be so inaccurate that it leaves a bad taste in her mouth, and she feels a stab wound in her heart. But because there is an expectation on her shoulders, she seeks his validation. Validation, she never gets. Whatever it is, if it's an A on a test or a successful business deal, it's nothing to be congratulated for. If she isn't perfect, then she needs to fix herself, quickly.
Sometimes Dick will ask her why she is always so stressed and worried about things. He will tell her to calm down, not understanding that she can't afford to calm down or not to worry. That it's a need deep in her soul, if she isn't caring for others, if she isn't solving things for them, she is nothing. She has no purpose.
And not because Bruce or anyone else has told her so. She took this role onto herself. She decided, as that calm, non-problematic child, that this was her duty to carry. And she ran with it. Cause no one told her she didn't need to. No one showed her that she could lean on them. That she could rest without feeling guilty. That she could make mistakes, and it was fine. That no one would hate her for putting herself first.
Did my own experience and memories as the eldest daughter, oldest child, bleed into this? Yes, it did
OMG OEEÑIORFNER Thank you so much for quoting me, I'm flattered my Batsis inspired you to write this!!💕🙌
I don't know how you did it, but you actually understood her character perfectly. Like, this is mostly what I have in mind for her. I can't believe you could think of all that just by reading my short I wrote in a impulse of inspiration at 2:00 A.M on my phone oiasednew. This is so well-worded and good. You capture Batsis down to the last detail of what I imagined. I can't wait to read more of what you come up with 👀
The only difference is that my Batsis is actually younger than both Dick and Jason, closer to Tim's age, but she's equally terrifying to them in her own right because she's the one who actually handles the house with Alfred, and they know better than disobey her. It's also what makes them take her for granted, ironically. They assume she's always going to be there for them, no matter what. They're used to it. Bruce trusts her so much with her independence and reliability he feels she doesn't actually need him as much. She's the easy kid, the one who has never given him problems or made him worry. He favours her...and at the same time neglects her lol. She's been playing a caretaker role since she was a child and arrived to the manor, realising how things worked and feeling she had to make herself "easy" for her family to accept her. Even Alfred has contributed to those insane standards she has for herself. He doesn't see anything too wrong with how she acts. He thinks it's how a respectable eldest daughter should behave, considering her circumstances. However, he's also the only one who knows when she needs a break and pushes herself too hard. It's complicated.
She's been performing so long she doesn't know how to stop. She fears she can't anymore....that's why she gets a best friend that's the complete opposite of her and it's going to teach her healthier boundaries whether Batsis wants them or not :D. Which it's funny because this best friend isn't exactly the healthiest person in the universe, since she's Oliver Queen's daughter and her family is in general even more dysfunctional than the Batfam lol
Feels like we're on the same wavelength when it comes to batsis. As I mentioned, my own personal experiences bleed though when it comes to batsis. Glad we had this moment. I'm actually currently editing a batsis story, hoping it going to be great 💜
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Summary: Secretly learning to ice skate, partying with my friends, and having a huge crush on John—it was just bound to go wrong.
Parts: one,two,three, four, five
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” a far away Look in my eyes.
“Y/N.”
Beau never called me by my name. Since he came up with Ducky when we first met it's basically my given name. Most of my friends adapted to it, there's hardly any person left to call me by my birthname, except for John. So hearing him call me Y/N felt heavy. Like this was really serious.
“I am serious. I don't know what Allie believes she has seen but…He didn't…We didn't.” I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. This conversation felt too intimate. Beau was arguably my best friend but this was too close to home. I never wanted to speak about this. With anyone. “I drunkenly kissed him.” I confessed quietly. The memory of the kiss was successfully buried in the depths of my brain, shoved into a tiny corner far from the light. Stomach twisting painfully at the reminder. There are lots of blurry images left from that night at the Cabin I wished to just forget. It was a rare occurrence for me to have drunk that much. I disdained being intoxicated. It left one helpless, control slipping away with every sip. But that night I just wanted to let loose, forget about the real world with its real problems and just have fun with my friends. No pressure, no fear, no pain. But it turned sideways as soon as Logan and I were alone. Desperately wanting to be held for one night. To be desired for just a moment. Feeling wanted. A tear escaped the corner of my eye. Beau gripped my hand, squeezing it softly. I was so dumb to think he would give me that. We are friends. Never more. Blinking rapidly I laughed quietly, masking the pain. “A foolish drunken peck on the lips, nothing more.” Taking a deep breath I forced a sickeningly sweet smile onto my lips. “That's all there is to know. End of Story.” Swiftly tearing my hand from his hold I stood up. "Hey, wait!" Beau protested, reaching for me. Stepping back I withdraw myself. “This Conversation is over. I don't want to talk about this anymore.” “You can't just bury all your feelings, it will eat you alive.“ Not listening to a word he said I bailed “See you at Karaoke.”
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Sitting at my desk, course work in front of me I stared at diagrams and text passages. Forcing myself to work. Blocking out everything else. After about two hours I slammed my books shut, raking my hands aggressively through my hair. I couldn't remember even one sentence I wrote down. Putting my notes in order I cleaned up my desk. This is useless.
Lifting myself I kicked my chair against the table. Instantly wincing after as my hip stung in protest to the abrupt movement. Stupid fucking bullshit! This day was a total shit show. How can just a few hours create this much chaos? Snapping at Logan, arguing with Beau and seemingly having all my friends worry that I lost it. As if to put the cherry on top my mom called again. Closing my eyes I debated with myself to just ignore her call again. It's not her fault. She just wants to help. How ungrateful of me. Accepting her call I moved to my bed. Mattress squeaking slightly under my weight.
“Hey mom, sorry for not answering your call earlier. I was on my way to class.”
“No worries, how are you?”
“I am fine.”
“Honey...” She paused.
“I know you are strong but it's okay to feel bad sometimes.” I stayed silent pressing my teeth into my lower lip, breathing getting harder. Throat constricting.
“You don't have to endure this alone.”
“I know.” My voice is hoarse. My mother doesn't comment on it but her voice softens even more.
“He still loves you, you know that honey, right?” Feeling my eyes glaze over, I grimace. Mouth pressed into a thin line. Clearing my through “Yes mom.” Not even I am convinced.
Whipping at my nose, I licked my lips.
“Listen, mom. Thank you for your call. Don't worry about me. I-” Pausing I pushed my fingernails into my palm, forcing my brain to re focus on the physical pain.
“I can handle it. But I need to get ready, the others and I are meeting at Malone’s.”
“Oh, okay. Have fun and don't ever forget how much I love you.” Squeezing my eyes shut to stop the tears I mumble.
“I love you too mum. By.”
Letting my phone fall onto my bed I pressed my fist onto my lips, muffling my raged breaths. It's okay. I am okay. Curling into myself, bullying my feelings back inside. Breath in. Hold. Breath out. Hold. Loosening my fist I pressed my palms on my tights. Malones. Nodding my head like I was in trance. I moved on autopilot. I had to get ready, show my friends that I was okay. Showering, blowing my hair out, applying mascara and lipstick. Moving calm and steady.
It wasn't until I stood in the doorway of Malone’s that I came back to reality.
The Bar / Dinner was packed with Briar students. Some kid belting out wrecking ball on stage. Scanning the area it was still fairly easy to spot the Group of 6 foot hockey players. They mingled at the counter laughing at something Tucker had said. Hannah was behind the counter serving drinks. Whilst walking over I brought an effortless-looking smile on my lips. Having spotted me first Hannah waved. “Hey.” Slinging my arm across Dean's waist I shoved my head between him and Tucker. “What's up, losers?” I cheerfully chirped. Dean instinctively pulled me into him “Look who finally lightened up.” Pinching his side I shifted my attention to Hannah. “Could I have two rounds of shots please?” “Sure thing.” She directly started pouring. “Shots? What's your mission tonight?” Garrett asked. “Ever heard of having fun Graham?” I sarcastically asked, lips shifting into a smirk. Dean's laughter rumbled through his whole body. "Shots fired.” Tucker chuckled on my other side. Garrett held up his hands in mock surrender.
The next moment Hannah placed a Tray with 10 shoots in front of us on the counter. “Alright Boys, bottoms up.” I grabbed a tiny glass holding it up. Dean and Tucker took theirs without hesitation. John took a second to think it over "Don't leave me hanging.” I teased before he also grabbed one. My insides churned when our gaze met. The charming smile on his lips did not reach his eyes. Not able to take his stormy gaze any longer I looked at Garrett and eagerly nudged the glass towards him. "Don't be a baby G.” He rolled his eyes but took the glass. Tilting my face upward I declared “Here’s to those who wish us well; all the rest can go fuck themselfs.” “Aye!” The boys shouted and then we all threw our heads back and downed the shots. I slammed my glass down on the counter with a bit too much force. Dean gave me a curious look but said nothing. Reaching for the second one I Beau came around. Catching Hannah's eyes I pointed with my finger to the shot and signaled one more. She nodded, filling one for Beau.
“Doing shots without me?” He asked, feigning indignation. I gave him a quick hug “I would dare, handsome.” He smiled uncurtained. “You better not Ducky.” The Boys shared a confused look at the obvious tension between us. “Here you go.” Hannah announced placing the shot with the others. Handing out shots I didn't accept a no. “Come one, you guys are so big you won't even feel it.” I pointedly look up at them. “You can't argue against science.” Dean shrugged his shoulders smiling mischievously. “Thats not science.” John said. Giving him a side eye I countered “Seems like someone doesn't know basic physiology.” “Sorry, I was busy with anatomy.” he retorted with an arrogant smirk on his lips. The boys made dramatic “Ooh” sounds. Feeling my chest tighten. Flashes of him pushing me gently but firmly away. The pure embarrassment I felt. “Were friends Y/N”. The devastation that he also didn't want me. I bit the inside of my cheek, pulling my mind back into the current situation. Act normal. Friends tease each other. “Sounds depressing when you know what it looks like but not how to use it.” I bit back. Pinching my brows together I frowned in mock concern “Poor Puck Bunnies.” Garrett erupted into loud laughter. Logan stared at me, "Jealouse?" YES. "Off, what? One minute of fumbling around in the dark?” Seemingly speechless he flexed his jaw. “God damn.” Dean whistled. Not wanting to dwell on this, I raised my glass again. “Your drinking with me or not?” The boys took their glasses, even Logan. “Heres to me, heres to you, fuck the rest were briar u.” Dean proclaimed, clicking his glasses with the group. Downing my shot I shook my head, as the alcohol burnt down my throat. Putting my glass down I felt Beau watching me. Nudging his shoulder playfully, I sent him what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
“So what are you singing tonight?” I took a look around, taking a big sip of Deans beer as he weakly protested. “Defenetly not singing." Garrett announced, winking at Welly when she rolled her eyes at him. Skipping Logan I turned to Tuck. “You missed my performance.” Tucker shrugged, smiling apologetic. “What? Nooo.” I pouted, genuinely disappointed. “This sucks.” Tucker's Karaoke performances were fun to witness. Craning my neck to look up at the blond who just stole back his beer he shook his head. “Nah uh.”
“Oh, come one Deanie.” I gave him my best puppy dog eyes. He held my chin between thumb and pointer finger moving my head from side to side. “Noo-oo.”
“You are no fun.”
“Oh I am plenty of fun when I put my mouth to better use.” He wiggled his eyebrows with a dirty smirk. Fake gaging, I moved away from him. “Disgusting.” The boys laughed. I turned to look at the stage as some boy I vaguely remember from freshman year was starting to rap Eminem's Business. He was doing a solid job. I felt myself moving my head in rhythm, vibing. “Hes not bad. “ Jules suddenly appeared on my right. Gripping my chest I signed. “Jezz, do you want to give me a heart attack?" Jules just held the Karaoke list in my direction. “Heard you wanted to sing.” “What? Well..I..” Stammering, I tried to buy myself some time, looking for some way out. I loved to watch the other but for me to sing I had to have a really good time. “Our Nightingale would love to sing us a song.” Logan snarked, taking a sip of his beer. Eyes burning into mine. What are you playing at?! At a loss of words I made some weird noises. Dean snorted “I think you broke her.” Tuck and Garrett snickered whilst Beau watched me with concern. Feeling uneasy, I ripped the clipboard from Jules hands scribbling down a song. “Thats going to be the best damn performance of all time.” I grumbled under my breath handing the List back. John kept me under his scrutinizing gaze. Ordering a drink I took a second to collect myself.
My head was already swimming, the music was too loud, Beau looked at me like I was a kicked puppy and Logan. I didn't even want to start with Logan. When we parted that morning he was worried and concerned, now he seems pissed. And they say Girls are moody. Swallowing a big gulp of my Moscow mulle Dean touched my upper arm. “Oookay Ducky baby, I love the enthusiasm but slow down a bit, yeah?” Cringing at the burn from the vodka I gave him a thumbs up. “Dont worry, after that only water.” “Thats good, we wouldn't want to relive the weekend trip." Garrett joked, unaware how hard his words hit me. My body went rigid. Straightening to my full height, my muscles straining. It was like a bucket of ice cold water was dumped over me. “Excuse me, m’gona powder my nose.” I didn't recognize my voice as I hurried to the bathroom.
Locking the stall behind me I pressed the back of my hand against my lips. Stifling my pathetic sob. Closing my eyes. Breath. Just Breath. Feeling tears in my eyes I bit into my hand. Hard. The pulsing pain from my skin helped me suppress the building grief. You can't lose something you never had. I reasoned with myself. A fist pounded against my door. Shrinking, I turned, looking at the faded blue of the door. “It's me. Are you okay? You ran off with that look on your face.” Hearing his voice was like a punch in the stomach. Swallowing hard, I debated if I should answer or not. Silence. “I know you're in there Sweetheart." He sounded mildly annoyed. “Talk to me.” Pushing my nails into the palms of my hands I found my voice. “Everything is okay.” “That's bullshit and you know it!” His voice was rough, anger showing clearly. This sudden fury made me flinch. “I said I am fine Logan.” My voice wavered, diminishing any change of sounding truthful. “See?! You never call me Logan.” Blinking in surprise, I scrunched my nose. Raking my brain I came to the conclusion he was right. It wasn't planned, it had just happened unconsciously. “Open the Door Y/N.” He commanded, voice taut.
I hastily whipped at my face, hoping that my eyes didn't betray me. “You need to take a step back.” I ordered him softly, hand laying on the handle. He exhaled loudly through his nose but then I heard the shuffling of shoes on the floor. Unlooking the door I opened it peeking outside. There the corner of this tiny bathroom stood John, back against the wall, arms crossed before his chest filling the whole room with his presence. His jaw was tight, the brown eyes I usually love to look at, practically glowed with silent rage. But once his gaze settled on my glassie eyes his face slacked. Fire simmering down. He wanted to take a step towards me but I held out my hand. "I was just sick, it's fine.” The fire burned up again. “If you say fine one more god damn time i am gonna..” He practically growled. My head was spinning. What is going on? “Why are you like that ?” I felt too tired to care, I was giving my all to understand this, understand him. Logan ran his finger through his hair, stalling. Exhaling loudly I closed my eyes. “You're scaring me.” He was so quiet I nearly didn't understand him. Raising my eyebrows I was completely confused. “I?” Pointing at my chest. “Scare you?” Scoffing in disbelief I shook my head. “Not like that Dopey. Your behavior.” He rolled his eyes. “I literally didn't do anything this week except argue with you lot, to get off my back.” I was getting fed up with this whole ordeal. Love or no love. John was pushing all the wrong buttons. “Oh you put on quite the spectacle there. And coddling you doesn't seem to cut it.” He came toward me with heavy steps, towering over me. “Whatever bipolar bullshit you're playing has to end now! Just talk about what's clearly eating you alive.” How dare you! I snapped. Hands on his chest I pushed him with all my might catching him off guard. “Youre one to talk.” My voice rose higher, louder. “You!” Angry tears brimming in my eyes. “ YOU. EMOTIONALLY. CONSTIPATED. ASSHOLE!” I pushed him with every word till his back hit the wall. In that moment the door swung open revealing Dean. He was already tense, face agitated but when surveied the room, seeing the tears slowly roll down my cheek and trembling hands clutching at Logan his face turned murderers. “You know she's off limits you prick! How dare you touch her!” His voice thundered through the bathroom. Before I could comprehend what was happening Dean pulled me from John and punshed him square in the face.
To be countinued....
Hey everyone, thanks so much for your comments❤️ i realy appreciat them.
Get ready—things are going to get rough before we hopfully reach a happy end.
Tag list: @prettylittlewrites @sunshinevansh @rayne1 @bloodysnow15 @nicolej04 @yearningeternally @delusionalbubbletea
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem! di Laurentis!reader
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : points of tension? but not angst, secret relationship
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : Being Dean di daurentis' little sister came with many...features, hundreds of eyes would be trained on the both of you- a dynamic pairing that was sure to breathe life into a party just by blinking at the venue, lavish lives of comfort and quiet luxury, it didn't help you had killer genes on top of it all. With those abilities came challenges, such as, your personal lives being the literal talk of the town.
Meaning you'd be willing to do just about anything to protect the one good thing you had kept to yourself since you lied to your parents about getting drunk for the first time. That included, a bunch of brain rotting dates with the most eligible bachelors at Briar, which, fair warning- will lead to your boyfriend not being the happiest man on earth.
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 7k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : What can I say for this one. I just hope you guys think I still have a life. I do, it's just a bit lost at the moment. I swear. I'm also on break right now- so I have alot of free time haha. catch me not uploading anything when teaching starts again. Anyway, just goes to show that when I get requests I don't half ass them haha. Thank you @pinkyups for the gif and @onyxdaze for the dividers !
𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 : I would really appreciate if you could send in an ask to be on my taglist, it's easier for me to manage and make sure everyone is added!! here is the post of my current taglist. Also, if your user is bolded, I'm going on a prayer that youve been tagged but Tumblr wouldn't let me properly do so. I would recommend checking your privacy settings to allow other people to tag you.
The hockey house was always, somehow, loud. Loud in that pre-party way on a Friday night that made your head spin and bring a giddy smile to your face. The warm-up stage, if you will. Everyone half-distracted and talking over each other while deciding what the night was actually going to become.
Which was exactly why Dean had decided it was the perfect time to ruin your life.
“No seriously,” your brother insisted from across the kitchen island, pointing his beer bottle at you like he was presenting a business proposal to investors instead of actively setting his sister up on a date, “this guy is perfect for you.”
You stared at him flatly and leaned on your elbows, the stool you were sat on tipped dangerously.
“Every time you say that, I suffer.”
“That’s because you keep picking emotionally unavailable weirdos.”
Everyone partially ignored Dean, he was always doing this- offering to set you up with the next eligible bachelor that he had scouted in his classes, or mutual friends, one time he set you up with one of his ex-hookup’s hookup. That one didn’t go as well as the majority of your brother’s matchmaking pursuits.
From the couch, Logan’s ears perked up and he choked slightly on his drink; he glanced around hoping nobody noticed, and it didn’t seem like they did.
Except Garrett.
Garrett glanced up from his phone, eyes moving from Logan to you and then back to Logan again with the expression of somebody who had just noticed a bomb underneath the dining table.
Your eyes flicked to Logan, a secret twinkle in them before you steeled and ignored him. Dean, fortunately for you didn’t even notice and continued talking.
“He’s pre-law,” he said proudly.
Logan rolled his eyes and scoffed before he could stop himself. He didn’t even recognise the noise that he made, but he stilled when he felt the group’s eyes on him.
Allie frowned from where she sat cross-legged on the floor. “Why did you react like that?”
Logan shrugged quickly, leaning further back into the couch cushions beside Tucker. “I didn’t.”
“You literally scoffed.”
“I breathed.”
“That was a judgmental breath.”
“It’s pre-law,” Logan muttered, finger running along the rim of his beer bottle.
Dean narrowed his eyes immediately, “What’s wrong with pre-law?”
Logan took another sip of his drink like he hadn’t just entered the conversation voluntarily. “Sounds evil.”
Tucker barked out a laugh from beside him. “Bro, weren't you considering law for a bit?”
“We don’t about that dark time of my life,” Logan muttered, he nodded silently as the yeasty alcohol slipped down his throat- his eyes flicked to you but he refocussed on the conversation at hand.
You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to stop yourself smiling.
The two of you had agreed on the secrecy together.
Mostly because your friends were all deeply nosy and incapable of minding their own business for longer than six consecutive minutes, but also because you and Logan had somehow slipped into dating without fully meaning to and then panicked slightly once you realised how serious it had become.
Now here you were.
Four months deep into a relationship that you couldn’t reveal, unless you wanted to bring about the next Dean-meltdown. The last one almost ended with him moving to Australia and making a life with the kangaroos.
Which meant that every time somebody tried setting one of you up with another person, you both had to sit there pretending it was completely normal.
You liked to think that you had been handling it significantly better than Logan.
“All I’m saying,” Dean continued, oblivious to the psychological warfare occurring three feet away from him, “is that he’s smart, he’s tall, he cooks-”
“That’s manipulative,” Logan interrupted.
The room went quiet.
You looked at him.
Dean looked at him.
Even Hannah slowly lowered her phone.
“What?” Dean said eventually.
Logan blinked once like he had only just realised he’d spoken aloud.
“What?” he repeated.
“You think cooking is manipulative?”
Logan shifted slightly in his seat. “Sometimes.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Neither does pre-law.”
Allie turned fully toward him now, deeply suspicious. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, “You seem weirdly invested.”
“I’m not invested.” He quickly replied.
Garrett spoke without looking up from his phone.
“You wanna explain why you’re reacting like a divorced father who just found out his ex-wife is dating again?”
Tucker physically folded over laughing.
Logan pointed at Garrett immediately. “See? This is why nobody likes you.”
“People love me.”
“Your own girlfriend looks tired.”
Hannah snorted into her can of coke and ran her hand through her boyfriend’s hair, who was staring daggers at Logan until he melted into her touch.
You looked away before you snorted at Logan’s antics, which probably in hindsight wasn’t the best idea, because the second your attention drifted away- you could feel him boring holes into the side of your face, like he was trying to telepathically communicate his annoyance across the room.
Your phone buzzed against the counter and you grabbed it quickly before someone noticed the way you grinned to yourself, biting down on your lip you checked the notifications; even though you already knew who it was.
Hockey boy 💗
stop smiling at dean about another guy before i lose my mind
Across the room, Logan stared at his own phone with the deeply concentrated expression of someone trying not to commit homicide.
You typed back carefully, intentionally slower so as not to alert your brother- who was now chattering with his girlfriend across the room.
You:
you are being unbelievably dramatic rn
Hockey boy 💗
he said the guy cooks
You:
so…do you?
Hockey boy 💗
yeah but i do it sexier
You physically had to cough to disguise the laugh that escaped you.
Hannah looked over instantly.
“What?” she asked suspiciously.
“Nothing.”
“You just giggled at your phone.”
“I did not.”
“You literally did.”
Dean pointed at you accusingly. “Wait. Is there already another guy?”
You jumped so hard that your knee hit the island and you hissed. Logan had sat up straighter, fast enough that it alarmed Tucker, who was sunken into the couch next to him.
“No,” he said immediately.
The entire room turned toward him.
A beat passed.
Logan slowly leaned back again, cringing and half hoping the universe would grant him reprise in the deepest black hole it could create.
“I mean,” he added poorly, “how would I know?”
Garrett finally looked up fully now, staring directly at Logan with open fascination, his eyes widening as he properly studied the both of you. His mouth popped open in an O shape.
Your heart launched into your throat as you met the captain’s eyes, half pleading that he was as slow as his stereotype allowed him to be. But before Garrett could elaborate further, Dean steamrolled right over the moment.
“Whatever,” he said dismissively, already pulling out his phone again, “look at this guy and tell me I’m wrong.”
He shoved the screen in your direction, you squinted and slumped forward, hitting your older brother with a dead look.
You hated how attractive the man was.
Tall. Dark hair. Nice smile.
One of those annoyingly clean-looking corporate boys that somehow always smelled expensive.
Before you could stop yourself, your eyes flicked instinctively toward Logan. If there was a bigger mistake you could've made, it would be murder. Because he was already looking at you, his eyes inquisitively blinking between you and Dean.
Waiting.
You raised one eyebrow slightly, teasing him and Logan narrowed his eyes immediately. Then, because apparently self-preservation had abandoned him entirely tonight, he muttered,
“He looks like he moisturizes too much.”
Dean stared at him, baffled that this was coming from the same man who probably owned 500 different types of skincare. What Dean didn’t know is that each time a new product would pop up on his sink, it was actually yours.
“All humans should moisturize.”
“Not that much.”
“John,” Hannah said slowly, “you own more hair products than me.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Logan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“It just is.”
“You are such a fucking hater,” Tucker wheezed.
Logan looked genuinely offended, looking at the group, whipping around like a broken spinning top, “I’m not a hater.”
“You’re beefing with a man none of us have met.”
“I’m not beefing with him.”
“You called his face moisturized in a derogatory way.”
Logan rolled his eyes and slumped again, tapping at his phone. Yours buzzed against your thigh- it seems secrecy had flown out of the window tonight. Four months of perfect sneak-ins, disguised dates and unknown sleepovers flushed away.
Hockey boy 💗
if he touches you im transferring schools
You stared at the text for a full three seconds before looking up, Logan was already messing with his hair absently, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at absolutely nothing.
God.
He was unbelievable, you tried not to gape at him while tapping on your phone,
“He wants to meet tonight?” You ask Dean, feigning interest as you squinted at the phone over the lip of your cup.
Dean perked up and texted this guy, Ethan, Evan? You didn’t care, “He says…” Dean held the room still with his hands outstretched, “He’ll be over in an hour!” Your brother jumped triumphantly into Beau, who had missed the entire debacle when he disappeared into the toilet.
That gave you the perfect window to meet Logan’s gaze, which had flared considerably. You shrugged and winked at him, biting your cheek when he blushed and huffed, turning away to down the rest of his drink.
You managed to escape upstairs under the guise of getting ready for this date- far away from Tucker, who had gotten into the habit of critiquing your outfit choices like he was one planned ensemble away from Vogue.
You slipped into the bathroom, starting to wash your face with products that Logan had shamelessly claimed as his, just so you could keep more of your stuff over on his shelf.
You towel dried your face when the door to the bathroom cracked open with a dull knock. You didn’t turn around immediately, mostly because you already knew who it was.
“Baby.”
There it was, you huffed, hands barely pausing their circular movements of rubbing moisturizer into your skin. You glanced over bemused with the puppy act that Logan was currently playing at the doorway. That tone is exactly the tone he used on you when he was not happy about what your secret relationship brought along with it- it was low, annoyed in a way that immediately made warmth crawl up your spine despite your best efforts
Adjusting one of your earrings in the mirror and pressing your lips together with a new layer of lipgloss, you watched him click the door behind him and lean against it- bashfully looking at you from below his eyelashes
“You know following me upstairs while I’m getting ready for another guy is objectively making this situation weirder.”
He crossed his arms over his chest as you adjusted your skirt.
“Another guy,” he repeated flatly.
You met his eyes through the mirror.
Your boyfriend looked deeply unimpressed by the entire concept of tonight, which was slightly ironic considering he’d spent the last few months allowing Allie to continuously set him up with girls under the assumption he was still hopelessly into Hannah.
“You’ve literally gone on three dates this month,” you reminded him.
“They barely count.”
You turned around fully then, eyebrows lifting. “One of them took you mini golfing.”
“She talked about her ex for forty minutes.”
“That’s still a date.”
“It was psychological warfare.”
You snorted and planted your hands on your hips, your resolve barely holding when his eyes softened slightly at the sound, that was part of the reason you both worked. No matter how irritated he got, no matter how jealous or grumpy or territorial he became, there was always this underlying tenderness to him around you that completely gave him away if you paid attention for long enough.
And you were always paying attention to him.
His gaze dragged over you slowly now. Taking in the dress, your hair, the shimmer of your lipgloss that he interrupted the application of. Your eyes widened when his jaw tightened
“Oh my god,” you laughed quietly, shaking your head, “you’re actually jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You compared his moisturizer usage to shooting puppies.”
“He looks slippery.”
“That is not a real critique.”
“It could be.”
You laughed again, properly this time- Logan’s expression immediately worsened, as if he couldn’t believe that you were going to look like that for a guy that wasn’t him.
“You look too pretty for this,” he muttered.
Your stomach flipped, your laugh settling to a soft smile. Logan always spoke like that, somehow injecting sincerity into everything he said even when he was irrationally possessive.
You tried very hard not to melt visibly.
“Well unfortunately,” you said lightly instead, stepping closer to him, “our friends are insane and think you’re still in love with Hannah.”
“I haven’t liked Hannah in like 6 months.” Your eyebrows lifted slightly with a grin
“6 months?”
Logan realised his mistake immediately.
“Don’t do that,” he warned.
You cheekily bit your tongue, “Do what?”
“That thing where you look smug.”
“I’m not smug.”
“You’re literally smirking.”
You were doing the mental maths, because if Logan stopped liking Hannah almost 6 months ago.. Well.
You’d started sleeping together six months ago and got together two months after that.
Interesting timeline.
Your boyfriend stepped closer before you could weaponize that information further, hands finding your waist automatically like muscle memory. Like he physically couldn’t stand within arm’s reach of you without touching you somehow.
“You better not actually like this guy,” he muttered.
You blinked once. Twice. Then brought your arms to his shoulders- comfortingly rubbing the soft flannel
“John Logan,” you said slowly, “are you trying to establish rules for a date I didn’t even want to go on?”
His hands tightened slightly against your waist.
“No.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not.”
“You’re literally pouting.”
“I don’t pout.”
You reached up immediately and pressed your thumb against his lower lip, his eyes darkened.
“There,” you whispered sweetly. “That. That’s pouting.”
Logan grabbed your wrist before you could pull away, dragging you flush against him in one smooth movement that made your breath catch embarrassingly fast.
“You think this is funny,” he said quietly.
“A little bit.”
“That’s concerning.”
“You’re being insane.”
“I’m being reasonable.”
“You called him slippery.”
“He is slippery.”
You dissolved into laughter again, forehead dropping briefly against his chest. Logan exhaled heavily above you, one hand sliding up your spine slowly - exposed from the cutout of your dress. His fingers curled at the back of your neck.
“Don’t let him kiss you,” he murmured.
You tilted your head back immediately and grinned at him- as if you would ever consider the ridiculous idea.
“Oh my god.”
“I’m serious.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I mean it.”
Your amusement faded slightly then, into something gentler that settled underneath your expression, beneath all the jealousy and dramatics and weird comments about moisturizer, you knew what this actually was.
Logan wasn’t angry, he was scared. Not of you cheating- you’d threatened him enough that you’d need to be held at gun point for the thought to even breach your mind. He was worried that someone better would come along, someone more charming, someone who was a part of your world. The world that Dean and you shared along with the ultra elite trust-fund babies.
Your expression softened.
“You know I’m yours, right?” you asked quietly.
The change in Logan's face made your chest hurt ever so slightly- he sighed and dropped his forehead against yours,
“Yeah?” he asked softly.
You swallow away the knot in your throat and kiss his nose, “Yeah.”
Logan smiled at the feeling of your lips on his face, grinning at the triumphant look on your face. And for a second, neither of you moved, just basking in the feeling of each other's closeness. Then his hand slid properly into your hair and he kissed you, and just like every time this man kissed you, your knees felt weak and you leaned into him.
His mouth moved against yours slowly at first, careful and lingering and familiar enough to make your sigh slightly before he deepened it with the quiet sort of desperation that always seemed to sneak into him around you, you hum softly into his mouth, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie.
“John,” you whispered when he kissed down your jaw.
“Hm?”
“If you leave a mark on me before my date I’m actually going to kill you.”
Logan kissed your neck again deliberately then started nipping at the skin purposefully, you whacked his head, groaning when he soothed over the stinging skin with his tongue.
“You asshole.”
“You said no marks,” he murmured smugly against your skin, “these are just... friendly reminders.”
You were seconds away from shoving him when Dean’s voice suddenly echoed up the stairs.
“HEY!”
You gasped and jumped apart violently, his hands tightened on your waist and you could feel his heartbeat thumping wildly below your hand.
“IS MY SISTER READY YET OR IS SHE MAKING THIS GUY WAIT ON PURPOSE?”
Logan inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut . You bit down on your smile and turned to fix your makeup, your lipgloss smudged to your chin and all over his mouth. You usher him towards the mirror to wipe it off.
Then Dean yelled again,
“AND LOGAN WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GO?”
The two of you stared at each other, a short moment of silence passed, then you both had to stifle laughs against the other, your mouth pressed into his shoulder as he cradled your head and pressed a hand to his lips.
Logan dragged one hand down his face. “I hate everyone in this house.”
“You live here.”
“Don’t remind me.”
You grinned and reached up, gently fixing the collar of his shirt where you’d wrinkled it. His eyes softened again immediately and he smoothed out your hair,
“Go on your stupid date,” he muttered, rubbing away the last of the lipgloss from your chin.
“You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You followed me upstairs.”
“I was stretching my legs.”
“Through my tonsils?”
Logan rolled his eyes and kissed your forehead
If you were to be objective about the situation your brother had put you in- you’d have to say that he did an annoyingly good job. You’d never tell him that of course, you’d prefer to use Logan’s pliers to rip your teeth out individually.
But the guy sitting across from you was genuinely perfect on paper.
Ethan was funny in that easy, socially polished way corporate aspirants somehow always were, where every joke sounded rehearsed enough to land properly but natural enough that you couldn’t call him out on it. He opened doors without making a huge deal out of it, remembered details from previous conversations Dean had apparently told him about you, and somehow managed to make expensive restaurants feel casual instead of pretentious.
Worst of all. He was genuinely attractive. You could think of at least 5 of your girlfriends who would happily take the inconvenience out of your hands.
Dark hair slightly messy in that intentional way rich men cultivated, broad shoulders underneath a fitted black sweater, stupidly nice hands that looked like they belonged in a watch advertisement.
You hated how much Dean would enjoy being right about this.
“And then Di Laurentis told me,” Ethan laughed lightly, leaning back in his chair, “that if I hurt you he’d apparently feed my body to the hockey team.”
You snorted into your drink. “Yeah, that sounds like my brother.”
“He’s weirdly intimidating for a guy that owns that many tank tops.”
“He weaponizes confidence.”
Ethan grinned and held eye contact with you while he sipped from his whiskey glass. And you stumbled into the same feeling you had been experiencing the entire evening, everytime Evan smiled- your brain automatically compared it to Logan.
Ezra’s smile was clean, polished and pristine. You’d go as far as to say it was pretty under most lighting.
You couldn’t help the comparison. Logan’s smiles made your stomach flip and consciousness flutter in a way only he could manage. Split lips after hockey games- stretched into victorious laughter, crooked smirks when he was about to say something unbelievably annoying and your favourite, the devastatingly soft grin he got only around you, like his entire body was tuned to your reactions.
Your throat dried and you worked hard to keep an uncomfortable grimace at bay.
“So,” Eli said, resting his chin against his hand slightly, “Dean says you practically live at the hockey house.”
You nearly choked on your drink.
The statement itself wasn’t inaccurate, you did spend a lot of time at the house. But if Elijah knew how much of that time you’d spent in John Logan’s bedroom, you’re pretty sure he would evaporate on the spot.
“Yeah.. They’re my brother’s teammates, we all just ended up becoming friends,” you said carefully.
“You and Logan seem close.”
Your heart skipped once at the mention of his name and you fought against the natural instinct to bite back a smile, instead you kept your expression neutral with the kind of effort that deserved academic recognition.
“Logan?”
“Yeah.” Everett shrugged lightly. “He looked like he wanted to kill me earlier.”
You laughed too quickly, waving off the notion that Logan would be anything but jealous.
“He’s just weird.”
Eric nodded thoughtfully, studying your face in a way that made you send an impromptu prayer up to God that he wasn’t putting the badly veiled pieces together, then he grinned and shrugged.
“I figured.”
The waiter arrived then, setting down your desserts while Edward thanked him politely. You mentally facepalmed, again, this guy was objectively perfect. But you had to stop yourself from recoiling away when his hand brushed yours, gentle and hesitant across the table.
Your mind flashed back to the most recent date Logan took you on, a small, independent coffee shop outside of the Briar locality- away from prying, gossiping eyes. He had grimaced as he paid for your drink and stifled his love for it when you made him take a sip, your hands were intertwined the entire time, a carefree momentum settled in your conversation whilst he played with the rings on your fingers, openly, unabashedly.
The memory hit you so suddenly you almost laughed. Dean had hit gold with this guy, you could read Erik like an open book, and the entire time he had been nothing but sweet, smart at points and attentive nearly the entire length of the date. Your friends would probably start planning a big, upper-east side wedding by next week.
But still your mind drifted back to the only man you could see yourself marrying, and how much he would absolutely hate this restaurant. The excess of cloth napkins would make him tense, the dim lighting irritating him enough to make his entire face scrunch up and the lack of fries would be considered diabolical.
But you knew, with absolute certainty, that if you wanted to dine in a restaurant like this, he would suffer an eternity in these four walls if it meant he was with you.
Your phone buzzed against your lap, breaking your chain of thought.
Hockey boy 💗:
Are you home yet?
You stared at the carousel of messages prior to this, and the timestamps
9:14 PM.
9:26 PM.
9:41 PM.
9:57 PM.
Four separate messages.
Your lips twitched helplessly, all of them were as performatively nonchalant as the others.
Hockey boy 💗
If this Egbert guy touches you, I'm keying his daddy’s jeep.
Hockey boy 💗
Don’t ask how i know this but his linkedin is not very impressive- not good enough to date my girl that’s for sure.
Hockey boy 💗
I miss you.
Ethan noticed immediately, the way your eyes softened and a huff made your lips part in a ghost of a smile.
“Boyfriend?” he asked casually.
Your head snapped up.
“What?”
He smiled, cocking his head slightly, “You’ve checked your phone every five minutes since we got here.”
Heat crawled up your neck instantly and you furrowed your brows in apology,
“No,” The lie felt bitter on your tongue, but you silenced your phone and set it down face first on the table. Eran hummed like he didn’t fully believe you, but thankfully let it go.
The rest of the date shifted slightly after that, not awkward since poor Edmund hadn’t let the clarifying moment put a dent in his enthusiasm. It just meant that his hand hadn’t touched yours since you replied to Logan.
You wanted to apologise to him, to say that it wasn’t working out for any reason that didn’t involve Logan. But you opted for polite, self-explanatory silence on the matter. Letting Edwin slip on your jacket for you and engaged in a cursory side hug that made you both cringe a little, but it was easier than explaining to him that instead of his simple affection, you wanted the idiot currently losing his mind back at the hockey house over a pre-law major named Elton.
Logan would honestly rather take a hundred slapshots straight to the ribs without pads than listen to Dean brag about what a 'good guy' he’d set his sister up with.
It started with a passing comment, then a phone lighting up on the coffee table which led to Dean half-paying attention to the loud conversation being had in the living room while scrolling. This cumulative, slow motion train crash in front of Logan’s eyes, meant he had gone suspiciously quiet in the midst of the heated debate between Allie and Tucker and was now focussing on his friend who was grinning like a Cheshire cat at his phone.
Dean eventually spoke, stretching back into the couch like he owns it, a triumphant look spread across his face. The group quietens when they notice the smug expression, which either meant he was about to announce something gross or he was going to be an ass about being right.
“She just got dessert,” he casually reports, looking around the room, like a king would look at his subjects- pompous and on the highest horse possible.
Logan does not respond immediately. He just leans forward slightly, fiddling with the loose thread fraying from the cuff of his sleeve, when he does decide to grace Dean with an answer- it takes everything in him to keep his voice steady and flat in a way that should come across as disinterested.
“That’s nice.” His tone was clipped, a stark difference from his usual charismatic demeanor. The rest of the group makes up for his lack of enthusiasm, the girls giggled and congratulated Dean on finding such a catch, the guys laugh and speculate that in the dating world- getting dessert is equivalent to a perfectly timed, public, flash-mob proposal.
Logan prayed for it to end there. It normally would’ve, Dean hadn’t said anything that would invite continuation. You had ordered dessert and that meant Logan would need to become a world class pastry chef as soon as possible. Case closed. Goodnight.
“And he says she’s laughing a lot.”
A badly stifled suffering sigh escapes Logan’s lips, his body briefly pauses, as if it had forgotten how to act normal and instead decided to shut down.
He recalibrated, ignoring the ugly, curling sensation that lurched in his stomach and instead, rather stiffly, managed to say,
“Good for her,” he says. Perfect. His voice was still intensely calm, still controlled and his answer invited no follow-up.
Across the room, Tucker glances up from his seat with the vague expression of someone who is only half following the conversation but is starting to sense that the topic was sprinting full speed down an unexplored path . Hannah leans toward Allie, lowering her voice.
“Why is he talking like that?” she asks.
Allie glances between them. “Like what?”
Hannah thinks for a second, “Remember the time he walked in on you and Dean?”
Allie sighs dreamily at the memory, obviously not remembering the avoidant, distasteful tone that Logan had adopted for the rest of that night.
“Ohhhh,” Allie nodded slowly, the specifics hazy in her mind, but she could clearly remember Logan looking like he would let Garrett shave off the outer layer of his eyeballs with his skates.
Dean hears this and instead of doing the smart thing for everyone in the vicinity, he contributes to the analysis,
“That’s what it is!,” he snaps his fingers and points at Logan, who glanced at the perky blonde out of his periphery and slapped his outstretched fingers with his palm.
Garrett in the middle of the exchange has stopped pretending entirely that he is not listening. He doesn’t dare react, but his attention splits between Logan and Dean regularly, as if he was the first to picture something that everyone else had not yet realised.
Dean’s phone vibrates in his hand, “Oh,” he says after a moment, like he is remembering another detail. “He also says she’s really pretty when she’s concentrating.”
Logan exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, and finally looks down at his hands as if the table in front of him has suddenly become more interesting than anything else in the room, focussing more on the worn out grain and the used fibres of the carpet beneath it. When he speaks again, his tone is still even, but it takes slightly longer to form the sentence.
“That’s… nice.”
Hannah slowly sits up a little straighter, her brows knitting together in mild confusion rather than concern.
“Am I crazy,” she mutters, “or does this feel weird?”
“You are always slightly crazy,” Tucker replies automatically but he shares the same, puzzled look.
“That is not helpful.”
Allie is also watching Logan, like she is trying to decide whether this is something she is allowed to comment on or whether it falls into the category of things that will resolve themselves without intervention.
Garrett still says nothing, opting to sit with his discovery in unparalleled superiority.
The room continues as if it is trying to behave normally around something that it does not fully understand yet. Dean scrolls again, far too unaware of the pressure building in the man beside him.
“Oh,” he adds, like he has found another harmless detail. “She keeps fixing her hair when she laughs.”
Logan stills, properly this time. A eerie calm settles over his body, because he was internally cursing himself for being in this situation, damn his friends and their nosey tendencies and damn you for being the sister of his teammate.
He ruminates on the choices that brought him here today, coming to the conclusion, that he'd rather be trapped in an endless, no-whistle bag skate at five AM than endure these idle, cheerful updates. A bag skate ended eventually. This felt like it never would.
But Tucker leans slightly toward Hannah and whispers, “Is he doing okay?”
Hannah whispers back, “I think we are all missing something.”
Allie does not take her eyes off Logan, morbidly fascinated at the fact that the world’s most suave person, had his lips pressed against his hands and had managed to end up with a raincloud over his head in the middle of July. “Something is definitely happening.”
Garrett shifts against Hannah, still choosing to be an idle spectator in Logan’s ruin, but even he could muster up a sympathetic grimace when Dean chose to continue the narration.
Logan finally cuts in.
“Can you stop reading that out loud.”
Dean looks up, “Why?”
A pause.
“Just tired. Honestly, I’d rather coach put us through a three-hour gauntlet drill right now than hear any more details about your sister’s love life. It’s weird, man.”
Dean’s eyes widened by a fraction, “Woah, is everything alright?” He looks genuinely concerned and that just makes Logan want to run into a wall at full speed. Because the whole room was staring at him, blinking like a flock of owls that were studying their latest choice of prey.
He scratches the back of his neck, hoping that nobody notices the nervous tick, “Sorry..” Logan grabs his hoodie as he takes his leave, “My coursework has been killer lately, must not be getting enough sleep. My bad man.” He pats Dean’s shoulder once and moves towards the staircase.
The entire house seemed to be suspended in awkward confusion- and Logan was prepared to add homicidal undertones as he reached the top step and Dean’s voice fluttered after him,
“Allie-cat what kind of girls have you been setting him up with? Maybe I should take over his matchmaking”
Logan groans and flops into his bed the minute the door creaks shut behind him, too dejected to glance up when his comforter vibrates beneath him.
The window is not the traditional avenue to enter a room, you realised that throughout the entirety of your senior year of highschool. It always requires a small negotiation with physics, a bit of careful balance, and the kind of confidence that suggests you have done this before and will probably do it again.
Which you admittedly have, given that you had memorised the best notches in the brick to wedge your foot into and where not to grab unless you wanted to end up face to face with a view directly into your brother's window.
When you finally reach your destination and fiddle with the window enough to coax it open, a soft creak permeates in the summer breeze- which you immediately curse because you had dedicated a solid 20 minutes to convince yourself that you were being quiet and the window very clearly disagrees.
You pause with your knee digging into the frame, listening as your heartbeat hammers in your ears. The night answered you, a dainty chirp of a cricket paired with the whirring of traffic further away in the city made you relax, continuing your journey into the room.
Inside, the lighting is low in a way that makes everything feel softer than it probably is in reality.
A desk lamp glows in the corner, throwing warm light across the room, and Logan is sitting on the edge of his bed like he has been doing exactly that for a while without moving very much at all.
Logan looks up when he hears your pants replace the faint buzz of the house, he doesn’t startle- just rushes over as silently as possible to grab your waist before you nosedive into his bedside table.
“Woah.” He steps back whilst keeping his hands firmly planted on your waist, watching you topple slightly on your heels, “What are you doing here?”
You look up at him, your lips downturning in a confused smile, “Hello to you too,” a peck to his lips interrupts your answer, “You said you missed me, so I'm here.”
The dress you had on stretches in tandem with your movements, stepping out of his loose hold to flop onto his bed- which protested slightly with a pained squeak, “You could say the feeling was mutual” You grinned up at him, leaning back onto your hands in the process.
He purses his lips, trying to hide a smile- which he does worryingly well. The neutrality in his eyes makes your spine rigid.
“You used the window,” he says, glancing at his curtains that now flitter along the wall.
You blink at him. “Yeah… Like I’ve done since we started hooking up”
Logan exhales through his nose, but it doesn’t fully commit to being a sigh.
“You could’ve used the door,” he clarifies.
“I didn’t want to wake anyone,” you reply, finally swinging your leg onto the duvet leaving your heel to topple uselessly to the floor with a dull thud.
Logan stays where he is for a second longer, watching you like he is trying to decide whether to stay where he is or act like a normal person and come closer. You match his gaze cheekily, shrugging off your bag while taking the room in, “God I love your room baby, it's so you.”
He stands up from where he was leaning against his desk, and crosses over to you in that slightly controlled way he gets when he is pretending he is not emotional, while very obviously being emotional in a quiet, annoyed-at-himself kind of way.
“You were gone longer than you said,” he mutters.
You pause mid-unzip of your dress.
“I said I’d be out for a bit.”
“That is not a time.”
You finally look at him properly.
There it is, a signature Logan pout. You’d gotten used to every version of them, since he knew how to use his artillery- but this one wasn’t one that sat well with you, it buried its way into your chest and blossomed into a pang of anxiety.
“Oh my god,” you say mainly to yourself, pushing up so you could stand chest to chest with him, inspecting his face.
Logan barely tilts his head to meet your scrutiny, “What?” he asks, like he already knows he is about to lose this conversation.
You shake your head, “You’re pouting.”
“I’m not pouting.”
“You are absolutely pouting.”
“I’m not-”
He stops mid-sentence, watching your hands come up to his face and gently squish his cheeks just enough that his expression breaks in a way that is immediately unfair to him.
“There,” you say softly. “That one.”
His brows knit together.
“This is not-”
You lean in and press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He pauses.
You do it again, slightly higher this time, like you are correcting the unhappy crease of his lips. His hands hover for a second like he is deciding whether to be annoyed or affectionate and then, predictably, choose neither and both at the same time as they settle lightly at your waist.
“I don’t like it,” he says finally.
You hum.
“What part?”
His eyes flick to yours properly now.
“The part where you go out with someone else and come back smiling like it’s normal.”
You blink once, then your expression softens in a way that is very deliberately not taking him seriously, even though you absolutely are.
“Logan,” you say, gently.
He looks at you like he is bracing for impact, the undeniable pain of defeat, of losing you to the suave guy who apparently was very focussed on your dessert choice. You lean your forehead against his chin.
“I was thinking of you the whole time,” you say simply, biting the inside of your cheek when you feel his shoulder drop just a fraction.
His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter.
“That’s not fair.”
You smile.
“Why?”
“Because I had to be normal about it in front of everyone,” he mutters.
You laugh softly at that, genuinely amused now, and he immediately looks offended by your amusement, which only makes it worse.
“You were not normal about it,” you say.
“I was.”
“You were sitting here brooding like a Victorian man in a tragic novel.”
“I was not brooding.”
“You were brooding.”
He opens his mouth to argue again, but you cut him off by pulling him closer by the front of his hoodie. His protests die unspoken on his lips, as they always do whenever you pull that move.
“There,” you say, softer now, kissing his cheek, then his jaw, deliberately unhurried. “Better?”
Logan exhales, arms coming up to wrap around your shoulders, pressing you tightly against him.
“You’re distracting,” he murmurs into your hair.
You snort against his neck, “That’s kind of the point.”
A short pause takes over the conversation, a lull in his displeasure as you dig your fingers into the plush material that stretched over his back.
Then, Logan sighs and very quietly, in the dark of his room admits, “I didn’t like imagining you laughing at someone else’s jokes.”
You pull back slightly just to look at him, hes looking down at nothing in particular, half of his face glowing a soft amber in the pool of light spilling out from his lamp, the other half hides in the shadows- he turns his head fully into the darkness when you cup his cheek and rub placating lines with your thumb against his stubble.
“Oh,” you whisper. “You were jealous, jealous.”
“I was not-”
He stops, because you kiss him again a quick, gentle press of your lips against his- barely anything but enough to make him smile slightly and shake his head.
“You’re annoying,” he says again, but there is no heat in it.
You hum, watching how his caramel curls wrap around your fingers as you brush your hand through them.
“You likeeeee me.” You tease, your voice barely a hushed whisper, “Baby, I don’t even have a way to contact that guy- he could tell I wasn’t into the date.”
Logan blinks at you, “Wait, what?”
“I mean- I made him swear not to tell Dean, but I think it was somewhere between me replying to you every five minutes and the fact I flinched when he tried to hold my hand” You bite your lip sheepishly, “Great guy though! I might have a friend for him.”
He finally smiles properly, small and unwilling, like it slipped out by accident, “Yeah? He can date all your friends,” His hands press against your spine, curving you into him at last.
Logan ghosts his lips over yours, turning his head out of the shadows and back into the light. Your fingers hover over his jaw, studying the new look in his eye- a twinkle of affection that makes you melt completely into him as he whispers into your mouth, “as long as he doesn’t dare to look at you.”
𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
You woke up to the morning light personally burning your eyelids open, which probably serves you right for not bothering to shut the curtains last night. But you were slightly pre-occupied, which was evident at the string of clothes that littered the floor, you blinked sleepily whilst tracing the journey the different articles went on, leading up to the bed.
Your bra and his shirt were intertwined by his desk while your dress lay pooled at the foot of the bed along with his sweatpants and boxers, the only thing you couldn’t account for were your underwear.
Strange.
The birds chirped in a messy orchestra by the window, the sharp sound made you groan and stretch lazily, wincing at the delicious ache that licked down from your thighs to your toes and up through your arms. The perpetrator of these pains was still sound asleep, tucked into your shoulder with an arm flung over your bare middle, fingers twitching slightly as you rubbed your eyes and intertwined your legs with his beneath the covers.
Logan mumbled into the pillow, or your hair, perhaps both since he was face first into the area that had been taken over by the thick fan of wispy strands, “g’morning baby,” His hands tightened on your waist, holding you still as you looped your arms around his neck. He pecked your shoulder, then the curve of your neck and ended up stifling a deep laugh against your jaw when you smacked his arm.
“I will literally snap in half if you start something mister.” You scolded softly, your words not matching your actions entirely, since your fingers had began to scratch his neck softly, grinning when he all but purred at your touch.
“I didn’t hear you complaining last night.” He mumbled, play-biting your dewy skin. You had wiped up the obvious mess in a sleepy haze, but the dampness of sex still clung to your pores like a condensation on a can.
You gasped theatrically and flipped the pair of you over, so you were now resting your face on his sternum, “I don’t think you would've heard much since you had me pressed into the pillow.” Your fingers traced the splattering of hair that tickled your face,
Logan smirked down at you, stroking your hair, “Once again I fail to hear a complaint.”
“You-”
“YO LOGAN!” The both of you jumped at the interruption.
“Shitshitshitshitshit” you began whispering hurriedly, your gaze whipping around the room for possible escape plans that involved leaving the premises immediately.
It was not looking good to say the least, since Logan would probably prefer to get caught than for you to consider sneaking out of his window sans clothes.
Dean pounded on the door, “HAVE YOU SEEN MY SISTER AROUND? I WANTED TO ASK HER ABOUT THE DATE.”
Logan groaned and was close to petulantly kicking his legs like a toddler reminded about their bedtime, “Dean I think I have more knowledge about bird sphincters than I have about your sister or her sex life.”
You gape incredulously at him and mouth, “Bird sphincters?”
Logan silently stutters and shrugs his shoulders, his hands settling on your bare hips,
You heard Dean thump his head against the door, jiggling the handle but the lock held well against his attempts, “WELL ADAM HASN’T SAID ANYTHING HAPPENED AFTER THE DATE, SO IT MUST'VE GONE BADLY.”
A beat passed where you and Logan stared at each other, “His name was Adam?”
