The semester ended in a blur of final exams and a desperate need to escape. With the first-place grant completely covering your research expenses for the upcoming semester, the savings you’d painstakingly scraped together were suddenly yours to spend. It probably wasn’t the most responsible choice, but you were reeling from a devastating friendship breakup, suffocating under the weight of the Briar campus. So, you booked a holiday with a friend from your major and left the country.

That entire winter break, you went completely off the grid. You didn't speak to Allie, Hannah, Dean, or Garrett. You didn't even speak to Tucker, though you made sure he knew you were grateful about him berating Logan on your behalf after being told by Allie that he’d done that.

They all understood without you having to say it—you needed a total detox from their entire world. And it worked. Away from them all, you actually had fun. You laughed until your stomach hurt, drank too much wine on sun-drenched balconies, and breathed in air that didn’t smell like ice rinks. For the first time in a long time, the relentless urge to check in on John Logan completely vanished.

By the time the new semester rolled around, you had officially decided your life was better without him. Frankly, you didn’t entirely believe it—at least not when it came to the version of Logan before he changed—but you repeated the words like a mantra until they started to feel like truth.

Over the next three months, you learned how to coexist with the rest of the group again. You’d catch Allie and Hannah on the quad and chat, grab a drink with the boys, or occasionally sit with all of them at Malone’s. But through some miracle of scheduling and hyper-vigilance, you managed to never see Logan. The guys tried to bring him up at first, telling you how completely wrecked he was, how he wasn't the same guy on or off the ice. You shut it down every time. You refused to make his misery your problem.

If he was hurting? Good. He earned every bit of it.

You narrowly avoided him for the majority of the spring. Sometimes you’d end up at the same massive rowdy party, and across a crowded, red-cup-littered room, your eyes would accidentally lock with his. A familiar ache would flare in your chest, and you’d immediately break the contact, turning your back even as you felt his gaze burning a hole straight through you.

You didn't miss him.

You didn't miss his stupid jokes. You didn't miss how absurdly observant he could be, or the terrifying comfort of being known so deeply by another human being. You didn't miss having someone who knew exactly what you needed before you even had to ask.

You didn't miss him at all.

Except, you couldn't convince yourself of that lie when it was three in the morning and the silence in your dorm room was too loud. In those rare, weak moments when the loneliness crept in, your thumb would hover over his contact card, considering unblocking his number just to hear the phone ring. But the night would always end the same way—you shutting your phone off completely, forcing yourself to sleep before you could do something stupid.

Minutes away, in the hockey house, John Logan was doing the exact same thing.

He took long, aimless walks across campus late at night, his boots slowing down instinctively every time he passed your residence hall. It was a muscle-memory habit; he used to walk you back here almost everyday, making sure you reached the doors safely. Now, every time something exciting happened in his life—a great game, a funny incident, a good grade—his first instinct was to text you, only for reality to hit him moments later. He’d sit on the edge of his bed, staring down at the friendship bracelet still tied tightly around his own wrist. He’d then glance at the one you’d left on the floor the night you left his life. He picked it up and kept it in his room, ending his night by staring at it. It was torturous, staring at the one piece of jewelry that reminded him that he was the sole architect of his own ruin. He couldn't believe he’d fucked up this royally.

And to make it worse, you looked happy. Happier without him. You were absolutely glowing.

The first time he’d caught sight of you after winter break, laughing with Allie near the campus cafe, Logan realized that maybe the best thing he could do for you was to just leave you alone. He would have to live with a permanent ache in his chest, knowing you were still hanging out at the house, still going to Malone's, still breathing the same air—just never when he was around. He had caused you so much pain that you had actively rewritten your life to exclude him. He had no right to fight against your peace.

But leaving you alone didn't stop him from cheering you on from the shadows.

When the end-of-year STEM banquet arrived—the prestigious ceremony where you were officially recognized for winning the showcase—Logan made sure he was there. He didn't sit with your friend group despite everyone telling him that he should come. He’d ruin your night. He allowed them to leave the house without him, instead showing up on his own so he wouldn’t be the plague that prevents you from walking up to everyone and thanking them for coming.

Instead, when he arrived, John stood all the way in the back of the auditorium, blending into the shadows by the exit doors.

When your name was called and you walked up to the podium, you scanned the crowd and found him. He looked visibly worn, a subtle pain etching his features, but his eyes were wide and filled with a profound gratitude just to watch you succeed. You didn't smile at him. You didn't offer a nod. But in the space that existed between you, he knew you saw him, and he knew you understood why he was there.

When it ended, you found your friends—Allie being the first to pull you into a hug and Tucker forcing you to take solo pictures. Dean and Garrett wore grim expressions, thinking you’d be disappointed that Logan hadn’t shown his face.

You chose not to tell them that he came.

He hadn't shown up hoping for forgiveness. He hadn't done it to beg. He’d done it because Tucker had been right all those months ago. He needed to bask in the wreckage of what he’d done. He needed to let the weight of his failure truly sink in, to think about you, and to feel exactly what he had forced you to feel on the night of your presentation: the agony of being completely alone in a crowded room.

John Logan had spent three long months doing exactly that.

And when he watched you walk off the stage with your award, the truth finally broke through his chest, clear and devastating. He realized it wasn't just a best friend he had lost.

He realized it was a soulmate.

Yeah, Logan realized that he might’ve been in love with you.

No, he was. Totally and completely in love with you, and perhaps too late.

It was a cruel, cosmic sort of joke, Logan realized. The universe had waited until the exact moment you erased him from your life to finally open his eyes. He was meant to discover he loved you only after he lost you—a lifetime of yearning as a penance for his stupidity.

Lately, he found himself utterly at a loss for words whenever you crossed his path. He’d catch sight of you in the campus hallways, effortlessly beautiful, and the breath would leave his lungs. He’d hear your laugh echoing in the distance at Malone's, a sharp pang hitting his chest because he knew he hadn't been the cause of that sound in months. And through it all, you paid him absolutely no mind. You looked right through him, paying him dust as if he were nothing more than a stranger occupying the same air.

It was fitting, he thought.

He wasn’t really okay with it—the hollowness in his ribs bled every single day—but he was content to accept it. He figured he was blessed just to be capable of loving someone like you, even if those feelings were a heavy cross he’d have to bear alone for the rest of his life.

Until St. Patrick’s Day.

Beau had thrown a massive party at his summer house. Nobody actually cared about the holiday itself, but the team had just clinched a brutal away game, and Briar students never turned down an excuse to drink.

You had dressed up for the occasion, looking striking in a white cropped tank with an oversized, unbuttoned green flannel draped over your shoulders and a light-wash denim skirt. You’d leaned into the theme, tying a green ribbon through one of your belt loops and layering two gold coin necklaces with a green clover one. You felt good, you looked incredible, and as the night wore on, you accidentally drank far too much.

The pounding bass from the speakers downstairs had eventually become too much, making your head throb with a vicious rhythm. Looking for an escape, you stumbled upstairs, pushed open the door to a random, dark bedroom, and collapsed onto the mattress. You told yourself you just needed a minute to let the room stop spinning.

A minute turned into two hours.

When your eyes finally flutter open, the heavy vibration of the music is gone. The house is dead silent. A quick check of your phone reveals a barrage of missed calls and frantic texts from Hannah, Allie, and your other friends. Your thumbs move sluggishly across the screen, typing out a quick “i’m fine, fell asleep upstairs” to let them know you hadn't vanished into the night. Since the boys were all staying at Beau's for the night, you figured Allie and Hannah were in their boyfriend’s rooms. You decide to just head down to the living room and crash on the couch so you don’t disturb anyone. You don’t know whose room this was meant to be and prefer not to wake up next to a stranger because of it.

You notice that your throat feels like sandpaper when you sit up. You’re thirsty.

Stepping out into the hallway, you quickly realize the alcohol hasn’t entirely left your system. Your balance sways, forcing you to grip the wooden railing tightly as you navigate the stairs. The house was is absolute wasteland of red plastic cups, crushed cans, and stray green beads. You can see the faint remnants of a cleanup effort that had clearly been abandoned halfway through when everyone succumbed to exhaustion.

The only illumination in the entire house was the low glow coming from the kitchen.

Holding your flannel shut against the chill of the house, your bare legs shivering slightly in your denim skirt, you pad quietly toward the light. You round the corner, your eyes blinking against the brightness, and freeze.

Standing by the sink, a glass of water halfway to his lips, is John Logan.

You suddenly grow intensely conscious of how insane you probably look. Your hair is a bird’s nest, your eyeliner is almost certainly smudged beneath your lower lashes, and stray green glitter clings stubbornly to your collarbones and cheeks.

Funny enough, you can’t be more beautiful to him right now. Logan stands entirely paralyzed, his eyes tracking the slight sway of your shoulders, the oversized green flannel slipping off one side of your white tank. You find yourself staring directly back into his brown eyes for longer than five seconds. A new record in months.

He stays still, unsure of whether he should speak first, or if he should grant you the right to decide your own boundaries—whether he is going to be an invisible ghost in this kitchen, or someone actually worth your breath.

He knows he isn’t the latter. But right now, with the fog of sleep and alcohol muddling your brain, he isn’t entirely the former either.

You clear your dry throat. "Hi."

Logan blinks, his chest heaving as he swallows hard. He looks utterly terrified and entirely shattered at the same time, like a man waiting for a blow he knows he deserves.

“Hi," he replies, his voice a reluctant whisper.

The sheer absurdity of the tension finally gets to you. You let out a soft, raspy giggle, making your way past him toward the upper cabinets. "You can breathe, Logan. I’m not armed."

A sudden, breathless laugh escapes him, his shoulders visibly relaxing at your surprisingly calm demeanor.

He watches you approach the cupboards, quickly realizing you’re searching for a cup, and clears his throat again. "Beau moved them," he mutters softly, pointing a finger toward the absolute highest shelf. "To keep people from smashing them tonight."

You stop, staring up at the ridiculously high shelf. For a fleeting second, you silently contemplate climbing straight onto the counter, but you’re wearing a denim skirt and you have absolutely no intention of flashing the guy you’re supposed to hate.

Logan shifts his weight, his brown hues searching your face. "Do you. . . do you want some help?"

You cut your eyes at him, letting out a defeated sigh. "Yeah."

He steps into your space, the scent of him—soap and cedar mixed with alcohol—wrapping around you instantly. He reaches up, his large hand grabbing a clean glass from the top shelf. As he brings it down, you make absolutely no effort to step back. You stay right there, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest.

Logan’s brow furrows in surprise at your proximity, but the second he tries to hand you the glass, your fingers tremble against the heavy glass. Your balance wavers, just a fraction.

The realization that you’re still drunk hits him at once. Of course you’re tolerating his presence; you aren’t thinking straight.

"Hey, I've got it," he murmurs, his fingers gently brushing yours as he takes the glass back, completely ignoring your quiet grunt of protest. He turns to the fridge, filling it with crisp, cold water before turning back and pressing the smooth glass into your palm.

Logan hooks his boot around the leg of a nearby stool, pulling it out for you. "Sit down. Drink all of it."

You glare at him over the rim of the glass, the alcohol making you bold. "Don't tell me what to do, John."

A faint, melancholic smile touches his stupidly kissable lips. "You already hate me. It's not like it can get any worse."

You take a long, desperate gulp of the water, the cold liquid soothing your burning throat. You set the glass down on the counter with a soft clink, looking up at him through smudged lashes. "I don't hate you."

Logan blinks, the words striking him right in the center of his chest. He doesn’t know how true that actually is, and as much as his heart flares with desperate, pathetic hope, he refuses to push you for answers in this state. It feels invasive. It feels wrong to take advantage of the liquor softening your edges.

"How much did you have tonight?" he asks quietly, trying to redirect the conversation.

A clumsy giggle bubbles out of your throat. You lift your hands, trying to recount the tally of green jello shots and mixed drinks on your fingers, stumbling over the mental math until you just shake your head. Logan can’t help the genuine laugh that rumbles in his chest at the sight of you, his eyes crinkling.

"Right," he smiles softly, checking his watch. "Do you need help getting back upstairs?"

"I'm just gonna crash on the couch," you mumble, gesturing vaguely to the trashed living room.

"The couch is covered in stale beer and God-knows-what bodily substances," Logan counters gently. "Go back upstairs. The room you were sleeping in is mine. I came down here because I didn't want to wake you up."

You let out a soft oh, a sleepy smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth. "Look at you. A gentleman."

"I try," he says, the old banter sending a bittersweet jolt throughout his body. He steps closer, his voice turning into something protective. "Come on. I’m gonna help you get back up there, and then I’m gonna help you get that makeup off. I know you hate waking up with your face feeling gross."

Your defense mechanisms flare, a sudden prickle of irritation cutting through the alcohol-ridden haze. "I don't need your help, Logan. I haven't needed it for the past three months."

The words cut deep, a sharp reminder of the reality he’d built for himself. The pain flits across his features, but he just nods, taking the blow without a fight.

"I know," he says softly, his voice thick with regret. "I know you don't. But just let me do this. Come on."

You grumble under your breath, throwing a half-hearted complaint into the air, but you don’t fight him when his large hand settles gently against the small of your back. He guides you back up the stairs, his palm a grounding anchor as you stumble on the top step.

He walks you into his room, gently guiding your shoulders until you sit down on the edge of the mattress. You don’t protest. You just watch him with sleepy eyes as he murmurs, "I'll be right back."

Logan slips down the hall to the bathroom Allie and Hannah had used to get ready, quickly rummaging through the counter until he finds what he’s looking for. A minute later, he walks back into the bedroom, carrying a bottle of Micellar Water and a handful of cotton pads.

He sits down on the mattress right in front of you, his knees nearly touching yours, and pours a few drops of the liquid onto the cotton. His hands, usually so rough and aggressive on the ice, are entirely weightless as he raises the pad to your face, gently wiping away the first layer of smudged makeup.

You watch him observantly as he works, your eyes tracking the pure focus in his expression. The alcohol has completely stripped away your internal filter, and before your muddled brain can stop them, the words stumble out of your mouth. “You're pretty, John."

Logan stops for a fraction of a second, a soft laugh huffing out of him as he keeps his eyes on your forehead. "So are you."

"Yeah, I know," you mutter, your attempt at displaying an attitude failing due to your slurring of words.

A genuine smile breaks across his face at your bluntness, his shoulders shaking with a soft chuckle. He shifts his hand, bringing a fresh cotton pad to your other cheek to wipe away the stray glitter and blush. As his arm moves, his sleeve pulls back, and your eyes lock onto his left wrist.

The blue and purple friendship bracelet is still there. It looks like it’s being held together by a prayer, but it’s still securely tied.

"Why are you still wearing that?" you ask, your voice dropping its playful edge.

Logan blinks, not entirely sure what you’re referring to at first. He follows your gaze down to his wrist. His expression softens into something melancholy, a look of guilt taking over his features. "It’s the least I could do.”

He doesn't expand on it, moving the cotton pad down to the makeup and glitter on your neck and collarbone. You internally curse your own biology because, despite everything, your body is still completely conditioned to his presence. Without meaning to, you find yourself leaning slightly into his touch, letting your head tilt back to give him access. At least tomorrow you can blame the pathetic display on the alcohol.

Your filterless brain jumps straight to the next burning question. "Do you still like Hannah?"

You had never told Logan that you knew about his crush. Even during your massive blowout three months ago, you had kept that specific detail to yourself, refusing to out his feelings in front of the entire living room. The pure surprise on his face is clear as day. He halts entirely, his hand hovering over your collarbone before he slowly pulls back.

He doesn't answer right away. He stands up in silence, tossing the used, makeup-stained cotton pads into the small trash can by the desk, buying himself time. When he comes back to sit on the mattress in front of you, his gaze is serious.

"I don't know what you mean," he lies.

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. "I'm not stupid, Logan. That’s what ruined us, anyway. Your feelings for her."

Logan stares at you, seeing the certainty in your muddled eyes, and decides there is absolutely no use in denying it anymore. The truth is, he had long gotten over whatever infatuation he’d harbored. It had actually been Hannah herself who helped him realize the reality of his feelings months ago—that he hadn't been pining for her, but rather envying the effortless, ironclad bond she shared with Garrett. He had been looking for what you two used to have.

"I don't like her anymore," Logan says, his voice level, entirely devoid of the old longing. You’re too drunk to observe that detail. "Honestly. . . I'm not sure if I ever really did."

You let out another sleepy, cynical chuckle, looking down at your lap. "It’s okay that if you do. I know you did. I saw the way you looked at her." You pause, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat as the alcohol forces the ultimate truth to the surface. "It was the way I wanted you to look at me."

Logan’s features change so violently you wonder if it’s possible to get facial whiplash. His chest heaves, eyes widening as the breath is completely knocked out of him.

"What do you mean by that?" he whispers, his voice trembling, practically begging you to elaborate.

But you don't reply. The sudden emotional confession, paired with the strength of the liquor, sends a massive wave of exhaustion crashing through your veins. Your eyelids flutter, growing impossibly heavy.

"I'm tired, Logan," you mumble, your head slumping slightly.

He stares at you, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, but he forces himself to take a breath. He chooses not to pry. As desperately as he wants to get answers, he knows this is absolutely not a conversation to be had when you can barely keep your eyes open.

"You wanna change into something else?" he asks softly, glancing at your denim skirt. "I can get you some sweatpants."

"No," you groan tiredly, already shifting your body to crawl beneath the heavy duvet. "Too tired."

Knowing how stubborn you get when you're sleepy, he doesn't argue. He gently grabs the edge of the comforter, pulling it up over your shoulders and tucking you in against. Once your head securely hits the plush pillow, Logan crouches down to your eye level, lingering for a moment to ensure you're completely comfortable.

Your eyes are shut tight, your breathing slowing into a steady pattern. Thinking you’ve already drifted off, Logan places his palms on his knees, preparing to stand up and leave the room.

Before he can move, your hand shoots out from beneath the blankets, your fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist—right over the threads of his friendship bracelet.

"Thank you," you whisper into the dark room, your eyes still closed.

Logan’s throat tightens, a wave of affection and ache washing over him. "Don't thank me," he murmurs. He leans forward, his movement entirely natural and devoid of malice as he presses a soft, kiss to your forehead. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," you mumble back, your grip on his wrist loosening as you sink deeper into the mattress. "This doesn't mean we're cool again, by the way."

An honest laugh escapes Logan, the familiar sharpness of your tongue bringing a bittersweet comfort to his heart. "I know," he whispers, his voice full of a quiet promise to earn every single inch of your trust back. "I know it doesn't."

He reaches over, gently clicking off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into warm, quiet shadows before slipping out to the living room, leaving you to finally sleep.

The morning sun slices through the blinds with a blinding brightness that makes your head immediately throb. You groan, rolling over, only to realize your skin doesn’t feel tight and clogged. Your face is clean.

Sitting on the dresser is a folded pile of oversized sweats and a sticky note from Hannah letting you know there’s a spare, unopened toothbrush in the bathroom. You let out a breath, extremely grateful for your friends. When you glance at the nightstand, you find a bottle of blue Gatorade and two ibuprofen tablets waiting for you. You assume those are from Hannah, too, and swallow the pills quickly, chasing it down with the blue liquid.

Once you’re changed, showered, and finally dragging your feet downstairs, you realize you are officially the last one awake.

Dean sees you step into the kitchen and immediately bellows, "There she is! The life of the party!"

You wince, pressing a hand to your temple. "Why are you yelling? Please don't yell."

Tucker lets out a low laugh from the kitchen counter and slides a foil-wrapped breakfast burrito toward you. “We ordered takeout. The bus leaves in thirty minutes so we’ve gotta head out in twenty.”

You take a bite, look over at Hannah and Allie, and offer a soft smile. "Hey, thanks for the clothes and the stuff on the nightstand."

They both nod, but Hannah frowns slightly. "No problem for the clothes, but what stuff on the nightstand?"

You pause, a sudden twist in your stomach cutting through the hangover. "The ibuprofen? The Gatorade?"

"Wasn't us," Allie says, popping a piece of toast into her mouth.

You quickly brush it off, and walk over to the kitchen island where Tucker is leaning. You figure it must have been his doing—the classic protective older brother move despite him being younger.

"Thanks, Tuck," you murmur.

Tucker just looks at you, a knowing, amused glint in his eyes as he takes a sip of his coffee. "Don't thank me. It was your lover boy."

Your heart does a violent flip-flop. Logan.

You glance around the room, but he’s nowhere to be found. Suddenly, the reality of last night crashes over you in a wave of mortification. Now that you’re sober, you don't even know how to approach it. You’re grateful he helped you, sure, but the baseline anger from the last three months is still burning in your chest. Worse, the unfiltered things you said start echoing in your mind.

It was the way I wanted you to look at me.

The memory makes you want to literally shrivel up and die on the kitchen tile. But since spontaneous combustion isn't an option, you clear your throat and look back at Tucker. "I'm, uh. . . I'm gonna go upstairs and finish packing my tote bag so I'm ready to walk out when you guys leave."

Tucker nods steadily, and you beat a hasty retreat back up the stairs. You figure Tucker would have warned you if Logan was up there, but you quickly realize your assumption is entirely incorrect.

The exact moment you pass the upstairs bathroom, the door swings open. You nearly collision-course right into a solid chest. You gasp, taking a sharp step back, and find yourself staring right into Logan’s eyes.

"Sorry," he says quickly, his hands instinctively twitching as if he wants to catch your elbows before he remembers he doesn't have the right to touch you anymore. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," you say, your voice restrained.

An awkward silence stretches between you in the narrow hallway. He looks exhausted, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes, his hair damp from his own shower.

You clear your throat, forcing the words out. "Thank you. For the ibuprofen. And for. . . everything else last night."

Logan’s expression softens. “I told you last night, you don't have to thank me."

You offer a quick nod, shifting your weight to walk right past him and end the interaction. You can practically feel the desperate urge radiating off him; he clearly wants to talk to you, but he doesn't think you want to speak to him. And truthfully, you don't.

But for some stupid, inexplicable reason, you still do.

You stop, your sandals gluing themselves to the ground. Slowly, you turn back around to face him. "I meant it, you know. When I said I don't hate you. I could never hate you, Logan." You look down at your shoes, your voice dropping. "I was just hurt. Honestly, I still am."

Logan takes a tentative step forward, closing a fraction of the distance between you. "I know," he says, "You have every single right to be."

He swallows hard, his gaze locking onto yours with such a focus that it makes you furrow your eyebrows.

"I'm not going to give you some pathetic excuse about the charity event," Logan says, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. "The truth is, I was selfish. I got so caught up in trying to chase something new that I completely blinded myself to the person who actually mattered. I took years of your loyalty and I treated it like it was a given. Like no matter how careless I was, you’d just. . . always be there."

He takes another small step, and you can tell he’s been wanting to say this for some time.

"When Tucker told me what happened—how you kept looking for me at the back of that auditorium, thinking that I was hurt because you couldn't conceive of a world where I'd just let you down. . . it made me physically sick. I have never hated myself more than I did that night. I broke a sacred promise to my best friend because I wanted to play the hero for someone else, and I left you to stand on that stage alone. You don’t deserve that, you have never deserved that.”

A painful silence falls over over the narrow hallway, the sincerity in his voice cutting right through your caged heart.

"I'm so sorry," Logan whispers, his eyes glossy. "I'm sorry I made you feel invisible. I'm sorry I ruined what should have been the greatest night of your life. I don't expect you to just forget it, and I know I don't deserve it, but I need you to know that I am so deeply, truly sorry. Even if you choose to never speak to me again, it’s well within your rights.”

Hearing it now, spoken with the emotion of a guy who has spent three months drowning in his own regret, feels like the exact piece of closure you’ve been suffocating without. You can see it in his eyes—how utterly desperate he is for just a sliver of another chance.

He’d done what you’d wanted him to, he basked in the actions of what he’d done. He sat with them, made them about you instead of him, and suffered in it.

"It's exhausting," you admit, a weary sigh escaping your lips. "Trying to avoid you all the time. It takes so much energy."

"I know," Logan whispers, his eyes swimming with guilt. "I'm so sorry I made you feel like that was your only option. I miss you. God, I miss you in my life so much."

You lean your shoulder against the wall, crossing your arms over your chest. You aren't going to let him entirely off the hook. "It won't be that easy, Logan."

"I know it won't," he says instantly, a determined certainty lighting up his gaze. "I don't expect it to be. But I am willing to work for it. Seriously. Whatever it takes. Throw it at me."

A sudden, wicked spark of mischief makes you perk up. You look him up and down. "Okay. You have to do my laundry for the rest of the semester and the next school year.”

Logan doesn't even blink. His jaw sets, and he nods with absolute dedication. "Done. I'll pick it up every Monday."

The seriousness on his face pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop yourself, the sound echoing in the hallway. "I'm kidding, dude! Oh my gosh, your face."

A massive, relieved smile breaks across Logan's features, his own laugh mingling with yours. It’s the first time you’ve shared a real, sober laugh in months, and the warmth of it temporarily banishes the void in your chest.

As the laughter dies down, Logan steps just a bit closer, his expression turning serious again, though the panic is gone. "Look, I know we’ll probably never be exactly how we were before. I know things changed. But. . . I'm willing to try, if you'll let me."

You take a good look at him and realize that the fortress you built over the winter break has officially been breached. You swallow the lingering nerves, offering a small nod.

"Yeah," you say softly. "We can be friends again."

Friends.

The word echoes in Logan’s head. It feels like a lifeline thrown to a dying man. It isn't everything his newly realized, aching heart wants—not after what you drunkenly confessed last night—but as he looks at your relaxed shoulders and the slight smile on your face, he thinks to himself—Friends.

I can do friends.

John Logan can’t do friends.

He’s learned that the hard way over the last two months.

Honestly, he doesn’t even understand how he was able to do it before. He looks back at the last ten years and wonders how he was ever blind enough to categorize what he felt for you as just a friendship. Especially considering how casually touchy the two of you used to be when you were closer. It had been second nature for you to be leaning your entire weight against his side on the couch, or mindlessly picking at a stray thread on his shirt, or tangling your fingers in his hair while you talked about your classes.

He had taken every single touch for granted. Now, he’d do absolutely anything just to have a fraction of that effortless closeness back.

But he has your friendship again, and he forces himself to remember that a thin slice of you is a million times better than nothing at all.

So, he sucks it up. He swallows the bitter lump in his throat when you ask Tucker or Beau to help you hold your heavy research bag, knowing damn well he used to be your automatic go-to for things like that. He forces a tight smile when you ask Allie or Hannah to go on a late-night walk with you, sitting on the porch and watching you walk away, aware of the fact that he’s the one being replaced.

And he especially sucks it up when he sees you laughing with another guy at a party. Logan will stand across the room, gripping his red plastic cup so tight his knuckles turn white, pretending he isn't completely sizing the guy up from a distance. He’ll stare at the stranger, a dark, possessive pettiness roaring in his chest as he wonders if the guy even knows your middle name or what your favorite flavor of chips is.

But then, there are the fleeting moments that make the torture entirely worth it.

Like when you’re standing in the entryway of the boys’ house, losing your balance for a split second, and you mindlessly drop your hand onto his firm shoulder to steady yourself while you adjust the heel strap of your shoe. Or when he makes one of his classic yet stupid jokes and without thinking, you roll your eyes, press your bare palm directly against his face, and tell him to shut up—just like old times. In those brief, beautiful seconds, the warmth of your skin completely blinds him, making him forget the crushing reality that he’ll never actually have you in the way he truly wants.

What you don't know is that Logan fixed your broken friendship bracelet.

He did it the very night after you agreed to rekindle things at Beau's summer house. He’d arrived at the house, gathered the ruined heap of strings from his dresser, and spent hours knotting them back together. It took him a long time, and he had to constantly switch through a multitude of YouTube tutorials, but it was worth it.

He’ll never tell you about it; he’s too terrified of what your reaction would be, afraid you'll think he's crossing a line. But every single night before he goes to sleep, he pulls that restored bracelet out and looks at it, reminding himself of the new beginning he’s been granted.

Maybe you really did love him at some point. Maybe you loved him in the exact same consuming, terrifying way he loves you now, your filterless words from St. Patrick’s Day echoing in his mind like a beautiful haunting.

But as he watches you navigate your life with a bright, independent glow, it’s brutally clear to him that you’ve passed that chapter. You don't look at him with longing anymore. You don't feel that way about him.

John Logan missed his window, and he’s just going to have to find a way to live with the view.

It’s ironic that the next time the two of you are truly alone again is in a kitchen. Only this time, it’s his, not Beau’s. And you’re not downstairs, stumbling around and reeling from a muddled, drunken nap. You are wide awake, the house is relatively dark, save for the moonlight peeking through the windows, and you are currently remembering that Tucker always keeps a tub of cookies n' cream ice cream from your favorite brand tucked away in the back of the freezer. He used to pretend to get mad whenever you’d eat his stash, but lately, you have a strong suspicion he buys it solely for you.

Malone’s had hosted a karaoke night, and Hannah had placed her dorm keys into Allie’s purse—which Allie had unfortunately forgotten at the bar. You hadn't seen the point in making everyone take a massive detour to campus just to drop you off alone, so you’d decided it would be perfectly fine to sleep on the boys’ couch. Garrett had continuously asked if you were sure about it, over and over, until you finally told him that if he asked one more time, you’d shove a car tire down his throat. He’d complied instantly.

Which takes you to now. It's one in the morning, and you're awake because the living room is freezing, but you didn't want to wake anyone up just to beg for a blanket. Eating ice cream when you’re already shivering isn’t exactly the brightest choice, but it’s easily the tastiest.

You are sharply reminded of just how cold the house is when you hop up to sit on the kitchen counter, your bare thighs making direct contact with the freezing tile. You’d been lent an oversized spare t-shirt to sleep in, but your brown ruffled shorts were surprisingly comfortable, so you’d decided to keep them on.

A floorboard creaks on the staircase, making you pause. Seconds later, John Logan enters the kitchen.

He stops, surprised to see you sitting there in the dark with a spoon in your hand. But funny enough, there is no awkwardness this time. The thick, suffocating tension that used to define your interactions has completely melted away over the last few weeks—even if things still aren't exactly back to old times.

Logan rubs a hand over his face, his voice groggy. "What are you doing still up?"

"Making myself significantly colder by eating ice cream," you reply easily, lifting your spoon. "I couldn't sleep because I'm freezing."

Logan frowns slightly, leaning against the counter a few feet away. "Why didn’t you wake one of us up and ask for a blanket?"

"I was going to," you admit, digging the spoon back into the tub. "But it was late, and I swear I could hear the cookies n' cream in the freezer literally begging to be eaten."

He laughs, the sound warming the kitchen. You remember, suddenly, that he loves this exact flavor just as much as you do.

You’re sitting right above the drawer where the utensils are kept. Leaning down slightly, you pull the drawer open, grab a clean spoon, and hold it out toward him. It’s an offering. An olive branch, if you will.

Logan stares at the spoon in your hand for a full minute, blinking before he slowly reaches out and takes it. You hold the tub of ice cream out between you. He steps in closer, scooping a bite directly from the container, and mindlessly cleans off the spoon with his lips.

As he does, you realize just how close he’s standing. For some reason, watching the slow, casual movement of his jaw makes a traitorous heat bloom, starting from your neck and spreading to your face. He’s standing right between your parted knees as you sit on the counter, close enough that his body heat is radiating against your cold skin, completely overriding the chill of the room. You internally hate yourself for the way your pulse immediately kicks up.

To make matters worse, he tilts the tub back toward you so you can take another bite.

Because you’re elevated on the counter, Logan is forced to look slightly up at you, his glimmering eyes wide and dark in the shadows. He shifts his weight, and his other hand—completely absentmindedly, just out of old, deep-seated habit—rests lightly against the edge of the counter, his knuckles slightly brushing against the bare skin of your thigh.

You don’t think he’s thinking much of it. To him, it’s probably just the casual, comfortable contact that used to be the norm between you two. But to you, it is absolutely terrible. You had managed to successfully drown out all of those impulsive, agonizingly loving thoughts for months, burying them deep beneath your anger. But they only ever seem to come roaring back to life during quiet, hyper-intimate moments just like this.

And that is exactly why you spent the last few weeks avoiding being alone with him like this.

You pray he can’t hear the way your heart is slamming against your ribs. Desperate to break the suffocating spell of his proximity, you hop off the counter, your bare feet hitting the cold floorboards with a soft thud.

"We should go get that blanket," you say, your voice sounding a little too quick, a little too breathless.

Logan studies your face for a lingering moment, his doe eyes searching yours before he gives a quiet nod. "Yeah. It's upstairs in my room."

You follow him up the stairs, the quiet of the house wrapping around you. But when you step into his bedroom, Logan stops by his closet, a sheepish look crossing his face as he remembers. "Ah, actually, I forgot. I threw it in the wash earlier. It’s probably still in the dryer downstairs." He offers an apologetic grimace. "Sorry."

"It's fine," you say, leaning against his doorframe. "At least it'll be fresh out of the heat."

He lets out a soft laugh. "Wait in here, I'll go grab it."

Once his footsteps fade down the hallway, you step fully into his room. It hits you all at once that you haven't been in this space in months. It looks the same—the rumpled sheets, the hockey gear tucked into the corner—but it feels entirely different.

Your eyes drift over to his desk, and you freeze.

Resting right on top of a stack of textbooks is a colorful weave of embroidery string. Your breath hitches. You know it’s not the one Logan wears, because you just saw his on his wrist seconds ago. You take a step closer, your fingers trembling slightly as you reach out and pick it up.

It’s fixed. Every single thread that had snapped apart on the night of your presentation has been carefully knotted back together. You had assumed it was thrown in the garbage. He never brought it up, never mentioned keeping it.

You lean back against the edge of his desk, staring down at the neat knots, completely lost in thought.

The door clicks, and you jump slightly as Logan returns, a warm, fluffy blanket cradled in his arms. He has an easy, happy smile on his face—one that drops instantly the second his eyes land on what is dangling from your fingertips.

“You still have it,” you observe quietly.

Logan’s movements turn hesitant. He walks toward you like he's stepping onto thin ice, gently dropping the warm blanket onto the edge of his unmade bed. Over the last few weeks, you’ve gotten so good at masking your emotions that he genuinely can’t read you right now. The unreadable expression is making him visibly nervous.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice dropping. "I didn't realize I left that out."

You ignore his apology, your eyes still locked on the tightly woven strings. "When did you fix it?"

"The day we rekindled things," he confesses softly.

Your chest tightens. "Why did you never show it to me?"

"I didn't think you’d want to see it." Logan swallows hard. "I didn't want to push you."

"Why did you fix it, Logan?"

There is a sudden, fragile falter in your voice—one you didn't even realize was coming until the words left your mouth.

Logan stares at you, completely at a loss. He doesn't know how to answer that honestly without entirely blowing his cover and confessing that he is desperately, entirely in love with you. So, he falls back on the safest truth he has. "Because it was important to me. You're important to me."

Silence stretches over the bedroom. You quickly avert your gaze, looking down at the floor, and Logan’s stomach drops through the floorboards. He thinks he’s done it. He thinks he’s finally fucked up for the last time. All those weeks of careful groveling, of trying to respect your boundaries, and he ruined it because he was an idiot who forgot to hide a fucking bracelet.

But then, a soft, ragged sniffle breaks the silence.

"Hey," Logan calls your name softly.

Instinctively, your head snaps up to meet his gaze. The moment he sees the watery sheen glossing over your eyes, any hesitation he had vanishes. He rushes across the small gap between you, his large hands immediately reaching out.

He gently takes the bracelet from your fingers, murmuring, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Before you can blink, his thumb reaches up, tenderly wiping away the single tear you allowed to escape down your cheek. His large palm doesn't leave your face; instead, his hand settles gently against your jawline, his fingers anchoring you, prompting you to look directly into the depths of his honey eyes.

The sudden proximity sinks into you. You are completely trapped between the solid breadth of his chest and the hard edge of his desk. And looking up at him, you can tell he is thinking the exact same thing you are.

Your gaze helplessly drops to his lips. When you snap your eyes back up to his, you realize with a jolt that he had just been doing the exact same thing to you.

"Tell me to stop," Logan whispers, his breath warm against your lips, his voice raw and begging.

You want to. You know you should. You know you’re supposed to be just friends, that you’re supposed to be protecting your heart. But the logic completely dissolves, and the moment his lips finally touch yours, you don't pull away.

You kiss him back.

The kiss is slow and absolutely intoxicating. You have never felt more utterly vulnerable in your entire life. Logan lets out a low, ragged sound against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, effortlessly lifting you up so you're sitting securely on the edge of the desk. He doesn't break the contact for a single second. His hands shift, his large palms wrapping firmly around your waist, holding onto you with a distinct desperation—like you’re a buoy in the middle of a crashing ocean and he’s a drowning man.

The familiar warmth of him fills you up, once again erasing the chill of the house. You almost entirely forget who you are, where you are, and what exactly you’re doing—until the kiss deepens, and a soft, involuntary moan of pure pleasure escapes your throat.

The sound shocks you right back to reality.

Panicking, you put your hands against his chest and break away from him immediately, sliding off the desk and backing up until your spine hits the wall. Your breathing is shallow and erratic, your lips tingling.

Logan stands there, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and completely dark with a mixture of shock and terror. "I'm sorry. I—“

"No, it's—it's fine," you stammer, your hands flying up to touch your face, your mind spinning into complete overdrive. "I just—can’t. I can’t, I’m sorry.”

Before he can even utter another word, you dart past him, tearing open the bedroom door and sprinting down the hallway, leaving him standing alone in the center of the room.

Logan closes his eyes, a frustrated huff escaping his lips as he rubs his hands over his face. He’s certain. He is absolutely, one hundred percent certain that he just blew everything. He just ruined the fragile friendship you’ve spent ages building.

Slowly, he reopens his eyes, his shoulders slumped in utter defeat as he looks over at his bed.

At least you took the blanket with you.

You sat across from the fire pit in the boys’ backyard, elbows resting on the armrests of your chair while the flames cracked softly in front of you both. The night air had turned colder hours ago, but neither of you had gone inside. Dean kept talking and you kept letting him or trying to.

Every time he opened his mouth, you exhaled slowly through your nose as if physically releasing air might stop you from interrupting him.

“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Dean repeated for probably the fifth time that night. He took another drag from the blunt before passing it toward you, smoke curling past his lips as he leaned back deeper into the chair.

“That’s what pisses me off the most,” he continued, staring hard into the fire like your ex-boyfriend personally offended him. “He had no clue what he was doing in the relationship from day one and still had the confidence to ask you out.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Usually I respect delusion like that, but that guy’s a fucking disaster.”

You accepted the blunt with a quiet sigh.

Dean had been ranting for nearly a week straight now. Anyone overhearing him would’ve assumed he’d been the one publicly dumped in the cafeteria instead of you but he’d been there when it happened, front row seats to your ex fumbling through excuses while half your friends sat frozen around the table pretending not to listen. Maybe that was enough for Dean.

Now, instead of being out partying with the rest of the team, he sat outside with you night after night, sharing weed and acting personally victimized by your breakup.

“Dean,” you finally interrupted, tone firm.

He stopped talking immediately.

You inhaled slowly before looking over at him through the smoke, holding his gaze while you exhaled. “It’s okay.”

Dean’s expression flattened instantly. “We have very different definitions of okay.”

His eyes drifted back toward the fire for a second, replaying the memory again. You could practically see it happening behind his eyes, the cafeteria, your expression and your ex stumbling through his speech.

“You should’ve let me talk to him,” he muttered.

“What good would that have done?” You brought the blunt back to your lips, inhaling before handing it over again. “It’s not his fault.”

Dean’s head snapped toward you so fast he nearly dropped the thing. “The fuck does that mean?”

You almost rolled your eyes at the offense in his tone. Instead, you looked away toward the fire again, watching orange light flicker against the patio stones.

“I’m lost here,” he scoffed. “Is being wrapped around another girl at a party three hours after dumping you not a dick move now?”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Dean,” you said gently, finally turning your head toward him again. “I think I’m the only person who wasn’t surprised by the breakup.”

His brows furrowed.

You shrugged one shoulder lightly. “He just beat me to it.”

“Oh.” The word left him quietly. Dean looked away immediately afterward, dragging a hand over his mouth while he gathered his thoughts before glancing back at you. “That’s the first time I’m hearing about that.”

He passed the blunt over again.

You took it carefully, staring down at it between your fingers for a second before answering.

“Yeah, well...” You inhaled deeply, smoke burning pleasantly in your lungs before you let it back out slowly. “You’ve got other business to worry about.”

Dean huffed out a laugh instantly. “You are my business.” The certainty in his voice made your lips curl before you could stop them. “So start talking.”

He always did that. Dean had this way of making honesty feel inevitable. The two of you talked about everything, always had. He knew things about you your closest friends didn’t. Hell, he’d bought condoms for you the first time you planned on sleeping with someone because you’d been too embarrassed to walk into the store yourself.

You moved deeper into the chair, pulling one leg beneath you while you searched carefully for the right words. “Um…” You inhaled again, then blurted it out before your brain could stop you. “I suck at the sex thing.”

Dean’s face twisted immediately in disagreement as you passed the blunt. “Bullshit.”

You laughed softly. “No, seriously. I do.” You rubbed awkwardly at your neck before continuing. “Turns out not being able to cum eventually becomes an issue when your partner realizes you never actually have with them.”

Dean’s expression changed instantly. Every conversation you’d ever had about sex clearly started replaying in his head at once because confusion hit him violently.

“But you told me–”

“I lied.” The words came out easier than expected. You shrugged lightly, though your stomach still tightened. “I’ve been lying for years...Faking it until I got tired of faking it and started bruising egos.” A humorless smile tugged briefly at your mouth. “Including mine.”

Dean stayed quiet now so you stared into the fire instead.

“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think sex is really my thing.” Your shoulders lifted. “I like the idea of it. I enjoy parts of it…but everyone talks about this huge explosive ending and I just…” You shook your head. “Don’t get there…naturally people stop believing you when you say it was still good.”

Dean watched you carefully. “Was it?”

“The sex?” You let the silence drag for a second before shrugging again. “I think so.” Your lips twitched faintly. “It was good enough to build better stories around afterward.”

Dean stopped smoking entirely after that. The blunt burned slowly between his fingers while he stared down at it, suddenly looking far more sober than either of you probably were. He looked like he was trying to organize his thoughts before speaking again.

“How about alone?” The question came softly, carefully.

If you didn’t know him so well, you might’ve mistaken the look on his face for pity. Thankfully, you did know him, which meant you recognized concern immediately.

You shook your head slowly. “That’s why I’m saying it’s not his fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” Dean argued as he flicked the rest of the blunt into the fire pit before continuing. “It just hasn’t happened yet.” His voice softened further. “Doesn’t mean it never will.”

You let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as the weed finally started loosening the tension sitting on your shoulders. “It’s definitely not from lack of trying.”

You could feel him staring at you even with your eyes closed.

The silence stretched comfortably after your confession, softened by the crackling fire and the distant chorus of crickets surrounding the backyard. The flames had started dying down, wood collapsing inward with quiet snaps while smoke drifted lazily into the cold night air.

Dean still hadn’t looked away from you. “So what now?” he asked finally.

You swallowed slowly, still keeping your eyes shut. For a second or maybe an entire minute, Dean genuinely thought you’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.

Then your lips twitched. “Celibacy.”

The offended sound that tore out of him made your smile widen. You heard him trying to hold it back too, which honestly made it funnier but this was Dean. Subtle outrage had never once existed in his body.

“Think I’d look hot as a nun?” you asked lazily.

“You’d look hot in a banana costume wearing clown shoes six sizes too big,” he replied instantly. “And you’re absolutely not dropping out of Briar to become a nun. End of discussion.”

His tone came out firm enough to sound ridiculous considering he had absolutely no authority over your life whatsoever.

You finally peeled your eyes open to look at him. The weed had settled into your bones now, leaving you heavy and relaxed against the chair. Dean looked hazy too, hair falling perfectly while the firelight flickered warm across his face.

“You’re not giving up because some five-eleven idiot couldn’t be patient long enough to figure you out.”

You grinned. “He’s six-one.”

Dean scoffed. “He tried out for the Hawks freshman year. Trust me, he’s five-eleven.”

Your brows lifted. Dean kept going without needing encouragement, already slipping into that protective streak he pretended wasn’t there. He always collected information about people around you, quietly filing it away for future use whenever he deemed necessary.

“He was wearing lifts during tryouts,” Dean added smugly. “One bad pivot and the guy almost snapped an ankle.”

A laugh escaped you softly.

“If you wanna stop having sex altogether, God forbid–”

“You should become a priest,” you interrupted.

Dean barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’d probably take a year and a half to cleanse my sins.” He pointed toward himself loosely. “And that’s assuming I don’t burst into flames the second I walk into a church.” His eyes drifted back to you. “Can I continue now?”

“Yes, Father,” you replied through a chuckle.

Dean shook his head, smiling despite himself before settling deeper into his chair again.

“If you really wanna do the celibacy thing, fine.” He shrugged dramatically. “I’ll support you. We’ll find support groups together and hold hands through the trauma.” His mouth twitched. “Though personally, I’d go through withdrawals first.”

“How solidary of you.”

He nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Plus I can probably add it to my extracurriculars somehow.”

You laughed harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly as you leaned back into the chair. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

Dean watched you carefully while you laughed. The sound came out lighter than anything he’d heard from you all week, chest rising and falling unevenly while your eyes squeezed shut again for a second and suddenly the conversation stopped feeling funny to him.

Because underneath the jokes, underneath the weed and the teasing, he kept thinking about what you’d actually said earlier. About you trying and nothing happening.

Dean loved sex. Everyone knew that much about him but you did too or at least you loved wanting it, loved feeling desired, loved the intimacy, the heat and everything wrapped around it and now all he could think about was how frustrating that must’ve been for you. Wanting something everyone else talked about so easily only for your body not to cooperate no matter how hard you tried.

The thought sat badly in his chest. Dean looked down at the dying fire for a second before his eyes lifted back to you.

“Use me,” he blurted out.

Your laughter faded gradually after his words, the smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth while your eyes settled back on him even more carefully this time. 

“What do you mean?”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be your last resort,” he repeated easily, like he’d already thought this through far more than he probably had. “Aren’t you always telling me to make myself useful?”

You narrowed your eyes, blinking slowly through the haze settling heavier behind them.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” You rubbed at one eye with the heel of your hand. “Because I’m starting to think I hallucinated that sentence.”

“I hold my weed better than you,” he reminded you smugly.

That part, unfortunately, was true. Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against his knees now, all lazy amusement gone strangely sincere beneath the teasing.

“You wanna quit? Fine.” He shrugged. “Quit when you’re actually out of options.”

A quiet huff left you, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Didn’t realize Six Flags counted as an option.” Your lips twitched faintly. “I hate rollercoasters.”

Dean nodded decisively. “Then I’ll go out of business.”

“You’ll close the park?”

“I’ll shut the whole thing down,” he promised solemnly. “Just so you can ride the teacups.” The grin spreading across his face warned you half a second too late. “Remember when you threw up on the–”

“Yes,” you cut him off immediately, flat and horrified. “I remember.”

Dean laughed anyway. Full-bodied, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as he pointed at you. “You were crying,” he accused through the laughter. “You kept saying your stomach hated you–”

“I was fifteen.”

“And dramatic.” He added. “But so cute…less mouthy too.”

“You held my hair while I threw up into a trash can behind the funnel cake stand.”

Dean’s laughter softened slightly at that memory. Back then he’d been genuinely terrified something was wrong with you. He’d hovered beside you the entire night looking pale enough to pass out himself while you recovered on a bench wrapped in his sweatshirt. Now he just looked fond.

You glanced away first, eyes dropping back toward the dying fire while your thoughts started turning over his earlier suggestion again despite yourself.

It could go horribly. Actually, no, it would go horribly. There were at least seventeen reasons this crossed every boundary imaginable. You already hated rollercoasters, hated fast turns and hated giving up control over literally anything involving your body and Dean…Well, Dean was Dean.

Confident, experienced, annoyingly good-looking and unarguably good at sex if campus rumors counted for anything and unfortunately they definitely did. You hadn’t exactly conducted research firsthand but after years of hearing stories from girls around campus, the reviews were embarrassingly consistent.

“You really think that highly of your dick?” you asked finally.

Dean shrugged lazily against the chair. “Nobody said anything about using it.”

That made your eyes snap back to him fully. “And if nothing works?” you asked quieter this time.

The question slipped out more honestly than intended because suddenly you weren’t thinking about sex anymore. You were thinking about aftermaths, about what happened if this ruined things between you. Dean had woven himself into your life years ago so naturally that imagining him gone felt impossible now.

You genuinely didn’t know how you’d survive losing him too.

Dean studied you for a second and for once the confidence in his face softened into something steadier. “Then we fail,” he decided.

You swallowed.

His grin returned slowly afterward, softer around the edges. “Fail with me,” he corrected. “Fail better.” He pointed between you both lazily. “Fail together.”

A laugh escaped you despite every effort not to give him one.

You rolled your eyes hard enough to make him grin wider, shaking your head while the weed continued smoothing the sharp corners off your thoughts. The night air no longer felt cold against your skin and embarrassment had slowly stopped existing somewhere during the conversation. Maybe that was the dangerous part and not Dean’s suggestion but how easy it suddenly felt to consider it.

You didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the night and neither did Dean.

When the rest of the guys stumbled back into the house loud and half-drunk sometime after midnight, he changed back into normal so smoothly it almost irritated you. He made sure you had food, water, your charger and then bullied one of the sober freshmen into driving you home while standing outside by the car until you pulled away like he always did.

You slept absurdly well afterward.

A heavy sleep and dreamless night, the type that glued you to the mattress the next morning until sunlight was already cutting aggressively through your blinds. By the time you shuffled out with an oversized hoodie you were certain was your ex’s, your phone was buzzing with unread texts from Dean sent hours earlier, probably before morning practice.

You ignored every single one and it wasn’t because of regret. Embarrassment simply crawled into your chest somewhere between the first and third spoonful of cereal and decided to settle there permanently.

The entire conversation replayed so clearly now that you were sober. “Use me,” You nearly groaned into the bowl.

Three hours of class helped, at least temporarily. You sat near the back of the massive amphitheater classroom while your professor rambled enthusiastically about the new book he’d conveniently written himself and would definitely require students to purchase before midterms. You probably would’ve absorbed more information if you weren’t scrolling mindlessly through Instagram the entire lecture.

The doors behind you opened quietly midway through class.

You barely paid attention at first since nobody descended the stairs toward the lower rows and a second later the seat beside you groaned softly under someone’s weight.

You recognized the cologne immediately.

“How hard do you think you need to scrub for that scent to leave your skin?” you whispered without looking up.

Dean grinned beside you, leaning closer enough for warmth to brush your shoulder as his eyes dropped toward your phone screen.

You locked it quickly and finally looked at him. “You’re not in this class.”

“I see your phone works perfectly fine,” he replied.

The professor thankfully dismissed class early before you could answer, students immediately growing louder as backpacks zipped and people exited the space.

You stood quickly and started gathering your things. “Did you need something, Di Laurentis?” you asked flatly.

Dean remained seated on purpose, forcing you to awkwardly climb past him to leave the row. The asshole looked entirely too pleased with himself while you muttered under your breath and stepped over his legs.

The second you reached the aisle, he stood and followed.

You walked fast, actually, aggressively fast. Dean almost struggled to keep up at first, his legs clearly still wrecked from morning practice while you marched out of the building like escape itself was the objective. He finally caught you outside near the steps leading toward the quad.

“We need to talk.”

You slowed at last before turning toward him. “What we need is space,” you corrected, motioning firmly between your bodies.

Dean looked down between you both thoughtfully, then took exactly one step backward.

You almost laughed, especially because he looked unbearably smug afterward, standing there grinning in the middle of campus like he deserved a reward for basic listening skills.

“You’ve gone to New York with me enough times to know I don’t need more space,” he pointed out. “But fine.” His expression softened slightly afterward, amusement fading as he studied your face more carefully. “What’s going on?”

Of course, he was right. Dean practically crawled into people’s personal bubbles recreationally, so the fact he’d backed off at all made it harder to flee the conversation entirely.

You exhaled slowly. “We said stuff last night.”

He nodded once, blinking at the tension written all over your face. “Yeah. That’s usually how conversations work.”

“Stuff you might regret,” you clarified.

Dean’s brows lifted before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Regret?” He pointed toward himself loosely. “C’mon. It’s me.”

His voice gentled slightly after and the worst part was he looked relieved, because apparently the phrase ‘stuff you might regret’ translated in Dean’s brain to ‘good, she’s not upset’.

“I would’ve said that sober,” he assured you.

His eyes stayed fixed on yours while your attention darted briefly around campus before returning to him again exactly like he knew it would. Dean stepped closer instinctively, lowering his voice enough that the passing students around you blurred into background noise.

“You want me to repeat it?” he asked quietly. “Let me help you cum.”

Your stomach tightened at his tone of voice. “It might not work,” you reminded him softly.

You hoped your face conveyed the actual problem because this had never been about his ego. Dean could survive failure, he’d probably laugh through it, so that wasn’t what scared you.

Dean shrugged anyway, maddeningly calm. “What if it does?”

“And what if it doesn’t?” Frustration finally slipped into your voice. “Dean, I don’t want us to get weird.” You shook your head hard once. “I don’t need ‘optimistic Dean’ right now,” you muttered. “I need ‘realistic Dean’, so pull him out of your ass.”

“You already are weird,” Dean corrected easily, smiling down at you. “I accepted that years ago.” His grin widened then. “Actually, I encourage it.”

You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

“Let me try,” he insisted again, the confidence in his voice should’ve irritated you more than it did.

Instead, you found yourself studying him in silence, searching for something off in his expression. Some sign this was ego, curiosity or boredom disguised as concern but he just looked…earnest. Enthusiastic, sure, because he was Dean and apparently incapable of approaching anything halfway but not creepy about it and maybe this was partially your own fault.

You’d spent years talking openly with him about sex, relationships and attraction. About wanting something good someday instead of tolerable, about how when you were old and exhausted with kids running around, you still wanted a partner who looked at you and wanted you back because you were almost certain you’d still want them too.

Dean remembered everything you said…unfortunately.

You sighed heavily. “We need rules.”

“Fine.” He agreed so fast it almost startled you. Dean straightened afterward, nodding once with ridiculous seriousness like the two of you were entering business negotiations instead of whatever disaster this actually was.

You almost reconsidered your next words. Almost.

“No kissing.”

Dean’s shoulders visibly dropped. “Why?”

“Because!” you hissed. “And if we’re doing this, you don’t get to question the rules.”

His face twisted in disbelief. “We’ve kissed before.”

You crossed your arms tighter. “That was different.”

Dean scoffed softly. “We were literally each other’s first kiss.”

Again, he was right. You weren’t just each other’s first kiss either, a few firsts existed between you both scattered through years of friendship and growing up side by side, all except for sex. There was awkward teenage curiosity, truth or dare disasters and one regrettable spin-the-bottle incident Garrett still occasionally referenced against your will.

Which was exactly why kissing now felt dangerous. This couldn’t spiral into some ‘why didn’t we do this sooner’ conversation. It needed boundaries and structure, something detached enough that neither of you accidentally ruined the friendship orbiting underneath all this and selflessly, you also didn’t want the group dragged into the fallout if things exploded.

“We’re adults now,” you said firmly. “So no kissing.”

Dean stared at you for another second before exhaling dramatically. 

“Okay,” he relented…Too easily, which immediately made you suspicious he’d already started planning arguments against it for later.

“I’ve also thought about what you said last night,” you continued carefully. “About Six Flags.”

Dean’s brows lifted.

“And shutting down the entire park feels unfair to you,” you explained. “Potentially devastating, honestly.” Your lips twitched slightly. “So you can still hook up with other people if you want. I genuinely don’t care.”

Dean actually looked offended. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” His voice sharpened for the first time since the conversation started. “But no thanks.” He shrugged once. “It makes this more exciting anyway.” A grin tugged briefly at his mouth again. “I’ve got one ride right now and that’s all I need.”

Your face scrunched at his words. “Does weed somehow make you an even bigger asshole?”

Dean ignored that completely. “I’m not doing anything with anyone else until we’re done here,” he repeated firmly. The teasing disappeared entirely from his voice that time and there was no smugness either, just certainty.

You quieted automatically when a group of students passed nearby, a few of them recognizing Dean instantly and greeting him as they crossed the quad. He responded absentmindedly without taking his eyes off you once.

The second they moved far enough away, you continued. “Why?”

Dean’s expression softened at the question. “Because I need you comfortable,” he answered simply. “And I need you to trust me more than you already do.”

You groaned. “Oh my God,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re making this weird.”

He grinned at your reaction while you grabbed his sleeve and started pulling him further across campus before more people stopped to talk to him. Dean let you drag him along without resistance, looking far too entertained by the whole thing.

“We don’t even know how long this will take,” you pointed out.

“My fist works perfectly fine in the meantime,” Dean decided easily.

You looked up at him so fast your neck almost hurt.

Dean pressed his lips together, visibly trying not to laugh at the pure disbelief written across your face. His head tilted slightly, hair strands falling over his forehead while he watched you stare at him like he’d just confessed to tax fraud.

Your gaze dropped away first.

Contrary to what everyone on campus believed, Dean didn’t actually need constant hookups to survive. He liked the reputation, liked exaggerating it even more whenever it annoyed you enough to argue back or laugh at him but underneath all that, he could handle himself perfectly fine.

Unfortunately for you, he seemed almost smug about proving that now.

“Can I add rules too?” he asked.

You sighed dramatically. “Sure.”

The two of you kept walking through campus side by side, your pace slower now that the conversation had moved on from terrifying to merely humiliating.

“No scheduling things specifically for this,” Dean decided. “If it happens, it happens.”

You blinked once before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” Relief actually loosened something in your chest at that. “That’s good. I’ll stress less.”

Dean glanced sideways at you, probably pleased you agreed so quickly…Except his rule immediately created entirely new problems.

“Uh…” Your steps slowed slightly. “How do you…” You scratched awkwardly at your eyebrow. “Take it?”

Dean stopped walking altogether. “How do I take what?” he asked carefully. “My coffee?”

You groaned. “No.” Your hand motioned vaguely between the two of you in a series of gestures that explained absolutely nothing. “Like…how do you like it?”

Dean’s brows lifted as realization hit him almost visibly.

You looked away at once. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. “Do I need to be clean shaven constantly or not?” Your voice lowered progressively through the sentence while your eyes darted around campus to make sure nobody nearby overheard you discussing grooming preferences in broad daylight.

Dean stared at you for half a second too long before answering.

“Y/n.” The seriousness in his tone made your eyes flicker back toward him. “The day I tell you what to do with your body, you better knock me unconscious.”

Your mouth parted slightly.

“I’ll literally kneel for it if that makes it easier,” he continued firmly. “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”

And he meant it. Dean would enjoy it either way, obviously, but that wasn’t what mattered to him here. What mattered was getting you out of your own head long enough to actually enjoy yourself instead of performing comfort for someone else.

You blinked slowly at him because suddenly your ex’s comments replayed in your head with uncomfortable clarity. Little preferences disguised as jokes and suggestions repeated enough times to become expectations and judging by the expression tightening briefly across Dean’s face, he’d realized exactly where your question came from too.

That only made you feel worse somehow. Your attention drifted toward the students moving around campus nearby.

You suddenly wondered if people would notice eventually. The same way older women always claimed they somehow knew when girls became sexually active. Weird comments about posture and confidence, wider hips and glowing skin that sounded fake until suddenly you became the target of them too.

Your stomach tightened faintly. “What are we supposed to tell people?”

Dean barely hesitated. “To mind their own fucking business.”

You snorted softly.

He looked over at you again, entirely serious despite the amusement still lingering around his mouth. “Just like I’m doing mine.”

The rest of the week passed almost painfully normal.

There were parties, late-night food runs, afternoons sprawled around the boys’ house while someone yelled at a video game in the background and hockey games while Dean acted exactly the same as always. You spent time with Hannah and Allie between classes and after them, listened to Garrett complain dramatically about assignments he’d started twelve hours before they were due, watched Tucker cook enough food for six grown men while Logan disappeared upstairs with company more often than not.

Nothing changed.

Dean still touched your shoulder when he walked past you, still stole fries off your plate and still looked at you too long whenever you laughed at something stupid and somehow that made the entire thing worse because half the time you genuinely convinced yourself you’d imagined the whole conversation by the fire pit entirely.

Maybe the weed had made you both insane and none of it was real.

You sat curled up on the floor of the boys’ living room later that week with your knees tucked to your chest, a notebook balanced across your thighs while formulas blurred together across the page. Your back rested against the couch and the TV played quietly in the background though neither of you actually paid attention to it.

Dean sat opposite you in the armchair, long legs spread comfortably while he hunched over his own notebook with far more concentration than anyone would expect from him or maybe not because he took hockey so seriously. He took school seriously too, despite pretending otherwise whenever possible but unfortunately for you, he also looked unfairly good doing homework.

You tried focusing on your own work, tried hard. Instead, your eyes kept lifting toward him between equations, your brain repeatedly snagging on the memory of everything he’d said days earlier and the fact neither of you had taken any of it back…or done a single thing about it.

“What’d you get for number three?” Dean’s voice pulled you from your thoughts but still didn’t look up from his notebook.

You blinked down at your own page, trying to remember where your brain had abandoned the assignment entirely.

“C,” you answered eventually. “But I’m not confident about it.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve done the math twice and I keep getting B.”

You reread the problem slowly, trying to force your attention into place. “Then it’s probably B.”

Dean finally looked up at that, one brow lifting. “You’re admitting you’re wrong?”

You snorted softly. Honestly, it was extremely possible. Your brain hadn’t functioned properly all week because you kept thinking about him offering himself up like some absurdly confident science experiment. 

“Don’t need to dig through my family tree to know I’m not descended from Isaac Newton.”

A smile tugged slowly across Dean’s mouth as he leaned back in the armchair. “If you are,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “I’m glad the ugly recessive genes skipped you.”

Your nose scrunched instantly. “What kind of compliment is that?”

“The kind I’m hoping gets you over here to help me.” He motioned you closer lazily with his pointer and middle fingers.

You sighed before setting your notebook on the coffee table and padding across the room toward him. The house was quieter this late afternoon, though not empty. Hannah was upstairs with Garrett, Logan had disappeared into his room hours ago and Tucker was outside training.

“Let’s see,” you murmured.

You bent slightly over Dean and the notebook resting on the armrest, attention dropping fully to the equations scattered across the page. The movement loosened the collar of your shirt enough for cool air to brush your skin.

Dean noticed and his throat cleared quietly.

Your attention remained on the notebook while his eyes betrayed him completely, dropping for one dangerous second to the visible lace of your bra before forcing themselves back upward toward your face instead.

Dean had promised himself he’d take this slow and naturally because the second he acted weird about it, you would too. You’d overthink every movement, every look and accidental touch and unfortunately for him, you’d always been terrifyingly good at reading him.

He moved the notebook slightly farther from you as one hand settled carefully against your hip, guiding you.

You reached automatically for the notebook before he moved it entirely out of reach, successfully grabbing it just as he tugged you forward enough for your balance to tip. A second later you settled directly onto his lap, knees falling naturally to either side of his thighs.

You blinked once. “Smooth,” you muttered, adjusting yourself carefully without looking at him. “I’ll give you that.”

Dean grinned openly now. You balanced the notebook against his chest like it was a table and reached backward for the pen loosely held in his free hand. His fingers brushed yours before letting go.

“Should be a five,” you corrected while marking over the equation. “Not a seven.” Your brows furrowed slightly. “Your handwriting’s gotten worse over the years.”

“You still read it.”

“I’m not the one grading you.” Your eyes lifted straight into his.

You’d sat on Dean’s lap before, during packed car rides, group trips and random stupid moments over the years where proximity stopped mattering because he was just Dean. This didn’t feel like that, not even close.

“Not in math,” he said quietly.

Only one of his hands touched you still, resting warm and steady against your hip like he was making a conscious effort not to overwhelm you. Whether it was intentional or not, it worked. His eyes drifted downward slowly toward your mouth.

“You should be rating everything else though.” A grin ghosted briefly across his lips. “Pretty sure Six Flags has customer surveys.”

You shook your head once, slow enough that your hair brushed lightly against your cheek. “No ride, no survey.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. His legs spread slightly wider underneath you then, subtle enough that you still felt the change as the apex of your thighs aligned more directly with his. The hand on your hip tightened enough for you to notice. “Go on then,” he murmured.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, down to the visible tent pressing insistently against the front of his sweats. Heat climbed your throat immediately.

“Interesting moment you picked,” you muttered softly, eyes flicking briefly toward the rest of the house.

You felt comfortable there. Comfortable enough to leave clothes behind, to wander into the kitchen without asking and to nap on the couch when you got tired during movie nights but knowing the others were still around somewhere made your pulse jump harder instead of calming it.

Dean noticed. “Just focus on me,” he instructed quietly.

Not ‘look at me’, just ‘focus’ which you could do.

You looked at him, seeing the genuine curiosity and lack of judgment in his eyes and for the first time, the wall you'd built around your sexuality felt more like a shield and less like a cage.

Slowly, tentatively, you moved as the gravity of the moment pulled you toward him. You settled your weight directly onto him, feeling the distinct, blunt shape of his cock through the layers of your clothes. He wasn't fully hard yet, just a semi-firm pressure against your clothed pussy but it didn't make you recoil. In fact, it sent a low thrum of anticipation through your nerves.

The air between you grew thick, charged with a tension that felt heavy enough to touch. You remembered your own rule: no kissing. So, you kept your face inches from his but you didn't close the gap. Instead, you focused on the sound of his breathing, which had hitched the moment you sat down. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips, a teasing, invisible touch that made your skin prickle.

Dean’s hand still hovered near your waist, trembling slightly but he didn't grip you. He seemed to be fighting every instinct to pull you closer, respecting the fragile boundary you had set.

"I'm gonna keep my hands off," he whispered, his voice strained and rough. "You just keep moving. Take whatever you're comfortable with."

He pulled his arms back, resting them flat against the seat beside him, leaving you in complete control. The sudden lack of physical contact made the friction between your pelvises feel even more intense. You knew what you were doing, you had enough experience to know how your body worked, even if the 'explosive ending' always eluded you. You began to rock, a slow, tentative grind that pressed your pussy firmly against the length of him as a sharp, jagged exhale escaped his lungs. 

You felt him react instantly, the semi-firmness beneath you surged, his cock thickening and hardening rapidly against your center. You rolled your hips in a circular motion, aiming for the sweet spot, feeling the dampness beginning to soak into your underwear. You were getting wetter, the friction creating a sliding, sensual heat that radiated upward into your stomach.

"You still okay?" he breathed out, voice barely a murmur.

You simply nodded and tried to focus entirely on him, wanting to give him something perfect, something that would leave him breathless. You pushed down harder, grinding your clit against the hard ridge of his dick. You watched his face, head falling back against the headrest, leaving his throat exposed and pulsing but he forced his eyes to stay open. He wanted to see you. He wanted to witness the way your expression changed as you found a rhythm that worked.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. There was no kissing to distract you and no wandering hands to break the spell, just the raw, rhythmic pressure of friction. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs, the way his chest heaved in time with your movements as your own breathing became ragged, mirroring his, the sound of your synchronized gasps filling the quiet space.

You felt a small, involuntary moan escape your throat, a soft sound of pleasure that made Dean’s hips jerk upward instinctively, trying to meet your descent. You pressed closer, your mind racing, trying to synchronize your pleasure with his but as the tension built, a familiar frustration began to creep in. You were so close to that peak, that elusive edge but the more you focused on his perfection, the more you felt yourself slipping away from your own. You wanted it, you wanted to break through the ceiling you'd lived under for years and the frustration made you grind harder, more desperately.

You were just beginning to lose yourself in the friction, your body humming with a desperate, electric need, when the spell was shattered.

The heavy thud of footsteps hit the wooden porch outside, then came muffled voices.

Tucker.

The sound slammed into you like ice water dumped straight down your spine.

You jolted backward instantly, panic snapping through your body so violently that your balance disappeared completely. The friction, the heat, the dizzy haze clouding your brain shattered in one humiliating second as you scrambled away from Dean in pure instinct.

Dean’s hands had actually stayed off, so when you lurched backward, there was nothing anchoring you in place, no arm catching your waist or grip steadying you. You slipped right off his lap in a graceless tangle of limbs and landed hard beside the chair with a muffled curse, your pulse hammering violently against your ribs.

Dean moved at the same time you did. One hand grabbed the nearest couch pillow and yanked it straight into his lap while the other instinctively reached toward you, fingers brushing empty air because you were already halfway onto your feet.

The front door opened and you froze.

Your breathing came embarrassingly uneven as you tried forcing your body back under control, thighs trembling faintly from the abrupt stop, nerves buzzing so hard beneath your skin it almost hurt. Dean leaned back into the chair with his head tipped toward the ceiling for one brief second, chest rising sharply beneath his t-shirt while tortured frustration flashed openly across his face before he forced himself together enough to look toward the entryway.

Tucker walked in distractedly, phone pressed to his ear while he kicked the door shut behind him with his shoe.

“–No, because that’s not what I said,” he argued into the phone before finally glancing up.

Dean’s voice came out rough and annoyed. “Can't you knock?”

The irritation in it made your eyes widen and before thinking better of it, you reached over and smacked lightly at his arm which made him look offended for half a second.

Tucker’s brows pulled together slowly as his gaze moved between the two of you…You standing there awkwardly and Dean spread out in the armchair with a pillow aggressively covering his lap.

The TV was still playing, forgotten in the background too.

“Wait,” Tucker muttered into the phone, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hold on.” He lowered the phone away from his ear and motioned vaguely around the living room. “I live here,” he pointed out flatly. “If you two wanna study in complete silence maybe turn the TV down or go to the library.”

Your mouth pressed into a painfully tight smile.

“Hey, Y/n.” he greeted, much more gently.

“Hi,” you replied weakly with an awkward nod.

Tucker gave you one more lingering look before wandering toward the kitchen, already returning to his phone conversation while opening the fridge like absolutely nothing life-altering had just occurred in his living room.

The second he was no longer looking, your eyes snapped back toward Dean, his were already on you, wide and still dark with frustration and lingering heat and approximately ten other emotions you absolutely did not have time to unpack right now.

You hurried toward where you’d abandoned your bag near the couch and started shoving your things inside far too quickly.

Dean muttered a curse under his breath behind you as the fridge door opened again. “Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered urgently.

You ignored him completely, nearly dropping your belongings while trying to zip your bag shut.

“You don’t have to leave,” he continued quietly, unable to stand for reasons both of you were painfully aware of. The pillow remained trapped over his lap while he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Stay for dinner.” Then louder, “Right, Tucker?”

From the kitchen, still mid-conversation, Tucker lifted a distracted thumbs up without even looking over. Of course you could stay, you were always welcome there and it somehow made this infinitely worse.

“Y/n, c’mon,” Dean tried again, even softer this time.

You finally looked at him, at his flushed face and the way he still looked wrecked from you despite the interruption.

Your stomach flipped painfully. “You can text me that survey of yours,” you muttered.

Dean groaned quietly at the reminder, watching as you grabbed your bag and headed straight for the front door before your embarrassment could physically consume you alive.

You didn’t say goodbye or looked back. You slipped outside into the cold early evening air and shut the door behind you, immediately dragging in one huge breath like you’d been underwater too long.

Fresh air hit your lungs sharply, cool and tensionless.

Your legs felt weird as you walked down the porch steps and somewhere beneath the embarrassment sat an even more irritating realization. You needed to change your panties and somehow, you still hadn’t come.

For the first time in your academic career, you were thankful exam week existed.

The chaos of midterms had given you and Dean something else to focus on besides the fact you’d nearly climbed him in the middle of his living room while Tucker casually walked through the front door. Between study sessions, essays, last-minute cramming and the general emotional collapse that overtook Briar every semester, things had settled back into something manageable.

You and Dean had talked afterward, though absolutely not alone.

He’d insisted on meeting in a crowded coffee shop near campus where old women typed aggressively on laptops and students cried quietly over textbooks in the corner booths. Dean had spent most of the conversation reassuring you Tucker didn’t know anything, swearing repeatedly that if Tucker had known, the entire hockey house would’ve heard about it within twelve minutes. More importantly, he’d made sure you still wanted this and despite the embarrassment, the frustration and how badly your body still reacted whenever he looked at you too long, you did.

“Are you seriously not coming?” Allie paced dramatically across the apartment while speaking, changing outfits for what had to be the fourth time in under an hour. Both you and Hannah tracked her movements from the couch like spectators at a tennis match while she disappeared into her room only to emerge seconds later wearing something slightly tighter each time.

Hannah finally peeled her attention away from Allie to look at you instead.

“She’s right,” she agreed. “Exams are over. Maybe partying would actually help.”

You smiled lazily from your spot curled into the couch cushions, blanket draped across your legs while exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes.

“What’ll help me is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep,” you informed them. “Which I plan on pursuing aggressively the second both of you leave.” Your mouth twitched slightly. “Now see some boys and make questionable use of your mouths elsewhere.”

Allie barked out a laugh loud enough to echo while Hannah groaned.

“When are we finding your rebound?” Allie asked as she finally settled on an outfit and bent down to tug on her boots.

“It’s too soon,” you decided immediately.

“It is,” Hannah agreed with a firm nod. “She doesn’t wanna think about men right now and we’re respecting that.”

You pointed gratefully toward her. “See? Emotional maturity.”

“Sure,” Allie snorted. “I’m still passing your Instagram around tonight though.” She grinned wickedly while crossing toward the couch. “You can decide what to do with the options later.” Before you could answer, she leaned down and squeezed you tightly against her side. “Don’t wait up for us.”

You watched them drag out the goodbye process intentionally, moving toward the door with exaggerated slowness like they expected you to suddenly change your mind and throw on heels at the last second.

You sighed and stood from the couch, physically herding them toward the exit. “Just go,” you laughed while they protested loudly.

“We tried,” Hannah reminded you with a smile while Allie opened the apartment door. “We’ll send you the address anyway.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“You say that now...”

You waved them off anyway and finally shut the door behind them once they disappeared down the hallway already talking excitedly about shots and music and whatever terrible decisions the night would inevitably produce.

Silence settled across the apartment immediately afterward.

You exhaled slowly…now what? You considered your options while wandering aimlessly through the living space. You could curl up on the couch with your laptop and a movie or crawl into bed and disappear beneath blankets for twelve straight hours like a Victorian woman with mysterious exhaustion. Or…Your thoughts drifted elsewhere automatically, toward your room and the drawer beside your bed.

You grimaced slightly. Maybe tonight was the night you tried again, actually committed to figuring yourself out instead of giving up midway through frustration like usual. You’d bought enough toys over the years based entirely on optimistic reviews and late-night curiosity alone.

Were they even charged? You were approximately two steps away from your bedroom when knocking sounded at the front door.

You groaned at the sound. “Did you guys forget your condoms again?” you called out while turning toward the entrance. Honestly, it happened often enough that the assumption came naturally now.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then blinked at who you saw. “Dean.”

Dean stood casually in the hallway wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses despite the fact it was nighttime indoors, which might’ve worked better if he wasn’t also carrying an enormous black bag beside him.

“I always carry condoms,” he informed you smugly.

Your face scrunched instantly as his answer only emphasized how thin the apartment walls actually were. You narrowed your eyes at him while glancing suspiciously down the hallway. 

“Why aren’t you at the party?”

Dean lowered the sunglasses enough to properly look at you over the frames.

You looked soft tonight, comfortable. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized shirt, hair messier than usual from lying around all day. The sight quickly made something warm settle low in his chest.

“Because I’m here with you.”

“No,” you corrected. “You wanted to be here with me.” You pointed vaguely toward campus. “Past tense…You should currently be at that party.”

“No can do.” Dean slipped smoothly past you before you could stop him, nudging the apartment door shut behind him with his foot.

Only then did you fully notice the bag. It was large, rectangular, black and rigid with no visible branding whatsoever. It completely ruined the whole incognito outfit.

Your eyes narrowed harder while Dean looked far too pleased with himself.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, then he walked straight toward your bedroom like he paid rent there.

“How did you know I didn’t go to the party?” you asked while following him toward your bedroom.

Dean set the bag carefully onto your bed before finally turning around, fingers hooking beneath the brim of his cap as he pulled it off. The sunglasses followed next, revealing eyes already fixed on you with far too much satisfaction.

“I have my sources.”

You grimaced again. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“Hannah asked me the other day to convince you to come out tonight.” He shrugged casually. “I didn’t.”

You crossed your arms. “Who says I would’ve agreed anyway?”

Dean smiled instantly. “Me.” The confidence in his answer came without hesitation. “I’m very persuasive.”

You rolled your eyes before your attention dragged back toward the massive black bag sitting suspiciously at the foot of your bed. “What is that?”

Dean glanced over his shoulder toward it. “Our entertainment for tonight.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Well…mine.”

You narrowed your eyes harder at him before stepping around him toward the bed. The bag gave nothing away from the outside, rigid and sleek and annoyingly mysterious.

Cautiously, you reached inside and your fingers brushed lace first. You blinked then slowly pulled the item free into the light between you both, pinching it delicately between two fingers like it might suddenly attack you.

“Lingerie?” you asked, genuinely confused.

Dean nodded once. “I had to get rid of the boxes,” he explained. “Turns out Agent Provocateur packaging isn’t exactly subtle.”

Your eyes widened immediately. “Agent Provocateur?” You stared at him in disbelief before looking back into the bag. “Are you insane?”

One by one, you started pulling more pieces out. Black lace…cream silk and tiny straps. Things so soft they barely felt real against your fingertips.

Dean watched your growing expression carefully and only then seemed to realize he may have gone slightly overboard. “I got lost on the website,” he admitted. “And then there was free shipping after a certain amount which felt financially irresponsible to ignore.”

You straightened slowly, still clutching one lace bodysuit in your hands while looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.

“Explain to me,” you said carefully, “how exactly this counts as entertainment.”

“Besides the obvious?”

Your stare sharpened. Dean exhaled quietly before answering, his tone softening as the teasing faded from his expression.

“When you were on my lap the other day…” His eyes flickered briefly toward the floor before returning to you. “You stopped focusing on yourself after a while.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the lace.

“You started trying to get me there instead,” he continued gently. “Like you were more worried about proving something than actually feeling good.”

Heat crept onto the nape of your neck because he was right. Dean noticed everything.

“And I get it,” he added quickly, voice staying careful. “Probably instinct. You wanted me to enjoy it.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Which I definitely did, by the way. Don’t start doubting that part.”

You stayed quiet while watching him and actually listened instead of acting on your urge to flee.

“Tonight,” he said after a beat, nodding lightly toward the lingerie scattered across your bed, “the lingerie can be for me.” His eyes moved back to yours. “So the rest can just be yours.”

The room went quiet afterward. The plan had probably sounded more coherent in Dean’s head at one in the morning while online shopping half-awake with his laptop balanced on his stomach but somewhere beneath the absurdity of it, you understood what he meant.

Lingerie wasn’t only about someone else seeing you in it, women bought it for themselves too, to feel pretty, desired and confident. Sometimes just to stand in front of the mirror and reclaim something private but eventually, with partners, it often became performative too, something shared and visual. Dean was trying to remove that pressure from everything else.

Your gaze drifted slowly back down toward the pile of lace but you still weren’t entirely sure what happened next. You tried things on and then, what?

Your voice lowered slightly. “What kind of mind games are you playing?”

You hoped it didn’t sound accusing because it wasn’t meant to. You were just struggling to process the fact Dean had seen through you so clearly after one failed attempt, that he’d gone and actually thought about it, considered it and returned with something tangible instead of empty reassurance and blind confidence.

Dean shook his head immediately. “No games.” His voice stayed soft and patient, ready to leave the second you told him this was too much. “Let’s just give it a shot.”

Silence stretched again before you finally reached for a pair of panties instead. The lace slid smoothly through your fingers as you lifted the panties between you both for further inspection.

Dean’s eyes dropped instantly and despite himself, one very clear thought crossed his mind.

‘Yeah. Definitely one of my favorites.’

“How do you even know these will fit?” you asked honestly. The fabric looked expensive enough to disintegrate if handled incorrectly, soft lace brushing against your fingertips while you inspected the tiny details stitched into it.

Dean opened his mouth…closed it and opened it again. “I’m…observant?”

Even he sounded unsure of the answer.

Your lips twitched as you bit back a laugh while digging through the pile until you found the matching bra, then gathered both pieces in your hands.

“Observant and persuasive,” you mused while backing toward the bathroom. “Let me know when there’s something substantial to add to that list.”

Dean nodded solemnly like you’d given him serious criticism to reflect on. “Will do.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and the second it did, Dean exhaled sharply and looked down at himself...for fuck’s sake.

He adjusted himself miserably through his pants while staring at your closed bathroom door in defeat. Lately everything about you affected him differently, your voice, your teasing and the way you looked at him for half a second too long depending on the day.

It was becoming genuinely embarrassing.

Dean barely moved from the spot you’d left him in.

He stayed planted near the foot of your bed, one hand dragging occasionally through his hair while his eyes remained fixed on the bathroom door like staring hard enough would somehow let him see through it. Every few seconds he twitched awkwardly in his pants, dealing unsuccessfully with the consequences of occasionally hearing your hums through the thin wall while knowing exactly what you were changing into behind it.

Inside the bathroom, you stood frozen in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary.

You tried very hard not to think about how closely Dean must’ve paid attention to you over the years to somehow get the sizing exactly right because it fit perfectly.

The lace sat snug against your skin without pinching anywhere, soft black patterns curling over your chest and hugging your hips beautifully. The bra lifted your breasts enough to make your posture straighten instinctively while the matching panties rested low against your hips, delicate enough to feel expensive but comfortable enough not to make you tug at them every two seconds.

You looked good, not just tolerable under dim lights or acceptable after strategic positioning and reassurance and maybe that was what scared you most because now you had to walk back out there and let someone else see it too.

With one last glance toward your reflection, you finally reached for the doorknob and stepped back into your room.

Dean looked up immediately, the reaction was almost embarrassing.

He stopped breathing for half a second entirely, eyes dragging over you slowly enough to make heat climb straight into your throat. He barely blinked while following your movement across the room as you drifted toward your full-length mirror, fingertips lightly tracing the lace resting over your shoulders before moving lower toward the small details connecting the cups together.

The silence stretched thickly.

You kept looking at yourself mostly because looking directly at him felt dangerous right now, even as he moved behind you slowly without touching. He was just standing there close enough for warmth to gather along your back while his eyes followed yours through the reflection. Wherever you looked, he looked too, until eventually your gazes met in the mirror.

You swallowed. “What do you think?”

Dean inhaled deeply through his nose. “I think,” he said slowly, “Six Flags might be going out of business soon.”

Your brows lifted immediately before a quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.

You turned around to face him fully then, stepping closer until only inches separated you both. Your hands settled carefully against the center of his chest, fingertips brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt while you looked up at him.

Dean held your gaze steadily, too steadily, sometimes it genuinely felt like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough. “What do you think?” he echoed softly.

You hummed quietly, eyes flickering downward toward his mouth before lifting back up again.

“I think…” Your hands began sliding slowly down his chest, fingertips grazing over the hard planes beneath his shirt one inch at a time. “Maybe…” Your voice softened further as your palms drifted lower. “I could show you something I actually know how to do.”

Dean’s jaw tightened as your fingers brushed the bulge straining against his pants.

“With my mouth,” you finished quietly.

You didn’t move afterward and neither did he.

In your head, the logic made sense. Dean already thought you were beautiful, so you didn’t need him witnessing your frustration firsthand too. You could give him something good instead, something you knew how to control.

For one dangerous second, he looked like he was genuinely considering it. Then Dean exhaled sharply and turned you around instead, guiding you gently back toward the mirror until your back rested against his chest.

A startled breath caught in your throat as your ass pressed unintentionally against the hard outline of his erection.

Your eyes met his again through the reflection.

“I don’t doubt you can do those things,” he murmured near your ear. “All of them.”

One of his hands settled carefully against your waist while the other slid slowly downward, fingertips brushing beneath the waistband of your panties enough to make your stomach tighten. 

His eyes never once left yours in the mirror. “So why do you?”

The reflection showed the two of you, a study in tension and longing. You could see the intensity in his eyes, the way he watched you not just with desire but with a focused, intentional kind of devotion.

His hand didn't push further, he stopped before his fingertips brushed the outer lips of your pussy, leaving a teasing spark of contact. He held himself there, gaze locking onto yours in the mirror, waiting. He wasn't going to take a single inch more without your explicit permission.

You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, chest heaving. You looked into his eyes and gave a small, shaky nod.

The moment you did, he slid deeper. His fingers glided through the slick already gathering between your thighs, parting you with a gentle pressure that could’ve made your toes curl. He didn't rush, he navigated the wet lips until his fingertip found the small, swollen bud of your clit. He began to circle it slowly with agonizingly steady rotations that sent ripples of electricity shooting straight to your core.

"Tell me what you see," he whispered, voice a low and gravelly vibration against your ear.

You swallowed hard, voice trembling as you focused on the reflection. "You...you touching me," you breathed.

As you spoke, you watched your own body react. Your breathing picked up, turning into shallow, jagged gasps. In the mirror, you saw your breasts heaving, the nipples peaking and hardening into tight, sensitive points through the lace of your bra. As if reading your thoughts, Dean’s other hand reached around, his fingers finding one breast and gripping it. He massaged the hardened peak, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and you let out a sharp, involuntary swallow, head tilting back slightly.

"And what's at the end of me?" he asked, voice humming with a dark, sensual curiosity.

"Me," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips.

"What else?" he pressed, fingers continuing that relentless, circling motion. He was forcing you to stay present, stripping away your ability to hide in your head or focus on his pleasure. He wanted you trapped in your own skin.

You stared at yourself, hyper-aware of every inch of your anatomy. "Beauty marks," you murmured, noticing the small moles on your thighs and torso that you usually ignored.

"And here?" he asked, his thumb flicking the tip of your nipple.

"Hardened nipples," you gasped, eyes fluttering.

"And on your skin..." he prompted, his fingers quickening their pace, the friction against your clit becoming more insistent and demanding.

"Goosebumps," you whimpered. You could see them breaking out across your shoulders and arms, a physical manifestation of the arousal peaking within you.

The sensory overload was dizzying. Every time you named a part of yourself, the pleasure seemed to intensify, as if acknowledging your own body was unlocking a door you'd kept bolted shut. Dean’s fingers were no longer just circling, they were fluttering, vibrating against your most sensitive spot with a precision that made your hips instinctively buck back against him. You felt the wetness flooding out of you and coating his fingers, making the sounds of his touch wet and explicit in the quiet room.

You tried desperately to keep your eyes locked on his in the mirror but as the pleasure climbed, the world began to blur. Your eyelids grew heavy, the edges of your vision darkening as the sensation centered entirely on the point where he was rubbing you. You started to moan, the sounds raw but still shy, escaping your throat without your permission. You pushed your backside harder against the rigid length of his erection, craving the friction, the completion.

The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding up to the point of snapping. You were right there, on the precipice, the beginning of an orgasm shimmering just out of reach. Your breath became a series of broken sobs as your body trembled in anticipation. Was this it?

"I think...I–" you started, voice breaking as the first wave of a climax seemed to form but just before it solidified, just as you were about to believe it would, Dean abruptly pulled his hand away.

The sudden void was shocking. You gasped, body jolting from the abrupt loss of stimulation, the orgasm denied at the very last second of creation. You were left vibrating, aching and halfway undone but before you could process the frustration, he gripped your waist and turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. 

Your eyes were wide, glazed with lust and confusion, chest heaving as you looked up at him.

"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, voice a breathless wreck.

Dean didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, taking in the desperate hunger in your eyes. He gripped your hips firmly, knuckles white and began backing up toward the bed, pulling you with him.

"Trusting you to do it first," he murmured.

As the back of his knees hit the mattress, he let himself fall back, laying flat on his back and spreading his arms wide, leaving himself completely open and vulnerable to you.

You climbed over him, your movements determined, fueled by a desperate, humming need that had been wound tight in the mirror. You braced your knees against his sides, feeling the hard muscle of his thighs beneath you and planted one hand firmly on his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm, a mirror to your own. With a renewed sense of determination, you slipped your other hand beneath the fabric of your panties, your fingers finding the slick, swollen heat of your pussy.

As you began to touch yourself, you closed your eyes for a moment, repeating the litany he had forced you to acknowledge in the mirror. You focused on the hyper-awareness he had instilled in you, turning that mental lens inward. You found your clit, already engorged and sensitive and began to circle it. Your breathing became ragged, each exhale a shaky shudder that vibrated through your entire frame.

You opened your eyes and looked down at your hand on his chest. You watched the way his pectorals heaved under your touch, his skin flushed and warm. Then, you felt his hands slide up your legs, his large palms gripping your thighs firmly. The sheer intensity of his gaze, the way he watched your every movement with a hunger that felt almost tangible, made a low moan escape your throat.

You had never reached this point before, never felt this close to the edge of something so profound. The pleasure was a rising tide, threatening to pull you under.

"Be patient," Dean breathed, his voice a low, grounding rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and into your bones. "Listen to your body."

You nodded, eyes locked onto his and focused entirely on the sensation. You ignored the noise in your head, everything except the friction of your own fingers. You kept your hand working at a speed you liked, a steady, rhythmic pressure that built a coil of tension in your lower belly. You began to squirm, hips rocking in a slow, undulating motion against your own hand, chasing the spark.

In your haze of arousal, you shifted, pressing your soaking wet clothed cunt directly onto the rigid length of his erection through his pants. The sudden, blunt pressure against your clit sent a shockwave of pleasure through you and you let out a loud, uncontrolled moan. Dean groaned in response, a sound of pure, tortured restraint as he kept his hips from jerking upward to meet you.

You quickly lifted your hips again, holding them high in the air, body arching as you fought to maintain the rhythm.

“Holy fuck,” You were so close now, the world was narrowing down to the point where your fingers met your flesh.

"Attagirl. That's it," Dean whispered, voice thick with praise. "You're doing so good. Just like that...look at you, taking it all in. So fucking worth it."

His words were like fuel to the fire. The praise made you bolder and movements more frantic. You pressed harder, your fingers fluttering with an urgency that bordered on desperation until the tension reached a breaking point, a white-hot spark that suddenly ignited into a roaring flame.

The orgasm hit you like a physical blow. Your head snapped back, your spine arching as the first wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your lips parted and an unreal, unabashed sound, a high, keening cry of release slipped out of you, echoing through the room. It was your first time ever coming and the sensation was overwhelming. It didn't just peak and fade, it rolled through you in long, rhythmic pulses that seemed to last forever, shaking your entire body, leaving your muscles twitching and your mind a complete blank.

Dean didn't move. He looked at you, completely mesmerized, eyes wide and unblinking. He watched the way your throat worked as you gasped for air, the way your breasts heaved and the way your body shuddered under the aftershocks. Beneath you, his cock throbbed and twitched painfully against the constraint of his pants, a visible manifestation of the agony and ecstasy of watching you shatter.

As the waves finally subsided, leaving you limp and floating, you collapsed onto his chest with a sultry whine, skin damp with sweat and breathing heavy and synchronized with his as you caught your breath.

The silence of the room was thick, charged with the lingering electricity of the moment.

You swallowed hard while still catching your breath, voice a mere whisper against his skin. "Is it too soon to say that was the best orgasm I've ever had?"

Dean let out a heavy, uneven breath beneath you, the sound shuddering straight through his chest and into yours. Only then did his hands finally leave your thighs. Slowly, almost cautiously, they slid upward along your sides until his palms settled against your back.

Gone was the restraint that had kept his fingers tense and controlled earlier. Now he touched you lightly, almost reverently, fingertips drifting along the curve of your spine over the lace while he tried to steady his breathing. Every few seconds his hands flexed against you instinctively, like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

“Definitely the best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured.

His voice sounded wrecked, dizzy, like simply watching you come apart on top of him had pushed him somewhere dangerously close to losing it himself.

You lifted your head slowly from where it rested against his chest, pushing up enough to properly look at him.

Dean blinked up at you lazily, pupils completely blown.

You swallowed once. “Did you…?”

The question barely finished forming before Dean’s expression morphed into something sheepish and amused all at once. He swallowed too before nodding once against the mattress.

Your eyes widened slightly as his hand slid upward from your back, fingertips brushing softly along your jaw while he looked at you with an expression so openly fond it almost hurt to hold eye contact with him.

“Am I still not deserving of a kiss?” he asked quietly. Half joking, half absolutely not.

You hummed thoughtfully like you were genuinely considering it. “You want a cookie and a gold star too?”

Dean’s grin spread slowly across his face, matching yours instantly despite the pleasure still weighing down his features. “Better than the survey.”

You laughed softly through your nose before finally leaning down the rest of the way.

The kiss was warm, searing and long overdue.

Dean’s hand moved instantly to the back of your head, holding you in place like he’d been waiting weeks to finally do exactly this. It started slow for approximately two seconds, soft lips parting against yours carefully, almost disbelievingly, before weeks of tension snapped apart all at once.

You melted into him with a breathless sound as his mouth pressed harder against yours.

Dean kissed like he did everything else, thoroughly.

His thumb pushed lightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head back enough for him to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours slow at first, exploratorily, before the restraint he’d been clinging to all night dissolved completely. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth and the low groan that rumbled out of his chest when you kissed him back with equal desperation made your stomach tighten all over again.

The kiss quickly turned messy, hungry. You could barely catch your breath between them, mouths reconnecting instantly every time you pulled apart for air like neither of you could tolerate the distance anymore. Dean’s grip tightened on your hair as his other hand spread wide against your back, dragging you flush against him while his tongue swept against yours again, deeper this time, making heat rush straight through your body.

So much for rules.

Seems like Six Flags had just been privatised for a single Agent Provocateur wearer…indefinitely.

Picture me in the trees- Part 2:

You see Logan everywhere. He shows up with his friends at the bowling alley where you work part-time, and at Malone's, where you work the other half. He never talks to you, just gives you that polite nod. Whatever. Life goes on. You got more proof that the people in your life are temporary, that there was never any real reason to let someone else into your mess. The second you let go, nobody's going to pull you back. Your roommate is nice in a way that softens you whenever you're around her. Her name is Bailey, and she talks a lot. Enough for both of you. She drags you to social events you don't have time for, never at the hockey house. That's one place you try not to go near.

You hear about Grace because it's unavoidable. You live in the same building. Share a few basic classes. You try not to compare yourself to her, but you can't help wondering why she's the one dating John Logan. After all, he doesn't date girls any longer than necessary to get into their pants. He doesn't post on Instagram, and he doesn't take girls on dates to water towers. You hate that you know about the water tower. You overheard her telling a friend about it in the common room on your floor. He never took you there. You wonder if that place means something to him. You hate the fact that you care.

Benji sits down next to you in Modern Art. At first, you don't think much of it, but over time his presence becomes part of your routine. He slips into your everyday life in a way that's almost impressive. Him and Bailey get along. They drag you out of your comfort zone more times than you'd like. Benji's personality is contagious. He's restless and uninhibited. Always carrying a skateboard and wearing a beanie even when the weather doesn't justify it. Before long, the two of you are inseparable.

You keep seeing Logan in the hallways. He doesn't look at you anymore. Not even to nod. . . . Grace is perfect. Logan keeps telling himself she's everything he needs. He knows she's everything he needs. He's been dating her for three months, and she's amazing. She's funny and beautiful and never insults him or makes fun of his name. There are no silences that drag on too long, no memories of people he's trying to forget. No looks filled with pain and longing. There's only him and Grace, and they're happy. He's so fucking happy. He's getting laid a lot and winning hockey games and picking up plenty of handyman jobs during the day. He's thriving. John Logan is thriving. So what if you gave up on him because of one mistake? So what if you threw away seven years of soul-deep friendship over one sentence? Big fucking deal. There's a limit to how much John Logan can beg and grovel and try to convince you that you matter. He knows what you're doing. He knows you're erasing him because he reminds you of the place you're trying to forget. He knows you need to cut yourself off from him to feel like you've cut yourself off from there. It's not fucking fair. Sometimes he wants to scream at you that it's so unfair you're punishing him for the place you both grew up in. It's so unfair that he has to carry the mistakes of everyone who raised you. But he's willing to do it. If it means you're starting over and breaking free from the chains of that bottomless pit? John Logan is willing to swallow the frog. He's willing to be the villain in your story.

Or at least that's what he thought. Because nothing prepares John Logan for the moment he sees you hanging out with a guy he doesn't know. He sees you laughing, a real laugh, the kind he used to have to work so damn hard to get out of you, and now it looks like it's coming straight from your gut. Effortlessly. Because of a stranger. Someone who didn't hold your hand when your dad came home high and your mom was having a psychotic episode. Someone who didn't watch you climb trees to escape reality for more than five minutes.

Whatever. He has Grace. Grace is perfect, he reminds himself. And if he happens to ask what the guy's name is, it doesn't mean anything. Benji Michelson. An art student. Probably from one of your electives. Logan can't think of any other reason the two of you would know each other. Benji Michelson. He looks like a stoner. It doesn't suit you, hanging around someone who seems so...not put together. Too carefree. Too loud. Too attention-seeking. Logan refuses to give you attention. He's done enough of that in his life. And Grace is perfect. He wouldn't think about you at all if it were up to him. If it wasn't for those dreams. He doesn't know exactly when it started. Well, he does- a week after the big fight. You stopped talking to him, and he was desperate, and then suddenly you started showing up at night. At first, it was innocent. He'd dream about you sitting across from him at Malone's, eating a burger and telling him about your day. About college. He'd dream about showing up to your shift at the bowling alley and finding the place empty, so the two of you let yourselves play a game. He blamed it on the fact that you hadn't had any interaction in days, and it was new, so his brain was filling in the blanks. Normal. So far, everything was normal.

But one night, the bowling game became something else entirely. His hand slid to the small of your back while you bent down to throw the ball. The skirt you were wearing didn't match anything you owned, and the little victory dance you did afterward made him bite his lip. He woke up half-panicked and realized he was semi-hard. That was new.

From there, it only got worse. The dreams became more frequent. Sometimes you were arguing with him until he shut you up with a kiss. Sometimes the two of you were curled up naked in bed. Sometimes his head was between your legs and your voice reached heights he'd never heard you use before as you whispered his name, over and over and over. The first time he saw you naked in one of those dreams, it was so vivid that Logan scared himself. He couldn't think about anything else. When he saw you in the hallway that day, he couldn't look at you without thinking about your nipple under his teeth the way he'd seen it so vividly the night before. He dropped his gaze and kept walking.

There were times he'd be with Grace and feel afraid to close his eyes and lose control at the thought that the second he did, he'd see your dark bangs. Your green eyes. At the thought of imagining flushed cheeks like the ones he'd seen in his dreams and a mouth parted with pleasure, just like he'd found himself desperate to discover in real life. What kind of sound could he pull out of you with his fingers inside you? Would it sound the same as the heights you reached when he closed his eyes? He doesn't want to know. He wants to know. He doesn't want to know. He has to know.

He'll probably never know. . . . You don't mean to overhear Grace talking to someone from the dorms when she tells her that the charity event for the youth hockey club Logan volunteers at lost its main sponsor and, with it, the venue they were planning to use. "I could ask at work," you mumble long before you have a chance to think it through. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to eavesdrop or anything. I just work at the bowling alley, and I think my boss might li-" You try to recover from the fatal mistake that is starting a conversation with Grace.

Out of nowhere, she hugs you. "You're a lifesaver." Her smile is so genuine that you understand why John likes her. Why is he with her. "It's not even a sure thing. I need to check what she thinks first, but I'm sure she'd be happy to donate the place for one night for the kids' hockey club." You force a smile. You know how much that club means to Logan. It's the club that paid for his skates when his mom refused. The club that introduced him to sponsors and helped him become good enough to earn a scholarship to Briar U. You're willing to swallow your pride for that. It has nothing to do with him. Christy, your boss, is thrilled with the idea, exactly like you knew she'd be. Her heart has always been in the right place. That was obvious from the moment she hired you. You volunteer for that shift because it's the right thing to do. Nobody's happy about working for free. The place fills up quickly. Students who heard about a party the hockey house is throwing at the bowling alley. Alcohol, good music, an auction. What could possibly go wrong? Everything, apparently. Halfway through the night, you're full of the neon punch one of the puck bunnies made with too much vodka and not enough fruit. The floor is sticky most of the time, which is more dangerous in a bowling alley than in most places, so you spend most of the evening with a mop in your hands. Watching everything from the sidelines. John's eyes are on you more than you'd ever be willing to admit. He's glued to Grace's side, but he did a lot behind the scenes to make this night happen.

"That's (Y/N), she's the one who got permission for us to have the event here." Grace introduces you to Logan, which is weird enough to earn an almost instinctive laugh from him. "We know each other from back home, Gracie." He smiles without showing those perfect teeth of his. A smile so unfamiliar that you're considering going back to your room and crying for two months. "Oh, then how have I never seen you before? I like you even more now. We have to be friends." Grace talks constantly and with a smile at all times. Everything about her looks effortless. Logan wasn't wrong- In another universe, you'd probably like her.

You find yourself smiling and excusing yourself so you can go clean a completely clean corner that's far enough away for you to start breathing again. "Nice seeing you." You hear a familiar voice. "You too." You smile at Garrett. Logan introduced you to him at the beginning of the year, back before everything fell apart between the two of you. Garrett has always been nice. Respectful. "It's so weird," he says suddenly. "What's weird?" you ask curiously, wondering if you've just walked into a trap. "Last year, you didn't even go here yet, but I felt like I knew you because he never shut up about you. 'Rosie this, Rosie that.'" He doesn't take his eyes off you, studying your expressions like you're a particularly clever hockey opponent. "Then you finally get to Briar U, and we're all happy because it feels like the puzzle that is John Logan is finally complete, you know? Everything's where it's supposed to be." He takes a drag from his cigarette. "Then you disappear, you become a taboo subject at the house, and Logan gets a girlfriend." He shrugs with an almost mischievous smile. Like he's just let you in on a secret. "Weird, don't you think?" he adds, offering you the cigarette.

"People die from those." It's the only thing you can think to say as you nod toward the cigarette in his hand. People die from those indeed. . . . At two in the morning, you find yourself cleaning the shoe counter, sticky with alcohol and snack residue. The only thing Christy asked of you was that she'd be able to open the place as usual the next day without it affecting business. You could understand that. "I got it," you mumble because honestly, you didn't want to be alone with Logan after the place emptied out. He looks at you like you've lost whatever was left of your mind, without saying a word. The silence is unsettling, but you can't come up with a single conversation topic that would feel natural.

Every time John looks at you, it feels like there's something loaded behind his stare, like he's seconds away from exploding. You know John Logan. You know what he looks like when he's holding himself back. It was never a look directed at you. Usually his parents. Yours. Kids you went to school with. Never you. He's never hated you. You suspect he hates you now. Maybe you won't make it back to your room before you start crying after all.

"You're doing all this and you still won't talk to me," he says suddenly after half an hour of the two of you circling around each other. "What?" Your confusion is genuine because this outburst is so irrational. So unlike him. "You basically made this whole night happen, worked for free, stayed here cleaning until three in the morning, but you won't say a single word to me?" He stresses every word. His voice rises with each one.

"I didn't realize that was part of the event requirements." The sarcasm drips from you the second he starts raising his voice. "Don't bullshit me right now, (Y/N)." He leaves no room for the dismissive tone you've spent years perfecting. "I did it for the kids." You shrug like it's no big deal. "You're such a liar." He rolls his eyes, contempt dripping from his voice. "Excuse me?" "You did it for me. Just like I'd do anything for you. At least own it." He doesn't look at you when he says it, continuing to straighten cushions on armchairs.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" you ask, dropping the mop. "Oh, there she is." His lips curl into a smirk you can't interpret as anything but mockery. "My life doesn't revolve around you, John. You can just say thank you and move on." You hate the tremor in your voice. "Move on? Do you hear yourself?" He's close. You have no idea how he got from where he was standing to where he is now. "You're clearly doing a great job of that." Your voice still won't steady. That's not like you. It's infuriating. "A great job," he repeats. "You have new friends now, so you think none of this matters anymore?" He gestures between the two of you. "You're the one who told me I needed new friends." Your voice sounds desperate. Because what does he even want? What's the point? He's surrounded by new people. He meets new people every day. Every hour. You have two. You're allowed to make two new friends. "Not instead of me, Rosie. Never instead of me." You let yourself imagine a hint of desperation in his voice. "They're just friends, Logan, not replacements for anyone. You have those too." You feel defeated. Like you've lost the longest chess match in the world. "Yeah," he laughs without humor, “and none of them are you.” His gaze stays locked on yours, and suddenly you can't look away. As quickly as he moves toward you, he's gone. Leaving you alone in the silence. For the first time in months, you almost wish he'd stayed. . . . When Logan gets back to his room, Grace is asleep. Like she belongs there. He hates that the thought doesn't comfort him anymore. He can't wait to close his eyes and find a dozen new ways to make you forgive him. In his dreams, you always do.  Tag List: @lushfruit @divinelyderangedmommy @daffodil-darlings @idgasb @coldheartedmar @swiftstareclipse @mikaelii @littlepippilongstocking @fictional2person @abcdefghijklmopqrstuvwxyzz @emma-m-13

note: i may or may not do a part two, my motivation fluctuates! hope you enjoy because this was super sad to write.

He’s looking at her.

His arm rests along the back of the couch, the sensation of it familiar enough that you barely notice it anymore. Every few minutes, when someone says something particularly funny, his hand shifts and his fingers brush against the exposed skin of your shoulder blade. It’s casual, absent-minded contact. It means nothing to him and everything to you.

Around you, the boys’ house is lively. Tucker is arguing with Birdie about the game they’ve been at for hours on the TV. Every once in a while, someone tells them to shut up. They do that for a total of five minutes before someone inevitably raises their voice, leading the other to do the same.

You should be finishing up your story. It was a stupid tale, one about falling asleep during a lecture.

Instead, you’re watching him.

Or rather, you’re watching where he’s looking.

His gaze drifts across the room so often that you’ve begun anticipating it, finding yourself following the path before he’s even finished turning his head. It happens during conversations. During periods of silence. During moments when he’s supposed to be paying attention you.

His eyes always find the same person.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Maybe they don’t. Maybe they haven’t spent nearly ten years studying every version of John Logan.

Ten years.

Long enough to remember the cracked sidewalks of your hometown and the suffocating certainty that neither of you belonged there. Long enough to remember sitting on the roof of his garage at thirteen years old, passing back and forth what was always bag of Hot Cheetos while making promises far too big for kids your age.

You had been determined to leave.

And somehow, against every odd stacked against two middle-schoolers with seemingly unattainable dreams and no real plan, you did.

You earned your place through a STEM scholarship that had consumed countless nights and enough caffeine to raise alerts towards your cardiovascular system. He earned his through hockey, through early mornings and bruises and a relentless dedication that you supported him all throughout.

Different roads, same destination.

For nearly a decade, the two of you had existed side by side.

And for six of those years, you’ve loved him.

You weren’t sure when you realized it, but once you did, it felt as though things finally clicked into place. There had always been that speculation from others that you two were something beyond a mere friendship—but there was no weight to it. Not while it wasn’t true, anyway.

You thought it may have been the puberty. John was no longer a scrawny kid who you hovered over. He’d grown into himself as the years passed—taller, stronger, more confident. It was a simple crush that came as a result of change, you told yourself.

But you had began to think it was more than that, that it always had been. Once the feeling arrived, it made no effort to fade—settling into the empty spaces between inside jokes and late-night phone calls, between shared victories and devastating failures. It lodged itself so deeply within your bond that you stopped looking for where friendship ended and something else began.

Maybe that was your mistake.

Across the room, Hannah laughs.

The sound is soft enough that most people would miss it beneath the chatter, but John hears it.

Of course he does.

Hannah Wells has a way of drawing attention effortlessly. Her smile comes easily, brightening her entire face like a Christmas tree. Honey-brown hair spills over one shoulder as she speaks. Her deep cerulean eyes crinkle when she laughs. Hearing her sing for the first time made it no better.

And she is so kind.

She remembers your birthday, she asks you questions on a subject you think had long been over. She makes you feel seen.

It’s impossible to blame him for looking.

The problem is that lately, he hasn’t seemed capable of looking anywhere else.

His fingers brush your shoulder again, mindlessly.

Across the room, Hannah says something to Allie that you can’t quite make out.

Logan smiles.

And suddenly, despite his arm around you and his knee pressed lightly against yours and nearly ten years of friendship sitting comfortably between the two of you, you’ve never felt further away from him.

Tucker notices your shift in mood before Logan does. You like Tuck the most out of all of Logan’s friends. He’s a year below the rest of you, though you like to say he’s the most mature out of all of them. He’s observant, you learned.

He tilts his head at you, silently asking if you’re okay. You send him a half-hearted thumbs up. Something clicks for him and he accepts your answer, redirecting his attention to the game.

You think Tucker knows about your crush on John. A part of you hopes he doesn’t, but another part of you knows that he does.

At some point, Logan notices you’ve stopped talking. By the time he has, you’re fiddling with your bracelet. He frowns, glancing at his own matching one on his left wrist. You were both surprised they had never broken. Logan enjoyed referring to it as a testament to your long-standing friendship. The blue and purple embroidery of both your bracelets have become a halo of fuzz, but they remain intact nonetheless.

Logan glances back at you, studying you once again—knit eyebrows, lip tucked between your teeth. You’re upset.

“What’s wrong?”

You meet his doe eyed gaze and hate yourself for thinking about drowning in them. He knows you as well as you know him. So much so that you can’t lie and pretend you’re okay. He’s read you and he’s decided that you’re not.

So you do the next best thing.

“It’s just stuffy in here,” you reply passively, maintaining a poker face when you push off the couch and his fingertips leave your shoulder blades. “I’m gonna get some air.”

The cool evening air hits you the second the front door clicks shut, but it does nothing to clear the sudden suffocating weight in your chest. You walk over to the edge of the porch, gripping the wooden railing just to have something solid to hold onto.

Behind you, the front door opens and shuts. Familiar footsteps thud against the wood. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him, you’d know the specific cadence of his stride anywhere.

"Hey," Logan says softly, stepping up beside you, jacket in his hand. He leans his forearms against the railing, his large frame blocking out the slight breeze. "You left your jacket inside. It’s freezing out here."

You make no effort to retrieve the coat from his grasp. You don’t look even at him. Instead, your eyes fixate on a tiny, industrious spider crawling across the top of a plastic patio chair a few feet away. It is small, frantic, and entirely unaware of the shifting plates of your universe, completely consumed by the monumental task of weaving a web between two cheap slats of faux-wicker. You envy it. You want to be anything else—a spider, a piece of dust, a thread on your frayed bracelet—anything but the girl standing under the porch light, slowly unraveling.

"I'm fine," you tell him, the words slipping out easily, rehearsed from a decade of practice.

"You're not fine," he insists softly. It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement of fact.

"I am fine," you repeat, but your voice is uneven.

You always are, somehow. It’s a reflex by now. Burn the midnight oil until your vision blurs, crash through exams on three hours of sleep, watch the boy you’ve loved for six years slip through your fingers like water—the answer is always the same: I’m fine.

"Don't do that," Logan mutters, turning his head to look at you. His eyes are swimming with an earnest yet frustrating concern that always makes you want to spill your guts. "We don't do that. Talk to me. Did someone say something inside? Did I do something?"

You let out a breath that cuts like a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. You look out at the dark front yard, at the dead leaves scattering across the pavement.

You finally turn your head to look at him. You note the exact way the yellow porch light catches the bridge of his nose, the slight shadow of stubble along his jawline. You know every iteration of this face. You know the childhood version, the teenage version, and this current, devastatingly handsome collegiate version.

And yet, looking at him right now, he feels like a stranger wearing your best friend's skin.

"That's just it, Logan. You haven't done anything." Your voice drops, stripped of its usual warmth. "You haven't been doing anything. Not with me, anyway."

He blinks, a small, defensive crease forming between his eyebrows. "I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t,” you murmur.

“Then explain it to me.”

"It means you’re pulling away," you say directly, the words tasting like copper in your mouth, but you force them out anyway. You don't mention Hannah. You don't have to bring up the way his eyes track her, or the way his laugh sounds higher when she’s in the room. This isn't about her. This is about him. This is about the space where your best friend used to be. "You’re always somewhere else. I talk to you, and it’s like I’m throwing words into an empty room. You look right through me lately. You’re right here, and it feels like there’s a thousand miles between us."

Logan stiffens. For a second, his mouth opens to deny it, the knee-jerk reaction of a guy who prides himself on being loyal. But as he looks at you—at the tight line of your jaw, at the way you're holding onto your own arm like you’re trying to keep yourself from falling apart—you can see the fight slowly leave him.

The silence stretches, punctuated only by the joyous yells of your friends inside.

"I didn't. . .” Logan starts, his voice dropping an octave. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his shoes. "I didn't realize I was making you feel like that. I swear to God, I didn't."

"Well, you are." Your voice trembles just a fraction, and you hate yourself for it, pulling your shoulders back to overcompensate. "I know that friends drift. But I don’t wanna be background noise in your life.”

Logan steps closer, closing the small physical gap between you. He reaches out, his large hand wrapping around your forearm—right over the frayed threads of your bracelet. You pray he doesn’t notice the hitching of your breath.

"You're not background noise," he says sincerely, his desperate eyes searching yours. "You could never be. I'm sorry. Seriously. I've had. . . I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately, and I’ve been distracted. I’ve been a shitty best friend, and there’s no excuse for it. I’m so sorry."

You look at his hand on your arm. You look at the genuine regret pulling at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't know that the distraction is killing you for an entirely different reason. He just knows he hurt his person, and he wants to fix it.

You swallow the ache in your throat, nodding slowly. You let the anger go, because holding onto it hurts worse than forgiving him does.

"It’s okay," you assure him. "Just don’t forget about me, dork.”

"Never," he promises, squeezing your arm before letting go. A small, relieved smile tugs at his lips, the tension leaving his shoulders. He makes no effort to back away from you. It’s all the more suffocating. "I promise. Hey, you still have that big winter showcase coming up in two weeks, right? For your department?"

"Yeah," you say, a genuine spark of nervousness lighting up your stomach. "It’s the Friday after this upcoming one."

"I'll be there," Logan says instantly, his voice full of the certainty that usually makes you feel safe. "Front row. I'll even wear a stupid button-down shirt so your professors think I'm respectable. Deal?"

You look at him, wanting so badly to trust the boy who used to share bags of Hot Cheetos on a garage roof.

"Deal," you agree.

The fluorescent lights of the auditorium are blinding. It is 5:30PM. The STEM showcase had officially kicked off at five, the culmination of sleepless semesters, data sheets that blurred into meaningless code by three in the morning, and enough stress to permanently alter your brain chemistry.

Your phone sits completely dark and powered down in the bottom of your tote bag. You hadn't sent Logan a reminder text today. You hadn’t wanted to seem needy, and besides, you figured he’d remember.

He knew what this meant to you. He’d been the one to hold you on the floor of your bedroom a week ago ago when the overthinking caught up to you, his large hands rubbing slow circles into your back while you sobbed into his chest, terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. He’d promised then, just like he’d promised on the porch, that he’d be here.

Last night, you had even swung by the hockey house, your presentation slides printed out and shaking in your hands, just looking for a final bit of reassurance to quiet the jitters. But Logan wasn't there. He’d been at Malone’s, helping Hannah setup tables and banners for the upcoming weekend showcase she offered to host for music majors.

It was fine, you told yourself. It really was. He was trying to be better, and you could see the effort. The crush was still a persistent ache in your ribs, but he hadn't let it bleed into your friendship the way he had before. You understood what it was like to be at someone’s beck and call—hell, you’d been at his for six years. You couldn't blame him for falling under Hannah’s gravitational pull.

Logan hadn't been there last night, but Tucker had.

Tucker had stopped chopping vegetables, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and sat you down at the kitchen island. He listened to you stumble through your abstract, giving you a supportive nod when you finished. When you told Tucker he didn't have to worry about coming tomorrow since it was so last minute and Logan would be there anyway, Tucker had just given you an easy smile.

“Then you’ll have two of us cheering you on," he’d promised.

Now, standing by your trifold and your laptop, the nerves are a sickening weight in your stomach. You’ve just finished presenting to the final round of judges. Your mouth is dry, your throat tight, but you’d gotten through it just fine.

Tucker had slipped into the back of the room right before your time slot, his broad shoulders cutting a reassuring silhouette against the crowded aisle. Seeing his familiar face had kept your knees from buckling.

But Logan’s seat in the front row—the one he’d promised to occupy in a stupid button-down shirt—remained completely empty.

It hurts. A sharp, localized sting right beneath your breastbone. You hadn't told anyone else in your life about the showcase because public speaking made you feel entirely naked, meaning Logan and Tucker were your only safety nets.

Everyone else would most likely be at Malone’s. You didn’t want them to choose between you and Hannah, because you knew they’d try to compromise, complicating things. You didn’t want a whole crowd, you were okay with just one person being there.

But you swallow the lump in your throat and smooth down the fabric of your slacks. It’s fine. Logan probably just got caught in campus traffic, or he had a handyman gig that kept him late. He missed the actual presentation, yeah, but there’s still time. The showcase goes until eight.

As long as he shows up before the winners are announced, it’ll be fine. He’ll still be there to celebrate with you. He has to be.

Two hours later, the auditorium is a blur of echoing applause and bright flashing cameras.

When the department head speaks your name into the microphone, announcing you as the first-place recipient of the showcase, the room erupts. Your peers are cheering, clapping you on the back as you walk up the stage, but the sound feels like it’s happening underwater.

Even the heavy glass they hang around your neck and the oversized novelty check—grant money that will entirely fund your next semester of research—do nothing to lift the leaden weight in your chest.

Tucker maneuvers through the crowd as soon as you’ve left the stage, a massive, proud smile lighting up his face as he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. He hoists you slightly off your feet, laughing, telling you he always knew you had it in the bag.

But when he pulls back, his smile falters. He looks at your eyes, watery and strained, and the pride in his expression softens into a deep concern. He knows. He can tell exactly how badly you're hurting.

But even now, with a first-place medal heavy against your sternum, you find yourself building a fortress of excuses for John Logan.

You give him the benefit of the doubt, because the alternative is unendurable. He’d never do this intentionally. Not after last week. Not to you. Something had to have happened. A family emergency with his mom. Something with Jules. Maybe he’d taken a brutal hit at practice and was sitting in the training room with a concussion, his phone locked away. He had to be hurt. He had to be incapacitated.

"Let's get you out of here," Tucker says softly, his hand settling on the small of your back, shielding you from the lingering crowds as you pack up your laptop. "I can walk you back to your dorm."

"Actually," you say, your voice tight as you zip your tote bag, "can you take me back to the house? Honestly, after the day I’ve had, I’m dying for a home-cooked Tucker special. I need some real comfort food."

You try to make it sound like a casual request, but Tucker’s hand goes entirely still against your back. He doesn't laugh it off. Instead, an uncomfortable hesitation washes over his features. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he stares out at the emptying auditorium.

In that single beat of silence, a cold and sickening realization dawns on you.

Perhaps Logan isn't sick. Perhaps he isn't hurt. He isn't in a hospital or dealing with a family crisis. Tucker knows exactly where he is.

He forgot.

The thought devastates you, a physical blow that leaves you in theoretical agony, but right on the heels of the sadness comes a sharp, blistering wave of fury. You’re a winner. You just secured your future for the next semester. This should be one of the greatest nights of your life, and yet Logan has latched himself so deeply into the fabric of your existence that he can still ruin it without even being in the room. You hate yourself for letting him have that much power over you.

"You sure you want to go to the house right now?" Tucker asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, laced with a warning he isn't entirely voicing.

You stop, staring at him. Your chest heaves. "Why? Is he there?"

Tucker looks at you, his brown eyes full of a grim, reluctant pity. He stays silent. He doesn't say a word, but his silence tells you everything you need to know. He's there. He's perfectly fine, at the hockey house while you were standing on a stage alone.

A hot, dangerous spark ignites in your blood.

"Take me there," you say, your voice dropping all the compliance, hard as flint. He begins to say your name, but you don’t allow him to. "Tucker. Take me to the house."

The ride to the hockey house is quick, though you believe that’s a product of the heavy thrum of your own pulse. Tuck keeps one hand on the steering wheel, your grim mood proving itself to be contagious.

Every few minutes, his voice breaks through the quiet of the truck, telling you to take a breath, telling you to try to calm down. But you can hear the sharp undercurrent of his own anger fueling the engine. He’s pissed on your behalf, but you don't have the capacity to appreciate it right now. You just stare straight ahead.

When the truck comes to a stop in the driveway, you don't wait for Tucker to kill the ignition. You throw the door open and march up the steps, completely ignoring him as he calls your name.

You push the door open, not so much that it was disruptive, but it was noticeable nonetheless.

The warmth of the house hits you first, along with the loud, easy cacophony of a Friday night wind-down. The TV is on, and everyone is scattered across the living room. Allie, Garrett, Dean, and Hannah.

And Logan.

The sheer normalcy of the scene feels like a slap to the face. You stand in the entryway, the first-place medal swinging slightly against your chest, dressed in the gray slacks and blouse you’d picked out so carefully. For a fraction of a second, looking at their relaxed posture and happy faces, you feel entirely microscopic. Like an ant on the back of someone’s boot, completely insignificant to the world revolving around them.

Then, the room goes quiet.

Dean is the first one to look up from the couch. His eyes take in your sharp posture, the formal attire, and finally, the heavy piece hung around your neck catching the ambient light. A grin breaks across his face, completely ignorant of the storm cloud rolling off your shoulders.

"Look at that," Dean announces, raising his cup in a mock toast. "The prodigal daughter returns!"

He’s trying to be supportive. Under any other circumstance, you’d smile, you’d thank him through narrowed eyes. You know he doesn't know. He has no idea what Logan promised, or what it cost you to stand on that stage alone.

But you don't look at Dean. You don't look at Garrett or Allie or Hannah.

Your eyes lock onto Logan.

He’s sitting on the edge of the cushions, and the exact moment your gaze finds his, the color drains completely from his face. It’s like watching a man realize he’s stepped off a cliff. His eyes drop to the medal on your chest, then snap back up to your face, wide and absolutely crushed. The realization of what he’s done hits him in a ton of bricks.

Usually, that look on his face would undo you. Usually, seeing John Logan look that miserable would trigger every protective instinct you’ve harbored for him, making you want to soften the blow, to tell him it’s fine, to smooth it over.

But tonight, you feel absolutely nothing.

The reservoir of sympathy has completely dried up, replaced by a fury that has been bubbling beneath the surface for months.

He hadn't just missed a presentation. He had broken a promise. He had lied to your face on the porch, sworn he was back, and then willfully chose to be somewhere else.

You stare at him, the silence in the room turning suffocatingly loud as the others finally catch onto the tension, and the only thought roaring through your mind is how completely invisible you’ve been to him.

That look of shame is enough gratification for you. If he can feel only a fraction of the pain you’d allowed yourself to endure these past few years, that was good for you. You couldn’t stand staring into the eyes of the man you once thought you knew anymore.

You turn your heel against the floorboards, every instinct screaming at you to walk out that door, to erase John Logan from your life, and to leave him standing in the wreckage of a ten-year friendship.

"Wait," his voice cracks through the silence of the room as he calls your name. "Please wait. I’m sorry. Just—please, just wait!”

You halt entirely. Your flats glue themselves to the floor, the medallion thudding against your chest like a pendulum swinging into a dead stop.

Sorry?

The word tastes rancid just hearing it bounce off the walls of the hockey house. You hadn't known what you wanted him to say when you walked through that door.

You hadn't known if there was a combination of vowels and consonants in the English language that could possibly fix this. But hearing his apology serves as nothing other than gasoline thrown directly onto a grease fire.

Slowly, you turn back around.

Your friends look horrified. You almost feel bad that they’re forced to witness this. You almost want to turn around and leave, leaving this argument for when you’re less heated, less hurt.

But you can’t. He needs to hear you. If not last week or the week before that, now.

Logan takes a step toward you, his hands raised slightly as if approaching a wild animal. "I lost track of time. The showcase at Malone’s—"

"Shut up," you say quietly.

The words aren't screamed. They are quiet, sharp, and dripping with an edge that makes Logan freeze in his tracks.

"Just. . . shut the hell up, Logan." You take a step forward, your shoes clicking against the hardwood. "Don't you dare use that as an excuse for being a pathetic, spineless coward."

He glances at the group that has gone dead silent. You don’t know if what he says next is for your sake or his, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Let’s go outside,” he offers, his tone resembling something of a plea. “We can—“

“No!” you spat harshly. “You’re gonna listen to me.”

You’d never spoken to him this way. Not in such a venomous tone, stripped from all warmth. For once, Logan does exactly what you’ve asked of him—to listen. His lips part but no words escape them.

"You sat on the porch two weeks ago," you continue, your voice rising now, the heat finally breaking through the ice. "You held my arm, and you looked me in the eyes and promised me you’d change. Do you have any idea what today was?"

Logan swallows hard, his brown hues welling with a desperate, pathetic panic. "It was the department showcase."

"It was the biggest night of my academic career!" you explode, the anger tearing out of your throat. "I have spent months working on this! I broke down sobbing over this because of how tired I was, and you were the one who held me! You knew exactly how terrified I was. You knew I didn't invite anyone else! What would’ve happened if Tuck wasn’t there?"

You gesture wildly to the medal around your neck.

"I stood on that stage alone, John. I scanned that auditorium for two hours, giving you the benefit of the doubt. I thought something had happened. I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere or bleeding out in a hospital, because that is the only reason the John Logan I grew up with would ever miss this!"

A tear escapes his eye, rolling down his tanned cheek. "I messed up. Fuck, I know I messed up. Let me make it up to you, please—"

"You didn't mess up, you chose!" you hiss, stepping right into his space, forcing him to look down at the fury burning in your eyes. "You’ve made it perfectly clear where I rank on your list of priorities."

"I am wearing a first-place medal," you continue, your voice trembling with a devastating mix of triumph and agony. "I just won enough grant money to pay for my entire next semester of research. This should be the happiest night of my life. But all I can think about is how my best friend couldn’t show up when I needed him.”

"Please," Logan chokes out, reaching a trembling hand toward your shoulder, his fingers twitching to make that familiar, absent-minded contact. "Just—“

You snap your shoulder back, avoiding his touch as if his hand were coated in acid.

But as you jerk away, the zipper of his jacket catches on the frayed, fuzzy threads of your embroidered bracelet. There is a sudden rip. The threads give out all at once, unraveling in a split second as the broken token of your childhood slips from your wrist and flutters uselessly to the floor.

Logan freezes, his eyes dropping to the colorful, ruined heap of strings resting on the hardwood between you two.

It’s symbolic, you think.

"Don't touch me," you say, your voice dropping into a flat, dead register. You stare at him, washing away every ounce of the six years of love, every ounce of the ten years of friendship, until there is absolutely nothing left between you but a void.

"Don't talk to me. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. You’re dead to me, John."

You turn on your heel and march straight out the front door into the freezing night air.

Logan doesn’t even think before stepping forward to follow after you, but Tucker shuts the door, preventing him from doing so.

He doesn't yell. Instead, he steps into Logan’s space, grabs a fistful of his shirt right at the collar, and shoves him backward into the hallway leading toward the bedrooms. Logan doesn't even try to fight it—he stumbles back, his eyes wide and vacant, completely numb from the fallout.

Tucker slams the door of his room shut, but he doesn't bother locking it. He doesn't need to.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Tucker demands, his voice a growl that vibrates through the walls. He isn’t screaming, but he’s not exactly whispering. “Because right now, I’m having a hard time recognizing one of my best friends.”

“Tuck, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—”

“You made her a promise, man!” Tucker cuts in sharply. “You told her you’d be there. You looked her dead in the eye and gave her your word. Do you have any idea what today was like for her?”

“I lost track of time. Hannah—”

“Don’t do that,” Tucker says, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t make this about Hannah. This is about you. You screwed up. You’ve been taking that girl for granted for long enough, and she’s been in your corner through every stupid decision you’ve made. Last night, I was the one sitting with her while she practiced that presentation because you were too busy being handyman.”

“She stood on that stage tonight. Every time those judges walked up to her, she checked those doors. Every damn time. She thought something happened to you, because that’s the only reason she could come up with for why you’d break your word to her. And the whole time, you’re moving tables at Malone’s? That’s your excuse?”

“I know I messed up,” Logan chokes out. “I know. I’ll fix it. I’ll talk to her—”

“No, you won’t,” Tucker says immediately. “Not today. Not anytime soon.”

He takes a step back, folding his arms across his chest.

“She told you to stay away. So for once, stop thinking about what you want and listen to what she asked for. You made this mess. If you actually want a shot at fixing it, give her some space and hope she decides you’re worth talking to when she’s ready.”

“Tuck—”

“I’m serious, Logan. Leave her alone. The last thing she needs right now is you showing up trying to make yourself feel better.“

Garrett Graham

you'll be okay

scared

jeep

want u back

chronically online girlfriend

Dean Di Laurentis

a little help

you didn't get it........until you did

baby doll

that's how they roll

unplanned

jealous, d?

voicemail

babe

the offer

last time

John Logan

the deal with the devil

puck me sideways

find you

best friends sister

sleepy

he doesn't like it

mom and dad

landslide

Beau Maxwell

There is a growing part of you that, over the past week, wishes that the most difficult thing you had to get over was your break up with Logan. Sure, the break-up still haunts you, still has you crying into your pillow at times asking yourself why you weren’t good enough. Or even just enough.

But that feeling is being dwarfed by the memory of leaving the cocoon of Dean’s room that Friday morning. It had felt like you were being thrown into freezing water, so cold that your limbs were frozen into place. It had felt like you were being left to drown.

The rational part of you knew that wasn’t the case, Dean had reassured you many times that you didn’t have to leave, he was happy for you to stay wrapped up in his room for as long as you needed. You were the one that insisted you leave.

He didn’t understand why you were so desperate to go and your cheeks burned as you made up a lie about this house triggering too many memories for you. Your pride was already ruined by the break-up; you didn’t want to explain to him that you were embarrassed by how happy you felt when you woke up next to him. You didn’t want to explain that your mind, for just a moment, was creating a world where he was the one you had started dating all those months ago.

The morning after you left his, your mind couldn’t decide how it wanted you to feel. Partly, you felt pathetic, the combination of the still-raw feelings of the aftermath of Logan and the new feelings from the aftermath of Dean.

Obviously, you had a type. And that was men that didn’t want you.

The other part of you felt like a hypocrite, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were mad at Logan for doing the same thing to you, that you want to do with Dean. You couldn’t let go of the guilt you felt because of it.  

Thoughts swirled in your head about what kind of a person you really were. You even came close to blocking Dean’s contact, if not for his benefit, then your peace of mind.

The night after you left his, Dean had unexpectedly called you before bed, asking you to stay on the phone with him to keep him company whilst he played chess. Grateful for the lifeline he was providing, you took it. You listened to him telling you stories about hockey or his childhood or his sister, Summer. For the second night in the row, you fell asleep easily listening to the sound of his voice.

That becomes part of the routine you settle into. Dean’s smooth in the way he embeds himself in your life, you don’t even notice it until it’s another week later and the pain, whilst still there, is more of a dull ache.

You keep waiting for the crushing weight in your chest to return at full force, to suddenly hit you one day when you’re in public, but every time it starts creeping up or the silence gets too loud, your phone buzzes. It’s always Dean with another meme, a call to tell you to come meet him in the library, or a text to say open the door because he’s outside.  

If he’s not texting you, then he’s physically present as much as possible. He always frames it in a way that makes it sound like he’s the one desperate for human interaction and you can’t bring yourself to stop it.

Somehow, without you ever even asking, Dean refuses to let you drown.

Now, two and a half weeks after the break-up, you and Dean are sat in the library. You’re staring at your laptop screen, desperately trying to pull together some research for an assignment you have due in a few days. The topic is already complicated enough and you really needed to be able to focus.

Focus is made basically impossible by Dean’s annoyingly chiselled jaw and bright blue eyes. The outfit he’s wearing really brings out the blue in his eyes and you internally groan. For what purpose did he need to look this handsome on a friendly study outing.

Dean’s propping up his chin in his hand and openly watching you work instead of reading one of the five obnoxiously thick textbooks he has sprawled across the table.

“What are you stating at?” You hiss, keeping your voice down as they take the silence policy very seriously in this part of the library.

“Do you miss parties? I think you do.”

The question catches you off guard, there’s been no context leading up to this. It’s a genuine question too, but his voice is entirely too loud and there are probably bigger priorities that you have at the minute.

You stare up at him in disbelief, “I’m trying to study here.”

“Don’t you think it’s time that some place other than the library or your dorm room sees you?” Dean challenges, his voice is gentle but still too loud.

The guy on the table close to you turns to shoot a dirty look in Dean’s direction. He smiles back in that way that gets anybody to let his actions slide.

You brace yourself, immediately feeling tense. He’s dancing around a point he’s trying to make about you not going out anymore.

It shouldn’t come to a shock to anybody that you’ve avoided going to a party as of late. Yes, you used to go to nearly every one of the hockey parties and a few other ones on campus too. But given the circumstances and how fragile you still feel, withdrawing into yourself seemed like the best outcome.

It’s not a topic you particularly want to dissect right now, especially in the library where anyone might see when you inevitably cry. If you allowed yourself to get distracted, to let your mind wander, it wouldn’t end up in a happy place.

“Get to the point quickly and quietly please.”

He leans forward, his blue eyes dancing as he whispers. “There’s this party on Friday-.”

Letting out an unnecessarily dramatic sigh, you look back down at your laptop. You start typing as he continues. “You’re coming.”

The air feels too heavy for you to ignore the subject at hand. As you feared, your mind now runs over every worst-case scenario that you could apply here. You pretend like you are focused on your work, typing random words in the hopes that Dean will think you’re working and move on.

He doesn’t.

Dean reaches over, gently closing the lid on your laptop with your hands still fake typing on the keyboard.

“Can you look at me, please?”

The sight of the concern on his face makes your stomach tighten. He’s not looked at you like this in a while. Not since the very first night where you sat on his lap, nose snotty, as you cried your eyes out.

“Do you want to go somewhere more private?” Dean’s question isn’t suggestive.

You shake your head, maybe here if you speak the words, the tears won’t fall. In private, wrapped up in the hug you know he’ll give you, you’d definitely cry.  

You really don’t want to talk about this now, but since it’s in your head, you know you have to get it out.

“I’m scared,” you admit, pulling your hands from under the closed lid. You’ve admitted so many things to Dean over the past couple of weeks, it feels almost natural to be this vulnerable. “They are all his friends, you know. I don’t belong anywhere anymore.”

“Oh.” Dean slides his hand across the table, palm up. It’s an invitation that you choose to ignore but he doesn’t slide his hand back, leaving it there in case you change your mind. “You do belong, with me, with us. We all care about you.”

There it is, the crushing weight on your chest that’s been trying to find its way out has finally found a gap in the wall to crawl through.  

“Dean, I can’t,” you sound breathless, like your lungs cannot take in enough oxygen. “It’ll be so awkward as everyone talks to me out of pity. The broken-hearted girl. I can’t bear the thought of them looking at me with pity, kind of like how you’re looking at me now…”

“I promise you; I don’t pity you. I think you’re incredibly strong.”

The thing about Dean is that he rarely finds a reason good enough to force him into a lie. Trust is a big thing for him, and part of that is being his honest, authentic self. This doesn’t feel like a situation where he’d need to lie to you, but that doesn’t stop you from scoffing. He wouldn’t be thinking that you were incredibly strong if he jumped into your brain right now.

“Look, I know you think-.”

“I don’t think, I know.” Dean rarely interrupts you but he does now. His voice is low and he sounds uncharacteristically angry. “The team love you because you are an amazing person. You’re bold and passionate and… and… people gravitate towards you because you bring life into things. It has nothing to do with who you were with. Please, don’t let him make you forget who you are.”

Dean’s voice is dripping in disgust as he says ‘him’. It reminds you of the fight he got in with Logan just to defend you. You try not to think of all the compliments he just gave you too. You can’t let yourself fall into another foolish fantasy.  

When you don’t respond, Dean continues, his voice is rising again and you look around nervously. The guy on the table next to you has already moved to a different part of the library. Clearly Dean’s charms didn’t work on him. “I know you miss going out and dancing and the socialising and sometimes even the drinking too.”

You hate how perceptive Dean is. Someone who looks so stereotypical jock like him should not have the ability to be as intelligent as he is. You can’t argue with him. Insecurity, not reality, is making you think that you have no one. Insecurity, not reality, is making you think that you can only be liked if you were attached with Logan.

“I’m not going to tell you that you’re right,” you mumble. ‘Stupid blonde man and his stupid sexy face,’ you add to yourself.

His face scrunches as he smiles brightly at you. “You just did.”

“Are you done now? Can I get back to work?”

“No.” His face turns serious again and you sigh. What more does he have to lecture you about. “While we’re on the subject, have you spent any time with Allie or Hannah at all?”

You can hear through the fake-casual voice he puts on. Based on that and the fact that he’s searching your face to see your reaction, you know he knows the answer. There’s no point in lying.

Being confronted, even gently, about how much you let Logan make you lose yourself is tough.

“No, not- not really. Just a couple of brief texts, I’ve been pushing them away to be honest.” You look down and away, voice small and full of guilt.

There’s been some sort of message sent in the group chat every day, whether it’s a supportive one letting you know that they’re there or random conversation. You reply when you can, but more often than not, you don’t.

Dean doesn’t need to ask you why for you to know that’s going to be his next question.

“I just, I don’t know. I feel guilty being so miserable around them. They’ve got their own lives and between their boyfriends and working crazy hours at Malone’s… I just wasn’t sure where I fit into that so I guess I made the decision for them to remove myself.”

Now that the flood gates are open, you keep rambling on. “And now, I am ready to see them. I… I know they’re my friends and they won’t hold it against me but I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I turned my back on them.”

There’s a small detail that you leave out, the fact that the break-up stemmed from Logan’s love for Hannah.

A completely unreadable expression crosses Dean’s face, but you can practically see the cogwheels turning in his mind. “I understand.”

He’s about to say more but you raise your hand to stop him. This really is way too heavy a topic for a hushed conversation in the library.

Dean allows you to pretend to go back to work without much protest. You do get a few more words written, but you doubt any of it is useful.

Half an hour later, Dean pushes himself up from the desk, grabbing his jacket from behind the chair and starts tugging at your arm. “Pack up your stuff, we’re going to the quad. You’ve done enough starting at a screen for one day.”

“Is that your way of telling me to touch grass?” You’re lightly teasing, not offended at the implication because much to your frustration, he’s, once again, right.

“I’m no expert,” he says, even as he speaks with a confidence that only Dean can possess, “but a change in our routine would be good for you.”

Your hand freezes on its way to stuff your laptop into your bag. Our routine he had said.

“Plus,” he continues, “some more vitamin D can’t hurt.”

It’s like you can see the mischievous glint in his eye when his brain thinks up something that only he’ll find funny. He presses his lips together, like he’s physically restraining himself from saying the stupid thing.

“I half expected you to make some vitamin Dick or vitamin Dean joke there.” You help him get there before he combusts.

A soft laugh bubbles past his lips. “Oh, no, I’m way too mature for that.”

The giggle you were trying to suppress also slips out of your lips before you can stop it. You quickly cover your mouth with your hand.

Talking with Dean really is so easy. On top of all the other things he’s good at, he’s able to guide you through the complex rollercoaster that is your emotions. He never flinches from it when you flip flop from crying to laughing in the space of 5 minutes.

It’s so easy for you to fall for him because of it.

As you lie down on the grass in the quad, Dean lying next to you, you feel a pit opening up in your stomach. It’s only been 2.5 weeks since your life got thrown upside down, he’s just being there for you as any good friend would, why do you have to keep reminding yourself of that fact. Why can’t you just understand he’s only being a good friend.

As always, Dean’s there to pull you out of your thoughts. “Promise me you’ll think about coming with me on Friday? Nobody will mess with you. But, if they do, I’ll handle it.”

You hear it for what it is, a promise from Dean. He’s made a lot of those to you and, so far, he’s not broken any of them.

So, you’ll trust him.

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The next two days passes in a blur, you find yourself scrolling through your camera roll a lot, determined to remember who you were before this thing started to define who you were. Something that’s not really guilt or sadness but feels close to that, washes over you every time you get to the pictures of Dean wearing your tiara.

Being kind to yourself isn’t easy, the easier option is always let the one negative thought define you. But Dean is right, you have forgotten who you are. It is exhausting being sad, you find.

You’re up at 2am that night, your mind running with all the things you’re going to do the next day. You’re going to reevaluate your life, you’re going to reach out to your friends, you’re going to go to that party, and with Dean… you aren’t sure what you’re going to do with him, but you’ll figure it out.

Come morning, you have so many things on your list that you end up doing nothing. You don’t even know how the time passes.

It’s getting darker outside when a loud, impatient knock sounds at your door. You almost don’t get up, Dean would have texted you if it were him and, checking your phone, he hasn’t. Not since his last message over a day and a half ago.

The knock sounds again. The likelihood of it being Logan is slim, but never zero. That sends you spiralling.

You take a deep breath, telling yourself that you can’t go back on your 2am promise to yourself as you walk to the door. You are going to be the new you, that was the old you.

The constant catastrophising has to stop. There is nothing behind that door that you cannot face. You give yourself a pep talk before you swing the door open.   

The tension rolls out of your body when you see that it’s Allie and Hannah.

Allie pulls you into a one-armed hug, the other is cradling a tub of ice cream. She greets you in the same way she always does, her face full of genuine happiness at the sight of you. There’s no lingering resentment for all the messages you’d dodged.

She breezes past you and struts into your dorm room, making a beeline for the kitchen.

Hannah drops the bulging duffle bag that she’s carrying and pulls you into a tight hug. Neither of you say anything as you wrap your hands around her, squeezing her back.

Something you can only admit to yourself is that the reason you withdrew from them, apart from the embarrassment that being dumped carried, was how hard it was to see Hannah’s name or see her face those first couple of days. You’ve never blamed her for what happened, nor will you ever. It isn’t her fault, heck even part of you understood why it was Hannah that Logan loved.

But all of that rationalising couldn’t make the pain in your heart or the jealousy in your chest go away. Wrapped in her embrace now, your anger at Logan multiplies. So much was taken from you.

It takes less than 10 minutes for you all to be sat on the floor, laughing until your stomach hurts over the story Allie’s telling you about her week. An embarrassing number of sweet wrappers litter the floor, and Hannah’s dishing out scoops of ice cream.

The awkward, uncomfortable, energy you had told yourself would happen when you finally reconnected with them doesn’t even hint at appearing.

You had moved past the jealousy you felt towards Hannah relatively quickly. Had you not been in your head about how they’d react to your disappearing act, maybe this could have happened sooner. You really were your own worst enemy at times.  

“I’m so happy you’re both here,” you say softly, your laughter dying down. “I’ve missed my girls.”

“We’ve missed you too, babe,” Allie says sincerely, she reaches across the floor, taking your hand in hers and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

This feels like the time, the perfect opening to apologise for dodging their attempts to be there for you and to grovel. They don’t seem to need the grovelling, but it’s probably needed.

But, no matter how many times you open your mouth to start talking, you can’t force any words out. You know you have so much to apologise for but it’s like your mind goes blank.

Hannah’s hand slides across the floor to take your other hand. “We don’t know the details, but we don’t need to know. It must have been a lot for you to go through for you and we figured you’d respond to us when you were ready.”

Too many emotions hit you at once as you take in Hannah’s words. You realise you’ve barely been able to look her in the eye since they walked in as you were ashamed of your behaviour. Forcing yourself to do so now, you find her eyes are incredibly soft, filled only with warmth.

“Thank you. I’m lucky to have you both.” And you are, it was pure luck, or fate, that led the three of you together. Not everybody gets to experience what it is like to have their girls in their corner. You do and it’s a magical experience.

“Don’t thank us too much,” Allie snorts. “We were very close to camping out in front of your door and begging you to let us in until a certain 6’2 blonde confirmed that he was taking very good care of you.”

Hannah clears her throat unnecessarily loudly. You don’t miss the daggers that she sends Allie, and the mischievous smile that Allie sends back. “Al,” Hannah warns.

Your eyes shift between them at the silent stand-off. “I’m not sure I’m loving whatever this is,” you say, gesturing to the air between them.

“We promised.” Hannah’s words are directed at Allie.

Allie dramatically rolls her eyes, sighing as she says, “It’s not my fault that I love love! Plus, think about if this was Garrett.”

Hannah’s lips purse for a second. “You got me there,” she concedes. “Tell her.”

Allie turns to you, eyes practically sparkling with excitement. You trust Allie with your life, but her palpable excitement and talk of loving love is making your palms get sweaty.

“Wait.” Allie holds whatever she was about to say as you turn to Hannah. “Should I be worried?”

You turn to Hannah. “No, sweetie. I don’t think you should.”

You turn to Allie. “Okay, hit me.”

“So,” Allie says, casually waving her ice cream spoon in the air, “let’s talk about Dean.”

To anyone who had heard the topics of your conversations before, this would sound like a completely normal statement. It’s not like discussing attractive men, especially ones with a reputation like Dean’s, is a forbidden topic, even when you all had boyfriends.

Truthfully, secretly, you were hoping for a natural way to bring him up. It would look too suspicious for you to want to discuss boys in the middle of your heartbreak. But you don’t want it to happen like this, this feels too loaded.

“What- Dean? What does he have to do with this?” You try to sound casual but you stumble over your words.

The look that Allie shares with Hannah tells you that they already knew how this conversation would pan out. Any hopes of keeping your growing feelings for him a secret are well and truly lost.

Allie turns to look at you, face serious in a way that has you shifting on the floor. “How about we start with the fact that he is totally into you.”

Your throat actually hurts from the force of your scoff. “Oh, no. You have it wrong. He’s just been really supportive. We’re… you know… friends.”

“I don’t know any ‘friend’ of mine that would arrange for two girls to have the night off of work so that they could spend time with their mutual ‘friend’. Do you, Hannah?”

“Nope,” Hannah says, popping the P. “I also don’t know any ‘friend’ of mine that would stop talking to his friend over hurting me.”  

Your mind is trying to catch up, you’re not even sure that you understand the English language anymore. “Why are we talking in code,” you whine.

“Hannah and I were supposed to work today.” You look over to Hannah, who is nodding along as she slurps some ice cream. “That is until your prince charming- right, no code. That is until Dean spoke to Della yesterday and got our shifts covered. Apparently, he was very persuasive, if you know what I mean.”

“It’s true,” Hannah adds. She gestures to the bag that she had carried in. It’s open on the floor, overflowing with popcorn, chocolates, face masks, all the things a girlie loved to enjoy. “The duffle bag of goodies are from him too. He shoved it in our hands and said you needed us, so here we are.”

There are a few moments of silence before you can speak. “And you said that Dean and Logan aren’t talking? Because of me?”  

“I mean, they are now, but only because Garrett basically knocked their heads together and forced them to talk for the sake of the team.”

Despite the fact that you’re already sat down, you hold your hand out as if to steady yourself. Your head is spinning; the information is coming in faster than you can filter it. It’s important to you that you don’t let your mind run with this. It’ll only be worse for you when you have to face reality.

Allie pops a chocolate in her mouth. “He’s so into you.”   

“To be fair, maybe a friend wouldn’t but I think we are technically like best friends now,” you finally manage out. It sounds ridiculous even as you say it.

Both girls look at you like you’ve got a few screws loose, that’s also how you know how ridiculous you sound.

“Do you really think that’s it?” Hannah asks very patiently.

“I do.”

You don’t.

“Right,” Hannah says, “well then maybe we should unpack why you’re actively refusing to even consider this as a possibility.”

And just like in the library with Dean, you realise there’s no point in lying to the people that understand you so well.

“I… I don’t want to mistake basic kindness for attraction; that’s kind of how I ended up falling a man who didn’t even actually want me.” You speak quietly but it feels like you’re shouting for attention at the top of your lungs.

“Oh, honey.” They both lean over and wrap you in a tight hug.

“Also,” your voice drops lower, “I don’t want to use Dean to be some sort of rebound. He’s… he’s worth more than that.” You chew your lip.

‘And that’s basically what Logan did to me. Used me to get over another.’  Is the silent part that you’re scared to say out loud. You don’t want them reading into that comment, possibly connecting the dots back to Hannah.

The same tug of war rages within you. On the one hand, you’re unlovable, Dean could never be interested in someone like you and you were desperately clinging to his kindness. On the other hand, you’re a hypocrite, just using Dean to help you get over Logan. Somehow, neither option feels like reality but they also, simultaneously, are both true.

Your mind has you trapped. But, you remember, one of your 2am promises was to stop this downward spiral you were on. To just live.

Unravelling from the tight hold she and Allie have you on, Hannah takes your face in her hands. “Look at me,” she instructs gently.

“Logan’s inability to appreciate what he had is a reflection of him, not you.” You appreciate how firm Hannah is being with you. “You didn’t do anything wrong by believing in love, you didn’t mistake anything. He made those choices.”

“Exactly,” Allie chimes in, you turn to look at her as she speaks. “And let’s be clear here, Logan is Logan. Dean is Dean. You can’t let the choices and actions of one determine who the other is. That’s not fair to him or to you.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. You wish you had spoken to them sooner. Your brain listens to them more than it does you.

“For what it’s worth,” Allie continues, “I don’t think this counts as a rebound. You, we all, have thought he was hot for ages, but you still haven’t just jumped into bed with him. You’re actually thinking about how he feels.”

Again, she’s right.

Looking them in the eye while they give you a perspective you hadn’t dared to consider is beginning to feel too intense. You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes drop to focus on the overflowing duffle bag. “He makes the pain of Logan feel so dull when he’s around. Like the grief is still there, it’s just like… I don’t know. Muted? That’s like… textbook rebound.”

“No, it’s not,” Hannah says softly. “A rebound is a distraction so you don’t have to deal with the pain, but you are dealing with it. You’re just finally being treated as you always deserved to be, and that makes you feel good. You’re allowed to feel good at the same time as feeling grief.”

“There’s a big difference between using someone to run away from your problems, and letting someone stand next to you while you face those problems,” Allie adds.  

You wonder if they coordinated this, came in with a script prepared that told them exactly what you needed to hear.

“You don’t have to figure out Dean’s feelings, or your own feelings, now. But… just promise us that you won’t close the door on a potential future.”

You nod, tears brimming your eyes.

It’s been an emotional week of truths from Dean, the girls, and even yourself. Maybe it’s time you have a break from that.

“So, what are we wearing to tomorrow’s party?” You ask.

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To your immense relief, there are no pitying looks or subtle whispers when the three of you stride into the party on Friday night. You heard that the Briar U Hawks won big today, so the party is full of energy.

It’s been a while since you properly made an effort to look good. And that gives you a new found appreciation for how well you scrub up. You look hot.

For two hours, you’re able to forget all the emotions of the past few weeks. You forget that it has been so long since you felt music flowing through your body. You drink, you laugh, and you dance with your girls until your feet ache. True to their word, they don’t leave your side for a minute. Not even during the many bathroom trips.

You don’t think about the fact that you’re in Logan’s house nor do you think about Dean. It is freeing in a way.

“I’m going to get another drink!” You shout over the music at them.

You dance your way through the crowd of drunken students grinding on one another. For the first time since setting foot on the dancefloor, you think of Dean.

Dean’s leaning on the makeshift bar when you arrive, nursing an already stale and, now, all too warm beer. His eyes rank over your outfit and settle on your face. He probably thinks he’s being subtle, but you notice it.

You can’t remember the last time being looked at felt this electric. Logan certainly hadn’t looked at you like this.

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of Dean’s mouth as you step up to the sticky counter.

“Hey gorgeous.” His eyes widen as he registers what he’s said. When you just smile back at him, he visibly relaxes. “Sorry, but can you blame me?”

You’re considering how you’re going to respond when you’re suddenly being pulled into a side-hug. “I’m so glad you made it,” Garrett says. “We really missed you. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

Garrett places what you assume to be an attempt at a reassuring hand on your shoulder. His voice sounds awfully close to pity.

“Dude!” Dean’s eye narrow into a glare, shooting Garrett a look that sends a chill down your spine.

Garrett catches the glare quickly and clears his throat. “Um. I think Hannah’s calling me. So, I’m going now.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

You try to hold in your laugh as you watch Dean side eye Garrett as he walks away. You remember the conversation in the quad about ‘handling’ people who pity you but he is being a tad dramatic.

“Come on, let’s go outside,” he murmurs once it’s just you two at the bar. He guides you by the elbow through the crowd and into their back garden.

A breeze hits you; it feels welcome against your skin as the heat of the party mixed with the alcohol has warmed your body up.

To your surprise, it’s relatively quiet out here. A couple of people are in the designated smoking area in the far corner of the garden, but that’s about it. You settle on the wooden chairs side-by-side, facing the fire pit, with your backs to the house.

Strings of warm fairy lights are draped from the low branches of the trees. Combined with the dancing embers of the fire pit, it casts a soft orange glow onto Dean’s face. You watch him as he watches the fire rage on. It’s like your senses are dialled to eleven, you can hear the soft cracking coming from the firepit, but you can’t hear the chaotic party inside. It’s like you and Dean stepped into your own world.

 “Thank you for arranging the girls’ night,” you say gently, your voice cutting through the comfortable silence.

He rolls his head to look at you, “Allie?”

“Allie,” you confirm on a laugh.

His jaw clenches slightly as his leg begins to bounce. You know you weren’t supposed to know, but you can’t work out why.

“I’m glad she told me,” You whisper. “Why didn’t you want them to tell me?”

For a minute, you think he’s not going to respond. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back against the chair as the crackle of the fire fills the silence.

It’s another minute later before he responds. “I don’t do things for you for the credit or some sort of acknowledgment. And I know how you think, you might have overthought about the reasons why I did it.”

He opens his eyes, shifting his weight to turn and look directly at you. “Don’t over think it, I did it because I want you to be happy. I want you to have everything and anything that you want. It’s simple.”

“Dean,” you start. “I don’t really know how to thank you for keeping me afloat these past few weeks.”

Dean notices the way your face changes, you suddenly look really serious and it’s making him uneasy. His throat tightens. “But…?”

“It’s not really a but… I just want to make sure that I don’t accidentally use you to heal me. That’s all.”

“But you can. You can use me. I give you permission to use me in any way that you want.”

“Dean,” you say in warning.

“I’m being serious.”

He has no idea why this is this serious to you. But, if you can prove to yourself that you’re not just using him, then you can prove to yourself that maybe there’s a chance there’s something real here. You can’t tell him that, so you plead with your eyes, hoping he understands the plea.

He reaches across the space between the chairs, his fingers resting on your wrist. You can see the internal battle between his eyes, he wants to argue but he respects you more than his own desires.  

You sit like that for a while; his hand still wrapped around your wrist.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

The bubble around you instantly pops, dragging you back to a harsh reality. Jumping up, you pull your wrist from Dean’s grip like you’ve been burned. It’s been weeks since you’ve last heard that voice, and the sudden sound of it makes your stomach heave.

Logan’s stood by the back door to the garden. His face is flushed with a mixture of alcohol and something much sadder. Bloodshot eyes sweep between where you’re standing and Dean’s sitting. You find yourself standing straighter, as if under inspection.

“Three weeks and you’re already with him?” Logan slurs, his voice thick.

Something fiercely protective within you fumes at the way Logan spits out the word him, as if any Dean’s the man that should be being judged.

Dean slowly gets to his feet, turning to face Logan. Subtly, he moves to stand slightly in front of you, partly blocking you from the intensity of Logan’s glare.

Dean looks down at you, his eyes silently asking permission to intervene. Your heart hammers against your ribs, you hope he’s not about to lose his temper and hit him again. Not here. Not now.

Despite your fears, you give him a subtle nod.

But there’s no anger in Dean’s gaze as he looks back to Logan. Just disappointment.

“Walk away, Logan. You don’t get to be jealous of someone else providing the comfort you refused to provide her with. Be a man. Deal with your mess. And approach her respectfully the next time you want to speak to her.”

Logan completely ignores him; his eyes locked entirely on you. He says your name and you feel your entire body cringe.

“Please, let’s just talk,” Logan begs. He takes a clumsy step forward, his cup sloshing alcohol over his fingers. “You never gave me a chance to explain. You blocked me, and I sent you that email, and you still didn’t respond.”

He had sent you an email but you hadn’t given it the time of day. If Logan thinks a couple of piss poorly written paragraphs is enough to claim he was fighting for you, he is surely mistaken.

Dean looks back down at you, analysing the impact of Logan’s words on you. You’re looking at the floor, now scared that you might lose your temper and hit him.

“Can you please just look at me?”

You force your chin up, meeting his bloodshot eyes.

“I know I messed up,” his voice cracks. “I… it was… the adrenaline. From the game. My head was messed up. I never wanted to break up with you. It’s just… I was in my head and I said things I never should have said. I’ll do whatever I can to fix this, please.”

It’s easier to look at him now, any feelings of guilt completely vanish.

“You said things you never should have said,” you repeat. “Not things that you didn’t mean. So, if I hadn’t asked, you would have been content to continue giving me the bare minimum. To continue to use me?”

Dean stays silent but wraps his hand around your wrist again, his grip is grounding.

Logan flinches, his mouth opening and closing. “I can fix it. I’ll do better next time. I miss waking up next to you, I miss the way you laughed at my jokes, I miss how safe you made me feel. Let me fix this.”

You stare at him in disbelief. Even the things he misses about you are entirely self-serving. He misses how you served his ego. Dean has done more for you in the past few weeks than Logan’s done in months, but Dean’s the one you’re doubting the feelings exist for.

You step out from behind Dean’s shoulder. “There’s nothing left to fix.”

Logan looks as if you’ve physically slapped him, you wish you had. “So, that’s it then? Just like that?”

His voice rises, in anger, in desperation, you don’t care enough to figure it out. You look around the garden, none of the other students seem to be paying attention.

“What do you want me to say, Logan? I don’t believe you. I don’t trust you. You only care about me now because you’re lonely.”

Logan takes a step back, alcohol sloshing. “No, that’s not true. I love you. You know I do.”

You suppose, in his way, maybe he does love you. But it’s not good enough.

“Yeah, and I loved you,” you say, and you’ve never sounded so cold in your life. “Let’s go, Dean.”

You rest your hand on Dean’s forearm, pulling him towards the door.

Logan looks down at where you’re holding Dean. A bitter sneer twists his face. “I knew it. You’ve been waiting for this. Waiting for me to make a mistake so you could take my girl. What ever happened to loyalty, Di Laurentis?”

A self-pitying laugh escapes your lips before Dean can even respond. “Loyalty? Coming from the guy who broke up with his girlfriend because he’s secretly in love with his best friend’s girlfriend? Please be serious.”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. You blame the alcohol you had consumed earlier.

Dean stiffens beneath your touch. His head snaps to look down at you, his jaw dropping slightly. You still haven’t told him the full story. Well, until now.

Logan’s face drains of colour, and you do feel a little bad. You didn’t want this to get out.

You make a mental note to yourself to beg Dean not to pass this on to Garrett or confront Logan about. This isn’t worth breaking up the team.   

You don’t give either of them a chance to say another word. Your heart is beating too fast and you need to get out of here.

Neither of you speak as you drag Dean through the side entrance to the garden and down the path. You walk until you’re a little away from the party, and breathe a sigh of relief. You did it, you faced Logan and came out, relatively, unscathed.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks. “Is your mind running?”

You laugh. Running is an understatement. Your mind is in chaos right now, but you feel euphoric.

“What do you want to do? Do you want me to take you home?”

You take a deep breath, the cold air hitting your lungs. “No,” you say, looking up at him. “I want to take a minute to compose myself, then we’re going back in. I want to dance and drink and laugh.”

Dean’s smile is large and proud. “Then that’s what you shall have.”

Minutes later, as you dance your way back into the party and to your group of friends, you breathe another sign of relief.

The bruises on your heart may still be healing, but as the music washes over you, you know you aren’t drowning anymore, you’re floating and you can see the shore ahead.

And even if you were still drowning, you look up at Dean, who’s dancing next to you, and you know you’re not in this alone.  

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𝟎𝟏 . 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐊

release date : 5/06/2026 ; word count : 4,3 k

𝟎𝟐 . 𝐌𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒

release date : 6/06/2026 ; word count : 11,6k

𝟎𝟑 . 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐎

release date : tbd ; word count : N/A

𝟎𝟒 . 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒

release date : tbd ; word count : N/A

𝟎𝟓 . 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄

release date : tbd ; word count : N/A

𝟎𝟔 . 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃𝐒, 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐒 & 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐏

release date : tbd ; word count : N/A

𝟎𝟕 . 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

release date : tbd ; word count : N/A

𝟎𝟖 . 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆

release date : tbd ; word count : N/A

𝟎𝟗 . 𝐄𝐋𝐌𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊

release date : tbd ; word count : N/A

𝟏𝟎 . 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬 : 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝟏𝟏 . 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬 : 𝐜𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦

Out of the roughly 15,000 men at the school, 300 being athletes, 30 of them on the hockey team, and she had to fall for the one guy she absolutely could not have feelings for. Out of every guy in the school, out of every team, she had to have feelings for Garrett Graham. Her best friend's boyfriend. Hannah’s well deserved happy ending. 

It started small, laughing at his jokes a second too long. Watching him without realizing. Noticing things like how he always held Hannah’s hand like it was automatic, like it was easy. That’s what made it worse, it was easy for them. 

So y/n made rules, very strict rules: Don't be alone with Garrett, don’t stare at Garrett.

Rules she broke every single day.

The more she tried not to think about him, the more her brain insisted on betraying her. Which was how she ended up pacing her dorm room at 10:30 at night while Allie sat cross-legged on her bed like a therapist who had not consented to this job.

“I’m telling you,” Allie said slowly, “this is total avoidance behaviour.”

“I’m not avoiding anything,” Y/n snapped, “I don’t even like Garrett like that.”

Allie gave her a look.

Y/n added quickly, “He’s Hannah’s boyfriend. Obviously I don’t like him like that.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Y/n grabbed her water bottle like it could physically defend her from this conversation. “This is insane. Even if I did like anyone I’m too busy for a relationship. I have midterms. I have—”

“You have a crush,” Allie said simply.

“I do not—”

“And Logan has a crush on Hannah.”

That stopped her. The room went quiet in a way that felt like something clicking into place, whether she wanted it to or not.

Y/n exhaled sharply. “That’s unfortunate for him.”

“It’s unfortunate for both of you when you’re both suffering in silence like idiots.”

“I’m not suffering,” Y/n muttered.

Allie raised an eyebrow. 

Y/n stared at the ceiling for a long moment. “…Okay, fine. Slightly suffering.”

“Thank you.”

The problem wasn’t just the feelings. It was the situation. Hannah and Garrett were solid. Happy. Loudly in love in a way that made it impossible to ignore. No matter how bad you wanted too. And John Logan, he was not her problem. John Logan was never her problem. John Logan had loud opinions, hockey arrogance, and the most irritatingly observant person she had ever met.

And yet. 

Allie stood up. “Talk to him.”

“I am not talking to John Logan.”

“You literally might be the only two people on campus who haven’t acknowledged this dynamic.”

“There is no dynamic.”

Allie rolled her eyes, “You’re both exhausting”. Then she left Y/n alone with her thoughts, which was honestly worse.

She didn’t plan to go to Logan’s room. It just… happened, like her feet had given up waiting for her brain to catch up. She knocked once, then immediately questioned every life choice she had ever made. The door swung open, Logan looked at her like she had interrupted something important.

“What did you do?” he asked immediately. 

“Hi to you too.” Y/n didn’t even hesitate before walking past him into the room like she belonged there. “I might have implied to Allie that we’re seeing each other.” 

Logan closed the door slowly, like if he moved too fast reality would break and he’d get arrested by consequence itself. “Why would you do that?”

“Because we both have crushes on people we shouldn't and this is easier than admitting anything. I’m pretty sure it’s an avoidance technique.”

That made him pause. A beat. Then, flatly: “Right.” Logan stared at her for a long second, like he was trying to decide if she was a prank or a threat. Then he laughed, once, sharp, disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

“Probably.” she sighed, “but, you're the one who agreed to talk to me alone at night.”

“I didn’t agree to anything. You showed up in my room.”

“Yeah, but you didn't ask me to leave. That sounds like consent-adjacent language.”

“Don’t use legal terms you don’t understand.”

She dropped onto his bed like it had personally invited her. “Anyway, it’s fine. We just keep it going for a bit and they’ll leave us alone.”

Silence stretched, then Logan exhaled, like he was stepping off a cliff he’d already decided he was too tired to climb back up from. “Fine.”

She hesitated. “You’re actually agreeing?”

“I’m agreeing under one condition.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes. “Of course you are.”

“Don’t fall in love with me while pretending to date me.”

That should’ve been her first warning. “Obviously…. What makes you think I would?" 

Logan leaned back against his desk, completely calm in a way that made her suspicious. Y/n stared at him for a long moment.

“Okay,” she said finally, dragging the word out like she was stepping into traffic. “New rules.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “We didn’t have rules”

“Of course we did. Now we have new ones.”

He gestured for her to continue.

She pointed between them. “Rule one: we agree on what we’re telling people before we start… whatever this is.”

“Fair.”

“Rule two: no improv. We discuss things”

“That’s going to be hard for me.”

“Of course it will be.” She rolled her eyes.

He nodded slowly. “And?”

Y/n hesitated, then added, “Rule three: if we’re going to sell this, we need to stop acting like we hate each other.”

Logan tilted his head. “Do we hate each other?”

She opened her mouth. Paused. “...I’m currently undecided.”

That got a quiet laugh out of him. “Alright,” he said. “So what’s the story?”

Y/n leaned back in the chair, thinking. “People already think I’m into Garrett. So we flip it.”

Logan frowned. “Flip it how?”

“We make it obvious I’m not interested in him anymore.”

“And I’m your distraction?”

She looked at him. “You’re my cover.”

Then Logan nodded slowly. “And Hannah?”

Y/n hesitated for half a second too long.

Logan noticed, of course he did. Then he said, quieter, “We keep it separate.”

“Yeah,” she agreed quickly. “Separate.”

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t as sharp this time. Logan pushed off the desk. “So. We’re selling a fake relationship to shut people up about real feelings we don’t want to deal with.”

Y/n pointed at him. “Don’t make it sound like that.”

“That’s what it is.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You already agreed.”

“I’m aware.”

A pause. Then Logan stepped closer—not enough to crowd her, just enough to make her look up at him.

“So,” he said, voice lighter again, “what’s our public image?”

Y/n studied him for a moment. Then, slowly: “We act like you’re obsessed with me.”

Logan’s mouth twitched. “That’s believable.”

“And I tolerate you.”

“Even more believable.”

“And we make everyone else uncomfortable enough to stop asking questions.”

Logan nodded once. “That part I can do.”

Y/n stood up, finally feeling the weird, shaky edge of what they were doing settle into something structured.

“Good,” she said. “Because starting tomorrow, we’re in a relationship.”

Logan looked at her like that sentence meant something entirely different than she intended. Then he smirked. “Yeah,” he said. “We are.”

The next week was hell. And also, unfortunately, a little fun. They didn’t tell anyone at first. There was no announcement, no official “we are now fake dating” press release. It was just… something they started doing. Like a habit they couldn’t explain and didn’t bother correcting. A hand at her waist in the hallway—casual, like it belonged there. Logan steering her through crowds without asking. A glance held just a second too long when someone said his name. Y/n laughing at something he said that wasn’t even that funny, because the way he was looking at her made it impossible not to. And people noticed, of course they did.

It started small. 

Dean was the first to notice it, he stopped mid-step in the living room, eyes bouncing between them as Logan handed Y/n her coffee without looking away from her face.

“Did I miss something,” Dean said slowly, “or are you two suddenly… tolerable to each other?”

Y/n choked on her drink.

Logan didn’t even blink. “We’ve always been tolerable.”

“No,” Tucker cut in immediately, squinting like he was trying to solve a crime. “This feels weird.”

“It’s called growth,” Y/n said too quickly.

“It’s called suspicious,” Tucker corrected.

Logan leaned back against the counter, arm brushing Y/n’s in a way that felt far too intentional for something that was supposed to be “just acting.” “You guys are weirdly invested in our relationship.”

Dean pointed at them. “You just said ‘our relationship’ like it’s normal.”

“It is normal,” Logan said.

Y/n nodded a little too fast. “Extremely normal.”

No one believed them. Which, unfortunately, was the goal.

The first real test came in the hallway outside Y/n’s lecture. She was mid-sentence, complaining about her professor, when Logan appeared behind her without warning and slid his hand to her waist like it had always been there. Her brain stalled, not her body, though, because that part reacted instantly. Because Logan was close—too close for someone who was technically just a fake boyfriend. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him through her hoodie. Close enough that if she turned her head slightly, her mouth would be inches from his jaw.

“You’re late,” she said, but it came out weaker than intended.

“Am I?” he replied, glancing down at her like he was amused that she thought she could be in charge of anything here.

“Yes.”

“Then I guess you should’ve left without me.”

“I don’t need you to walk me to class.”

His hand tightened slightly at her waist—not possessive, just… anchoring.

“I know,” he said simply. “But you like it.”

That should’ve been said lightly. It wasn’t. Y/n looked up at him too quickly. Logan’s expression didn’t change. But his eyes did something subtle—something that made her forget what she was about to say.

“You’re getting cocky,” she muttered.

“I’ve always been cocky.”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Because the answer was: like you know exactly what you’re doing to me right now.

Instead, she said, “Like people are watching.”

At that, Logan glanced around the hallway. A few students were definitely watching.

Good.

He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping just enough to feel like it belonged only to her.

“Let them.”

Y/n’s pulse jumped, traitorously. Then Logan stepped back like nothing had happened, hand sliding from her waist slowly—deliberately—before he gestured toward her classroom.

“After you.”

She walked past him on autopilot, fully aware of two things: 

One, everyone had definitely noticed.

Two, Logan had absolutely enjoyed that more than necessary.

By midweek, it had gotten worse. And by worse, she meant: Logan had stopped pretending there was a line at all. He’d started sitting closer. Standing closer. Looking at her like he was constantly in the middle of deciding something he hadn’t told her about.

And Y/n—infuriatingly—was reacting. Not loudly or obviously, but enough.

Enough that when Logan brushed his thumb over her knuckles during a group study session, she forgot what she was saying mid-sentence.

Enough that when he leaned down behind her to grab her textbook and his chest pressed lightly against her back, she sat completely still until he moved away.

Enough that Allie, watching from across the room, slowly closed her laptop and said, “Yeah, this is fake my ass.”

Y/n nearly threw a pen at her.

The worst moment came on a Thursday night. They were alone in Logan’s room again—something that was starting to happen far too often to still feel accidental. Y/n was sitting on the edge of his bed, pretending to read while Logan paced in front of her like a problem that refused to sit still.

“We need consistency,” he said.

“In what?”

“In how we act in front of people.”

Y/n didn’t look up. “We’re already consistent.”

“No,” Logan said. “Sometimes you avoid me. Sometimes you look like you want to argue. Sometimes you look like—” He stopped.

Y/n finally glanced up. “Like what?”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly. “Like you’re not pretending.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and sharp.

Y/n closed her book slowly. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

Logan didn’t answer right away, he stopped pacing and turned toward her.

“Is it?”

That did something to her stomach.

She hated that it did.

“It’s a fake relationship,” she said carefully. “We’re supposed to be convincing.”

Logan nodded slowly. “Right,” he said.

But he didn’t sound convinced, he stepped closer to her until he stopped just in front of her.

“You know what the problem is?” he asked quietly.

Y/n swallowed. “What.”

“You’re good at this.”

“Good at what?”

“Pretending,” he said.

Her heart kicked once, hard.

“That’s not a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

That didn’t annoy her like it should have, Instead, she stood up slowly, forcing space between them that she immediately regretted.

“Maybe you’re just bad at it,” she said.

Logan’s eyes flicked down to her mouth for half a second, then back up.

“Maybe I stopped trying.”

The air changed, not dramatically, but enough that she felt it everywhere. 

“Logan,” she warned softly.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Don’t what?”

She didn't answer, she couldn't. There were too many possible endings to that sentence. Logan stepped closer again anyway, slower this time. Giving her every chance to stop him. She didn't move away though. That was her mistake, or maybe it wasn't. 

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

Y/n exhaled, shaky. “You’re supposed to be pretending.”

“I know.”

Another step closer.

“I am pretending,” he added. His hand came up—not touching her yet. Just hovering near her waist like he remembered exactly where it usually went. “And you’re not making it easy.”

That made her laugh once, breathless. “That’s your excuse?”

“No,” he said. “That’s the problem.” Then his hand finally settled at her waist again. Like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there.

Y/n’s voice came out softer than she meant it to.

“This is a bad idea.”

Logan’s expression flickered—something honest breaking through the control.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them fixed it.

Instead, Logan leaned in just slightly—not enough to kiss her, not yet—but enough that she could feel the shift in everything unsaid between them.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured, “we’re going to have to convince them harder.”

Y/n let out a shaky breath. “Harder?”

His thumb brushed lightly against her side. “Yeah,” he said. “Because I don’t think anyone believes us anymore.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“Especially not me.”

And that was the moment Y/n realized the lie wasn’t what was getting dangerous anymore. It was how easily it was starting to feel like the truth.

It wasn’t until a Friday night party at the hockey house that everything shattered. Y/n had lost track of Logan somewhere between music and bodies and the kind of laughter that made everything feel blurry. Then she saw him.

On the balcony.

With Hannah.

Her stomach dropped so fast it felt like falling. She couldn’t hear them, but she saw enough.

Logan’s hands in his pockets. Hannah laughed softly. The kind of moment that didn’t belong to anyone else.

Y/n turned away before she could think, she only made it two steps before a hand caught her wrist. Not harsh, but certain she wasn't going to run away. She turned, Logan.

“Hey,” he said over the noise. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” she said quickly. “I just—forgot something.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

He studied her face. Too closely. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing.”

“Running.”

Y/n scoffed. “I don’t run.”

Logan raised an eyebrow.

She sighed. “Fine. Avoiding.”

His grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go. “It’s not what you think.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That made her pause, the noise of the party faded a little, like the world had decided to give them a pocket of silence.

Y/n swallowed. “You were with her.”

“I was talking to her.”

“That’s worse,” she muttered before she could stop herself.

Logan blinked. Then something shifted in his expression. “…You think I like her.”

Y/n didn’t answer fast enough.

That was answer enough.

Logan let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You really think I’ve been doing all of this for Hannah?”

“I don’t know what to think,” she said honestly.

A pause.

Then Logan stepped closer.

“You think I’ve been doing this because I want someone else?”

Her breath caught slightly. “We’re not actually dating.”

His eyes flicked down to her mouth for half a second before snapping back up.

“No,” he said quietly. “We’re not.”

Then, softer: “But I didn’t start this to get closer to her.”

Y/n’s voice barely worked. “Then why?”

Logan hesitated.

For the first time since she had met him, he looked unsure, “Because you were easier to think about than her.”

Silence hit like a wave.

Y/n stared at him. “That makes no sense.”

“It does,” he said. “You just don’t want it to.”

Her heart was doing something deeply offensive.

“This was about me?” she whispered.

Logan exhaled like he was giving up. “At some point, yeah.”

That was the moment everything tilted.

Because suddenly she wasn’t thinking about Garrett anymore, she wasn’t thinking about Hannah, she was thinking about Logan’s hand still on her wrist.

Thinking about how he hadn’t let go, how close he was, how she wanted him this close.

“…This is a bad idea,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, probably.” Logan agreed.

Neither of them moved.

Then Y/n, barely audible:

“We’re still fake dating.”

That made him pause.

Then he smiled, small and real.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, finally looking up at him properly. “But you’re doing it wrong.”

“Oh?”

“You forgot the part where you’re supposed to kiss me in front of people.”

Logan’s expression shifted—something softer breaking through the sarcasm.

“Is that so.”

Y/n nodded once. “Commitment, right?”

For a second, he didn’t move.

Then he leaned in.

Slow.

Like he was giving her every chance to stop him.

She didn’t.

The kiss wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just real in a way their fake relationship had never been.

When they pulled back, Logan rested his forehead lightly against hers.

“So,” he murmured. “Still think I like Hannah?”

Y/n let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“No,” she admitted.

A pause.

“I think you like me.”

Logan smiled against her.

“Finally,” he said. “Took you long enough.”

And for the first time, Y/n’s story didn’t feel cursed.

It felt like it was finally hers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Standing there was John Logan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, it clicked.

The quad. Last Monday.

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

John Logan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If it was safe, it wouldn’t be fun.

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

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

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

Logan’s head had turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waking up most mornings was hard, but waking up in the mornings after your break up with Logan feels next to impossible.

Every morning, you wake up aching. It’s a pain that infiltrates your dreams and has you waking up feeling like a weight has been placed on your chest. Your body reacts before your mind is even fully awake. When the grogginess fades, you feel like you go through every emotion on the spectrum but also, somehow, no emotion. Just hollowness.

Your dorm is too quiet; you were used to waking up to the sounds of hockey boys who didn’t know the meaning of inside voice. Now, the only sounds you hear are the sobs that tumble through your lips when you’re trying to cry silently.

Your room smells too clean; you were used to waking up to Tucker’s cooking or burnt toast when Logan got there first. Now, you wake up smelling the new room diffuser you brought, it wasn’t even a scent that you liked. It just had to be different. Familiar scents made you think of Logan. And cry.

Your body is too cold; you were used to waking up with arms wrapped around you. Now, you wake up clinging to a pillow, desperately trying to recreate the warmth you once felt.

You suppose you’ll have to learn to live like this. It’s been two days. You haven’t woken up to find that this was all one big nightmare. This is your reality now, even if your mind and body were trying to fight against it.

You flinch when your phone buzzes with another notification. It could be Logan, texting to try and explain the unexplainable. Your stomach flips violently, a sensation you’ve become all too accustomed to these days.

With two deep sighs, you force yourself up to sit. Your eyes are swollen, and a dull, familiar throbbing instantly starts behind your left eye. You look over to the nightstand and see the ice-pack and painkillers that Dean had pressed into your hands the other night when he dropped you back at your dorm. “It’s for the headaches,” he had told you, voice soft and deliberate. “Make sure you don’t take these on an empty stomach.” He was firm then.  

In the last 48 hours, you had cried so much that your throat was raw. Sometimes no tears would come out, no sound would come out, your body just convulsing in the loneliness of your room. The headaches were always the worst then, and you find yourself grateful for Dean’s forward thinking.

Today won’t be like yesterday, you promise yourself. Today, you’ll do more than just cry the day away.

You rise slowly and walk over to your bathroom. The only benefit to the tears is the wonders it does for your skin, you think as you look in the mirror. You brush your teeth and have a quick breakfast, speed running basic tasks to get the over with.

Sitting down at your desk, you open your laptop. You have assignments to do, a future to build. You refuse to let a boy that didn’t know how to be a man to be the reason why you fail.

You don’t get up from your laptop until the sun sets outside. You didn’t expect you’d get lost in your assignments the way you had, but you’re not complaining. The closer to the end of the day it gets, the closer to the time where you can claim you hadn’t cried in an entire day. That’s progress.

Deciding to take a shower, you put a shower cap on and drag your feet into the bathroom. The moment the hot spray hits your back, the tension in your muscles seems to melt away. The water feels like a caress on your skin, wrapping around you and spreading warmth. The first warmth you’ve felt in days.

Still wrapped in your towel, you sit on the edge of your bed. Dressing always feels like such a chore.

Your phone vibrates again. The feeling in your stomach flips less violently this time. With all you’ve accomplished today, the crushing weight of the last couple of days feels like it’s lifting, if only slightly. You’re left craving connection. Not with Logan, you’re sure of that, but you do want to talk to someone.

Picking your phone up with shaky hands, you unlock it and immediately feel a wave of nausea hit you. You look at the phone app icon… 20 missed calls. You look at the messaging app icon… over 100 unread texts.

You scroll down your contact list until your thumb hovers over Dean’s name. He had told you to text him when you were ready and he wasn’t the kind of guy to say something he didn’t mean. Your fingers shake as you type the most vulnerable messages you ever have.

You (20:46): hey :) You (20:46): i'm sorry to bother you but i could really use somebody rn. You (20:47): could i come over? but like, secretly?

Dean’s reply is instant.

Dean (20:47): Come through my window. Dean (20:47): Use the fire escape.

25 minutes later, you’re at the hockey house, standing in front of the fire escape leading to Dean’s room. The cool breeze of the night helps to calm your nerves. You had read back your message whilst getting dressed. “I could really use somebody rn” playing in your mind on repeat. You made this sound like a booty call.

You know you’re spiralling, panicking that your words have been misinterpreted, but you can’t stop your mind from racing. Does he think you’re coming here for that? Is that why he responded so quickly? Does this make you like Logan now, using people to heal your aching heart?

You consider turning back but your body feels frozen into place. You can’t go back to your dorm, that would be defeat, but you can’t bring yourself to face Dean with these thoughts in your head.

“Get a grip,” you mutter into the dimly lit path.

The sound of rustling startles you out of your thoughts. ‘Just a tree,’ you think to yourself. It’s followed by the sound of the back door opening. It’s definitely not a tree. If whoever it is comes around the corner, you’ll be spotted. You make a split-second decision, frantically climbing up the ladder.

The window is open as you climb up. Dean’s waiting for you, sat against the table under the window sill. You awkwardly fumble over the table as he guides you in.

He puts you gently on your feet and immediately steps back, dropping his hands from where they were around your waist.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.” The word comes out strained, like you’ve forgotten how to speak. It’s probably the first word you’ve spoken in two days, you realise.

As you look around his room, an undeniable feeling of tranquillity falls over you. The only light in the room is an orange-y lamp in the corner; it makes the room feel like a sunset. His room has personality, clearly lived in, but clean and organised. What kind of hockey boy kept a clean room?

It makes your mind immediately start to spiral again. Was this all for you because he thought he would be getting some? “Sorry.” Blurts out of your mouth before you can stop it.

Soft blue eyes turn to you and you look away immediately. “Hm?” Dean questions.

Your eyes fixate on his very interesting bookshelf. “I… I read back my message and think I might have led you on.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Dean’s voice remains soft. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see he’s still watching you. You feel overwhelmed.

“Just… I meant I need somebody to talk to. Not I need somebody. That’s a… different.” Rebound is the word you want to say but can’t, you don’t want to speak that idea into existence, to give him the chance to reject you.

A short laugh escapes him. He says your name with such a patience that it stirs something within you. “I know you. I know what you meant. I want to be- no, I will be here for you in whatever capacity you need. I know you need a friend, and a friend wouldn’t let you make any rash decisions fuelled by heartbreak.”

Rejection it is.

Dean doesn’t wait for you to respond, he goes to sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the mattress of his bed. He pats the space next to him. You walk over and plop down next to him. Once sat, he shifts his body weight, leaning slightly into you, shoulders brushing.

Instead of leaning away, like your mind is telling you to, you lean into him. Head resting on his shoulder and his head resting on yours. Dean doesn’t pressure you to speak and a comfortable silence falls over you both.

It’s weird. Silence before had felt so heavy and turbulent. Silence now, in Dean’s presence, feels so stable. Even your mind, which is still racing, was being nicer.

Dean’s the first one to speak, his voice low and steady, “I still don’t know the details, and it’s okay if you never want to tell me, but I want you to know that you did nothing wrong. Nothing to deserve this.”

“I know,” you whisper, it really is something you know, but it doesn’t change how it makes your heart squeeze to just think about it. “It just… hurts. Knowing he looked at me and wished I was someone else the entire time that we were together. How do you even… how could I-.”

Your bottom lip quivers, you’re determined to hold in your tears but a few stray ones betray you. You wipe them with your sleeve.

“That’s because he’s an idiot,” he whispers back, voice thick with raw emotion, “I don’t understand how anyone can have you and still ask for more. You’re…” Dean cuts himself off before he says too much. He thinks about how vulnerable you are and reminds himself that you’re only clinging to him now because you need him.  

Silence falls over you both again. The tears stop flowing eventually & the world melts away in the little protective bubble you’ve created; surrounded by the smell of Dean. In here, nothing can get to you.

He’s so close that you can feel the heat radiating from him. You imagine from this position, it would be so easy to tilt your head back and press a kiss to his jaw… you jerk your head away, you shouldn’t be encouraging your delusions.

Dean looks at you, head tilted to the side in question. In that moment, you look at him fully for the first time since you entered his room. His dyed blonde hair that usually framed his face is slicked back. His piercing blue eyes are soft as they track your eye movements over his face. His nose is perfect and his lips are… swollen… and bruised. He sees your eyes squint as you focus on his lips.

“I got into a fight at the rink,” Dean confesses quietly. His eyes drift to his hands.

“At the rink?” You repeat slowly, trying to process why he sounds this guilty about a fight. To you, hockey players fought all the time on the ice, and you not-so-secretly find it hot as hell.

“Mhm,” Dean murmurs.

Then it dawns on you, “but there’s been no game since I last saw you… who did you fight with?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Logan.”

Your breath catches and you blink a few times at him, as if that will help you process what you’ve just heard. For the life of you, you cannot understand why he’d be fighting his teammate. “Dean… you… What? Why?”

“Cause he was an ass to you.” There’s no hint of regret or shame in his voice. It must be nice to be so confident.

“Oh.” You’re silent for a moment. You can’t remember the last time someone defended you like this, took a punch in your honour.

“Are you mad?” Dean asks, he’s smiling now, looking very proud of himself.

You look at his split lip, then up into his eyes. “That depends… did you at least get a good hit in?”

Dean’s grin is full and cocky as he turns to you. “Oh, yeah.”

Eye contact with Dean always feels electric. His eyes always soften as they take you in and a small smile pulls at his lips. You always find yourself smiling right back, unable to tear your gaze away.

Even before Logan broke your heart, it has been a while since you last felt anything like this. But then, you remind yourself, you’ve seen this look on Dean a thousand times directed at a thousand different women. He’s magnetic… and just helping a friend in need.

You look away, eyes roaming over the pictures lining his walls and on his dresser. “No way, is that-.”

Dean follows your line of sight; you’re looking at a picture taken earlier in the year. You remember parts of night vividly, other parts clouded by how wasted you were; it was the first hockey party you had ever attended. You had met Dean that day in class. He was going on and on about a costume party, and your friends had convinced you to go. In the picture, Garrett, Logan, and other hockey guys you don’t recognise are in the foreground posing for the picture. In the background… you and Dean are there… doing body shots. Your tongue is shoved into his belly button.

“Oh my God, how mortifying!”

“You’re going to love this,” he jokes as he jumps to his feet and eagerly runs to the drawers. He slides the top one open, rummages through a pile of what you can only assume to be junk, and pulls out the tiara made of tinsel that you were wearing in the picture.

“Oh my god,” you groan, face falling into your hands as a flush of heat hits your cheeks. “I looked for that for ages, why do you have it!”

“I seem to recall a song that you liked came on, you wanted to dance, and I was threatened into keeping watch of it.” Memories flash into your mind. “I was told I could lose a thing between my legs that I’m very precious of, if I didn’t hold on to this for you until you asked for it back.”

Dean looks at you, you look at Dean. You do remember this. In fact, you remember having spent most of that night attached to the hip. The only time you weren’t with him laughing, drinking, or dancing, was the five minutes you spent in the bathroom.

His eyes drop to look at the tinsel tiara in his hands, then back up at you. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, contemplating what he says next. He’s trying to push your just far enough away from the negative thoughts that he can bring about a smile, but he doesn’t want to overstep. He wouldn’t take that chance now.

“You left me with a tiara and no princess.” He looks at you, measuring your reaction. It’s partly true, you and Logan had started dating shortly after that night.

You let out a breathless laugh, the pain from earlier quickly being replaced with something much lighter. “Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis,” you say, deliberately drawing out every syllable of his name. “You’ve always had my number; you could have returned my tiara at any time.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth rises into that effortless, devastatingly handsome smirk he gives when he wants to have someone wrapped around his finger. “Pretty sure Logan wouldn’t have liked me showing up at your dorm to play dress-up.”

You roll your eyes; a real laugh escapes your lips. “Oh, please, since when do you care what other guys think?” This feels… fun and what’s a bit of harmless fun between friends?

“Fair point,” Dean concedes smoothly, he has a playful glint in his eyes, “but I do care what you think and you gave me very clear instructions. I’m nothing if not a rule follower.”  

“Oh, are you?” You challenge, crossing your arms and arching an eyebrow.

“Mhm, a real do as you’re told kind of guy.” Even as he says this, he raises the crooked tinselled tiara above his head. Dean holds your gaze before slowly lowering the tinselled tiara down onto his hair. He’s challenging you right back.

Your eyes widen in fake shock. “Isn’t that like treason? Pretty sure I could have you arrested for that.”

“Well, are you going to come and arrest me then?” He challenges.

You shake your head and wag your finger at him. There’s harmless, then there’s that.

“Fine.” Dean rests the tiara on his head. There’s something so funny to you about it. He is wearing a tight tank top, his shoulder muscles and biceps bulging as he dramatically twirls around with the tiara on his head.  

“You look ridiculous,” you say between laughs. You haven’t laughed this hard in a while, it feels like you’re doing an ab workout.

“Yes, but I’m also really hot, so it cancels out.”

That makes you laugh harder. You’re trying to keep quiet; the walls aren’t that thick. But the fact that you haven’t laughed in so long is making everything 10x funnier.

Dean watches you laugh with a soft expression. His cocky grin gone. He’s missed the sound of your laugh. Looking down at you, shaking with laughter, he feels a wave of clarity hit him. He wants to tell you. He wants you to know that he’ll do anything to make you laugh and keep you laughing. If that means he needs to twirl in a sparkly tiara, he’ll do that until his feet burn.

“I need some evidence of how you stole-.”

“-Guarded.”

“Stole my tiara.”

You reach into your pocket; grabbing your phone and aiming the camera at him. He immediately goes into a body builder pose, lifting one arm above the other. He pouts and raises an eyebrow, doing his best to smoulder. You take a few snaps as he throws out a few more poses.

“The fans will love a versatile king,” he says, shaking his hair as if he was trying to sweep it out of his face, “post it.”

Dean walks back over and slides back down on the floor next to you, taking his place at your side.  

“You want me to post you?” You question, laughter still tickling you. “Look at this mess.”

You lean the phone over to him, scrolling through the pictures you took when a notification banner pops up across the top of the screen.

It’s Logan.

You don’t read the message, quickly locking the screen and slamming the phone down face-first on the floor. The mood dies immediately. Beside you, Dean’s mood changes too, he takes off the tiara and places it beside him.

It’s like you can physically feel the weight of Dean’s swallow; his jaw is tight, his mouth pressing into a tight line. “You haven’t blocked him?”

“I- no.” You have no further explanation beyond that. As your cheeks burn with embarrassment, you desperately wish you had. Dean must be thinking how pathetic you are to be holding out hope of reconciliation.

But you know, you believe, that that isn’t the reason you haven’t blocked him. You know you could never take him back after this. But a fragile part of you doesn’t want to let this go.

Deep down, you think it’s because maybe Logan will message to tell you that it was all a big, cruel, practical joke. At least then you’d get your dignity back and stop feeling so unworthy.   

Deeper down, in a place you are too scared to face, you think it’s because blocking him will bring the end to this chapter, the chapter where Briar hockey boys have a place in your life. You’re scared to burn the only bridge that connects you to them. To all of them, but especially to Dean.

“Do you want to block him?” Dean’s voice cuts through the suffocating silence. Your eyes drift over to him and you’re surprised to see no hint of judgement in him. He’s genuinely just asking.

You nod your head. You can’t speak; your tongue feels heavy in your mouth.

“Let me help you.” He reaches his hand out for your phone; you unlock it and give it to him. Closing your eyes, your head falls back against the mattress. This is exhausting. You want to pretend like this isn’t happening.

“Done,” Dean calls gently, “and I didn’t mean to snoop, but I think you should respond to your friends. Hannah, Allie, Tucker… they care about you.”

Your eyes snap open, your head lifts from the mattress, your exhaustion being replaced by sheer panic. “Tucker… Tucker messaged me? Does he know?”

Dean gives you a small, reassuring nod, handing your phone back to you. “Logan’s been scowling for days. You haven’t been around. He’s perceptive. I think he just wants to know that you’re okay and that you’re eating. None of us know the details, so don’t worry about that.”

The negative emotions within you are pushed out again, replaced by a wave of an emotion that you couldn’t place. While Logan had spent months making you feel invisible, you had a group of people behind you noticing that you weren’t around. Maybe blocking Logan wouldn’t mean burning that bridge.  

“They’re going to ask questions though,” you murmur. Your eyes seek his, looking for the sense of comfort you feel when lost in Dean’s eyes. “And I can’t- I don’t have the energy to explain.”

“Then don’t,” he says simply, eyes locked onto yours. “Tell them you’re okay, you’re with me, and you’ll talk to them tomorrow. They won’t push.”

You snort and roll your eyes. “Really? You think neither Allie or Tucker would push if I tell them I’m with you when it’s almost midnight and haven’t spoken to anyone in days?”

A low rumbling laugh comes from Dean. “Okay. Fair. They’ll probably both accuse me of kidnapping you… but you know what let them. I’m not scared of Tucker. And Allie…” He pauses, a genuine hesitation, “Okay, I’m a little scared of her but whatever. Tell them.”

Dean shrugs it off but you know for a fact he’s a least a little intimidated by Allie. Everyone is.

“Why do you want them to know we’re together so bad?”

“Because… it will help them sleep better knowing you’re okay. Knowing you’re safe.”

“True,” you respond.

A small ache forms in your chest, leaving you feeling a little defeated. Your silly little heart is trying to find romance where it isn’t. He’s being a good friend. That’s all this is.  

You shoot off two quick texts, one to your group chat with the girls and the other to Tucker. It’s the same to both: i’m okay, w Dean, talk tomorrow. Love u

“There, sent. Better now?” You say, turning off your phone and setting it down on the floor.

“I’m proud of you, I know that wasn’t easy.” You know there’s a serious, protective, side to Dean, but it always catches you off guard when he stops being the easy-going pretty boy.  

The door swings open seconds later without a curtsey knock; you jump and throw yourself against Dean’s side, hiding your face from whatever intruder it is. They can’t know you’re here.

Dean’s arm instantly comes up, half-shielding your frame.

“Tucker, close the damn door,” Dean whisper shouts, Tucker’s just standing in the doorway, chest heaving as if he’s just run up the stairs.

You look up in time to see Tucker slide in and close the door behind him with a soft click. “No, you get out and close the damn door.”

Tucker completely ignores Dean, running over and pulling you into a fierce hug, he squeezes so hard you feel breathless. “It’s really good to hear from you.” He pulls back to look at you, “Logan’s in my bad books right now, so if you want me to ‘accidentally’ check him into the boards at practice tomorrow, I absolutely can.”

A faint laugh bubbles up your throat; you would actually love to see that but you’re committed to remaining mature. “Oh, no, that’s so sweet of you but it’s ok.”

“It’s really no problem; I was planning on doing it anyway,” Tucker replies easily, flashing you a toothy smile. He pats your shoulder before standing up and walking back toward the door. “You have a lovely night, okay? And you,” he says, pointing at Dean, “behave.”

“What did I do?” Dean exclaims, raising his hands in protest, but Tucker’s already gone.

The energy Tucker brought into the room is gone now. It’s just you and Dean again, having gone through the rollercoaster of emotions you had. You lean your head back against the mattress again, your eyes slowly closing. Today has been a lot for you, an entire mountain to climb. Not all of it was bad, a faint smile ghosts your lips when you think of Dean twirling in the tiara, but the sheer weight of your emotional exhaustion has manifested into bone-deep physical exhaustion. You hope he doesn’t kick you out, the idea of falling asleep inside this house again is lulling you to sleep easily. You don’t think you could fall asleep this easily back at your dorm.  

Beside you, Dean gets up and walks over to his dresser. He quietly pulls open a drawer. When he turns back to you, he’s holding a worn-in Briar baggy shirt and some shorts. “You take the bed,” he murmurs.

Even if you wanted to argue with him, you simply don’t have the energy to. Without waiting for a response, he turns his back to you and begins pulling out a spare pillow and blanket from his closet. He remains with his back turned, so you change quickly and slide beneath his heavy duvet. The sheets smell of something so distinctly Dean and you smile as you breathe it in.

“Can I turn?” You realise you’ve just been watching his back.

“Oh! Yes, sorry.”

He places the blanket and pillow on the floor, and goes to settle down. “Absolutely not,” you say, causing him to freeze on his way down to the floor. “You’re not sleeping on the floor. We can share the bed, we’re adults.”

Dean looks up at you. Even in the dim light of the room, his eyes look like they shine. The corner of his mouth twitches, “are you sure you can keep it in your pants?”

You roll your eyes, a sleepy twitch of your lips, “are you?”

He turns off the lamp and lays down on the bed next to you, keeping a respectful distance away from you. He stays above the duvet, using the blanket to keep himself warm. You recall a good night being whispered and you’re sure you respond.  

When you next open your eyes, the room is being lit by the sun shining through the window. Dean is already awake when you wake up. He’s on his back, one arm bent behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. Sensing your movement, he turns his head to look at you.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks, voice raspy and heavy with morning.

For the first time in two days, you’re able to say you slept well.

⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆*❅‧⛸

Series Masterlist

Series Taglist:

@adrienneleclerc @littlepippilongstocking @calums-betch @b1u3c10ud @aggiespam @kmc1989 @redbag55

(I'm so sorry if I've missed you, I've taken this from the comments on Pt1. You can send me an ask if you want to be removed / added)

AN: comments, thoughts, suggestions, feedback, everything is greatly appreciated.

A week passed. Your dorm was a mess. Allie’s scripts for tonight's show lay scattered across the floor, along with extra Drunk Shakespeare posters, casting sheets, and Finn’s special drink menus. He’d called you at 2 a.m. two nights earlier, asking for help one last time. You couldn’t refuse. The next day, after class, you spent a few hours designing menus in the play’s theme.

In the meantime, you hadn’t seen anyone much. Everyone stuck to their routines. The hawks had practice. A couple of matches were planned. Finn, Allie, and Dexter were busy preparing for tonight’s Drunk Shakespeare. Hannah continued tutoring Garrett for their oral exam, which he surprisingly passed. You admired her patience. She could be an excellent teacher if she ever decided to change careers. You had considered Garrett hopeless.

The door of Allie’s room opened. She emerged in costume. You looked up, your jaw almost on the floor. She looked incredible.

“What the hell,” you muttered, standing, then sitting, then standing again, too excited to stay still. “Girl!” you shrieked, rushing to her and grabbing her arms.

Her hair was styled as always, except for a detailed pink flower crown of varying sizes. Her hair spilled over her wings. Glitter highlighted her bone structure. Her marine-blue dress hugged her curves. If you didn’t know better, she looked ready for a second dynamic duo party, this time as Flora from Winx Club. She had the look (and body).

“How—who—what—” you stammered, squeezing Allie’s arms as she laughed. “Everyone’s jaw will drop once you’re on stage,” you finally said, glancing her up and down again. She grinned, gently removing your arms, but didn’t let go of them. Narrowing her eyes, an idea popping in her head, she said, “I’ve got another dress. It’s pink, but other than that, it’s pretty similar. Want to wear it?”

It sounded like a love confession. Allie was down on one knee, except she was right in front of you, staring at you with anticipation, wondering if you’d say yes. In her hand, the perfect pink dress instead of a ring.

You nodded slowly, then faster, bouncing on your heels. “Of course I want a pink dress!” you squealed. Allie joined in. She took your hands and pulled you into her bedroom. “To the salon,” she said, voice high.

A few hours later, it was almost time for the show to start. A bright smile played on your face. To say you were excited was an understatement.

The evening air was thick. Dangerous. Disastrous. A sudden cold breeze tangled your hair and made you stumble, almost dropping Finn’s last-minute prop box, which was absolutely necessary to make his vision of ‘A Midsummer Night's Dream’ come to life.

You entered the building behind Allie. The door’s entrance almost hit you. “Thanks!” you yelled, but she didn’t hear you.

You scanned the crowd, heart pounding with a tangled mix of anticipation and dread. The person you secretly wanted to see wasn’t there, so disappointment looped in your stomach. Still, you couldn’t help yourself, and your eyes continued to search for him anyway, your breath catching every time a face popped into view.

You hated how much you cared. How desperate you looked if you could see yourself in a mirror right now, and you resented the flutter that twisted your insides at the thought of him noticing you tonight. Just as you were about to calm down, Logan’s soothing voice pulled your attention with magnetic force.

“Here, let me help you.”

Your hands were suddenly free. As you looked up, your eyes met Logan’s brown ones. You clutched your dress tighter. Suddenly aware of how much pink Allie had managed to put you. Glitter covered your shoulders, collarbone, and chest.

“Thank you,” you finally managed to say. Logan caught your gaze for half a second. Then he was swept up by an arm around his shoulder.

“Logan! Y/n! How art thee?” he asked, his voice high as he dragged Logan backstage.

Finn had impeccable timing.

You stood rooted in place, heat rising up your neck and almost matching the blush on your cheeks. Allie nudged your arm, giving you a small, knowing smile.

“Don’t combust yet,” she whispered. “You still have two hours of Shakespearean tragedy to survive.”

You snorted, but the sound was shaky. “Please forget all your lines. I want to get drunk.”

Logan laughed loudly at something Finn said. You glanced at him and your brother. Then, you looked back and placed a hand on your friend’s shoulder.

“Scrap that, I need to get drunk,” you said, begging her.

Allie grabbed your hand. Together, you made your way backstage, navigating the chaos of half-dressed students, dresses, and other costumes littered on the floor. You couldn’t help but glance back one more time, hoping that just maybe, Logan was watching you too.

Minutes had passed. The flickering lights signaled showtime. You turned to Allie and Finn and blew them an air kiss, and mouthed, “Good luck! Break a leg.”

You shuffled quickly towards your friends, who had already taken a seat. The seat next to Tucker was free, so you filled it. As you sat down, you glanced at the watermelon he was holding. “Bernado didn’t make the cut?” you asked, laughing. Besides Tucker, the two frat boys started laughing.

“Dean ate him,” he deadpanned, switching the watermelon from his left side to the side you were sitting on. You smiled back at him. “So what’s this guy’s name?” You patted the watermelon softly, like you would pat your dog back at home.

“Life’s too short to name them,” Tucker said, voice sad. You raised your brows, leaned forward to scold the blond and brunette next to him. “Shame on you,” you said. They just laughed harder.

“This seat taken?”

You glanced up and saw Logan. Smiling. At you.

It was the second time he’d startled you tonight. Hopefully, it was the last.

You shook your head slowly. “No, go ahead.”

Logan took the seat next to yours. He couldn’t help but glance at Tucker’s watermelon, about to comment, but you stopped him by touching his arm. His wonderful, muscular arm.

“Don’t,” you whispered, letting your hand linger. “It’s a sensitive topic.”

“Ah,” Logan replied, matching the tone of your voice. He leaned in and smiled his famously wide smile. “Noted.”

You caught yourself holding your breath.

Lights flickered. Dexter appeared on stage. You sighed. He explained Drunk Shakespeare: every time an actor says “line,” everyone drinks a shot.

Last year, Finn got so drunk he finished the show in darkness. Lissandra, then a senior, fell off the stage and broke her arm. Since then, Finn hadn’t been in charge of preparations or allowed near cables.

Your thoughts broke when Dean yelled Logan’s name.

You looked up. Hannah, Garrett, and Logan were on stage. Suddenly, everyone looked at you, the actors and the audience. Dean started clapping, then Beau, Tucker, and the rest soon followed. Tucker pushed you forward. An unfamiliar actor led you to the stage, holding your hand as you leaped up, clutching the veil of your dress.

“Welcome, Helena,” Dexter greeted you as you looked at him with widened eyes. He led you next to Logan, who drummed his fingers against his thigh. You leaned into him, catching the faintest trace of his woody-amber cologne. Your breath hitched just as you were about to ask, “What is happening?”

He laughed and leaned in so close his breath grazed your skin, almost brushing his lips against your ear. Almost. “We’re playing lovers.”

You gulped. His words hit you like an electric shock.

Perfect.

You glanced over at Allie, who noticed and winked at you. She hadn’t forgotten your conversation the morning after karaoke in Malone’s.

You’re going to strangle her.

The show began. It was chaos if you’d ever witnessed it. Bad accents, laughter, and a lot of shots. Allie’s monologue started fine, then shifted. She aired her relationship complaints about Sean, Shakespeare-style, to the whole audience. You clapped a hand over your mouth. “Oh my god,” you chuckled. Hannah stood beside you, mimicking you. “She’s going to call him, isn’t she?” she said.

The show flew by. The shots did too. Midway through the show, you were starting to stumble and slur your words more. Once in a while, you recognized Dean’s voice over the rest of the crowd. Always the first one to drink whenever anyone, on or offstage, called for shots. Who would have thought a Briar U Hawk would love the theatre this much?

If you asked the audience, they would have said the show belonged to you and your friends: you as Helena, Logan as Demetrius, Garrett as Lysander, and Hannah as Hermia. Each of you played one of the lovers tangled up in the Midsummer chaos, which meant you spent most of the play onstage together.

Especially Garrett and Logan. Whenever they shared the spotlight, it felt like watching two toddlers fighting over the same toy. Pure chaos. They also made it their personal mission to get everyone drunk, calling 'line' every few minutes. They got away with it, too, since the cast was too tipsy to care.

During one of your scenes, you tripped over a prop. Logan caught you, steadying you with a hand at your waist. The audience laughed, but you barely registered the sound. Their laughter was subtle, lost amid the hurricane building inside you. Logan removed his hand the moment he was sure you were steady. You sighed and ached for his hand to linger.

So distracted by your own thoughts, you didn’t notice the way his eyes traced your smile. Then he shook his head. Still smiling. Still looking. But this time, his eyes were narrowed as if he was trying to figure something out.

There was a moment. A small moment. Logan and you both broke character. He went quiet during one of his lines. Dexter was holding a cardboard with the exact words he needed to say, shaking the board vigorously, trying to get Logan’s attention.

You leaned in, consumed by the liquid you had been drinking throughout the show. “It’s literally spelled out for you,” you said quietly, laughing.

Logan turned towards you. Your faces were inches apart. Then your laughter died. The world faded. Time definitely stood still. Consumed by the moment, it felt as if the lighting crew directed all the lights onto the curly-haired boy standing next to you. Every freckle, line, and dimple suddenly visible. Like a world-class chef just served his best dish on a silver platter.

“Line!” Finn yelled, and the spell immediately broke. The two of you created more distance between you, and Logan disappeared backstage, leaving you to continue your role as Helena.

He found Allie lounging in an armchair. Her legs against the back, feet in the air as she rested her back against the armrest. “Having fun?” she called once she saw Logan heading towards the drink station. She let her head fall, following his movements with her eyes.

He breathed a laugh. “Honestly, I didn’t expect the night to go like this.” He ran a hand through his curls.

Allie pulled herself up when she felt the heat increasing in her skull. She turned towards Logan, “But are you enjoying yourself?” she asked, studying him. Logan looked up at her. Her wings had fallen a little, and their bands were now resting in the inside of her elbows.

Logan shrugged, but his eyes softened. “Yeah,” he said, “I think so.”

The last part of the show was even more unhinged. Everyone had way too many shots. And everyone was drunk, or almost over the tipsy-to-drunk point. You let yourself be led by the chaos. Enjoying every second of it. Hannah and Garrett’s flirtatious banter. Finn and Allie’s fight for the spotlight.

Logan’s hand accidentally found yours during a scene switch. Your fingers brushed, lingering. You quickened your steps to hide behind a corner offstage. He continued the scene, reading out his line from the cardboard. You closed your eyes, leaning against the wall, listening to his voice. You stayed there for the duration of the rest of the show. Not needed anymore for the play's conclusion.

When the final bow came, Hannah, Garrett, Logan, and you were brought back onto the stage. All the other students in the play joined, including Finn, Dexter, and Allie. You all held hands, bowed towards the audience, clapped, and yelled. Coming back up, you stumbled, quickly catching yourself. Logan, standing next to you, hovered his hand over your lowered back and leaned down.

“Easy there.” Logan’s voice was gentle as he steadied you. You met his eyes, warmth spreading through you, and managed a soft, "Thanks."

“Yo rockstars, come here!” Dean yelled, calling out for all of you. Immediately, you turned towards the direction his voice came from, spotting Dean, Tucker, and Beau at the same spot you left them before the show started. With a grin, you led the way to your friends. Garrett and Hannah trailed behind, followed by Finn and Allie. Logan hung back, watching all of you.

You spun into Beau’s arms, laughing as he twirled you. “Who knew little Bambi looked so good as a fairy?” he teased, and you ducked your head, cheeks burning. Logan watched you laugh at Beau’s words, a pang in his chest. He shook his head, forcing a smile, joining the others just in time for Allie to drag you into a photo. She forced her phone into Finn’s hands and asked him to take a picture of her, Hannah, and you.

After Finn snapped two pictures, Beau and Dean joined. Dean towered over Allie. Beau loosely let his arms hang over your shoulders. Logan’s smile faltered, noticing how Beau’s arms were inches away from your breasts. His stomach plummeted as if he had just stepped off the ledge of the stage, faceplanting the ground.

And just like that, his eyes widened. Not exactly, but it felt like they did. As if they were about to bulge out of his sockets at any moment. His heart beat faster. His breathing quickened.

He took a glance at Hannah, standing between you and Allie. She was laughing at Dean’s antics, and he couldn’t help but notice the way she took every opportunity to look at Garrett. Her eyes lit up every time he looked back. Her hand brushed his arm. Logan glanced at the ground. He realized his breathing was steady again. He didn’t feel like throwing up whenever Hannah and his best friend smiled at each other. Relief bloomed in his chest, and Logan learned he was happy for them.

The afterparty exploded into a night of nightlife. Music thumped through the speakers. Sweat and bodies packed tightly together on the madeshift dance floor. Logan found himself searching the crowd for you, throat aching, heart pounding as he’d just sprinted laps at the rink. As if he were deprived of air and you were the oxygen he so desperately sought.

You drifted from group to group until you found yourself beside Beau. He leaned close, his shoulder brushing yours as you both shouted the lyrics above the music. For a while, the party faded around you. You spun during a change of beat, took a half-step back, and caught Logan’s eyes from across the crowd. It was there for a second. Then gone again, like a skipped beat or a ghost. It was so small. So quick you almost forgot it happened. Almost.

Logan sighed. The words from earlier echoed in his head: “Lysander, keep thy Hermia. I will none. If e'er I loved her, all that love is gone. My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourned, And now to Helen is it home returned, There to remain.”

And maybe. Just maybe. Logan found himself in a similar pickle as Demetrius did in tonight’s play. And it was only just the beginning.  

fainting had always been a little bit inconvenient.

not dramatic enough to be cinematic, not predictable enough to properly prepare for - just inconvenient in the kind of way that slowly embeds itself into every aspect of your life until you stop noticing how abnormal it actually is. It all started in high school, the first time it happened was arguably horrifying- 3rd period math class, and your crush had just offered you a pen and flashed you a crooked smile. Your heart raced, like a hummingbird wild and erratic and before you knew it, one minute you were bashfully giggling at his jokes about quadratic equations- the next you were face first in your notebook. The doctors told you Vasovagal Syncope, which in your opinion sounded like a hard metal rock band, but you took their blood pressure medicines from that day onwards. 

Over time, you learnt how to live with it. Sometimes it was manageable. Sometimes it was just dizziness and blurry vision making you sit down on the nearest surface before your body decided to humble you publicly. Sometimes it was waking up to panicked faces hovering over you while you tried to convince everyone around you that no, seriously, this happened all the time.

which, unfortunately, was true.

Allie and Hannah learned the quickest, being roommates would do that to you. The boys learned soon after. By junior year, there was practically a system in place for it - water bottles shoved into your hands, someone grabbing your bag before you hit the floor, Garrett texting Logan before you were even fully conscious again.

Logan, however, never quite adjusted to it the way everyone else did.

he tried to.

God, he tried.

but there was something uniquely horrifying about loving someone whose body could go slack in your arms without warning. Something deeply unsettling about the way you always laughed it off afterwards, brushing it aside with flushed cheeks and a quiet, "I'm okay,” while his heart was still somewhere near his throat.

because to you, fainting was normal.

to John Logan, it never would be.

But here are the two times he dealt with it..somewhat normally. And the one time he didn’t

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟏

The library at Briar had a very specific kind of silence.

Not actual silence - that would’ve been impossible considering half the student population seemed physically incapable of existing without aggressively whispering every thought that crossed their mind - but the sort of hushed atmosphere that made every dropped pen sound like a gunshot.

You were currently trying very hard not to contribute to that atmosphere by murdering John Logan with a highlighter.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Logan muttered from across the table, long legs nudging yours beneath it.

You didn’t look up from your notes, underlining a sentence in your physiology textbook hard enough to nearly tear the page. “Because,” You whispered sharply, “you’ve tapped your foot against mine for the last fifteen minutes.”

“That’s because my feet are freezing.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“It became my problem when you shoved your icy ass converse under my legs.”

A snort came from beside you. Hannah quickly disguised it as a cough when you glared at her over your laptop screen.

Across from her, Garrett looked deeply unbothered by the entire interaction, lazily flipping a page in his philosophy textbook while Hannah slowly collapsed into silent laughter against his shoulder.

“You two are disgusting,” Allie informed you quietly from the end of the table.

You blinked. “We’re literally studying.”

Logan hummed beside you, not even pretending to pay attention to the stats worksheet in front of him anymore, “Yeah baby, real filthy behaviour.”

Heat crawled up your neck instantly.

The word baby wasn’t exactly new. Logan had been throwing it around for months now, slipping it into conversations with such casual ease that you’d stopped reacting outwardly somewhere around week three, despite the fact every single time still felt like someone plugging your nervous system directly into a live wire.

“You’re staring again,” You muttered.

“I’m allowed to stare at my girlfriend.”

Allie gagged dramatically.

“Oh my god,” She whispered loudly, “he’s gotten even more annoying.”

“Impossible,” Hannah replied solemnly.

Garrett barely glanced up from his book. “Give it a week. They’ll become one organism.”

“We already basically are,” Logan said casually.

You finally looked up at him then.

That was the problem with Logan. The reason you’d fallen for him so spectacularly despite your better judgement.

He said things like that so easily. Like it was obvious.

obviously he’d started keeping protein bars in his backpack because you forgot to eat when you were stressed. obviously he waited outside your exam halls even when he had practice. obviously your legs ended up over his lap every time you sat together for longer than ten minutes.

Your chest tightened softly.

And because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating you whenever you got too emotionally comfortable, your vision blurred slightly at the exact same moment.

You frowned. That was… inconvenient timing.

The words on your laptop screen swam for half a second before sharpening again. Your heartbeat fluttered unpleasantly.

Not enough to panic over yet. You subtly shifted in your seat, rolling your neck and readjusting your posture- hoping to god that it would be enough, trying to ignore the familiar lightheadedness curling at the edges of your body.

“Hey.”

Logan’s voice dropped quieter instantly.

You looked over.

His brows had pulled together slightly, eyes scanning your face with terrifying precision.

“How long?” He asked softly.

Damn him.

Most people didn’t notice until you were actively halfway unconscious.

“I’m okay,” You whispered automatically.

A look crossed his face. Because he knew that tone. Knew what it meant when you said I’m okay in that specific careful voice. Your boyfriend leaned back slightly in his chair, completely ignoring the fact that Garrett was now openly watching the interaction over the top of his textbook.

“When was the last time you ate?”

You blinked once.

Logan sighed immediately. “Baby.”

“I had coffee?”

Allie dropped her pen onto the table. “Oh my god.”

“You can’t survive on caffeine and academic validation,” Hannah hissed.

“I literally can though.”

“No,” Logan said flatly, “you literally cannot. That’s the whole issue.”

Despite yourself, you laughed quietly.

Wrong decision.

The movement sent dizziness crashing through you harder this time, your stomach dipping sharply as black spots burst across your vision.

Logan was moving before you could even process it properly.

One second you were upright, the next his hand was wrapped around your wrist while the other steadied your shoulder.

“Hey,” He said immediately, voice calm enough that someone who didn’t know him wouldn’t notice the tension underneath it, “look at me.”

Your body felt frustratingly floaty all of a sudden.

“I’m fine,” You murmured weakly.

“Yeah, sweetheart, that sentence is losing credibility.”

Garrett was already standing.

“I’ll get water.”

Hannah reached for your bag without needing to ask while Allie shoved your laptop aside to make room.

The horrifying thing was how practised everyone looked doing it.

Like this had become routine.

Which, unfortunately, it kind of had.

“I hate all of you,” You mumbled as Logan carefully crouched in front of your chair.

“You love us deeply,” Allie corrected.

“Stockholm syndrome maybe.”

“You literally chose to date one of them,” Hannah pointed out.

“That weakens your argument significantly,” Garrett called over his shoulder.

Logan ignored all of them.

His thumb pressed lightly against your pulse point while he watched your face with that same concentrated expression he got before hockey games. Like he could somehow prevent your body from betraying you if he paid enough attention.

Your chest ached.

“Hey,” You whispered softly once your vision finally started stabilising again.

Logan looked up immediately.

You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing against the crease between his eyebrows. The tension sitting there.

“I’m okay.”

He closed his eyes for half a second. Then he turned his head slightly and pressed a quick kiss into the centre of your palm before standing back up.

The library collectively chose that exact moment to become aware of the fact that the hockey team’s second line centre was looking at you like you personally held his heart hostage.

“Oh my god,” Allie whispered dramatically.

Hannah looked emotional.

Garrett looked disgusted.

“Suddenly we’re all trapped in a Nicholas Sparks novel,” he muttered.

Logan didn’t even glance away from you.

“Shut up,” He said absentmindedly, still watching your face carefully, “she almost passed out.”

“I did not almost pass out.”

“That’s not medically valid.” Logan shot.

You flicked his forehead, “You’re not medically valid,” 

You stared at him for two seconds before bursting into startled laughter.

And just like that, some of the fear eased out of his shoulders.

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟐

The thing about the hockey house was that it never really felt like anyone was visiting it.

It felt like everyone was always a part of this little ecosystem, even if half of them technically still had their own places and the other half only owned two plates and a concerning number of energy drinks that nobody could fully account for.

Tonight was one of those nights where everything blurred into something almost domestic in a way you loved. Garrett and Hannah were folded into each other on the armchair in the corner, Hannah scrolling absently while Garrett spoke over her shoulder in low, easy comments about something on his screen that she kept pretending not to care about but clearly did. 

Dean and Allie were on the floor near the coffee table, Allie leaning against him in that casual way that somehow always ended with her stealing his hoodies and Dean acting like he was personally offended by affection while still adjusting her position when she shifted too much.

And then there was Tucker, occupying the remaining space like a problem nobody had successfully solved yet, talking at a volume that suggested he had forgotten walls existed.

You were on the couch.

Logan was on the couch too, your legs resting across his lap, your head resting on the back of the couch. His hand had found your ankle at some point during the evening and had simply stayed there, like it had decided that was where it belonged and saw no reason to reconsider.

“Have you eaten today?,” Logan murmured into your ear, not looking up from his phone.

You didn’t look away from the conversation Dean was having with Allie about whether cereal could be classified as a personality trait. “Hmm?”

“Did you eat today baby?” He dropped his phone into his lap and caressed your hair.

“I think so.”

A pause.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It does if you really think about it.”

Hannah glanced over from the armchair. “She’s lying.”

“I am not lying.”

Garrett didn’t look up. “You had toast and emotional distress.”

“I had toast and a very normal amount of stress.”

Logan’s thumb pressed lightly against your ankle once, absent and automatic, but his attention had shifted to you properly now. Not fully concerned yet, but already recalibrating the room around your answer the way he always did when he thought something might be off.

“Baby,” he said quietly, like it was a habit more than a warning.

You finally turned your head slightly toward him. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“You’re absolutely starting something.”

Across the room, Allie made a sound of exaggerated disgust without even looking up. “I can feel the health lecture forming.”

Dean nodded. “It’s in the air.”

Logan ignored them completely. “You said you had toast this morning.”

“I did.”

“And then what.”

You hesitated.

Which was apparently answered enough.

Hannah sighed. “Oh my god.”

“I had coffee,” you admitted finally, because there was no point pretending anymore.

Garrett closed his eyes briefly like he was praying for patience. “That’s not food.”

“It has beans in it.”

“That’s not how nutrition works,” Logan said, though his voice was still calm, still even, like he was trying very hard not to make it into a bigger thing than it already was.

You shifted your legs slightly on his lap, rolling your eyes. “You’re all obsessed with me.”

“Yes,” Allie said immediately.

“That’s not-”

“Yes,” Dean repeated, “we are.”

You opened your mouth to concede and hop to the kitchen, go grab whatever tucker had made and stored in the fridge, but the words didn’t come out as smoothly as they should have.

It wasn’t immediate. It never was, much to your annoyance. It was subtle in the way your body always was about these things, like it preferred to give you enough time to be pissed before it betrayed you properly.

A slight softening at the edges of your vision first, like the room had decided to lose definition without informing you. The low hum of conversation didn’t change, but it felt slightly further away, like you were listening to it through water.

You frowned. This was inconvenient.

You shifted your weight on the couch instinctively, trying to ground yourself without drawing attention to it, but Logan noticed anyway. Of course he did.

His hand tightened slightly around your ankle.

“You good?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded automatically. “Yea,” pushing off the sofa, hoping the movement would reboot your brain,”... yeah im fine.”

It came out too fast. Logan’s expression changed imperceptibly, the way it always did when he didn’t believe you but hadn’t yet decided whether to challenge it in front of everyone.

“Hey,” he said again, softer, his hand wrapped around your wrist- following you away from your seat.

You tried to laugh it off, but it didn’t quite land properly even in your own ears. “I’m finally listening to you guys, just going to grab something to eat.”

You pushed yourself to step away.

That was when it hit properly. Your body simply decided that it was no longer participating in the conversation. The room loosened, like the edges stopped agreeing with each other and in between the gaps your brain filled with black spots.

You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing the back of the couch as your knees went weak in a way that didn’t feel like anything at first, until it did.

“Hey-”

Logan’s voice cut through immediately, sharper now, closer than it had been a second ago, but it was already too late for clarity.

There was so much movement all at once.

Someone swearing.

A water bottle being cracked open.

The shuffling of sneakers and socks against the floor.

Coming back was always the worst part.

Because there was always a moment where you could hear everything before you could properly exist inside it again. Voices layered over each other, closer this time, less casual.

“I’ve got her,” Logan’s voice said, low and controlled in a way that didn’t quite match the tension underneath it.

“She’s out cold?” Dean asked, like he was trying not to panic but also deeply failing.

“She’s not- don’t say it like that,” Allie snapped immediately.

“Water,” Garrett said somewhere to the side, already moving.

And then your vision finally returned in pieces.

Ceiling first.

Then faces.

Then Logan.

He was closest.

Crouched in front of you, one hand steadying your shoulder, the other still holding your wrist like he hadn’t fully decided whether letting go was allowed yet. His expression wasn’t dramatic in the way people expected panic to be.

He was focussed on you, in a way that made your chest tighten before you even fully remembered why. You blinked slowly.

“Oh,” you muttered. “That was annoying.”

Relief flickered across Allie’s face instantly. “She’s alive.”

“Barely,” Dean said.

“I heard that,” you murmured.

Logan didn’t smile, “you scared me,” he said finally. You swallowed, trying to sit up, but his hand immediately steadied you again, firmer now.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically, accepting the water from garrett with a smile, you reach over to your bag and search for an energy bar. You hated the nutty torture snacks, but Logan insisted on you carrying them around for emergencies.

Everyone around you had relaxed, Hannah, Garrett and Tucker went to the kitchen, animatedly chatting about dinner whereas Allie and Dean went back to their places on the floor, already scrolling through her phone. 

Logan hadn’t moved, his fingers drumming against your knee. Your fingers moved without thinking, brushing lightly against his sleeve.

“I’m okay,” you said again, softer this time, like it might mean something more if you said it gently enough.

Logan exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking briefly shut like he was trying to steady something in himself. He shook his head, as if the movie had been unpaused and he had momentarily lost the plot. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟑

Logan got the message in the middle of something he would not later be able to reconstruct properly, not because it wasn’t important, but because everything that happened immediately after replaced it so completely that the original context never stood a chance of surviving in his memory.

His phone buzzed incessantly on his desk breaking his concentration from whatever his professor was droning about ,to the group chat notifications exploding on his phone screen. It was Hannah’s name first, then Garrett’s, then Allie’s, all stacked on top of each other in a way  that made him unlock his phone and scroll through hurriedly. 

you fainted. properly. you're awake now. come back.

He read it once without reacting in any visible way, which was what made it worse in hindsight, everything else that he had been doing was irrelevant, as though the idea of continuing it belonged to someone else entirely, and he was no longer that person.

By the time he got back to the house, his hoodie was half-zipped because he had started putting it on properly and then stopped halfway through, his cap still backwards and slightly uneven like he had forgotten it was there at all and his hair underneath it flattened in places that suggested his hand had been through it more times than he had noticed.

Logan shut off his ignition and ran up the stairs, two at a time until he was bursting through the front door- his bag hanging from one shoulder as he scanned the scene in front of him. Garrett stood near the kitchen counter with a glass of water he had clearly forgotten to drink from, Hannah sat on the couch angled slightly forward in a posture that suggested she had not yet decided whether she was allowed to relax, Allie hovered somewhere between the hallway and the living room in a way that made it clear she had been going back and forth between checking on you and giving you space, and Dean existed in that familiar state of pretending not to be paying attention while absolutely paying attention.

And you were on the couch. Your eyes were open but not fully anchored yet, blinking slowly in that delayed way that made it clear your body was still catching up to where you were. Your shoulders were slightly hunched forward as if you were trying to find the correct posture for being awake again and your hands were loosely folded in your lap before you noticed him properly.

The moment you did, everything in you shifted in a way that was immediate and familiar, like muscle memory rather than thought. You sat up, twisting over the couch to meet his eyes and smile with your hand outstretched- that was when the collective inhale happened, like even the house was waiting to see what he would do.

His eyes stayed on you without breaking, taking in the fact that you were sitting there, awake, conscious, present, and yet his brain still hadn’t stopped running like a hamster on a wheel, rotating again and again through all the scenarios he had plagued himself with on the drive over- a broken movie reel that fluttered between bad, worse and catastrophic.

You saw him, the way his eyes darted all over your face, how his hand was tightening and loosely against his bag strap. 

“Hey,” you said, your voice slightly rough, but it jumpstarted him to begin slowly approaching you, like a wounded animal. Your first instinct whenever he looked like that, as if you could smooth the edges of his expression back into something manageable by making yourself smaller within it, which was something you did without hesitation, like it was part of a pattern you had both already agreed to without ever discussing it.

He let you. 

Let you intertwine your fingers with him and pull him closer next to you. Let you kiss his hands, then knuckles and then the side of his wrist. He let you ground him before he could process anything.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, already aware of how the room was still holding itself slightly tense, and your voice tilted into something apologetic without fully meaning to, “I’m sorry guys, I must not have realised how stressed I was. I didn’t mean to scare anyone, I just didn’t eat properly and I got a bit dizzy and I didn’t realise it would turn into anything, it won’t happen again, I promise.”

Around you, the room began to release itself in pieces.

Garrett exhaled and shifted his weight like he had been waiting for permission to stop bracing, Hannah leaned back into the couch again as her shoulders loosened, Allie moved a step closer to you and immediately started talking in that half-joking, half-relieved tone about electrolytes and how she was “putting you on a schedule if this ever happens again,” and Dean, finally, contributed something about how he shouldn’t have asked about how your paper went, and he’ll let you run him over with his car to relieve stress next time, which was unhelpful but normal in a way that helped everyone else reset.

You leaned into Logan without thinking, still holding his hand, your body molding into his as you rubbed circles on his knuckles and pressed your hand into his thigh

You looked up at him, already softer, already slipping back into the version of the evening where everything was normal again. But what you couldn’t see was the way his emotions swirled thunderously in his mind, how he couldn’t begin to relax like everyone else did- in fact he was baffled they were so normal so quickly. He barely heard you ask about his class, or notice when you peppered soft kisses to his jaw and say that you missed him- how boring it was when he wasn’t there. As though the structure of his day mattered more than anything.

He tried to answer at first, his words bubbling to the tip of his tongue, but it didn’t take long for him to realise they wouldn’t come out in a smooth, caramelised way that would flow into the calm atmosphere of the room. He gently let go of your hand, in a decisive way that made you furrow your brows and scan his face.

“Logan?” you said, quieter now, not fully alarmed but already sensing the direction this was going.

He rubbed his hands together, throat working thickly as his adams apple bobbed. Everyone else had noticed the shift, conversations slowed. Dean stopped mid-sentence. Allie’s expression changed slightly as she looked between the two of you. Hannah went still in a way that suggested she was no longer sure whether to intervene or wait.

Logan turned to you, his hair falling in specks along his forehead, “I need a minute.” He got up and went upstairs, footsteps heavy along the ceiling of where you all stayed frozen until his bedroom door clicked closed; you blinked a few times, looking at your friends who met you with confused, concerned shrugs and shakes of their heads.

Your expression tightened and you pushed yourself up to follow him, ignoring whatever advice your friends were half-heartedly giving you. 

When the door creaked open under your hand, you found him sitting on the edge of his bed, hands braced on his knees and holding his head, as though he needed something solid to hold the weight of his thoughts. His cap lay discarded on the floor, shoulders slightly lifted in tension that he was not releasing, and when you entered the doorway he did not look immediately, as if he already knew what would happen if he looked at you too quickly.

When he did meet your eyes, it was not anger that you saw first, but something more difficult to place because it did not sit cleanly in any single emotion. It looked like a strain held in place for too long.

“You shouldn’t apologise like that,” he said, and you frowned slightly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you. Trapping whatever conversation you were about to have within these four walls.

“I wasn’t- I just didn’t want everyone worrying,” you said, still trying to smooth it over in the same way you had in the other room, still trying to keep it within something manageable. The bedframe creaked under you, as if warning you from crossing your legs and sinking into this situation.

But he shook his head once, not dismissive but overwhelmed, and when he spoke again his voice had shifted into something quieter but sharper at the edges, “You were apologising for being unconscious.”

That made you stop, properly stop, because it didn’t match the version of the moment you had been holding onto, and he saw that in your face immediately.

“I wasn’t here,” he said, and there was something in the way he said it that made it clear that time had not been abstract for him in the same way it was for you. “You were just gone, and I found out from my phone blowing up, messages that had sat there for god knows how long because…” He grit his teeth, “I just had to turn it on silent for class. And I get back to everyone telling me it was fine, that you’re fine, like that changes anything.”

You try to re-anchor him in proximity the same way you always did, your hand finding his again, your voice softening as you said, “You can’t always be there Logan, I don’t want you to always be on edge. I’m okay.”

But when he looked at you this time, there was something in his expression that did not settle with that reassurance.

“I know,” he said quietly, and it came out with more restraint than anything he had said earlier, like it was something he had been holding back for a long time and could no longer keep contained in the same shape. “I just don’t know how to stop thinking about what it looked like when you weren’t.”

You cup his cheek, turning him towards you, “I’m right here baby,” You kiss him, imprinting the taste of you onto his mouth, the feel of your lips together as a way to tell him that you’re still there with him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Logan held your wrists, his fingers shaking against your skin, “I..” his eyes were wide, pupils flicking between yours, “I never know when you aren’t going to be here.”

He tugged at your hands and you let him, nails digging into the bedsheet uselessly next to you. Your breath caught in your throat, face quaking and crumbling at the edges, eyelashes fluttering- beating away the bubbling tears forming on your lashline. 

“I think I’ll sleep at the dorm tonight,” you said eventually, and your voice was softer than it had been before, tired in a way that didn’t fully belong to the moment.

Logan looked up at that, but he didn’t stop you, just watched with a shattered look in his eyes, his lips pursed and pressed against his hands that were clasped together. You collected your things as seamlessly as possible, and given that you’d stayed over for the entire weekend, it was proving to be harder than you thought. But you huffed and puffed with each new article that got shoved into the shoulder bag until the room looked as if you’d never stepped foot in there. 

You’d already begun to calculate how many trips it would take to empty out the clothes from his dresser and toiletries from his bathroom. 

Logan still hadn’t said anything, his eyes widening by a fraction when he realised just how much you had erased from his space, but he stayed silent when your fingers hesitated against the door handle and didn’t dare to say anything when you turned back to him- eyes begging him to stop you, to cradle you in his arms and work it out. He ignored it all, looking through you and barely flinching when you shut the dare harder than necessary. 

You adjusted your bag strap over your shoulder with careful hands, stilling when you realised everyone was staring at you when you emerged from the stairwell, “I’m heading home guys..” 

Your throat tightened but you shook your head and forced a smile onto your face, it felt plasticy and fake when your eyebrows tightened together, nose burning with each deep breath you took. 

You added lightly, “I’ve got that test tomorrow anyway, and it’s probably better if I just- yeah. I’ll head back.”

Allie and Hannah both turned slightly, breaking out of the pitying trance when you grabbed your keys and headed for the door. 

Neither of them said anything at first, because there was a specific kind of silence that settles when two people are trying very hard to behave like nothing irreversible has happened only a floor above them.

“Okay,” Allie said finally, careful but not pushing, “Text us when you get in?”

You nodded quickly.

“Yeah, of course.”

Hannah’s eyes lingered on you a little longer, not interrogating, just observing, like she was storing away the way you were holding yourself more tightly than usual, the way Logan wasn’t following you to the door, barely letting you out of his hold with attacks of kisses and whispers in your ear. 

But neither of them asked.

Because to everyone else in the house, it still looked like something that could be explained away by stress and timing and too much noise and not enough food.

You said goodbye in a way that was deliberately light, stepping out with your usual version of composure stitched back together over something slightly less stable underneath it.

Back in the living room, the energy eventually returned in fragments, Logan had rejoined the group nearly an hour after the girls had left. 

Allie and Hannah left together not long after you, mumbled goodbyes were exchanged and worried whispers about Logan along with promises to update them over text had gotten them out the door back to you .

And once the door closed behind them, the house settled into a quieter version of itself.

Dean was the first to fully break the tension, dropping onto the couch with the kind of exaggerated movement that only made sense when someone was actively trying to remind a room how normal they were allowed to be. Tucker followed soon after, already halfway into a joke about how “Briar parties are medically unsafe environments” that no one really responded to but still helped reset the tone anyway.

Logan stayed silent for a moment too long in the kitchen doorway before eventually sitting down on the arm of the couch, not fully joining the group, just occupying space near it without integrating into it. The others kept talking for a while, but their volume softened slightly in the way it does when people unconsciously recognise that something heavier is still present in the room.

Eventually, Dean stretched and yawned in an overly theatrical way.

“Right,” he said, pushing himself up. “I’m calling it before I start thinking about my own mortality again.”

Tucker followed immediately, clapping Logan on the shoulder on his way past like nothing meaningful had just been discussed at all. “Don’t overthink it, man,” he added lightly, already heading upstairs. “She’s been doing that since high school apparently. She’s fine.”

Garrett didn’t follow them right away.

Logan just exhaled once, slow, like something had tightened in his chest at the phrasing.

Once the footsteps disappeared upstairs and the house settled properly, Garrett stayed behind in the spot next to Logan, leaning against the couch and pretended not to be boring holes into the side of his best friend's face. Logan was still on the couch arm, staring somewhere that wasn’t really the room.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

“I can’t imagine it,” Garrett broke the silence, voice quieter now, stripped of the earlier group energy, “loving someone and knowing that at any point they might just not respond.”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly at that, but he didn’t interrupt.

Garrett looked down at his hands briefly before continuing, “I know everyone’s saying she’s used to it and it’s normal for her or whatever, but… that’s not really the part that sticks, is it?”

That landed differently.

Logan looked down finally, his hands loosely clasped together, and when he spoke his voice came out lower than before, less controlled in the way it had been earlier.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, and there was no performance left in it now, no attempt to hold anything in place. “I love her so much it actually hurts, and I can’t… I can’t keep doing that thing where I pretend I’m okay when she’s-”

He stopped. Swallowed slightly and pressed his fingers to his eyes. Logan exhaled again, slower this time, like the words were physically difficult to keep forming.

“But I also can’t go on like this,” he finished, quieter.

That silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable in the way earlier ones had been. It was just heavy with the absence of an answer. Garrett nodded once, slowly, like he understood that there wasn’t a clean solution sitting anywhere in reach.

“I think,” Garrett said carefully after a moment, choosing each word like he was placing it somewhere fragile, “it might actually be harder to let her go than it is to keep reminding yourself she wakes up every time.”

Logan turned to Garrett, and nodded slowly- a row of tears fell from his chin and onto the soft cashmere beneath him, “I just don’t know how many times I can do it.”

What started off as Garrett simply being a good partner to have in bed quickly became more than that when your meet-ups started happening at any time of the day. 

At first it was just Garrett coming to keep you company in the library as you studied, but then he started coming over with take-outs and the promise of being good company before he’d spend the night. 

By the time 3 months had gone by, you had seen him more than you had seen Dean. 

Which was partially because he had been starting to see some mystery girl, but it was also because the blonde was sending you messages asking if you were free, whilst you were literally wrapped in Garrett’s arms “remind me to kill him.” Garrett grumbled as he heard your ringtone that you had for Dean play. 

It was womanzier by Brittney Spears “you know you can’t do that.” You laughed as you pressed a kiss into Garrett’s cheek before you answered your phone. 

You could hear the sounds of Logan and Tucker in the background, “please tell me you’re coming to the party tomorrow Squeak.” Dean borderline begged you as he leaned back into the couch. 

It made you smile as you felt Garrett nip at the skin on your neck “of course I will.” You promised him as you sent the brunette boy a glare.

His lips grazed your sweet spot on your neck “I will drag you out of your apartment if you don’t.” He warned making Garrett smirk into the crook of your neck. 

The blonde went to carry on but you cut him off “I promise I will be there now I will see you tomorrow, goodbye.” You practically threw your phone across the room once you knew you had hung up on him “I actually hate you.” You murmured as you pulled Garrett’s face up to yours so that you could kiss him. 

On the other side of campus Dean sat in the living room with the boys “so is she coming?” Logan asked, not bothering to look up from the TV as he was playing against Tucker. 

Dean nodded as he ran his fingers through his hair “she is but I think she’s seeing someone.” His words made both boys freeze. 

In their entire time of knowing you, you had never once kept a single thing from Dean. So for him to have a theory about you, meant that it was something pretty big that you were hiding “you don’t think.” Tucker trailed off as he looked at the empted space where Garrett usually sat. 

The blonde was quick to laugh “oh god no.” He shook his head “he gets under her skin like all the time she’d never.” Dean didn’t want to say it but he had a strange suspicion that the boys might have been right, even if he tried his hardest to believe otherwise.

The next day the party came and of course you were there, just like you had promised Dean. 

But as the blonde hadn’t arrived yet, you were enjoying your peace and quiet in the hall. 

Some guys spilled their drinks on the floor, Beau could be heard screaming the lyrics to some early 2000s song with other members of his frat as Logan and Tucker were in their very own game of beer pong where they just seemed to be drinking. 

“Well there you are.” 

You looked up from your solo cup to see Garrett grinning at you. 

And unfortunately for you, the boy you swore you wouldn’t touch in public was looking really good in that moment.

You raised your cup “here I am.” You nodded as you leaned against the wall behind you. 

Garrett stepped closer “you disappeared.” He mumured, shoving his phone into his pocket. 

“I was avoiding getting beer on me.” 

It made a laugh slip from his lips “smart.” He continued moving closer to you, until he was almost too close. 

You immediately glanced around the hallway even though nobody was paying attention, “that nervous look should be offensive.” It made your eyes go back to the boy “you should be nervous too if we can’t find Dean.” You whispered back as you shook your head. Garrett shrugged lazily “he’s always somewhere.” It was the truth, Dean had this ability to slip in and out of environments and atmospheres as if it were nothing.

“Garrett-”

The boy let his hands fall onto either side of you, locking you into the spot that you were in “we’ve been careful so relax.” His voice was soft as he reminded you that he was right. 

Because the two of you had become experts at sneaking around, late night drives, locked bedroom doors and pretending not to sit too close together in public.

The only problem was that Garrett had started pushing the boundaries recently. 

Touchier, looking at you for far too long when people were around. 

And the problem was that you were just as bad “relax.” He mumbled as he tucked your hair behind your ear “you look really pretty tonight.” Your stomach flipped as he nodded. 

“You can’t say things like that in public!” 

Your cheeks were reddened as you turned away from him “we aren’t in public.” He pointed out as you sent him a glare “oh you know what I meant!” Garrett grined as he shook his head. 

He apparently loved ruining your life because he leaned down to kiss you. 

It was quick and soft, almost innocent even.

But it was enough to make your brain completely short-circuit “you’re insufferable,” you mumbled against his mouth.

“And you’re not complaining.”

Unfortunately, he was right.

You barely had time to shove lightly at his chest when voices echoed from the front door.

Dean laughed when Beau announced his arrival “oh my god,” you hissed, immediately ducking away from Garrett.

Garrett looked amused as he shook his head “you act like we’re committing crimes.” He crossed his arms as he smirked.

“We may as well be.”

Before he could answer, Dean’s voice carried through the house “you said Squeak was here?” He asked making your eyes widen “saw her in the kitchen last.” Logan answered.

You immediately straightened your clothes while Garrett leaned casually against the wall beside you like he hadn’t just been kissing you seconds ago.

Dean appeared around the corner, still laughing at something Tucker said.

Then he saw you.

Then Garrett.

Then his eyes landed on the fact that Garrett’s hand was still resting suspiciously low on your waist.

And suddenly Dean stopped as his eyes widened “oh shit.”Logan matched his react as he realised what the other boy was looking at. 

You closed your eyes briefly as if you were bracing for impact.

Garrett, somehow still calm, lifted his cup “hey, Dean.” Dean looked between the two of you slowly.

As if his brain was buffering, struggling to process what was going on in front of him.

“What,” he said carefully “is happening here?”

“Nothing,” you answered way too fast.

At the exact same time Garrett said “we were talking.” And you swore you could have killed him.

Dean narrowed his eyes immediately “you two can’t even get your story straight.” He pointed between the two of you as your heart started pounding.

Around you, the party somehow continued, blissfully unaware of what the members of the house and you were dealing with.

Garrett’s thumb brushed against your waist absentmindedly.

Dean noticed.

And that was the moment everything completely fell apart as his eyes widened, “no.” You immediately stepped away from Garrett.

Dean rubbed his face with his hand “no!” He whined as he shook his head.

“Dean-”

“How long?”

Silence.

Which was apparently the worst possible response.

Dean stared at Garrett as he’d personally betrayed his entire bloodline. 

In that moment, you actually wondered what would happen if he caught Summer in your position “you’re hooking up with my best friend?” Dean groaned as he scrunched his face in disgust.

Garrett rubbed the back of his neck “when you say it like that-” he trailed off as his eyes focused on the roof.

Dean laughed, like actually laughed “how else would you say it?” He crossed his arms as if there was a better way for this to end.

Beau had joined the group as he laughed, pointing between you and Garrett “you were right!” Beau patted the blonde boy’s shoulder as he let out a snort.

Dean turned to the brunette next to him “not the time.” He shook his head making Beau raise his hands in surrender. 

Logan and John both laughed “knew we made the right call not betting on this.” It was now your turn to scoff, realising that you two may not have been as subtle as you once thought.

Dean turned back toward you, looking genuinely offended now “you kept this from me?” He pointed at Garrett as he cringed. Garrett opted to stay quiet until he was called in to be a part of the conversation.

You crossed your arms defensively, “because you’re reacting exactly like this.” You shot back as you knew that he was doing it because both of you were his friends.

“Because this is Garrett!”

Garrett looked insulted “I’m standing right here.” He reminded you both as he rested his hand on your shoulder.

Dean ignored him completely “he flirts with everything!” He whined as he didn’t want to think about this anymore, “so do you!” Garrett shot back as he pulled a face.

Tucker motioned to Logan and Beau to leave, but neither boy followed him.

Bastards.

You pinched the bridge of your nose “Dean can we please not act like he forced me into this?” You sighed as you begged the boy to remember that this was a mutual relationship.

Dean blinked, “wait.” He stopped you as he raised his hand to stop you.

He looked between the two of you again.

Then focused on Garrett and then looked back at you “oh my god,” he sounded like he wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

You and Garrett both gripped each other’s hands as if Dean was about to blow, “you actually like each other.” Neither of you spoke.

Garrett’s expression softened just slightly as he glanced at you, and honestly that made everything worse.

Because Dean saw that too “you’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered as he threw his head back.

Beau leaned toward Logan nearby, careful not to speak loudly “this is kind of sweet.” He mumbled as he nodded, almost giving you his blessing. 

Like it mattered.

Dean whipped around as he scowled “nobody asked you!” If looks could kill Beau would have been dead.

Then he looked back at Garrett with narrowed eyes “if you hurt her, I will ruin your life.” Dean knew that he couldn’t put his foot down because you and Garrett already seemed too far gone.

Garrett nodded once “that’s fair.” He knew that the threat was bound to come eventually.

Dean didn’t stop there though “and if I ever walk in on something traumatic, I’m transferring schools.” You burst out laughing despite yourself.

Dean looked exhausted already “why are you laughing?” He pinched the bridge of his nose as he swore he was in his own hell.

“Because,” you grinned, “you’re being dramatic.” You teased the blonde boy who stuck his tongue out at you.

Dean rolled his eyes “I’m not dramatic. My best friend and my teammate have apparently been secretly in love behind my back.” He shot back like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb.

The words hung in the air.

Silence.

Your face heated instantly.

Garrett choked on his drink.

Dean’s eyes widened slightly “oh my god, I was joking.” Nobody answered him, leaving him feeling like he was going to burn up.

Beau screamed somewhere behind him as he hit Logan’s back “Jesus christ kill me no!” Dean whined as he walked off, leaving the two of you next to each other.