cass ❥

You’re new to Pittsburgh, and unfamiliar with the notorious unreliability of the public transport system, causing you to be 45 minutes late and frantically running from the nearest bus stop into the emergency department.

This is your worst nightmare. You picture everyone looking at you as you walk in, silently judging. Hating the feeling of eyes on you. You’re definitely flushed red in the face, your bag being packed to the brim with items you certainly do not need weighing you down, cursing yourself for packing so heavy.

While running through the entrance of the ER, you’re barely looking where you’re going and end up colliding with a chest, solid and unmoving you almost mistake him for a wall. You stumble a little, losing your footing and almost fall backwards over your own feet.

Warm hands on your shoulder steady you, preventing the horrific embarrassment.

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry– I didn’t even see you,” your voice is frantic and apologetic, worried you’ve already made an enemy and you hadn’t even started your shift. 

A deep, gravelly voice cuts through to you, grounding your panicked state.

“Hey, kid– easy, easy. You’re okay.” His voice is instantly calming. “You our new nurse?” he asks gently, while his hands slip to your arms, fully stabilising you. 

You settle down quickly, gathering yourself and finally looking up at him, nodding after a while realising he asked you a question. 

He’s incredibly attractive.

The first thing that you notice about him is how big he is. He’s taller than you and so broad, forming a literal wall between you and the ER in this moment, no wonder you crashed into him. He stands so close to you that you have to lift your head to look up at him as he towers over you with a gentle, concerned look. Butterflies twist in your stomach.

You swallow thickly, nerves returning as you realise you probably fucked this impression up by remaining silent and gawking at this man. 

Collecting yourself, “Uh– yes! That’s me–” you stumble over your words internally cringing, “I’m so sorry about being late, it won't happen again.”

He chuckles quietly, finding your flustered state incredibly cute, and extends a hand to you. 

You notice the size of his arms, his veins, his hands– oh, you’ve got to stop thinking like this. You’re so fucked. 

“Dr. Abbot, nice to meet ya, kid.” His voice is low and gravelly, stirring your stomach. “But don’t let it happen again.” His voice is firm, making your insides flip and guilt rises within you.

“No, no of course not. I promise. I’ll be 45 minutes early every day!” Your voice is laced with guilt and you avoid his eyes, whilst shaking his hand, feeling like you’ve already failed before starting.

“Jesus, kid, breathe.” He chuckles, mouth twitching in amusement. “You’re apologising like you hit me with your car.” He soothes, smirking a little at how easily his teasing had gotten to you. 

He watches your face fall in relief, and you let out a small, shy laugh. Still holding onto your hand a second longer, it's hard for him not to notice how incredibly soft your hands are in his, how untouched by cruelty, unlike his rough, calloused hands. Something protective stirs in Jack, confusing him, but a drive to keep you safe, keep you soft takes root in him. He needs to ensure this place doesn’t ruin you, doesn’t cause you to burn out like he's seen time-and-time again with nurses and doctors. 

“I’m really not usually this much of a disaster– well, most of the time.” You laugh shakily.

You notice his intense stare, like he’s studying you, makes you squirm under his gaze. Your eyes flick down where your hands are still joined, you notice the sheer size difference, how his hand completely engulfs yours. You go to pull away, when he brings a second hand to cup your hand, completely engulfing it, before he pulls away entirely. Your breath hitches, trying to stave off any completely inappropriate thoughts,

Dr. Abbot tilts his head towards central, signalling to meet him there once you’re settled.

“Oh– and, kid?” He drawls, eying your bag as you head towards the lockers.

“We do have supplies here, I promise.” he teases, but his voice is soft and amused, referring to your massively overpacked bag, watching heat flood your face and you nod, completely embarrassed. 

Jack watches you scuttle away, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, but his mind is elsewhere, how you were looking at him so shyly, your wide doe eyes ingrained in his mind. Imagining your eyes after kissing you, those eyes looking up at him when– Fuck. This is so unlike him.

Approaching central, he sees Lena and Shen talking in hushed voices. He chooses not to entertain their shenanigans, just crossing his arms and staring up at the patient board, but he catches Lena’s fierce stare in his periphery, alongside Shen’s smirk.

“Stay away from my nurses, Abbot. She’s clearly a good kid.” She scolds, her tone firm and motherly. He can feel her eyes shooting daggers at him. 

Jack doesn’t look away from the board, smirking a little.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is low and equally amused, shaking his head gently. “Just being friendly.”

Shen scoffs, “Yeah? Friendly? You look like you wanted to eat her.”

Jack tenses a little going to defend himself before Lena’s sweet voice interrupts him. She walks past Jack making her way towards you where you had emerged from the lockers and placing a protective hand on your shoulder.

“There ya are, honey. I’m Lena, your charge nurse. C’mon, let us give ya a tour, get a lay of the land, yeah?”

During the tour, you notice Abbot seems to never stray too far from you. Always directly behind you, his hand hovering over the small of your back whenever the halls get crowded, ready to move you if needed.

Surely it's just friendly, you tell yourself.

You hope otherwise.

───────

True to your words, you’re never late again. 

Always early to every shift, settled down and working by the time Jack clocks in. But he notices since you’re starting to be early, you get closer and closer with Robby, and it wouldn’t bother him, if you’d at least show the same fondness for him.

Every shift, you avoid interacting with Dr. Abbot at all. You tell yourself it's necessary, you can’t let yourself fall for an attending, despite how flustered, frankly, just warm all over, he makes you feel. You love watching him work, his competency and confidence as he works allures you. Especially in trauma cases, when he barks orders to his residents, you imagine him telling you what to do, when to do it, how to do it, guiding you.

However, during a particular trauma, you were meant to be in the background, watching and learning. But you couldn’t stop watching Abbot’s hands work with such fine precision, the way they flex, the veins popping out. You get lost in your head staring at how big they are, how they’d feel cupping your face, your neck, inside you–

That’s when you decided, for your own well being, but most importantly your work, you couldn’t be around him.

From then on, if you needed anything, you went to anyone and everyone, to avoid speaking to Abbot. Even if he was right there, and asking if you needed anything, you’d go quiet, and your quiet, meek voice dismisses him, “Oh, uh, I’m okay, thank you.” Before you turn and scuttle off in the complete opposite direction, towards Shen.

It bugs him.

How you avoid him, how easily you laugh and joke with Robby, or how you always go to Shen for questions or help.

Jack watches right now, as you laugh freely with Robby, gazing up at him as if you’re hanging on to every word. Gazing at him like he hung the moon. He feels an ugly feeling crawling up his throat, and doesn't want to admit jealousy. He’s not jealous. He’s not. He simply wishes you'd talk to him, with those wide, round doe eyes, smiling shyly and getting you to fall apart with the simplest of words and touches. 

He’s so lost in his own head, he doesn’t notice Robby walking by ready to leave for the day.

“You got a good one there, brother, might steal her from the dark side if you’re not careful.” Robby jokes in passing, leaving Jack completely stunned. His eye twitches and his breath stops.

No.

His gaze flickers up to you across the ER, your sweet laugh cutting through the air.

You’re his.

───────

Admittedly, you’re making it very hard to make you his.

You’re almost too polite with him. A small, “good evening,” greeting when he comes in, a simple, “see you tomorrow, boss,” whenever you head out. You’re impossible to get time alone with.

Every time he catches you walking down the hall, jogging to catch up to you, asking you how your night is, you get all quiet. You don’t even look at him beyond a polite glance, your smile is tight and professional. Nodding before dipping into the closest room to get away.

He sighs, thinking you could be so focused on your work you may not want to entertain small talk. But he knows that’s not it, seeing how you laugh every time Shen or Ellis make jokes as you walk with them in the hallway.

So he tries to talk to you when you’re not as busy, just charting.

Jack’s leaning against the counter at central, pretending to be looking at the patient board, but his eyes keep drifting over to you, thinking of ways to get you to talk to him. 

He watches the way you pout while charting, your brows pulled tight in concentration, and has the sudden urge to smooth the crease between them with his thumb. He wants to gently scold you for mindlessly chewing at the tip of your pen whilst you work, to take his hand and brush the hair covering your face behind your ear–

His body takes him over to your desk before his mind catches up with him, a seemingly magnetic pull driving him to your side.

He slots himself beside you, a hand over the back of your chair, leaning down to look at your screen. 

“Oh– Dr. Abbot!” you startle, being caught off guard. 

Your mouth dries and your heart rate ticks like a rabbit, having him so close. His face is so close to yours, you don’t turn your head, you can’t. You can hear his breathing, can smell his cologne at this distance. Your mind reels.

He can smell you too. Caramel and vanilla.

The proximity alone has your stomach flipping, his hand behind you becoming an oddly domestic, claiming gesture. Placing a hand on your back, his voice is gentle, low when he speaks.

“This is good stuff, kid, keep it up.”

His praise sends a jolt down your spine and your face reddens instantly. He can feel you twitch under his hand.

You dip your head, hiding your red face and mumble a quick, breathless, “Uh– thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He watches you fidget, uncomfortable from the praise. Laughing quietly, before removing his hand. 

You’re so shy. Shy with him. Oh.

But then you flee, almost running in the opposite direction, and his mind reels. Maybe he’s read this all wrong.

───────

He concludes after a few more nights of avoidance that maybe you just want nothing to do with him at all. 

He keeps his distance, returning your polite greetings, but he hates it. The night shift is supposed to flow, be light and less stressful. Jack's spent so long cultivating an environment where people feel free to laugh, ask questions, not be afraid of getting things wrong.

Now you’re here and he’s all confused. He wants you to enter the stream but it feels like wading against a river trying to figure out what to do differently for you.

He decides to just ask. He approaches you during your break one night.

You’re sat in the break room scrolling mindlessly whilst poking at your food. 

His quiet, tired voice cuts through. 

“S’alright if I join ya?”

You’d been too tired, too into your phone you hadn’t noticed him come in. Nodding fervently you allow him to sit opposite you, his tone of voice sounding different than it does most nights, almost resigned. You actually look at him properly, concerned.

“Listen, kid. I just wanna apologise if I’ve ever done anything to make ya uncomfortable, yeah?” His eyes meet yours, intense and serious.

You pause. 

Uncomfortable?

Fuck. 

You were avoiding him so much he thought you didn't like him, made you uncomfortable. Your eyes widen in panic, head shaking rapidly putting your phone and fork down immediately.

“No, god, no. You’ve never– that’s not it–” Stop rambling, you tell yourself.  Swallowing, taking a deep breath, you realise you need to get over yourself. “M’sorry for the way I’ve been acting. It's not you.” Your voice is quiet, avoiding his eyes.

He tilts his head down to try and meet yours again, concern on his face. His voice is so soft, when he says,

“You sure, kid? You can tell me–”

You shake your head again, cutting him off.

“You make me nervous.” You blurt out in one panicked breath. You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment and literally bring your head to the table, groaning. 

Abbot lets out a quiet chuckle, amused.

“Honey, hey, look at me.” He coaxes trying to get you to stop wallowing in embarrassment. “Please?” 

You lift your head slightly, hands covering your face, peeking at him through your fingers. He’s smiling, like this is funny to him, like you didn’t completely ruin everything–

“S’okay.” His expression softens, voice gentler now. “You never gotta be nervous around me, you hear me?”

Oh.

He misunderstood, thinking you mean nervous of his authority. You can work with that, you haven’t entirely humiliated yourself.

Your hands drop from your face, blush still evident on your cheeks and a shy smile creeps up. You nod in affirmation to his words letting out a deep breath.

“I want you to come to me as well, for anything. Not just Shen, Lena, or Robby. Me.” His inflection on Robby’s name confuses you and makes you giggle a little.

The sound awakens something within Jack, without thinking, he leans over placing a hand over  yours where it rests on the table.

“I mean it. Anything.”

───────

He notices how you don’t run from him anymore, don’t push him away, let him exist within your space. 

You’re still nervous most of the time, but you push it away, and he’s proud. He wants you to come out of your shell with him.

One evening, Lena calls you into North 7 for a debridement, knowing how much you love mindless, repetitive tasks. It unwinds your brain, picking out thousands of tiny pieces of gravel and debris from a patient's leg, letting you let go and not have to worry about doing something wrong.

You’re about halfway through, the only thing heard in the room is the slow hum of the patient's monitor, and Lena tidying up a cart nearby, when you hear the door open.

You frown, not enjoying having been disturbed and the loud, chaos sound of the ER filters through the door. You keep your attention laser focused onto the patient, until you hear his familiar, gentle voice, checking in.

“All good in here?” 

You hesitate, stopping your motions for the first time since you started, before lifting your head up and looking at Dr. Abbot, leaning against the doorframe. Your breath hitches as you make eye contact, his focus entirely on you, not the patient. His head is tilted, and his eye contact is intense, making you nervous.

Lena scoffs to herself. Checking in, my ass. 

“Mhm.” Your sweet voice hums in affirmation, the only thing you can manage to verbalise at the moment.

Lena pauses from tidying up the cart, turning raising an eyebrow at you, oh god not you too.

“Good. Can always count on ya to keep things moving smoothly, can’t I, sweetheart?” His voice is sweet, almost cooing.

You’re starstruck. Sweetheart. 

You blink, unable to respond, but he’s already leaving with a smug, self-assured smile like he accomplished his goal. You swallow, unable to stop the smile spreading on your face, ducking your head to hide your flushed, red face from Lena.

Walking down the hall, he recalls how much the praise got to you when he complimented your charting, and watching you now? 

The knowledge that praise gets to you so much?

Wrecks him. 

He feels a sense of power, knowing how much he can get you to fall apart from a few words.

───────

The closer he gets, the more he observes your interactions with everyone else. You’re just as shy and nervous with everyone too. A quiet little thing.

During shift change over one morning, a few night shift and day shift nurses and doctors are gathered gossiping about a particularly rowdy patient you had that night. 

You’re off to the side, included, but just about. He notices that's always the position you take, included just enough, but never in the centre, never leading, and never actively involved. He thinks maybe you just like to listen, observe, feeling more comfortable for you like that knowing how shy you are.

He frowns, because the rowdy patient they’re on about? You were the only nurse working with him. He wasn’t dangerous by any means, he was strapped to the bed. Jack would never let you in a room with a patient that’s a danger to your safety. 

But the group were already feeding the rumour mill, exaggerating the patients words and actions. He watches you from the corner of his eye where he’s leaning against the counter with a pen in hand, stopping his writing to watch. 

He wants you to speak up, correct them, and join in.

He watches your eyes dart around the group, you lick your lips, breathing becoming shallower. You’re assessing for the right time to jump in. You’re so nervous to speak up, his heart aches.

And when you try? You’re so quiet, no one even noticed. Immediately you were cut off.

He watches you blink, swallowing in embarrassment before collecting yourself as if you hadn’t even spoken, smiling along. 

His heart breaks.

You’re used to this, being spoken over always happens, you’re just too quiet sometimes, better at one-on-one interactions, not groups. Though you’re a little stung, you push it away, familiar with the feeling. Sighing, you slip into your coat before silently taking your leave. 

Just before you can head through the exit doors, he catches up with you.

“Hold up, kid.” You hear him jogging slowly behind you. 

You turn, smiling at him, he can see the tiredness and hurt in your eyes even if you’re trying to hide it.

“You leaving without saying goodbye?” he teases lightly, his expression incredibly soft.

You dip your head shyly, 

“Didn’t think anyone would notice.” You mumble, trying to laugh it off.

His brows scrunch, a displeased look on his face, almost offended.

“I notice.”

His words are so final, so real. You just stare at him with a vulnerable expression. His words heal something deep, knowing someone cares about your presence. You’re speechless.

He places a hand on your back guiding you outside, noticing your hesitance.

“C’mon. Let me walk ya to your bus stop, you can tell me about the rowdy patient, yeah?” 

You nod shyly, trying not to let your eyes well up from his care. It’s a short distance, the sky brightening as you both walk. He’s silent and attentive, actively listening to every word you tell him, like they’re the most important words ever.

When you reach the stop you turn to thank him, but before you can he speaks first.

“Hey. M’proud of ya, for speaking up in there.”

You give him a little confused look shaking your head. 

“It didn’t really feel like I did.” You laugh awkwardly, embarrassed to revisit the moment knowing he was watching.

“You did. I’ll always listen, whatever you wanna talk about, yeah?” Your chest tightens painfully at the sincerity in his voice. You can only nod, suddenly too affected to trust your own voice.

“G’night, sweetheart” He drapes an arm around your shoulder squeezing you before letting you board.

On the way home, your head mulls over his words, settling on one detail.

He’s proud.

───────

Being around Abbot so much recently is fucking with you, to say the least. 

His constant praise at your actions, you begin expecting and waiting for it. Every time he’s within your vicinity, you wait for his gentle but ragged voice ushering praise.

“Good catch, sweetheart.”

“Don’t know what I’d do without ya.”

“Jesus, you really make my life easier, y’know that?”

And he always delivers. 

Aside from the praise, he’s incredibly attentive and observant, knowing what you need exactly when you need it. Encouraging breaks any time he sees you get overwhelmed during the night, telling you to drink water, take a breather. 

But he’s also so patient with you, like no one's ever been. With him, you begin to unlearn your fear of being judged for saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way, because he never judges. 

Tonight is no different.

You’re in central 7 with Dr. Ellis, with a very panicked, frantic mother and her daughter. Her child is only around 6 years old, clearly withdrawn and quiet. Her mother explains to Dr. Ellis how she’d been bathing her daughter that evening, when she found a large bruise on the daughter’s back and legs, suspecting her husband’s abusing her.

You immediately make eye contact with Ellis, silently signalling that you’ll call Kiara, the hospital social worker. But before you can step out to do so, a large, loud and drunk man barges through the door, angry. 

He’s unsteady on his feet, eyes directly narrowing onto his wife, before pushing past you and immediately going to yell at her.

“You bitch! You have NO right bringing our daughter here without my permission–” He yells spit flying out of his mouth, alcohol clearly on his breath

“Sir–” Ellis tries to calm him down, placing a hand on his shoulder which he shrugs off. 

“No!” He shrugs her off

“Your permission?” The mother yells back, cutting him off in disbelief. “You’re laying your fucking hands on my kid and you think I’m gonna let you be near her?” She’s defensive, shrill, adrenaline thrumming through her.

The yelling gets to you admittedly, you’re never good whenever patients of their families raise their voices. They carry on, Ellis begging for them to keep it civil or he will be removed by security

The door opens swiftly with Dr. Abbot and a night shift security guard filtering through to de-escalate. 

Drowning it all out, trying to not let it affect you, you turn your attention to the little girl on the bed, all hunched up scared of her parents yelling. You turn her towards you telling her to focus on you. You just try to distract her in any way possible, asking her questions about school, her friends, her hobbies. It works a little, her tiny voice whispering over her parents yells.

The father is finally removed, and the air to the room returns, silence taking over. 

“It’s alright, you’re okay.” You comfort the girl placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, testing it beforehand to see if she pulls away.

Jack turns to you then, really looking at you. The way you’re so gentle with the girl, how your focus was on her comfort during her parents screaming match. God, he admires you. But he also picks up on your tense shoulders, the way your breathing is unsettled, your face is tighter than normal.

You step back once the mother sits by the daughter’s side comforting her, you don't realise you walk back into Jack’s hand, which now rests on the small of your back. He leans closer to you dipping down to speak into your ear,

“Go take a breather, yeah?” His voice is soft, gentle.

You look up at him to convince him you’re fine, you don’t need a break. But the look in his eyes is stern, pleading: do not fight me on this. 

───

Jack finds you around 5 minutes later in the stairwell, you seem to just be sitting there lost in your own head.

He approaches slowly, groaning as he sits next to you on the stairs, your shoulders touching. He speaks first,

“You did really well there – with the girl.” He nudges your leg with his as he praises you, trying to cheer you up. You can tell he’s looking at you from the corner of your eye but you keep your eyes on your lap. Pedes cases always got to you.

“She shouldn’t have had to hear that.” Your voice is quiet, unsteady. Swallowing down the lump in your throat, but the tears build in your eyes anyways. You dip your head down further trying to hide.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice softens, his hand settling on your knee. “Talk to me?” His voice is begging.

You lift your head to look at him, drying your eyes. “It’s stupid, really.” You shake your head quickly, trying to laugh through it. “I just don’t handle yelling very well.”

“Yeah. I thought so, honey.” His thumb rubs back and forth over your knee, comforting you. “That’s not on you.” His voice is gentler now.

“I feel ridiculous.” You wipe quickly under your eyes. “I should be able to handle it better by now.” Insecurity laces your words at breaking down like this in front of an attending.

“No.” His response is immediate, firm but gentle. “Don’t start thinkin’ the answer is makin’ yourself colder.” He aches at the prospect of you removing the brightest parts of yourself, to dim your light to handle the harshness of the world. Absolutely not. He wants to shield you, be the barrier between people's cruelty and your soft, gentle heart.

Your shiny eyes meet his, vulnerability flashing through them. Without even thinking he brings his thumb to brush a stray tear from your cheek. He watches your eyes flutter close and your breath hitching at the gesture, his heart leaping.

“Take as much time as ya need. Come find me at the end of the day, I’ll take you home, yeah?” His voice grumbles, sending a jolt through you.

Your eyes open ready to protest, you can’t possible accept a ride from him, thats asking too much–

“Ah, ah, I’m not taking no for an answer.” He smirks before standing and heading back out to the ER.

───

Before your shift ended that same day, you had asked Lena to show you how to work the medicine cabinet as you’d had trouble returning a vial earlier in your shift.

The day shift starts to filter through whilst Lena is describing the steps to take, making you distracted.

You see Dr. Abbot in your periphery down the hall, talking to another nurse, one you had never seen before, most likely on the day shift.

She’s gorgeous.

She stands tall, confident and makes him laugh. Nothing like you. 

Your heart aches, as you stare unapologetically, completely drowning out Lena’s voice. You watch as he also dips his head to catch her eyes, how he touches her arm, how charming he is.

It feels like your heart gave out and fell into an endless pit. Eyes flickering away slowly, realising your hope that the way he treated you was special, is just his charm. His naturally flirtatious personality.

God you’re so stupid.

Lena sighs, shaking her head before closing the cabinet and turning to you, sensing your distraction and sadness.

“Hun, you don’t wanna go down that route.” Her voice is firm, but motherly. Like she’s truly trying to protect you, not wanting you to get hurt.

Your head snaps over to her wide eyed and panicked having been caught.

“Oh– no it’s not like that.” you laugh awkwardly, embarrassed but your excuse is weak and she sees through it instantly. Placing a hand on your back and directing you away from the hallway before you get in your head any longer.

“Trust me, hun. I’ve been around long enough to know, men like him don’t realise the effect they have on girls like you.”

Your brows furrow at her words, girls like me? You reach the lockers before she hits the final blow.

“You’re young, go on dates. Don’t pine over old men like him, you’ll only get hurt.”

She walks off, leaving you speechless. You gather your things, mulling over her words. Is she right? Have you been misreading everything, pining over a man who’s naturally charming and kind to everyone? 

You’d completely forgotten Dr. Abbots offer to take you home by the time you’re walking out of the doors. Your mind is only repeating her words and reevaluating all of Abbot’s actions towards you, trying to search for when you’d started to misinterpret things.

Jack frowns watching your hunched up form walking out of the ER from where he stands and talks to Ruby. He excuses himself from the conversation, trying to catch up with you before you leave, but you’re already down the street by the time he’s at the door.

───────

Just as he thought he was making progress, the rug is pulled from under him, and you’re colder than ever. 

You’re distant with everyone, clipped greetings and polite words the only things you mutter during your shifts. He watches how you avoid groups, but more importantly, how much harder you’ve been working.

You’ve doubled your workload, trying to forget your feelings by distracting yourself. Always with a patient, never sitting down and charting, avoiding your colleagues asking you what’s wrong. Or, avoiding where Dr. Abbot could find you and make you fall for him all over again. 

He notices how you’re no longer early to your shifts, just right on time, jumping straight into cases. Whenever he tries to coax you into slowing down and taking breaks, you brush him off, refusing to admit you need them. But he notices the bags under your eyes, you’re pushing yourself too much and he hates it, he can’t help and it’s hurting him.

But he also notices how late you stay. As you no longer chart during the day, you spend 3 to 4 hours overtime during the day shift charting. Robby allows it, sensing something going on with you but doesn’t want to overstep. Occasionally, you ask to work doubles, staying to around 1-3pm during the day shifts. It’s completely wrecking your body, but you don’t want to think about anything else except work.

One evening, during shift change before you got to work, Robby pulls Jack aside.

“Hey, brother, I gotta ask.” Robby glances over his shoulder towards the door, checking you hadn’t arrived yet, before lowering his voice. “Somethin’ going on with her lately?”

Jack’s brows furrow instantly, worry clenching at his heart. “Why?”

“She’s running herself into the ground, to put it mildly.” Robby sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s working through till the afternoon, then coming back to do it all again at night. Girl can’t be getting more than a couple hours of sleep.” His expression tightens. “M’worried about her.”

Jack goes still, his stomach dropping.

He noticed, of course he noticed. He just hadn’t realised how bad it’d gotten.

His jaw tightens, hand dragging tiredly across it as he sighs.

“Fuck.” The word leaves him quietly.

“I’ll talk to her.”

───

Later that night, Jack came to find you during a particularly quiet lull around 11pm. He assumes you’d be with a patient, checking with Lena before heading towards south 16. He’s rehearsing his speech to you, over and over.

When he approaches the room, his body stops. He hears you laugh. It’s beautiful, and he doesn’t realise how much it hurt him not hearing you laugh recently.

Rounding the corner he sees you through the glass stitching up a man’s forehead, and you’re blushing. You have that bashed, shy smile as you work, the type that was reserved for Jack. You're standing close to the man from where he sits on the edge of the bed, and he’s looking up at you with desire in his eyes, clearly flirting with you.  

He shouldn’t feel jealous, but he does, insecurity clawing at his heart. The man you’re stitching up, he’s definitely closer in age to you than Jack is. He hates the way that fact digs under his skin, the sudden awareness of the years between you two. You’re still soft, bright, and untouched by the world in ways he hasn’t been for too long. He can’t take his eyes off the easy smile you give the man, bitterness twisting low in his chest.

He knows he should leave, but he can’t bring himself to move. Which is why when you turn, putting down the sutures, you see him outside watching you, and your body stills. He watches your face fall, and it hurts him how you’re no longer happy to be around him.

Jack sighs ready to turn and leave, but you excuse yourself from your patient and head outside to catch him.

“Hey–” Your voice is gentle and cautious, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear nervously at Abbot’s expression. “Did you need something?” 

Jack’s jaw tightens as he hears your voice, trying to steady himself. This is the first time you’ve chosen to speak to him in ages, and he hates how relieved and conflicted he is right now. 

His eyes flicker behind you, to the man in the room sprawled out on the bed scrolling through his phone, and his chest tightens. Possessiveness and insecurity battle within his heart, and he doesn’t even think when he blurts out a cold comment to you.

“Didn’t realise we were entertainin’ patients now.” His voice is clipped, and he regrets it as soon as he says it.

He watches your face fall. Fuck. 

Your head shakes rapidly, apologetically. 

“I-I’m sorry–” Your voice is meek, he can’t bear that he caused this.

“Just don’t let it happen again.” Jack’s voice is firm, as he walks off. He needs to leave, clearly not in his right mind, he’s hurting you and he’s completely out of line.

───

The way he spoke to you eats him all night, distracting him. He’s completely unfocused during cases, Shen telling him to take a breather during a trauma, get his head right. How is he supposed to make sure you’re okay if he’s also driving you away.

He decides to start small. Around 1am he watches you exit a patient's room, pausing outside leaning against the wall. He can tell you’re exhausted by the way you hold yourself.

He slows as he approaches you, wanting to get you to slow down, take a break. Up close he can see the way your shoulders sag like the weight of the wall is the only thing keeping you together, your undereyes heavy with exhaustion. He can’t remember the last time you sat down.

“Hey– hold up.” His tone is softer, contrasting the way he spoke to you earlier. “You eaten yet?

Your eyes flick towards him briefly, before looking away again. 

“M’fine.” You’re short, a little dismissive.

Jack nods awkwardly, he knows he doesn’t deserve your kindness right now.

“It’s quiet, you should take your break–” He tries but you cut him off.

“I said I’m okay.” Though your tone has little real bite behind it, it’s still harsher than he’s ever heard it. 

He stills, letting out a deep sigh. The silence between you both hangs in the air thickly. You won’t look at him.

Jack nods, accepting his defeat watching you walk off. 

What he doesn’t see is the guilt flooding your face.

───

You need to apologise. He’s your attending and it was extremely unprofessional of you, a nurse, to speak to him that way. Guilt is clawing at your throat and you can’t get rid of it.

You decide that after you finish organising the supply room with Lena, you’ll find him. Explain yourself. 

You’re standing on a stepping stool as Lena passes you supplies to restock the shelves with.

“That guy– from earlier? He was a real hottie, hun.” She says while passing you a box of nitrile gloves. Your face scrunches in amusement as you let out a breathy laugh

“That guy who got his head smashed with a beer bottle? Yeah, right. Like I need that kind of trouble in my life right now.” You joke back with Lena about the flirty guy.

“C’mon, you’re young. Live a little! He’s insanely hot, god knows if I was 20 years younger I’d jump his bones–” you cut her off with a real, chesty laugh.

“Lena! You’re married!” You turn towards her with a wide smile. 

“I can appreciate beauty when I see it, hun.” She smirks before continuing. “What’s the harm? He’s still here isn’t he? Go get his number, go on dates, have mind blowing sex– just do something to get you outta this slump, y’hear me?” 

You sigh whilst organising the top shelf. You don’t want that guy. You want Abbot. 

What you didn’t realise was Jack was walking past and heard snippets of the conversation, well, particularly Lena’s grand speech about having mind-blowing sex with the man. He falters in his steps, realising who she’s talking to, who she’s talking about. The ugly, possessive feeling rears within him again. He peeks through the door, watching your face. You’re smiling, like you’re considering it. He can’t handle it. He storms off, childishly slamming the door of the next room he enters, blaming it on the draft.

You jolt at the sudden noise and frown before continuing. “I dunno, Lena.” Your voice is almost sad. “He’s not who I want.”

“You’re still hung up on him, aren’t you, honey?” Her voice is soft, pitying. She watches your sad smile when you nod in affirmation. “M’sorry, hun. It’ll pass, I promise.”

You don’t want it to pass. 

───

You can’t seem to find Abbot for the rest of the night, until a trauma comes in around 5:30am forcing you both into the room together.

The EMTs roll the patient in on a gurney as you jog over to Trauma 1, reading off his vitals. Fuck, it’s a kid.

“Pediatric MVC, eight-year-old male, unrestrained passenger. Vehicle rolled twice after being T-boned at a high speed. Drunk driver.” The EMT scoffs.

You begin to glove up as you walk alongside the stretcher, Jack on the other side, his eyes land on you as he actively listens to the EMT, his gaze feels as if he was assessing you. 

“Initial GCS was 10 on scene, refrained from intubation. BP 80/52, heart rate 145, satting 92 percent on non-rebreather.”

You watch Abbot nod, cutting through the patient's clothes as Ellis and Shen check current vitals and assess internal injuries. You end up stationed directly behind him, ready to hand him what he needs. But him in action is making you nervous, like he doesn’t want you here.

The EMT cuts in. “Father pronounced dead on scene, mother inbound, no obvious injuries.” 

“Decreased breath sounds on the left side, significant bruising across the abdomen and chest. Patient increasingly lethargic.” Abbot begins his assessment. But is being drowned out by an increasingly loud scream from the floor outside the room, his mother arriving. 

She rushes to the doors, doctors encourage her to wait outside but she barges in regardless. Her sobs and yells for the doctors to save her son cut through the room, loud and distracting. You take a deep breath at the sound trying to focus, remain unaffected by the scene, present.

Abbot’s jaw tightens as the room erupts around him. The mother’s wailing to his right, monitors beeping rapidly as the boy gets worse, the blood coating his gloves as he presses harder against the kid’s abdomen.

“Pressure’s dropping.”

“BP 78/40.”

“We’re losing him, Abbot.”

Fuck. Each sound and sensation cramming for dominance within his skull, overriding his focus.

And then he glances behind at you, where the station is set up ready for you to hand him things. But you’re spaced out, wide-eyed and pale, clearly overwhelmed by the sounds of the boy crying in pain and grief for his father, the mother’s wailing. Jack’s chest twitches violently. One thing at a time. Save the boy.

“Get her out!” He yells across the room, his voice loud and booming, a couple nurses urge for the mother to wait outside.

But he can’t focus with you standing there looking wrecked, your hands shaking. His focus should be on the boy, not you.

“Gauze.” He commands, a hand outstretched towards you.

Nothing.

The gauze finally hits his hand, a few seconds delayed.

His pulse spikes, the room suddenly feeling too loud. Your presence pressing against the back of his skull.

He snaps.

“I can’t afford hesitation right now.” Jack’s voice cuts sharply across the room, eyes snapping to yours. “If you can’t keep up, leave.” 

You feel like you’ve stopped breathing. The room goes painfully quiet, heat rushing to your face instantly at the humiliation.

Your chest feels like it’s caving, shame burning beneath your skin. You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, staving off tears.

You nod once, unable to trust your voice, before stripping off your gloves with trembling fingers backing away from the table.

Another nurse takes over flawlessly, the room continuing like normal around you. You exit the room, tears burning your eyes and threatening to fall.

Lena sees your shaken state from across the room, beginning to make her way over to you. But you duck, scuttling away to lock yourself in the toilet. Needing to break down in private.

You sink against the wall, sliding down until your head rests on your knees.

You know he’s right, you shouldn’t have hesitated. Your throat tightens.

The boy could’ve died because you froze. He still might. For what? Because Abbot didn’t want you near him anymore? Because the sounds of the boys’ mother screaming cracked something open inside of you?

Abbot’s words replay over and over in your head as self-punishment, as you sob into your hands.

  ───

Jack regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. 

He watches your face crumple in devastation and it almost knocks the breath from his lungs.

Your teary eyes flicker away, avoiding his fiery gaze. He hates that he’s the one who put those tears there, made you cry. He never wants to be the reason for your pain. 

He watches you nod, so meekly it hurts his heart, the tremble in your hands when you pull off your gloves. Every instinct in him screams to go after you. He can’t. He turns back to the table, continuing to work on the boy even more distracted than he was before.

───

You manage to gather yourself not long after, exiting the bathroom and ignoring Lena’s concerned looks, just searching for a simple case to get your mind off what happened. You can hear the chaos continuing in Trauma 1, still working on the boy.

Lena assigns you to a wound debridement, a simple task to recalibrate and gather your thoughts. 

You set up your tool table beside you, and you’re lucky your patient isn’t a chatty one. His arm rests on the bed, skin burnt red and white. 

You’re utterly exhausted, emotionally spent. Too in your own head to notice how cramped your fingers get around the scalpel.

You try to reposition your grip, but the blade unexpectedly slips from your grasp, falling and slicing a clean gash from your hand down your arm. Pain slices hot and immediate. 

“Shit–”

The scalpel clatters into the tray as blood begins to well. Your vision blurs for half a second, before you jerk back sharply, hissing from the sudden pain

“Oh shit you okay, lady?” You hear the patient ask, but you’re already halfway out the room, asking Matteo to finish your case before entering an empty room to sort yourself out.

“God fucking damn it, piece of shit–” You curse violently, voice breaking, trying to hold back tears yet again, whilst setting up the equipment you need to clean your cut.

Your heart beats violently, embarrassed at fucking up yet another thing. Abbot cannot know, he cannot have another thing to chew you out over.

You’re not that lucky.

“Hey, listen, I wanted to say that– what the fuck?” Jack’s voice is shocked when he glances down at your bleeding arm from where he stands at the door.

Your head whips around immediately, eyes wide and panicked but you don’t speak or move. Fear wraps around your heart knowing you’re going to get scolded for being distracted, getting yourself hurt, or creating unnecessary paperwork for the hospital.

The sight of your bleeding arm disturbs him. But what hurts more is the way you look at him, wrecked and terrified, like a child that just got caught for doing something wrong, more worried about his reaction than the fact you’re hurt. He shakes his head stepping inside fully making his way to you.

“Sit.” He commands, his voice tight, clipped.

Your breath hitches at his tone, interpreting it as annoyance for having to deal with this, but you do as he says, not wanting to make things worse.

“You don’t have to–” You attempt to say you’re fine, you don’t need help, it’s a small cut. But when you look into his eyes, you pause, there’s something softer behind them, concern. 

“Yeah. I do.” His voice is gentle and strained like it pains him you’re trying to hide your hurt.

You watch his face as he washes out your cut and stops the bleeding. You can’t read him. He avoids your eyes, focusing solely on your injury, you watch as he clenches his jaw and swallows.

He can’t look into your eyes again, the broken teary look you’re adorning right now would completely break him. He feels your pulse thrumming from where he holds your wrist, shaky breaths like you’re trying not to cry in front of him.

“This’ll sting–” He warns gently before bringing a cold disinfectant wipe to your cut. He cleans it so gently, so carefully, you realise how much you’ve missed him. His touch, his care, his smell.

You hiss slightly at the alcohol stinging, and he quickly retracts, gaze flicking to meet yours worried.

“I’ve got you.” He coos, rubbing a thumb back and forth against your hand, avoiding your injury. “You’re alright, sweetheart.”

His soft tone breaks the flood gate, tears flowing freely and you sob. Hard.

“M’so sorry.” Your voice breaks, blurting out apologies, as you try to catch your breath. “I’m sorry, please–”

His heart shatters at the sound, immediately setting the wipes down and cupping your face.

“Hey– No. No, honey. Don’t.” His warm hands ground you, wiping the tears as they fall. He can’t stand the sight of you falling apart in front of him.

You shake your head. “I keep fucking up–” you whisper brokenly, your expression apologetic.

“God, c’mere.” He coos bringing your head to his chest rubbing his hand on your back. “You got nothin’ to apologise for, y’hear me? 

His chest aches at your cries, knowing he led you to this, knowing he hurt such a sweet girl. His sweet girl. 

“I shoulda never yelled at ya, it weren’t right.” His voice vibrates through your body against him, sniffling into his chest. “You get that? You did nothing wrong, baby.”

Baby.

He pulls back cupping your face again, eyes intense and searching. Searching for something in your eyes that tells him you understand him, that you know you didn’t do anything wrong.

“Is he– is the kid–” You choke out, genuinely terrified that your slip-up had cost the kid his life, and had cost the mother losing both loves of her lives on the same night.

Jack shakes his head quickly, dismissing your worry. “He’s good, he’s stable. Dontcha worry about that. I let shit get to me, yeah? Not on you.”

You sniffle, breathing jagged as you settle down. The kid will be okay. Abbot isn’t mad at you. His hand lifts from your cheek to smooth down your hair on your forehead, tucking it backwards. Looking at you like you're precious. 

Unexpectedly, he brings his forehead to rest on yours, whispering:

“I never wanna make you feel like that.” His voice wavers slightly, but you notice. “Never again.”

You stop breathing at his proximity. Realisation crashing down at how stupid you’d been to avoid him all this time, to let insecurity overrun your thoughts. His lips are so close to yours.

“Jack–” You practically whimper his name. 

His breath hitches, searching your eyes before leaning in slowly. 

He presses a small kiss to the corner of your mouth, testing.

Instinctively, you turn your head towards his lips.

You both pause, staring at each other and breathing heavily. He watches as you dart your tongue out, licking your lips nervously, and he breaks.

He crashes his lips to yours.

It’s hungry, full of apology, and devotion. He brings a hand to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss. Electric sparks fly down your spine, your mind turning to mush. The emotional toll of the day mixing with the high of finally kissing Jack, you melt. 

He finally pulls away, after needing to catch his breath, not because he wants to stop kissing you. He’d kiss you for the rest of the night, if he could. 

He takes in your flushed state, catching your breath and looking at him with so much trust. Your red cheeks, dazed and glossy eyes, and plump red lips and he lets a sound akin to a growl out. The look wrecks him. 

He shakes his head, pressing a short, quick kiss to your hair before physically stepping back before going too far with you. 

“I didn’t– I convinced myself you didn’t want me like that.” Your whisper breaks the silence. “I couldn’t be around you, it hurt too much.” 

Oh. 

He swallows the lump in his throat before nodding. He understands. Why you avoided him all this time, you must have been going crazy. Hell, you’d affected him so much tonight he snapped. He can’t imagine what living like that for so long would do to you.

“You don’t gotta explain, sweetheart.” He brings the chair to sit in front of you on the bed, and he takes your hands in his, bringing a small kiss to your knuckles. “But you scared me, doll. You gotta take care of yourself.” 

Your gaze flickers downwards a little embarrassed, nodding

He turns your injured hand over in his, nodding his head towards it before gently asking.

“How’d this happen?” He refocuses on cleaning and assessing if it’s deep enough for a bandage or stitches. 

“Wasn’t–” You pause, recalling how he scolded you last time for being distracted, shaking off your fear, you continue. “Wasn’t paying attention, cutting off patients' dead skin. Hand cramped n’ tried to fix it, blade slipped.”

He takes in a deep breath hearing your shaky explanation. 

“Why didn’t ya tell someone, hmm?” He speaks softly, his attention focused on placing small little butterfly bandages along the cut.

You shrug. “Wasn’t thinking straight. Was overwhelmed, on the verge of crying again. Just needed to be alone.” 

Crying, again. He hates the recollection that he made you cry that night. That after you had left the trauma room, you’d broken down alone.

He places the last bandage on, setting down the equipment and turning to you once more, placing a hand on your thigh.

“You always come to me when you’re hurting, yeah? I hate that I didn’t know, baby. Hate you were hurt and you tried to deal with this alone.” He begs, squeezing your thigh. 

He sighs in relief as he sees your small nod. “Good.” 

He places a small, gentle kiss over your cut. “There we go, all fixed up, my sweet girl.” 

You flush red, a shy smile taking over your face before you can stop it, letting out a small laugh of disbelief.

“There she is.” He coos at your smile.

───────

After a few months of dating, Jack took a sabbatical, and asked you to go with him.

It was his way of an apology, for snapping at his sweet girl, taking you away from the place that you’d been running yourself into the ground for.

He didn’t tell you much, just to pack your cutest dresses. You obeyed mindlessly, trusting him completely. Truthfully, he couldn’t get enough of seeing you in sundresses after one particular picnic date where he couldn’t keep his eyes off you, or hands. Needless to say, the date ended early, with Jack driving you back to his place to tear off the sundress.

You’re leaning against Jack in his truck as he drives through the country. He had specifically chosen to bring this truck due to its bench seats, needing a hand on you at all times. 

The warm breeze filters through the truck windows, and you hum gently along to the faint country rock playing through the truck radio, Jack tapping his fingers against the wheel along with the beat. 

Everything felt perfect, domestic, calm.

Until you get deeper into country backroads. 

You frown the first time you drive by a small animal on the side of the road, clearly roadkill. It disturbs something in your stomach, seeing the bloody mangled animal alone. You try to push it down, focus on Jack, the trip.

Until you seem to keep passing more animals. 

Deer.

Squirrels.

Rabbits.

Foxes.

Every animal seems to twist your heart more and more, saddening you so deeply, wishing you could protect the babies that died alone. 

Jack, observant as he is, feels you go quiet against his shoulder. No longer humming or drumming your feet with the music, just looking straight ahead into the dashboard, stiff. Something had set his girl off. He brings his hand that rested on the gear stick onto your thigh, giving it a firm squeeze, checking in on you. 

His hand is warm where it rests on your thigh, grounding, as he coos, “Talk to me, sweetheart.” He glances over briefly before looking back at the road. “What’s got my pretty girl all quiet, hmm?” he says, softly.

Your stomach flips, of course he notices. He’s so in tune with your tells by now, you couldn’t even hide it if you tried. You whine a little embarrassed, turning to hide your face into his side. 

His heart aches at the small, sweet noise you make and his grip tightens protectively on your thigh. Sensing your shyness, his thumb starts rubbing back and forth on your leg. 

“Don’t hide from me, my sweet girl,” his voice is gentle and sweet, the tone he uses when he knows something is bothering you. Gentle fingers tip your chin upwards to meet his eyes momentarily, your stomach twisting as he brushes the hair behind your ear, a silent plea: tell me.

Hesitating, feeling shy and not wanting to ruin the trip you tell him, “It’s nothing, really, It’s the animals–”, your breath hitches as Jack drives by another dead deer on the side of the road. Your voice breaks before continuing, “It hurts”, you whisper sadly whilst immediately ducking your head to not look out the window for too long, the scene disturbing you.

Oh. Realisation floods Jack’s face and his heart clenches, oh, his sweet, sensitive baby. 

You hear Jack breathe out a small sigh, before dipping his head and placing a small gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Yeah? That’s what’s gotten my girl all upset?” his voice soothing and rubs his hand up and down your thigh in comfort. Your stomach twists at his sigh, unsure if he’s silently judging.

“They might have had family or friends waiting for them!’’ your voice is whiny, desperate for him to understand as deeply as you do why you’re upset. You sniffle a little, trying not to let tears fall. 

Jack blinks, trying not to laugh at his sensitive girl, knowing it’ll upset you more. He doesn’t mean to find it amusing, but your true devastation over deer and squirrels having family and friends, he can’t help but let out a low chuckle.

“You’re right baby, m’sure they’re sat around the dinner table, waiting for ‘im to come home.” He teases gently a smirk playing at his lips. 

“Jaaaaack! It’s not funny,” you pout petulantly, hurt. You shift away from his side, scooting over to the other side of the truck, feeling dismissed. 

Jack shushes you quickly, grabbing you by your shoulders before you move away, hating the way you curl in on yourself so easily. He pulls you back into his side, coaxing an apology. 

“M’sorry, baby, c’mere.” He’s still smirking a little, but knowing he may have teased too much in your sensitive state, he needs to calm you down.

You feel him pepper quick kisses to your forehead, whilst rubbing the back of your neck gently. Your body relaxes instantly at the touch. 

You sniffle a little calming down, wrapping your arms around his middle.

“Shh, baby, I know, I know.” He says, his voice softer now, before continuing. “I was so mean for teasing my delicate girl, yeah?” His inflection rises at the end of his question, like he was comforting a small kitten.

Sniffling, you nod at his comfort. “You know I love how my sweet baby feels everything deeply.” he croons, and you feel him run his fingers at the nape of your neck into your hair, petting you.

“You just keep your eyes on me, yeah? Focus on me for the rest of the trip.” He commands gently, shielding you away from the hurt of the world.

The low music continues to hum in the car, yours and Jack’s breathing matching as you sit quietly soaking the evening breeze.

Gravel crunches as you pull up to the cabin, you notice he doesn’t make a move to exit the truck yet. You frown, worried, is something wrong? Before you can even ask him, Jack breaks the silence, with such a soft tone it's unexpected.

“S’why you’re my favourite nurse, baby”. You falter, his words stirring something in your stomach, his praise making you shy. You feel him draping his arm around your waist and tugging you into his lap, straddling him.

Unable to avoid his intense eye contact, you duck your head shyly, quietly asking, “What is?”

For the life of you, you can’t figure out what he means. He ducks his head following yours to look into your eyes, cupping your face.

His voice is low, serious, when he speaks. “Your sensitivity, compassion, empathy.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat, uneasy by the intensity of his praise. Tucking your head into his neck to hide your shyness, you quip– “It’s not the sex?”

You hear him chuckle, the vibration running through your body.

“You were my favourite before the sex smartass– no, you have a big heart, biggest I’ve ever known, you care deeply.” You feel him guide your head out of his neck, needing to see your face, his thumbs brush against your cheeks as he watches your wide, doe eyes trying to accept the praise.

“Plenty of other nurses and doctors are empathetic.” You begin shyly, trying to brush the compliment off, uneasy by how seen he was making you feel. Always having been told your sensitivity is a curse, especially in this field, and it’ll wear you down. 

Jack immediately interjects, not enjoying how quick you are to self deprecate, diminish yourself.

“Not like you, baby.” His voice is stern, as are his hands gripping your face. Desperate for you to see yourself the way he does. 

Those three simple words cut deep, your eyes watering from so much care. He wipes the tears before they fall and watches a shy smile tugging at your lips, hitting him like a punch to the chest. 

“You hear me, baby? Hmm?” he coos gently while pressing a kiss against your temple. You nod in his hold, cheeks flushed from receiving so much affection, never having been treated so carefully before.

“You’re m’favourite attending.” You mumble shyly fidgeting with your hands in your lap.

Jack laughs deeply, he knows, of course he knows. He just hadn’t expected that to be what you said. He finds your tone so cute, like you're too shy to admit it.

“Oh yeah? S’not Robby?” He teases, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, laughing again at your scrunched up face, like the idea is ridiculous to you.

“I know, sweetheart.” He calms you, presses a final, soft kiss to your temple and brings you closer to his embrace.

Outside, the sun sets as crickets chirp around you, the air gets cooler but neither of you rushes to leave the car yet, this moment meaning something so deep to the both of you.

─

Jack is setting down the last of the bags in the bedroom when he hears you yelp from the bathroom. Before he can even ask if you’re okay, you call out for him, your voice startled and afraid.

“Jack!”

His heart jumps, and his mind immediately rushes to the worst idea, that you’re hurt somehow. 

Jack runs to the bathroom panicked, “Baby, what’s–” he calls out in fear, until he enters the room, and pauses, blinking. 

You’re crouching on the toilet seat like the floor is lava, with one shoe off, in your hand, looking around the floor terrified. You meet his eyes, genuine fear behind them,

“I swear, it's taunting me! It looked me right in the eyes!” you whisper urgently pointing at the small bug in the corner of the room.

Jack laughs for real this time, tilting his head affectionately, “baby, what are you doing?”

You screech as you watch the tiny dark bug scuttle along the bathroom floor and chuck your shoe at it, completely missing it.

“Please– kill it, quick!” you beg him 

He smirks at you from where he leans against the bathroom door frame, crossing his arms, and taunts you, “What if his family is waiting for him to come home, hmm?”

You groan as Jack points out your hypocrisy, squealing again as you watch it come towards you. “Jack, I swear to god–”

He hangs his head in, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face before he walks over and stomps on it. He picks you up into his arms and mumbles into your hair.

“Yeah, you’re not lasting ten minutes out here, sweetheart.”

His hair was still damp at the edges from his post-game shower, curling slightly where he’d shoved his hand through it too many times, and the dark blue Briar letterman jacket had stayed on for maybe twelve minutes before the house got too hot and he dumped it over the back of a chair.

He was, by every reasonable standard, doing great. His girlfriend was not. His girlfriend had arrived at the party with Allie and a plan that had included one drink, maybe two, and absolutely no consideration for the fact that girls pouring vodka cranberries in hockey houses tended to treat measurements as a loose concept. 

Garrett had been across the living room when she’d taken the first one. He’d been in the kitchen with Tucker when she’d finished the second. By the time he saw her again, she was standing near the bottom of the stairs with one hand wrapped around a red cup, smiling at something Allie said with the bright, floaty concentration of a girl whose whole body had started operating on a two-second delay.

He could notice a winger drifting out of formation from half a rink away with two guys trying to take his head off. He could absolutely notice his girlfriend blinking too slowly under the hallway light, her cheeks warm from alcohol and the heat of too many bodies packed into the house, her mouth glossy and parted slightly like she kept forgetting whether she was meant to be talking or laughing. 

She looked happy, which helped. Loose and giggly and pleased. But she also kept shifting her weight like the floor had become more wobbly than usual, and Garrett had not fought for his life against Harvard’s second line that afternoon just to let his girlfriend get taken out by hardwood.

So he left Logan mid-sentence. Logan didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just followed Garrett’s line of sight, saw her trying to drink from the cup and missing her mouth by half an inch, and winced. “Oh, buddy.”

Garrett pointed at him without looking back. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was gonna say she looks graceful.”

“Die.”

Garrett crossed the room with the easy confidence of someone everyone automatically moved for, red cup of water in hand because Tucker, thank God, had seen the situation unfolding and passed it over like a medic on a battlefield. 

She didn’t see Garrett coming. She was too busy nodding very seriously at Allie, who was holding both her hands and saying something that involved the words no, babe, I’m so serious and eyebrow blindness.

Garrett stepped into her space, close enough that his knee brushed hers. “Hey, baby.”

She turned toward him. For one beautiful second, her face went blank. Then her entire expression rearranged itself into scandalised horror.

“Excuse you,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height, which was less effective than usual because she swayed slightly at the top and had to catch Allie’s wrist. “I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett blinked.

Allie made a noise like she’d swallowed a firework. Garrett looked at his girlfriend. His girlfriend looked back at him with genuine, drunken offence, like he’d approached her in a bar wearing a leather bracelet and too much confidence.

“Uh huh,” he said slowly, because there were moments in life that required leadership and moments that required not laughing directly in the face of the girl you loved while she was doing her best. “That’s great.”

“It is great,” she said, lifting her chin. “He’s very tall.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Good for him.”

“And he plays hockey.”

“No shit?”

“And he’s, like, really good at it.”

Allie had turned away now, one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Garrett refused to look at her because if he did, he was going to lose it, and that felt like the sort of thing his girlfriend would interpret as disrespect from a strange man at a party, which apparently he was now.

He held out the cup. “Can you drink some water for me?”

Her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. Wobbly. Deeply loyal to the absent boyfriend currently standing less than a foot in front of her. “Why?”

“Because you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Baby.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Don’t call me baby.”

“Right. Sorry.” He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, nodding with a level of solemnity he absolutely did not feel. “My bad.”

“My boyfriend calls me baby.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds annoying.”

“He’s not annoying.” She frowned at him with such force that it seemed to briefly take all her balance with it. Garrett’s free hand shot out to her waist before she could tip sideways into Allie. She looked down at it, then back up at him, appalled. “Don’t touch my waist.”

Garrett removed his hand at once, palms lifting. “Alright.”

Allie, still dying, leaned in and said, “Babe, maybe just drink the water.”

She looked betrayed. “You’re taking his side?”

“I’m taking hydration’s side.”

Garrett offered the cup again. “Just a couple sips.”

She stared at him for another second, clearly weighing the moral implications of accepting water from a man who looked suspiciously like her boyfriend but who she had, for reasons unclear to everyone except the vodka, decided was not. 

Finally, she took the cup with great caution, like he might use the transfer to propose something criminal, and drank.

Garrett watched her swallow three obedient little sips, then nodded. “Good girl.”

The look she gave him could have killed a weaker man. “Nope.”

“Right. Yep. Forgot.”

“My boyfriend says that.”

“Bet he does,” Garrett muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She handed the cup back, pleased with herself and still indignant, and then immediately turned toward Allie like the conversation had been handled.

Garrett stood there for half a second, holding the water, staring at the side of her face.

Dean appeared beside him like he had been summoned by humiliation itself. “Hey, man.”

Garrett didn’t look over. “Do not.”

Dean’s grin was audible. “She knows you’re her boyfriend, right?”

“She’s drunk.”

“She just told you she has a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, Dean, I was here.”

Dean leaned around him to look at her, delighted. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Garrett finally turned his head and gave him a flat look. “That’s sad.”

“No, what’s sad is getting rejected by your own girlfriend.” Dean clapped him once on the shoulder and immediately stepped out of reach. “Tough shift, captain.”

Garrett pointed at him. “I will put you through a wall.”

“Wow.” Dean called over his shoulder, already retreating. “Her boyfriend would never.”

Garrett took a slow breath through his nose and looked back at her. She was laughing at something Allie said now, one hand pressed to her own chest, head tipping forward so her hair fell around her face. 

She looked ridiculous. Beautiful and unsteady and way too warm in the cheeks, standing under the hallway light like the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy and she trusted it not to hurt her because she hadn’t yet noticed Garrett had been replaced by some guy bothering her with cups.

His annoyance softened before it could become anything real. Fine. He could work with this.

For the next twenty minutes, Garrett kept orbiting. That was the only word for it. He didn’t hover, because hovering would get him accused of being controlling by Dean, and probably by her if she remembered how to form an argument. 

He orbited. Close enough to keep an eye on her, far enough that she didn’t look up and accuse him of trying to steal girlfriend privileges from Garrett Graham, who was both beloved and missing.

She danced with Allie in the living room, mostly from the waist up because her coordination had started giving its two weeks’ notice. 

She complimented Tucker’s shirt with extreme sincerity even though Tucker was wearing the same plain black t-shirt he wore to every party. 

She told Logan he looked so tall tonight, which made Logan look down at himself like height might have happened recently and without his permission.

Garrett found her again near the back door, rubbing both hands over her bare arms.

The house was hot, but the door kept swinging open whenever someone stepped out to smoke or yell into the yard, letting in cold spring air that slipped over her skin and made her shoulders inch up toward her ears. 

Garrett saw the little shiver move through her before she did. He grabbed his letterman jacket off the chair and came up behind her, careful this time, no hands first. Just the jacket, warm from the room and heavy with him, settled over her shoulders.

“There,” he said, low near her ear. “You’re cold.”

She froze.

Garrett closed his eyes for one second. “Please don’t.”

She shrugged the jacket off so fast it nearly hit the floor. Garrett caught it by the collar.

“Nope,” she said.

“Baby.”

Her head snapped around. “I said no.”

Garrett looked at the ceiling. The ceiling offered no help. “You’re shivering.”

“I only wear my boyfriend’s jacket.”

“This is your boyfriend’s jacket.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It literally has my name on it.”

She squinted at the embroidered Graham on the chest like letters were a personal challenge. “Lots of people are named Graham.”

“Not on this team.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. I’m the captain.”

Her face twisted with immediate doubt, like that was exactly the sort of lie a jacket predator would tell at a party. “You’re the captain?”

Garrett stared at her. “Oh my God.”

From the couch, Logan made a strangled sound into his beer.

She pointed at Garrett’s chest, very serious now. “My boyfriend is the captain.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard great things.”

“He’s very hot.”

“Is he?”

“So hot,” she said, and then sighed, soft and dramatic and so genuinely fond that Garrett’s irritation had nowhere to land. “Like, stupid hot. It’s actually kind of annoying.”

Garrett’s face moved before he could stop it, warmth pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “And he has really nice hands.”

Logan choked.

Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Good hands are important.”

“They are,” she agreed solemnly. “And he’s not some random guy trying to give girls jackets.”

“Right.” He held up the jacket between them, helpless now. “Can I just–”

“No thank you.”

“You’re gonna freeze.”

“I’ll wait for Garrett.”

“You do that,” he said, because love was standing in a hockey house holding your own jacket while your drunk girlfriend faithfully rejected you on your own behalf. “Sounds like a plan.”

She smiled at him then, bright and polite. “Thank you for understanding.”

Garrett looked at her for a long moment, then at the jacket, then back at her. “Anytime.”

He walked away to the sound of Logan losing the fight against laughter so badly he had to bend over his own knees.

“You’re not helping,” Garrett said.

Logan wiped under one eye. “I’m sorry, man, but she’s loyal as hell.”

“She thinks I’m a stranger.”

“She thinks you’re a stranger with bad intentions. There’s a difference.”

“Great. That makes it better.”

Tucker came up beside them, looking far too amused for somebody usually committed to being the reasonable one. “You know, technically, this is a very good sign for your relationship.”

Garrett gave him a look. “Don’t start.”

“She’s hammered and still refusing men for you.”

“She refused me.”

“Exactly. Nobody is safe.”

Dean reappeared then, because joy, unfortunately, had a way of finding him. “I just heard she wouldn’t wear your jacket.”

Garrett’s jaw tightened. “You heard wrong.”

Dean grinned. “Did I?”

“I’m gonna kill you before playoffs.”

“No, you’re not. You’re too busy getting friend-zoned by your girlfriend.”

Garrett shoved him in the chest. Dean laughed all the way into the kitchen.

By the time Garrett found her again, she had somehow migrated to the old armchair near the stairs, sitting sideways with her knees tucked up and Dean perched on the arm like some kind of terrible emotional support animal. 

Her bare arms were folded tight over her chest now, because she was still cold and still deeply committed to jacket monogamy. Her face had changed too. Gone softer around the edges, bottom lip pushed out, all the earlier moral outrage curdled into something wounded and grumpy.

Garrett stopped a few feet away. Dean saw him first and his grin turned wicked. “Oh, thank God.”

She frowned up at Dean. “What?”

“Nothing.” Dean patted the top of the chair. “Your night’s about to improve.”

She slumped deeper into the cushion, still looking at Dean. “I haven’t seen Garrett all night.”

Garrett blinked.

Dean pressed his lips together so hard his whole face went strange.

She kept going, mournful now, eyes glossy from alcohol and the kind of drama that only really existed after midnight in a crowded house. “He’s, like, disappeared.”

Garrett slowly looked at Dean.

“He had a game,” she said, to no one in particular, or maybe to Dean’s knee. “And I wanted to tell him he played really good.”

“He knows,” Dean said, voice suspiciously tight.

“No, but I wanted to tell him.” She rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand, then stopped halfway as if remembering makeup existed. “And there’s this guy who keeps talking to me.”

Garrett’s eyebrows went up.

Dean made direct eye contact with him and looked like he might actually pass away.

“He keeps calling me baby,” she muttered. “And trying to make me drink water.”

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek.

“Sounds awful,” Dean managed.

“So annoying,” she said. “Like, okay, hydration police. I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett stepped closer then, because there were only so many times a man could be called the hydration police by the love of his life before he had to intervene. “Hey, baby.”

Her head lifted. The transformation was immediate and almost violent. Her whole face opened, bright and relieved and suddenly so happy to see him that it genuinely knocked the joke sideways in his chest. “Garrett!”

He froze. “Hi?”

“Baby!” She reached both arms out toward him from the chair, nearly tipping herself forward in the process. Garrett crossed the last step fast and caught her by the hands before she could slide off the cushion. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said again, slower this time, looking down at her. “You recognise me now?”

She frowned like he’d said something deeply strange. “What are you talking about?”

Dean made a sound that might have been a cough if he had not immediately turned away with his shoulders shaking.

Garrett stared at her. “Nothing.”

She squeezed his face, delighted and fully unaware of the damage she’d caused him tonight. “I missed you.”

His mouth softened despite himself. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” She tugged at him, needy and uncoordinated, until he stepped properly between her legs where she’d moved to sit properly in the chair. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt like now that she had found him, she intended to physically prevent further abandonment. “You were gone for so long.”

Garrett looked at her for one second, then over her head at Dean, who was wiping tears out of the corner of his eye. “I was around.”

She shook her head, very firm. “No.”

“No?”

“No. There was just this guy.”

Garrett nodded, face serious. “Right. The water guy.”

She gasped softly, looking up at him with genuine alarm. “You saw him?”

Dean slid off the arm of the chair. “I need to go tell Logan something immediately.”

Garrett didn’t even try to stop him. His hands had settled at her waist now, thumbs pressing lightly over the fabric of her top because she was still swaying in tiny increments even while sitting down. “Yeah, baby, I saw him.”

“You should talk to him.”

“Oh, I should?”

“Yes.” Her voice dropped into a whisper that wasn’t remotely quiet. “He was flirting with me.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face. “Was he?”

“He kept calling me baby.”

“That’s crazy.”

“And he tried to give me his jacket.”

“What a dick.”

She nodded, relieved that he understood the severity. “I know.”

Garrett’s grin finally broke free, slow and helpless. He stepped closer until her forehead could tip against his stomach, and when it did, she sighed like the entire night had been restored to its proper axis by the smell of his shirt. 

He looked down at the crown of her head, at the way her hands had found the hem of his t-shirt and held on loosely, and brushed his fingers once over the back of her hair.

She had rejected him all night. She had accused him of being a stranger, declined his water on principle, refused his jacket with the ferocity of a woman defending a sacred oath, and still somehow the inside of him went soft at the way she leaned into him now, trusting and warm and gone enough to be ridiculous but not gone enough to forget where she wanted to end up.

“Baby,” he murmured.

“Mhm?”

“You wanna get outta here?”

Her head lifted at once. “Yes, please.”

“Yeah?” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watching the way her eyes followed his face now with no suspicion at all. “You done?”

“So done.” She nodded, then winced faintly at the motion like her brain had moved one direction and her skull another. “Can we go home?”

“Yeah, we can go home.”

“And maybe get McDonald’s?”

Garrett laughed under his breath, and the sound made her smile like she’d won something. “Sure, baby.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But you gotta stand up first.”

She looked down at her own legs with sudden doubt. “Okay.”

“Confident.”

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.” He took both her hands and backed up half a step, giving her room. “Come on. Up we go.”

She stood with the intense focus of someone attempting a field sobriety test on a ship. Garrett’s hands went to her waist at once, steadying her as her knees straightened and her body tipped forward into his. 

He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t laugh when she grabbed his forearms and blinked hard at the room. He only held her until she found the floor again, fingers spread warm and firm at her sides.

“There we go,” he said softly. “You good?”

She nodded, then thought about it. “Mostly.”

“Mostly works.” He leaned around her just enough to grab his letterman jacket from the back of the chair “Can I put this on you now, or are we still being loyal to your boyfriend?”

She looked at the jacket. Then up at him. Then back at the jacket.

“That’s yours,” she said, like he was the one struggling to keep up.

Garrett pressed his lips together. “Yeah.”

She smiled, sweet and pleased. “Okay.”

He slid it over her shoulders. This time she pushed her arms into the sleeves with immediate enthusiasm, even though they swallowed her hands completely. 

Garrett zipped it halfway because she was too busy smelling the collar with a happy little hum that did absolutely nothing for his ability to remain normal.

“You smell good,” she told him.

“Thanks.”

“Like Garrett.”

“Crazy coincidence.”

She nodded, accepting that, and slipped her hand into his when he offered it. Her fingers were warm and clumsy between his, squeezing twice like she was checking he was real. He squeezed back once and started guiding her through the house.

The party kept moving around them. Someone called his name from the kitchen and Garrett lifted his free hand without stopping. Logan appeared near the doorway, took one look at them, and grinned.

“She found you,” he said.

Garrett pointed at him. “Not a word.”

She turned toward Logan, solemn and slightly off-balance. “There was a guy bothering me all night.”

Logan’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked at Garrett, then back at her. “No way.”

She nodded. “Way.”

Garrett kept walking. “Let’s go.”

Behind them, Logan said, “Hope your boyfriend handles that.”

She turned around while still moving, which forced Garrett to catch her by the waist and redirect her like a shopping cart with a bad wheel. “He will!”

“I’m sure he will,” Logan called, voice cracking around laughter.

Outside, the cold hit her properly. She shrank into the jacket at once, shoulders rising, Garrett’s hand still wrapped around hers while they moved down the front steps and along the path toward his car. 

The night was damp and dark around the edges, grass glittering faintly under the porch light, the music dulling behind the shut door until it became a pulse more than a song. She walked close to him, not quite straight, occasionally bumping into his side and then apologising to his arm.

“Baby,” she said halfway down the walk.

“Yeah?”

“That guy was so annoying.”

Garrett glanced down at her. “Still thinkin’ about him?”

“He was talking to me all night.”

“Sounds like a loser.”

“He was kind of hot, though.”

Garrett stopped walking.

She stopped too, delayed, then looked back at him with wide innocent eyes. “What?”

He stared at her. “Hot?”

She nodded, very serious. “But not as hot as you.”

“Uh huh.”

“And he had your jacket.”

“My jacket?”

“Yeah.” Her brows pulled together. “Actually, that was weird.”

Garrett looked up at the sky for patience. “So weird.”

“You should talk to him, baby. I’m serious.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Good.” She nodded once, satisfied, and started walking again. “Don’t fight him though. You had a game.”

His mouth twitched. “Right. Wouldn’t wanna overdo it.”

“And you already won.”

“I did.”

“You were really good,” she said, and the words came out softer now, slipping under the joke with no warning at all. Her fingers tightened around his. “I forgot to tell you.”

Garrett’s steps slowed by a fraction. He looked down at her, at her messy hair and flushed cheeks and his too-big jacket hanging off her shoulders, at the careful way she was watching the pavement. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. You did that thing.” She lifted their joined hands vaguely, as if the thing might be available in the air somewhere. “Where you went really fast and then the other guy was stupid.”

Garrett laughed, warm and surprised. “That was my favourite play.”

“It was good. I’m real proud of you.”

“Thanks, baby.”

She leaned into his arm, pleased. “You’re welcome.”

At the car, he opened the passenger door and turned her gently by the hips before she could attempt entry at a dangerous angle. “Alright. Watch your head.”

“I always watch my head.”

“You don’t.”

“I have one.”

“Having one and watching it are different.”

She ducked into the car with exaggerated care, one hand on the roof, one hand still gripping his. Garrett waited until she was seated, then crouched slightly and drew the seatbelt across her. 

She looked down at him while he clicked it into place, her expression suddenly soft and sleepy. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so glad I found you.”

His hand paused on the belt for half a second.

She sighed, sinking back into the seat, eyes half-lidded now that the car’s quiet had started wrapping around her. “I missed you tonight.”

Garrett looked at her in the blue dashboard glow, and something in his chest pulled tight and fond and a little ridiculous. “Missed you too.”

“There was this guy–”

“I heard.”

“–and he kept trying to give me water.”

“So rude.”

“Exactly.” Her head tipped against the seat, eyes closing for one beat before opening again. “Can you get me nuggets?”

Garrett smiled and brushed his thumb over her knee before standing. “Yeah, babe. I’ll get you nuggets.”

“And fries.”

“Obviously.”

“And a Sprite.”

“You need water.”

She made a face. “The guy said that too.”

Garrett leaned one arm on the open door and looked down at her, trying very hard not to smile too much because she would see it and accuse him of something. “The guy sounds smart.”

She frowned. “Don’t compliment him.”

“My bad.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“I am.”

“And I love you.”

The words came out simple and softened by vodka and sleepiness and the warm cocoon of his jacket around her, but real enough that Garrett felt them land under his ribs.

He bent and kissed her forehead. “I love you too.”

She smiled, eyes closed now. “Good.”

“Good,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face before shutting the door. 

He walked around the front of the car with a grin he couldn’t quite get rid of, hearing the muffled thump of the party behind him and the faint sound of her shifting around in the passenger seat like she was trying to get comfortable in sleeves three sizes too big. 

When he got in, she was already curled toward his side, cheek against the seat, looking at him with heavy eyes and total, trusting recognition.

Garrett started the car. She reached blindly for his hand. He gave it to her.

For a minute they sat there in the dim quiet before he pulled away from the curb, her fingers woven through his, his thumb moving once over her knuckles. Then she inhaled like she had remembered something important.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna talk to that guy, right?”

Garrett smiled at the road, the house falling behind them, McDonald’s glowing somewhere ahead like a drunken little lighthouse.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll give him a stern talking-to.”

“Good,” she mumbled, already drifting. “Tell him I have a boyfriend.”

His grin widened.

“Trust me, baby,” Garrett said, squeezing her hand once as he turned out onto the street. “He knows.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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“Yeah.” Garrett’s smile went wide.

He noted the shocked expression on Hannah’s face.

Garrett rarely told people about you - not because he wanted to keep you a secret, but because he was just terrible at opening up to people about things like that. You were always encouraging him to be braver with his feelings.

“Since when?” Hannah leaned forwards with interest.

“Coming up to three years now.”

“I’m sorry… You’ve had a girlfriend for three years and I’m only just finding out now?”

“Well I didn’t know you three years ago, Wellsy.” Garrett countered.

Hannah let it slide. “Okay, whatever. Tell me everything about her.” 

When someone did finally know of your existence, that was one of Garrett’s favourite things to be asked. He could talk about you for hours, days, forever. He was a healthy amount obsessed with you.

Before Garrett could delve into the 101 reasons why you were his favourite person, Dean had to ruin the moment.

“Jheez, Wellsy, are you a witch? How’d you make G smile?” Dean patted Hannah on the back as he came over with Allie in tow. No doubt their game of badminton had gotten too argumentative to continue safely.

“I was just asking Garrett about…” Hannah cut herself short, realising that she didn’t even know your name.

“Y/N.” Garrett added for her.

Dean clicked his tongue and sighed like a man in love. “Ah, mom and dad.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” Hannah laughed, looking between Garrett, Dean and Allie for some explanation. 

Allie sat on the arm of the chair that Hannah was sitting on, wrapping her arm around her best friend's shoulder. Dean sat on the same bench that Garrett was sitting on.

“Mom and dad.” Allie repeated, “Y/N and Garrett got the label because they are genuinely like the mom and dad of this group.”

“They’re always keeping us in check. They do the shopping for the house. Y/N actually cleans this place, God knows why. They’re just so mom and dad.”

“She sounds great.” Hannah smiled.

“She is.” Allie nodded.

“Agreed.” Dean added.

Garrett just sat there, quietly smiling to himself as he listened to some of the most important people in his life gush over the most important person. 

“So how come I’ve never met her?” Hannah asked.

“She’s spent the last year studying abroad.” Garrett said, frowning again when he realised that this whole conversation had started because he couldn’t get in contact with you. 

“That’s so cool. Where abouts?” 

“Uh, London– Sorry, I’m just going to–.”

Garrett got up and headed back inside, continuing to stare at his phone like it was personally wronging him.

Allie got up off the end of Hannah’s chair and moved to sit down next to Dean - who immediately pulled her close to his side. Hannah was so happy for her best friend finally being with someone who actually cared for her.

They smiled without looking at each other.

“What?” Hannah asked, wondering what was going on.

“Can you keep a secret, Wellsy, ‘cause we sure can’t.” 

“Yeah.”

Dean leaned forwards, double checking the back entrance to the house to make sure that Garrett wasn’t loitering close by. Hannah leaned forwards too.

“Y/N’s surprising Garrett. That’s why he hasn’t heard from her, because fuck knows she’d ruin the surprise if she opened her mouth.” 

Hannah’s eyes went wide and her jaw dropped.

“When? Today?” 

Allie checked her phone.

“Like, literally any minute.”

Hannah tried to control her excited smile as she leant back in her chair. Dean moved back too, raising his eyebrows to Hannah as if to silently say  ‘don’t say a word’. 

Logan and Tucker came over minutes later, saying the grill was all prepped and the food was ready to be cooked whenever everyone was ready. They were also in on the secret surprise, so were holding off on cooking until you arrived. 

Sabrina and Grace, along with a couple of other hockey guys, had also joined the group so everyone was sitting together, when Allie’s phone pinged. 

She opened the notification to see you’d texted to say you were outside. 

Allie widened her eyes at the group, all of them visibly lighting up with excitement. 

“Where’s G?” Logan asked.

“He went inside before.” Dean said.

“I think he was going to try and contact Y/N again.” Hannah added with a sad pout. She felt for the guy - especially when he had no clue that he was about to see you in a couple of minutes.

Allie stood up, telling everyone that she was going to go and get you. Everyone was in agreement that you should go and see Garrett first, so Tucker and Logan returned to the grill to start cooking in the meantime.

Allie wandered through the house, with no sign of Garrett anywhere.

She opened the front door quietly and silently screamed when she saw you.

You looked tired - no doubt from the long plane ride, lack of sleep and jet lag - but you also looked so happy to be back. You had a big Briar U hoodie on that was no doubt Garrett’s and a pair of navy jogging bottoms on.

You had a shit tonne of luggage bags surrounding you, which Allie would make Dean take in later. It was a mystery how you managed all these bags through the airport yourself.

Allie squeezed you in a tight hug, both of you trying to be as silent as possible.

She let you go, knowing you’d be eager to see Garrett.

You both had a silent conversation with hand gestures, which basically translated to you asking where Garrett was and letting Allie know that’s where you’d be going first. Allie rushed you off, not delaying your reunion any longer. 

You tried your best to be quiet up the stairs, the familiarity of the house hitting you all at once. Even the feel of your hand on the wooden bannister felt like coming home.

At the top of the stairs you felt a flurry of butterflies start up in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t tell whether you were nervous or excited to see Garrett. It was the anticipation that was causing the feeling, you decided. 

After texts and face-time calls, every day for the last year, it was hard to believe you were about to see him in real life again. It sounded weird to say, but it was true. The last year had been so great, but it had also been so hard living away from Garrett. 

If that made you clingy, then you’d wear that label with pride. So what?

Garrett’s door was closed over, but not shut entirely. 

You pushed the door open to find Garrett sat on the edge of his bed, crouched over with his phone in his hands. 

You knocked gently so as not to make him jump.

Garrett wiped his eyes, not so subtly, before sitting up to look at you.

His whole body sagged as he saw you standing in his bedroom doorway. He closed his eyes and let his body pull him back to lay back on his bed, legs grounding him to the floor. 

Tears started to fill your eyes as Garrett’s chest visibly moved up and down from crying. His hand went to cover his eyes, probably trying to comprehend whether this was a cruel trick or genuinely real. 

You didn’t wait any longer to move closer to him.

“Hey.” You laughed through your own tears. 

“Fuck.” Garrett sat up, taking you in. You watched the disbelief leave his teary eyes, as he fully understood you were right here with him.

He wasted no more time pulling you the rest of the way towards him - absolutely no distance between you allowed again - until you landed on his lap in an awkward straddle. Your arms wrapped around his neck tightly and his wrapped around your waist. 

Both of you sat there, lightly crying.

Your face buried into Garrett’s neck as you breathed in his familiar scent. That smell alone caused a few tears, because it was so nostalgic and homely to you. Garrett’s head rested just beside yours.

Neither of you said anything for what felt like the longest time, both more than happy to just sit silently in each other’s arms. 

“I thought something bad had happened.” Garrett mumbled.

You reluctantly pulled your head away from his neck, blinking away the remnants of tears as you pulled Garrett’s head up to see him. His eyes were red-rimmed and his dark circles were as dark as yours. 

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t text me for so long. I thought something bad had happened.” His eyes traced over every inch of your face, scanning every freckle to make sure they were all still there. 

“I wanted to surprise you.” 

“You did. If 24 hours of no contact is what it takes to be surprised, then, baby, I don’t want it.” He shook his head.

“Okay. Noted.” You brushed your thumb over his cheek back and forth. He melted into your touch, trying to get as physically close to you as possible.

“Can’t believe you’re here.”

“Can’t believe you haven’t kissed me yet.”

Garrett’s hands left your waist instantly to cup your cheeks and bring your lips directly to his, kissing you exactly how one would kiss their significant other after a year apart. The kiss was bruising, barely enough space to breathe between you. 

Garrett tilted your head with his hands so he could kiss you deeper, your hips involuntarily rocking over his. The small movement was enough for Garrett to break the kiss, though the distance between you barely existed.

Both of your chests were heaving and your breathing heavy. You leaned in closer with dazed eyes focused on his lips, kissing him again. This time was shorter and with more feeling, before you pulled away with a soft laugh.

“What?” Garrett asked, still holding you close.

“I missed you.”

Garrett smiled, “Yeah, baby. Me too.” He kissed you four times in a row, before breaking off from your lips to kiss your cheeks, nose, eyes and anywhere else he could. The sound of your laughter filled his room for the first time in a year as Garrett kept kissing you.

You forced yourself forwards to make Garrett fall backwards on the bed, because you knew it was the only way to stop him from kissing you for now. 

Garrett’s hair flopped around him on the bed, with a little curl falling over his forehead. His hands moved to place over your hips, whilst yours pressed into his bed either side of his head to keep you upright.  

“Can’t believe you’re here.” Garrett said.

“You’ve already said that. Have you developed temporary amnesia, baby?” You teased him.

“My brain hasn’t worked since you walked through the door.” 

Garrett’s hand tucked underneath the hoodie you were wearing, and traced up and down your bare skin. The featherlight touch made you smile and you rewarded him with another quick kiss. 

You moved to sit back up less than gracefully. Luckily Garrett’s arms were there to support you as he mirrored you to sit up as well. 

“How was your flight?” He asked, his eyes focused on you. No doubt he wouldn’t be letting you from his sight for the foreseeable future. He was going to attach himself to you like a limpet whether you liked it or not.

“Shall we go downstairs and see everyone so I don’t have to answer that question fifteen more times?”

Garrett grumbled and his eyebrows furrowed, “No.”

“No?”

“I want you to myself.” He said as his hands tightened their grip on your back. 

“Baby, don’t be mean.”

“I’m not being mean, I'm being selfish. There’s a difference.”

“Not a good difference.” You argued.

“Did the Brits teach you to be polite or something?”

You tried not to laugh at your boyfriend’s childish behaviour, because, honestly, some part of you understood what he was feeling. You got possessive when he left for a hockey game for just a weekend, let alone you having been gone a full year. 

Of course you wanted to just be with him too, but your friends were important to you too. They’d all kept close contact with you, always letting you know how Garrett was really doing and being there for him when he needed people around. You owed a lot to them all. 

“C’mon. You’ll get me all evening.” You compromised.

“You’ve finished over there?” 

“Yes,” You smiled, brushing a curl back off his forehead, “Finished last week.”

“So you’re here to stay?” 

“Baby, I’m back. I’m here for summer, then autumn, winter and spring. Then summer again and autumn…”

“Okay, okay,” Garrett cut you off, “Can we spend summer together?”

“I literally brought all my shit here with me, because I intend on moving in. You’re stuck with me.”

Because in his current one he was experiencing a level of torture that he thought nobody was possible of inflicting on another person “you are going to get me killed.” Beau grumbled against your mouth as his hands rested on your waist. 

It made you grin “I’m just a girl chilling on her bed.” You played defensively as you gasped feeling his hips grind against you. 

The boy laughed “you say that like you aren’t in my shirt.” Beau pointed out as he looked down at the football training shirt. 

The grey fabric practically drowned you, reminding him out that day you were in his jersey “hey finders keepers losers weepers.” You stuck your tongue out at him earning an immediate laugh. 

Beau tucked your hair behind your ear “you’re lucky that it looks better on you anyways.” He murmured leaning in to kiss your neck.  

You shook your head as you let your hands cup his cheeks before you pulled his attentions back to your eyes “you know what looks better on me?” You batted your eyelashes at the boy who swore he melted into your bed at that moment. 

You had this way of looking at him like he was the only thing that mattered. Sure he looked at you like that too. 

It was funny how time had a way of stopping when you shut your bedroom door. The apartment had become your safe haven once the girls found out about you two, it became a place where you didn’t have to hide “what does baby?” Beau asked as he cocked his head. 

You ran your tongue along your teeth “if it’s off of me.” Your words were met with an immediate groan as his head fell onto your shoulder. 

It made you laugh which was only made louder when the door burst open “absolutely not!” Allie shook her head. 

She was stood with Hannah who grinned when you looked past the boy on top of you “you need to get ready.” Allie pointed her finger in your direction “and you need to go finish helping set up your stupid house for this.” She moved her attention to Beau. 

It made the boy groan “I hate your roommates.” He grumbled when he finally sat up. 

You mocked him with a pout “they’re my roommates.” You reminded him as you giggled “and we’re also the ones who keep your asses safe.” Hannah reminded you of remembering when Garrett had an impromptu drop in and Beau was left being forced into your room. 

In a way it was almost ironic that Beau dropped in on girls night, just for Garrett to do the same thing thirty minutes later. That’s how you ended up being forced to fake a cold for a week after you had to hide in your bedroom too. 

Beau sighed as he knew that the girls were right “what is it that you want from us?” He asked as he let his hand snake around your waist once more. 

Allie rolled her eyes “for you to go away so that we can get her dressed.” Beau looked down to what you were in. 

What was just his t-shirt “well I think she looks perfect.” He confessed making both girls pretend to gag “nice try.” Allie crossed her arms. 

Beau grinned “now go away.” She added making the boy frown. 

He reached for your hand “no don’t look at her she can’t help you.” Hannah stopped him making you laugh. 

The boy looked at you like you had just gone to the dark side “I will see you later.” He went to kiss you but your roommates remained strong “go!” 

You toyed with your necklace as you laughed seeing them shove him out “you know your boyfriend is obsessed with you right?” Allie shook her head and you couldn’t even argue. 

Because the feeling was right, and listening to people still calling him your boyfriend made your stomach feel funny. 

It came when the rain was pouring outside. 

Beau came over after he finished a late class and practically slipped into your bed with you the moment he got a chance as you had complained that you were too cold to practically do anything. 

That’s how the two of you ended up watching Mamma Mia on your laptop together “so just so we’re clear Sam’s the dad right?” His words made you pause your laptop, leaning up from his chest. 

You turned to Beau and let out the harshest sigh you possibly could have “it’s a good thing you’re pretty cause you my friend are wrong.” You shook your head as you felt his hand on your back. 

Beau cocked his head “it’s so clearly Bill!” You whined not realising that the boy in front of you had gone strangely quiet. 

His fingers brushed up your arm absentmindedly. His fingers were slower as if his mind had drifted somewhere else entirely “you’re staring.” Your voice was soft as it pulled him back to you. 

He smiled when his eyes flicked back to yours “no I’m not.” 

“Oh yes you are.” 

And then he paused as he let out a hard exhale “I’m just thinking.” He shrugged as he leaned on his arm “that’s dangerous.” You grinned as your eyes shone this glimmer of mischief. 

He rolled his eyes as he huffed out a laugh “do you ever think about how this started?” He asked quietly as his arm tightened around your waist. 

You blinked as you cocked your head “how you’re wrong about a piece of cultural history?” You spoke so simply that it almost made him laugh. 

Beau shook his head “I mean us.” You turned to be fully in his arms “I think about it all the time.” 

It made you smile “what about us?” You furrowed your brows. 

His thumb brushed against your waist, almost nervous in a way you weren’t really used to seeing him in “I don’t want to just be your friend.” His words made you grow confused. 

“I’m not tracking with you Maxwell.”

He frowned, trying to figure out how he was meant to say it “what are we?” His hand reached up to cup your cheek. 

You chewed at the inside of your lip “I mean.” You couldn’t find the words to articulate it “we’re serious.” You remembered that night when the girls found out about him when you confessed that. 

Beau nodded “they called me your boyfriend.” He reminded you as if it wasn’t something that you were already thinking about. 

You licked your lips “I liked it when they did that.” His confession made you melt as he sat up talk as if it was about to make what he said more proper than when he was laying down “I want you like that.” 

He ran his fingers through his hair “you do have me like that Beau.” You nodded as he shook his head “not officially.” 

That made you nervous “what about Dean-” his hands cupped your cheeks “I know I can’t have you in public.” 

It should have stung. It should have made your heart break “but I want you in all the ways that matter to us.” Beau forced his lips into a smile when you grinned “who would have thought I’d get Beau Maxwell getting all cute?” 

He pecked your lips “your boyfriend Beau Maxwell actually.” 

It lingered in your mind as you walked into the house “Dean might kill me in this.” You shook your head at the two girls who laughed “well then aren’t we glad that you dressed up for your boyfriend.” Allie took a cup one of the guys who smiled at her before she gave it to you. 

You downed it without thinking twice as you nodded “remember if you’ve got it, flaunt it.” Hannah patted your lower back when you guys finally spotted Beau. 

He was stood in some black shirt and a backwards hat that made him look dangerously good “I-I,” You cut yourself off as your throat felt dry. 

Now you were learning how the world felt as it was so unfair. 

And then he looked up and finally saw you.

Before he completely stopped moving.

It was almost funny how obvious he was when he wasn’t meant to. 

But somehow it felt like something only you guys were meant to know.

Like his body forgot how to function for a second every time you walked into a room “oh my god,” Allie whispered beside you, delighted “look at his face.”

Hannah snorted looking at the boy “he’s gone.” Beau really was, his drink lowered slowly in his hand as his eyes dragged down your body.

The dress.

Your legs.

The way the black fabric hugged you in all the places he already knew too well.

It was something that Allie found in her closet, and she knew the moment you put it on that it was practically made for you. 

And Beau knew it by the way his eyes looked back up at yours.

And the look on his face made heat crawl up your neck instantly.

Because that wasn’t secretive.

That wasn’t subtle.

That was him reminding you that he was yours.

You swallowed as Allie grinned wickedly, “mission accomplished.” Across the room, Garrett said something to Beau that clearly went unheard.

Beau forced himself to nod as you smiled “think your man is thinking the same thing.” You winked at Hannah, who turned the same colour of red you swore your cheeks were. 

Beau was the first one to make his way over “I’ll meet him there.” Hannah squeezed your hand as she walked to Garrett before he had the chance to unintentionally cockblock you. 

Allie squeezed your arm “oh that boy looks sick!” She giggled like a kid in a candy store “try keep him breathing after midnight.” She teased as she gave you one last twirl.

You barely got a chance to respond before he was stood right in front of you. The boy made sure that there was enough space for it not to be overwhelmingly noticable, but he was close enough that you could still smell his cologne.

His eyes dropped again, straight to the dress. Then your legs. 

And to round off the trip they went back to your eyes, and the look that he gave you was enough to make your stomach flip “hi there, handsome.” You smiled sweetly. 

Beau exhaled through his nose as his eyes sharpened “you are doing this on purpose.” His words were directed at Allie but his eyes never left you. 

He let out a low whistle “c’mon baby I mean.” He reached out to put his hands on your waist but he quickly stopped himself. 

It was the part that you hated, the fact that he couldn’t just reach out and touch you, it almost made you feel jealous of Hannah and Garrett behind you, who got to be real in front of everyone when Hannah was still crushing on Justin two weeks ago, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say that she was still crushing on the singer. 

Sure you knew it was wrong to not be 100% happy for your friend, but you craved the publicity that her relationship got, “you look like trouble.” Beau finally found the words as he made you smile. 

Of course, he’d notice when his compliments made your heart soar, but you’d do everything in your power to hide the effect they had on you “that’s not very nice.” You lightly teased him as he shook his head. 

Beau decided to step forward again, this time allowing his mouth to drop to your ear “last time I checked, I wasn’t trying to be fucking nice.” He grumbled as he let his hand run along your waist. 

Honestly, that moment had done more to you than anything else. The thought of him peeling you out of your dress was something that seemed to be on both of your minds. 

Which was a dangerous look to have on a man in a room full of people “you are going to be the death of me.” He mumbled as he leaned back to take a look at you in full again. 

His jaw flexed as his eyes darkened. Beau was really weighing up the consequences of throwing you over his shoulder and bringing you upstairs

But then it happened, “Beau!” Dean’s voice called out, making your boyfriend step back. 

The boy groaned while you instead laughed “hey Deano.” You smiled seeing your very drunk and very oblivious brother sling his arm around Beau’s shoulders. 

Dean let his eyes linger over your body “you clean up nicely.” He announced as you tried your best not to look nervous. 

“Thanks?”

Your brother ignored you as he saw how Beau smiled at you “see this is why I have rules.” Dean slurred as he pointed his finger accusingly at his best friend. 

It made Beau’s eyes widen, “what rules?” He asked as he tried his hardest to act like you weren’t there and you tried the same thing with him. 

Dean continued, “you can’t hook up with any of my friends.” You had to force a laugh out of your lips “oh please, I’d never.” You scratched your arm nervously as if your brother knew everything. 

Thankfully he stumbled shortly after, making Beau practically catch him “you are drunk.” Dean shook his head “I am having a better time than the two of you it seems.” He corrected his friend as you smiled. 

It was nice seeing the boys together, you had to admit it “c’mon lets get you some water.” Beau’s suggestion fell onto deaf ears “we are doing shots.” 

Dean looked at you “without her.” That was what your brother was always like so you really weren’t annoyed. 

Beau frowned as he really didn’t want to leave you “have fun boys.” You sent Beau a salute as he got pulled back into the crowd, disappearing into the sea of people.

Before you knew it, the party had gotten louder. 

Hotter and somehow more crowded even. 

Allie disappeared outside to answer a call from Shawn while Hannah was talking to Justin in some corner as Garrett was in the bathroom. 

Which left you alone as you got a drink in the kitchen “you’re Dean’s sister right?” You looked up to see a guy that you vaugly remembered as one of the lowerclassmen on the football team. 

You nodded as you watched him smile too widely “that’s sick.” He reeked of alcohol, and it made your nose scrunch in disgust. 

The boy didn’t leave “you got a boyfriend?” He stepped closer to you instead.

Your heart skipped “why?” You knew you should have just said yes but you stopped yourself from having to explain this to Dean “because I think we should fix that.” 

He reached for your hand as you shook your head, “I’m good,” the boy didn’t stop “c’mon don’t shut me down that fast.” He made you cringe when you stepped back realising that you were now against the counter. 

Before you even had the chance to panic you heard him “pretty sure she’s good.” Beau clenched his fists as he stood behind you both. 

“Can’t you take a hint?” 

It made the other boy laugh “we are just taking.” You took the chance to wriggle out of his space. 

Opting to slot into Beau’s side instead “no she was trying to get away from you.” Beau wrapped his arm around your shoulder. 

He squeezed his arm making the other guy snarl, “why do you care?” Beau tensed against you “because she isn’t up for the taking.” 

Beau spoke so simply, unaware of the fact that you were just about ready to make out with your boyfriend in the middle of party, without caring who saw you “whatever.” The boy raised his hands in surrender as he walked off. 

The brunette turned his attention to you “you okay?” His expression softened as he made you smile. 

You softly laughed “a lot better now that you’re here.” Your words made him almost melt. 

His hand cupped your cheek as his eyes stared at your lips “fuck you’re gorgeous.” He murmured doing everything in his power to not kiss you. 

His words were sweet as you nodded “you’re not too bad yourself pretty boy.” You shook your head, as you leaned closer to him. Your lips mere inches away from him. 

And just like last time the moment was cut before it had a chance to begin “Beau c’mon someone is sick on our couch!” One of his roommates groaned making you sigh.

Beau was ready to stay with you and leave the mess for someone else to deal with “no talking to strange men.” Beau grumbled as it made you let out a low laugh “is that your takeaway from this?”

He wanted to plant his feet in the ground and never leave you “I’ll behave.” He didn’t believe that you would, but still he couldn’t stay.

Not when he was literally being pulled away “I’m serious!” Was the last thing that he said as he got pulled back into the crowd. 

Allie appeared beside you as you grinned “y’know he was ready to like actually fight that guy.” She squeezed your hand, making your cheeks turn red. 

You licked your lips “that guy was weird.” It sent a shiver down your spine. 

She gasped dramatically “no way, your secret boyfriend who is obsessed with you, got jealous?” She teased you as she let out a laugh when you rolled your eyes. 

The girl looped her arm into yours, leaning her head against your shoulder “I am literally living for this.” You snorted as you shook your head “you are enjoying this way too much.” 

Allie nodded as if it was the most honest thing that you could have said “because it took you two so damn long to let us in!”

She remembered how awkward you and Beau were when you first started sneaking around “y’know he used to look at you like a lost puppy.” Hannah reappeared next to you as you shook your head. “No he didn’t.”

Your defensiveness made them laugh “you love him.” Hannah elbowed your side as she slipped her arm into yours. 

You chewed at the inside of your cheek “yeah I do.” You nodded as you realised that you really meant it. 

Both girls squealed as they jumped up and down, seeing your eyes land on Beau’s. You did always managed to find him in the crowd. 

And like always, Beau was looking at you too. 

Allie stood in front of you as she grabbed your face “this is like the best day of my life.” Her words made you groan.

You shook your head “Allie!” You whined as you hated how well the girls could read you.

Hannah watched as you scrunched your nose “I hate you both.” You grumbled making her stick her tongue out at you.

Allie grinned as she let out a laugh “but we are still the ones helping you two sneak around.” She poked your nose as Hannah giggled.

And they were right.

Because when you couldn’t find Beau anymore. Rather than going home with the girls, you opted to slip up to his room to get some quiet and hopeful company “was wondering how long it would take you to come here.” Beau smiled as he toyed with his watch. 

The door shut behind you “I was waiting for you to come and get me.” You smirked as the boy stood up from his bed.

His steps towards you were painfully slow “was trying to do that most of the night.” His hand reached for yours as he smiled. 

His calloused fingers were rough against your skin “seemed like you didn’t do a very good job.” You let out a breathy laugh when he walked you back into the door. 

Beau licked his lips “you enjoy breaking the rules?” Your lips hovered over his as you smiled. 

He grinned “last I checked Dean said his friends couldn’t hook up with you.” He recounted the conversation as if you weren’t there when it happened. 

You finally scoffed as you sent him a confused look “and what are we doing?”

Beau brushed his nose against yours “I am dating you.” His lips engulfed yours when you started walking him backwards against his bed. 

The boy grunted when he pulled you down with him “do you enjoy wearing something trying to kill me?” Beau asked as his thigh drew these tiny circles against your inner thigh. 

You smiled sweetly, “you look pretty alive to me.” You batted your eyelashes, almost making the boy’s heart stop. 

Beau nodded “that’s cause I have been planning on getting you out of this from the moment you got here.” Your body squirmed as you clenched your thighs against him. 

“So what are we waiting for?”

Which honestly made sense considering the entire thing was one giant mistake. 

But the frat party was a mistake before Beau got involved. 

You hadn’t even wanted to go originally, but Hannah helped do your hair while Allie dug through her closet for something that was ‘slutty but classy’ which directly translated into tight jeans and some white top that now clung to your skin after some drunk idiot slammed directly into you with a cup full of whatever he had too much of “yo sorry girl!” He called out as he continued walking. 

But you stood there staring in horror. Because that once white fabric was see-through now, and that meant that your red bra had to be on full display for everyone to see “shit.” Hannah’s eyes went wide as you let out a huff “I need a drink if I’m meant to deal with this.” You grumbled as both girls followed you. 

They swore you would have gone home right when that happened, but instead you opted to fill your cup up again.

Then again. 

And again. 

Which is how you ended up upstairs half an hour later, annoyed, tipsy and actively trying to find a quieter space after you disappeared from the girls. 

You weren’t thinking when you opened the door to the first semi-empty room that you saw. Until you realised it wasn’t empty. 

Beau was stood there, leaning against his dresser as he looked for a new shirt for himself to wear, as he too was covered in someone’s drink. 

If you had to put your money on it, it was probably your brother’s doing.

His eyes flicked to you immediately, then dropped before they snapped right back up “you okay?” His voice was soft, like it always was when he spoke to you. 

You let out a dry laugh “do I look okay?” You asked as you shook your head. 

Beau’s jaw tightened slightly. Because he was looking again. 

Too long.

Too obvious. 

You crossed your arms out of reflex and that almost made it worse pushing your boobs up. So the boy looked away as if it would quickly reset his mind “what happened?” He asked as he scratched the side of his arm. 

“Some guy happened.” 

His expression immediately darkened “relax.” You saod even though your stomach still felt irritated, “he just spilled his drink on me.” You ran your fingers through your hair. 

Beau’s eyes flicked to your shirt again, the fabric clinging and the outline too visible. His throat moved as he swallowed “I can see that.” His voice was rougher; something about it made your stomach flip. 

Without thinking, you stepped further into his room. Which was a bad idea, as you were now closer to him.

Close enough to smell him properly, beer, laundry detergent and something sharp yet masculine underneath it all. 

Beau shifted slightly as he was suddenly aware of every inch between the two of you “here.” He reached for the Nike hoodie that was behind you “you should probably get out of that shirt so guys don’t look.” His words made your ears turn pink. 

Because not once had you ever thought that Beau cared about what other guys did when it came to you.

You stared at him for a second too long “why?” You asked quietly as Beau blinked, “why what?”

“Why do you care?” 

Silence. 

The music downstairs thumped faintly through the walls. Someone laughed too loudly in the hallway. 

Beau’s grip tightened on the hoodie “I just-” He stopped himself as he licked his lips “it’s just annoying, that’s all.” He said it like it was an answer that made so much sense.

You tilted your head as neither one of you moved, the hoodie was between you and Beau already regretted every second of this conversation “you’re drunk.” He gave you this look, as if it explained everything.

You shot back “so are you.“ And that got him.

A faint helpless nod came from the boy before a pause. It was longer this time.

The tension in the room shifted, never disappeared, just changed shape as if it was keeping up with the times.

You stepped closer without thinking.

Beau didn’t move away. 

That was the problem. 

He never moved away from you “you’re staring again.” You pointed out softly 

The boy dropped his hands “you’re in my room in a see-through shirt. What do you want from me?” His question made you quietly laugh. 

Because he was right, “fair,” but then you went quieter, “is it bothering you?” 

Beau looked at you properly this time, no pretending, “yes” he said immediately. 

Your breath caught slightly “because of the shirt?” You teased, voice no longer as steady as you wished it was. 

He shook his head once “no.” That word changed everything as your stomach dropped “oh.” 

Beau stepped forward without warning, it was just one step but ut closed the gap between the two of you.

His voice dropped, “you shouldn’t look at me like that.” His eyes hovered dangerously over your lips. 

Your voice was barely a whisper, “like what?” You always thought he was cute, but you knew your brother would kill you if you ever vocalised it.

“Like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

Your heartbeat skipped. 

That was it. The moment that everything snapped. The floodgates of emotion and desire flew open and everything was about to come tumbling out. 

You didn’t think. You just grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down slightly. Beau froze for like half a second like he needed to reboot.

Then he kissed you. It was powerful.

Like he had been holding it back since he knew you and stopped pretending he could win.

His hand came to your waist, firm as it pulled you closer, making your back hit the dresser behind you. 

You moaned against his mouth, and that only made him kiss you harder. 

It was warm, dizzy, and completely unfair.

You didn’t even notice when he dropped the hoodie, or when your arms slid around his neck. All you knew was that Beau kissed you like he’d wanted it for longer than either of you was willing to admit. 

When he finally pulled back, it was so he could take in the sight of you, how your lips were now swollen “this is such a bad idea.” He muttered, making you smile, “yeah it is.” Neither of you pulled away. 

So when Beau kissed you again, he brought your legs around his waist before he used his foot to shut his bedroom door.

Because this was definitely going to be a case of night one and not one night.

The two of you had been sneaking around for a while now, and you made it through the summer, sneaking around the house in Cape Cod. You made it through sneaking into each other’s rooms as if Dean wasn’t feet away. And honestly, you were both feeling like you were on top of the world. 

Because it was getting too easy, which meant soon that you’d both start playing recklessly.

That’s how you ended up in his car at 2 am after a late-night snack run that you practically had to beg the boy to go on. 

You were sat in the passenger seat, one of his hoodies swallowing you whole. Beau was in the drivers seat, turned slightly towards you with his forearm resting on the steering wheel like he needed something to anchor himself to. 

The windows were fogging up a little and neither of you acknowledged it “we need rules.” You announced as you sat up straight. 

Beau quietly laughed “rules?” He cocked his head as you nodded. 

Dean had asked you if you wanted to hang out with him tonight and you didn’t know what you were meant to say when you turned him down “because this is going to get messy.” You insisted even though your voice didn’t sound sure of it. 

Beau’s eyes flicked to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up “it’s already messy.” He pointed out as the only thing going through his mind was how he really wanted to kiss you in that moment.

You sighed as you fiddled with your rings “okay what are you thinking?” Beau shifted in his seat to give you his full attention. 

You nodded like you were in control of your entire life and not currently sat in his car after sneaking out of your dorm.

One rule should have been obvious: Don’t do this.

But neither of you said it, instead opting for “no public stuff.” You said it carefully as if you were testing the waters. 

Beau nodded in agreement and your heart did something stupid because he didn’t even hesitate, “no kissing at parties or touching were people can see.” You continued knowing that it would be the first thing to blow the two of you up if it happened.

Beau’s jaw tightened at the second one but he nodded again “no Dean.” He added, making you laugh.

It earned a smile from him “yeah none of him.” He was the one you were trying to hide this from after all.

The first two felt manageable, the third was where things were going to get tricky ‘no telling anyone.” You knew that this was something he’d tell Joanna, and before you knew it, everyone would know. 

Beau didn’t respond and that made you look at him properly.

His expression had shifted to something less joking and more serious, like he was actually thinking about the weight of it all “yeah,” he said eventually, “no telling anyone.” Your stomach dipped as you nodded.

Because telling nobody meant hidden, and hidden meant fragile.

Beau seemed to notice your face changed, his voice softened a little “we’re not doing this because we’re ashamed.” His words lingered in the air. 

You licked your lips slightly “then why are we doing it?” Silence filled the car for too long. 

Beau’s hand left the steering wheel and rested on your thigh like he was forcing himself not to reach for your hand “because I can’t stop thinking about you.” He said those words so simply. 

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rehearsed and it wasn’t said as if it just made your stomach do flips.

You swallowed “that’s not a rule.” You pointed it out as your brows furrowed.

“No,” he agreed quietly “that’s the problem.”

The air between you both changed. It was thicker now; it was less about the rules you set to make.

More about everything you were trying not to say out loud. You shifted in your seat slightly, facing him fully, “Beau…” You trailed off as he looked a you immediately.

Always immediate. Always like you were the only thing in the room (or in this case, car) that mattered “are we okay with this?” You asked softly “like actually okay or are we just-“

“Already in it?” The boy finished your sentence as if he had been thinking the same thing. 

You nodded, Beau exhaled through his nose, almost like he was annoyed at how true the statement was. 

Then he leaned over the centre console, not fast, not rushed, just inevitable. 

Your breath stuttered before he even touched you “yeah.” He said quietly as his eyes flickered between yours, “we’re in it.” That was all the warning you got before he kissed you.

Slower this time. Less frantic than before. But deeper in a way that made your entire body go warm instantly, like it had been waiting for him to do exactly that.

Your hand slid into his shirt without thinking, pulling him closer as his hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he still couldn’t believe that you were real. 

The console dug into your thigh as your seatbelt clicked when you shifted. 

None of it mattered. 

Because Beau Maxwell kissed you like he meant it every time. 

When he finally pulled back it was only slightly, resting his forehead against yours like he needed a break “rule four.” You whispered.

It made him laugh against your mouth, “theres more?” He asked as you nodded, “just one.” 

He hummed against your lips “go on.”

You looked at him properly, your fingers still hooked into his shirt, “if this goes bad ever.” You said, trying to sound casual and failing completely, “we don’t ever talk about it.” Beau’s expression softened instantly.

He paused, “but it’s not going to go bad.” You gave him a look “you don’t know that.”

Beau smiled “I do.” That made your stomach flip again.

You held your pinky out and Beau stared at it for half a second before he laughed and did the same thing “taking this to the grave.” You said. 

Beau squeezed your hand gently “to the grave.” He nodded. 

You should’ve let go after that.

You really should’ve. But instead, you pulled him back by his shirt.

And Beau met you halfway, like he always would. Like there was never really going to be a rule strong enough to stop him.

But it was funny how that last rule really didn’t last long. 

Because the girls were the ones who found out by accident.

Mainly because Beau was a football player and that meant that stealth didn’t come to him naturally.

It was nearly one in the morning when he showed up at your dorm wearing a dark hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low, “okay Stevie Wonder.” You let out a snort, seeing his sunglasses on him too. 

He rolled his eyes “if you didn’t take so long to come get me I wouldn’t need a disguise.” He grumbled pecking your lips. 

You grinned as you curled the string of his hoodie between your fingers “hey now I could leave you out here.” You taunted him, licking your lips in the process. 

He let out a low whistle “now where would the fun be in making me go home?” His hands rested on your waist as your cheeks turned red “you’re lucky you’re cute.” You grumbled as you grabbed his hand. 

It made him grin, “you think I’m cute.” He looked as if he had just been told he was the best looking man in the world “yeah so lets not let that change.” 

You got to your floor as you looked around “c’mon be quiet.” You brought your finger to your lips as you had snuck him past the security desk for what felt like the tenth time that week. 

Beau rolled his eyes “I know how sneaking works.” He snorted softly right before he walked into one of the random tables that were out.

It made this loud echo “do you now?” You crossed your arms as he grabbed your waist, shoving the two of you behind some corner before the RA had a chance to appear. 

You bubbled into this silent laughter as you grinned, “you’re enjoying this too much.” Beau muttered as he shook his head “didn’t think you would be this bad at sneaking.” 

“Usually I don’t need to.” 

You were still laughing by the time the two of you got to your dorm suite. 

Where you froze immediately.

Because the once empty living room now had both Hannah and Allie sit on the couch eating cereal. 

With a perfect view of you and the man you were holding hands with “I knew it.” Hannah lowered her spoon as her mouth fell open. 

Your eyes closed “Hannah-” Beau squeezed your hand, reminding him he was there with you. 

“I knew it!” She shrieked louder as Allie clapped her hands, looking genuinely delighted, “oh my god, its Beau!”

Beau looked like he’d rather be taking a tackling drill to the face in that moment “that’s why Garrett said Dean was going on about you having some mystery girlfriend!” Hannah remembered how the hockey captain pointed it out as you were running to a lecture one day as the two studied in your living room. 

Your head snapped “he what now?” Your eyes went wide as Beau groaned from next to you. 

Allie gasped as her hand went over her mouth “you’re the one that give her the hickies!” It was after a party where you were in a low-cut shirt and Beau got a little annoyed seeing all the guys look at you. 

So he made sure you were left forced to wear borderline turtlenecks in the middle of August “this is humiliating.” You groaned as you leaned into Beau. 

Allie scoffed “correction, this is the cutest thing in the world.” She spoke in a duh tone as she placed her bowl on the table. 

Beau slid his arm around your waist as your head buried into his chest, refusing to look at anyone. 

And the girls noticed that immediately. And the worst part? So did you. 

Because the tiny movement said more than either of you had yet “wait are you guys serious?” Her eyes darted between you. 

You finally looked up from the boy’s chest to see his eyes looking right at yours, “yeah.” He nodded making your stomach flip. 

Allie clapped her hands together as she squealed, “you’re dating Beau Maxwell.” It was a massive jump from when you swore you were off of guys last year after another failed hook-up.

You laughed despite yourself, “don’t make it weird.” You groaned, making the girls laugh. 

Hannah shook her head “trust me it’s already weird.” She informed you “your brother literally thinks Beau is in love with some random girl while you’re literally sneaking him into our door.” She pointed out making you look up at Beau who sighed. 

He knew what he was getting into when he started sneaking around with you “Dean’s gonna kill me.” Beau chewed at the inside of his lip. 

Allie shook her head “while you’re probably not wrong.” She trailed off, looking at Hannah, who gasped. 

“Oh my god, we can help keep them a secret!” 

While the girls offer wasn’t something either of you needed to take just yet, it felt like as the weeks continued, something was changing between the two of you.

Somewhere along the way, the sneaking and fun around turned into something serious. 

Beau had texted you all about how he had a bad practice, and that was how you ended up in his room without a second thought. 

He was in his ensuite showering, blissfully unaware of what was sitting on his bed waiting for him. 

You found his jersey and had kicked your jeans off, leaving you in your underwear and his shirt, “holy shit.” His eyes went wide as he took in the sight of you. 

The first went down to your thighs leaving you looking as if you were about to be swallowed whole “hi handsome.” You grinned as you pushed yourself off of his bed. 

Beau felt his brain short-circuit as he dropped his towel to the floor, forgetting what to do with himself “couldn’t you have waited until I got dressed?” He asked quietly as he reached for his boxers from his open drawer. 

You swore you hadn’t seen him get dressed faster in his life “would that have been more polite?” You tilted your head, watching him turn back to face you again. 

He was quick to shake his head, “it would have been a whole lot less distracting.” He countered, making you laugh softly. 

Beau reached you as one hand automatically wrapped your leg around him. It was a move that made your pulse jump. 

His thumb brushed absentmindedly against bare skin while he looked at you like he didn’t know where to focus first “you wore this on purpose.” He mumbled as he licked at his lips, “maybe I missed you.” 

It made his expression soften. Every single time it happened. No matter how teasing the moment started, the second you said something genuine, Beau looked at you like you knocked the air out of him. 

“I saw you this morning.” 

You rolled your eyes, remembering how good he looked in your bed “long time.” Your words made him huff out a laugh before he lay you onto his bed. 

The sight always made you squirm as his chain rested on your chin before he kissed you. 

The kiss always started slow with Beau first. As he enjoyed the build-up far too much to rush anything. 

His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, while your fingers curled into damp hair at the back of his neck. 

He tasted like mint and Gatorade.  

And god you swore you could feel the smile against your mouth when you tugged at his hair “you’re trouble.” He murmured as he looked away to look at you. 

You grinned, “you like it.” He nodded as he caught your lower lip between his teeth “I’m obsessed with it.” Your heart skipped embarrassingly hard at that. 

But Beau kissed you again before you could recover, this time going deeper. One hand pressed into the mattress under you while the other slipped under your shirt letting his palm spread against your bare waist. 

You made this tiny sound into his mouth that made him shudder, “don’t do that.” He grumbled as his knee dipped into the mattress.

You cocked your head feeling a little confused, “don’t make noises like that unless you want me acting insane.” His warning sound have made you squirm but instead you smirked. 

“Maybe I do?” 

That line got the boy as he groaned before he kissed you harder again. 

His body settled on top of you as his fingers traced up your ribs underneath the jersey, making your breath catch in your throat. 

“Beau-“

A loud knock slammed against the door as you both froze “Maxwell!” Dean whined from the other side of the door, making your eyes widen in horror. 

Beau dropped his forehead onto your shoulder “you’ve gotta be kidding me.” He groaned as he wanted to hit your brother in that moment.

Another knock came “c’mon Tucker is downstairs waiting for us!” And just like that you remembered why you weren’t meant to be seeing Beau until tonight. 

He was seeing Dean and Tucker after practice “hide!” Beau whisper hissed as he motioned you to slide under his bed “not your bathroom?” You scoffed, matching his tone. 

The boy panicked, “no time.” He pressed a kiss on your lips before you begrudgingly listened making sure that you hid behind where his practice bag was dropped “why aren’t you dressed?” Dean asked immediately, seeing the lack of clothing that his friend had on. 

Beau looked down as he ran his fingers through his hair “sorry bro, the shower ran long.” It was a stupid excuse, but the first one that he could come up with. 

Dean nodded as he crossed his arms “well just hurry up.” The blonde let out a dramatic huff that almost made you laugh.

Your brother looked at the bed, hearing your hand slap over your mouth “did your bed just make a noise?” He asked, making Beau’s eyes grow wide.

Dean shook his head as he sighed, “ignoring that are you gonna come out with us tonight?” Your brother asked but quickly groaned seeing Beau remain quiet “c’mon man mystery girl can’t be that special.” That was the nickname the boys gave you. The reason why Beau smiled at his phone, left parties early, didn’t attend poker nights if the puck bunnies were coming along, and most importantly, stopped flirting with other girls. For weeks now, Dean had been trying to figure out who was the reason his best friend went soft, blissfully unaware that it was the very sister whom he spent mornings ransacking her snack drawer. 

Everyone was trying to guess who you were and beyond for you, Beau, Hannah and Allie, nobody was going to be successful for as long as you all could help it. 

Beau gripped his hand at his door “look dude I can’t do tonight but give me a sec to get dressed and I’ll be down for Tucker.” He didn’t wait for Dean to answer as he shut his door, making sure he locked it. 

His head dropped as he helped you out from under his bed “next time I’m hiding you under my bed.” You grumbled as Beau sighed. 

The boy pressed a kiss against your lips “sorry princess your brother would have killed me.” He sighed as his hands rested on your hips “wait for me to come back?” He didn’t want to leave you, he really, really didn’t want to leave you in his jersey looking like that. 

But if you both wanted to make it through the night, you really had no other choice in the matter, “you know I will.” You leaned onto your tippy toes to kiss him again. 

“Don’t make me come back up there, Beau!”

The sports medicine clinic at Briar somehow always smells the same no matter what time of year it is. Hockey gear, melting ice packs, and disinfectant.

And is technically supposed to close at six.

Technically.

In reality, it closes whenever the hockey team finally stops wandering in with mystery bruises, split knuckles, sore shoulders, or dramatic declarations that they’re "probably dying" before immediately asking for snacks five minutes later.

Which is why you’re still here. Somewhere along the line, what started as a second-year sports medicine placement had turned into unofficial emotional support for the entire Briar hockey team, half the roster had your number for “emergencies,” which unfortunately ranged anywhere from actual injuries to Garrett once texting you a photo of a bruise shaped vaguely like Abraham Lincoln at two in the morning.

The fluorescent lights hum quietly overhead while you reorganise rolls of athletic tape for the third time that evening, one AirPod in, paperwork half-finished beside you, when the clinic door swings open.

You don’t even look up immediately.

“You’re late,” you say automatically.

“Mrs Logaaaan,” Garrett sings back.

Tucker’s voice follows before you can respond. “Oh thank god, my favourite healthcare professional.”

“Can you legally prescribe me a girlfriend?” Dean winks at you, messing with his hair- spraying sweat onto the other players around him. 

That makes you glance up and grimace.

“You need deodorant first,” you reply flatly.

Your comment earns a loud chorus of offended reactions.

“You’re so mean to us.” One of them whines

“You guys make it incredibly easy.”

Hockey players file into the clinic grinning like idiots, damp hair from practice still sticking up in random directions, one drags himself dramatically toward one of the beds clutching his shoulder like he’s been mortally wounded.

“See? I told you guys that Logan’s her favourite. She hates the rest of us.”

“That’s not true,” you say automatically.

It kind of is, though.

You’d known all of them for years at this point - through playoffs and fractured fingers and Dean getting banned from intramural basketball for “excessive dramatics” - but Logan had somehow become something else entirely before you even realised it was happening.

“Logan’s my favourite because he knows how to fill out injury forms without drawing smiley faces.” You snort quietly and reach for a fresh pair of gloves. 

“That was one time,” Dean argues.

“It was four times. It doesn't get funnier the more you do it.”

The boys continue arguing over each other while you start sorting through who actually needs treatment and who’s just here for attention.

And from behind all of them, Logan steps into the room, looking unfairly good for someone who just spent two hours getting bodychecked into plexiglass.

His practice jersey is half untucked, curls damp at the edges from sweat, hockey bag hanging from one shoulder while he watches the entire scene unfold with the long-suffering expression of a man who absolutely could stop his teammates and simply chooses not to.

Your mouth twitches on instinct.

“Not a single one of you knows how to act in medical facilities.”

“We’re athletes,” one of them replies solemnly. “We’re fragile.”

“You’re twenty.”

“Exactly.”

His eyes find you. It’s subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice unless they were specifically looking for it, but you do. The way his expression shifts slightly the second he sees you, shoulders loosening a little like he’s finally somewhere he actually wants to be.

Unfortunately, the team notices too.

“There he goes,” Garrett says loudly to the room. “Looking at her like she personally invented happiness.”

“Actually disgusting,” another adds.

You shake your head under your breath, trying not to smile as you move toward the nearest bed.

“Alright, what happened?”

“Practice injury,” the player says dramatically.

“You got hit with a foam roller.”

“It was aggressive.”

From behind him, Logan laughs quietly.

The sound pulls your attention toward him automatically.

He’s already looking at you.

He always is, it started sometime last winter, subtle enough neither of you acknowledged it at first, until suddenly Logan had become this fixed point in your day without either of you meaning for him to.

And then, because apparently he enjoys making your job harder, he drops onto the stool closest to your station while the rest of the boys continue causing problems in the background.

You narrow your eyes slightly.

“You injured too?”

He shrugs once and glances at your clipboard.

“Are you busy?” he asks.

You look down at him. “No actually, this is all for fun.”

His mouth twitches.

Behind him, one of the guys points accusingly. “See that? Flirting.”

“We’re literally talking,” you say.

Which, admittedly, had become a problem sometime around November. Because Logan looked at you during conversations like every sentence mattered more than it probably did.

“That’s how it starts.”

Logan ignores them entirely.

“You look tired,” he says instead, quieter now.

You blink at him once, slightly thrown by the softness of it in the middle of all the noise, mostly because Logan only really sounded like that with you. Everyone else got easygoing sarcasm and dry one-liners. You got this version of him instead.

“Your team is exhausting.”

“That’s fair.”

“You included.”

“Less than the others.”

“Debatable.”

That finally gets a proper smile out of him, small but real, and it sits annoyingly well on his face.

You gesture toward the treatment beds with your pen. “Okay, which one of you is actually injured and which one of you just wants free medical attention?”

“My knee-”

“My wrist-”

“Emotionally, mostly-”

“Shocking,” you mutter, already beginning to inspect somebody’s wrist.

And through all of it, Logan stays where he is.

Closest to you.

Which, unfortunately, only makes the entire situation infinitely worse.. Because now he’s just sitting there. Watching you work.

You move from player to player while the clinic slowly dissolves into complete nonsense around you, someone stealing gloves from a supply drawer while another dramatically asks if bruising counts as a life-threatening condition.

“You’re literally holding an ice pack shaped like a cartoon penguin,” you deadpan, “meant for the kids who come for weekend lessons by the way.”

“It’s emotionally devastating.”

“You’ll survive.”

“That’s what they said about the Titanic.”

“Get out.”

Laughter breaks across the room in an undignified uproar.

Logan stays focussed on you with that same quiet gaze he always gets whenever you’re concentrating on something. One foot hooked loosely against the stool rung while he  absentmindedly spun the little keychain attached to the back pocket of your scrub bottoms. 

You glance back over your shoulder briefly.

He doesn’t even look guilty.

If anything, the corner of his mouth lifts slightly when he realises you noticed.

“You’re annoying,” you murmur quietly while digging through the drawer for bandages.

“Thought I was hot.”

You try to stay unimpressed, but your mouth still betrays you by twitching slightly while you go back to work, “You can be both.”

That earns the smallest laugh out of him.

Across the room, Garrett notices immediately, pausing mid-sentence and looking between the two of you suspiciously.

“Why are you looking at him like that?”

You don’t even blink.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to put him down.”

“Because he’s touching my keychain.”

“That’s weirdly domestic.”

“It’s literally a keychain.”

“Yeah,” Dean cuts in, grinning now. “A married couple keychain.”

Logan finally speaks again from beside you.

“Pretty sure married people have bigger problems.”

Dean chirps back, “Like taxes and children.”

Garrett points at Logan. “That man would thrive as a girl dad.”

Logan doesn’t even look embarrassed. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed at being interrupted.

You throw a roll of tape at them without looking.

The room erupts instantly.

“Okay,” you say over the noise, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. “Everybody either sit down properly or leave.”

Shockingly, they obey.

You finish checking a plethora of oddly shaped bruises and superficial cuts while the clinic finally settles into a moderate calm around you, the post-practice energy finally starting to wear off.

The entire time, Logan stays close. Close enough that every now and then your thigh brushes his knee when you walk past, close enough that he occasionally reaches out to tug lightly on the edge of your hoodie sleeve just to get your attention for absolutely no reason.

Especially when Dean starts dramatically fake-flirting with you while you’re checking his wrist, only for Logan to look up from where he’s sitting and say,

“Relax.” Which is unfortunately the exact tone he uses whenever he’s jealous but is trying to pretend he isn’t.

Dean sharply bursts out laughing.

“OH MY GOD THERE IT IS, you’re actually possessive!”

“I’m not possessive,” Logan lies.

“You looked ready to fight me.”

“You’re annoying me.”

“That’s even worse!”

You shake your head, trying to hide your smile while Logan leans against the counter behind him, completely unbothered by the fact that the entire room is basically accusing him of being in love.

Eventually, when the bulk of the man-toddlers have left the clinic and you’ve handed out enough ice packs to survive a small natural disaster. You finally make your way back over to Logan, picking up the 100th incident form to fill out for the stragglers left behind, 

“You sure you’re fine?” you ask eventually without looking directly at him.

“Mostly.”

That makes you glance up, you click your pen and drop it into your pocket,

“Mostly?”

He finally shifts slightly on the stool.

“My shoulder’s stiff.”

You stare at him.

“You waited until after I treated everyone else to tell me that?”

A shrug.

“You were busy.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

His mouth twitches again.

“You like me anyway.”

The worst part was that he said things like that with complete certainty now, like somewhere over the past few months he’d stopped questioning whether you’d stay.

One of the teammates gags dramatically somewhere behind him.

“There it is.”

“Shut up,” Logan says immediately.

You’re already moving toward the storage cabinet before the teasing can escalate further, only to realise halfway there that the tape drawer is nearly empty.

You stop.

Then sigh.

“Great.”

“What?” Logan asks.

“Your idiot teammates used the last of my shoulder tape.”

A couple guys cheer from across the room, “LET’S GO.”

Logan rolls his eyes at them, “That sounds like a team problem.”

“That sounds like your problem,” you huff.

He looks entirely unbothered.

“So,” you continue, ignoring them completely, “I need to go grab more from storage.”

Logan nods once.

“You can come back after your shower and I’ll tape it for you properly.”

He pauses.

“You want me to leave?”

“You smell like a locker room.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“And yet,” Garrett says from the hallway without even looking back, “she keeps letting you come over.”

Logan doesn’t miss a beat.

“That’s because she looooves me.”

“Disgusting,” Dean mutters.

You point toward the hallway.

“Go shower or change or whatever the hell you hockey people do after practice and come back in twenty minutes. I’ll restock from the storage room.”

One teammate gasps dramatically.

“She’s asking him to come back.”

“She asks all injured athletes to come back,” you say flatly.

“Yeah, but not like that.”

Logan looks up at you with the faintest grin tugging at his mouth, then he stands, tall enough that suddenly the tiny clinic space feels much smaller than it did thirty seconds ago.

He grabs his bag from the floor without taking his eyes off you properly.

“I’ll be back,” he says.

One of the players makes kissing noises immediately.

You throw a roll of bandage backing at them.

This time Logan laughs properly.

The rest of them filter out behind him in a mess of noise and complaints, leaving the clinic suddenly, almost suspiciously, quiet.

You thank the gods and take advantage of whatever time they've mercifully gifted you. Taking the minutes to do small tasks like restocking tape from the back storage room, reorganising supplies and finishing the paperwork you abandoned earlier.

By the time the clinic door opens again, barely fifteen minutes later, the noise of the team has completely faded into the distance.

You look up from where you’re reorganising a tray of supplies with immediate suspicion.

“You showered fast,” you say lightly.

Logan closes the door behind him with his elbow before answering, hair still damp around the edges like he’d towel-dried it in under thirty seconds and called it a day. He’s swapped into grey sweats and a dark Briar hoodie, duffel bag hanging lazily from one hand, and he looks far too pleased with himself for someone supposedly recovering from an injury.

“Yeah,” he says easily, walking toward you. “Wanted to see you.”

There was a time that line would’ve completely short-circuited your nervous system. Now it just settled warm somewhere beneath your ribs because Logan said things like that all the time.

You roll your eyes automatically even though warmth blooms under your skin anyway.

The corner of your mouth twitches before you can stop it.

“Wow,” you deadpan. “Romantic.”

“I know.”

“You’re laying it on thick today.”

He drops his bag by the wall with a heavy thud and sits himself up on the treatment bed while you grab the fresh tape you’d dragged out from storage, and hold it out toward him

“There,” you say. “Knock yourself out.”

Logan stares down at the tape for a second like you’ve personally betrayed him, then his mouth pulls into the most ridiculous pout you’ve ever seen on a grown man.

“…Baby.”

“What?” you ask.

“You’re just handing it to me?”

“You have hands.”

“But you do it better.”

The thing about Logan was that he got clingier when he was tired. Post-practice Logan in particular operated almost exclusively on physical contact and opportunistic whining.

You choke out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”

“But you do it better,” he complains, looking up at you from where he’s sitting. “You literally study this stuff. It’s like having a personal private healthcare system.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

You fold your arms, trying very hard not to smile while he keeps looking at you like a neglected house cat.

You stare at him for a second, then laugh softly under your breath despite yourself.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m injured.”

“You are literally sitting upright.”

“My shoulder hurts.”

“You survived practice.”

“Barely.”

He says it completely deadpan too, which somehow makes it worse.

You step closer eventually, taking the tape back out of his hand with a dramatic sigh.

“I cannot believe this works on me.”

“It does though.”

You roll your eyes, lean down, and kiss the pout right off his mouth.

It’s quick, barely more than a soft press of your lips against his, but it instantly wipes the smug suffering expression off his face.

“There,” you murmur against him. “Better?”

“Much.”

“you're so manipulative.”

“You love it.”

Unfortunately, he isn’t wrong.

Still shaking your head, you begin to pick at the tape, searching for a start, a grin breaks across his face.

“There she is.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.”

He leans back slightly while you move closer, between his parted knees, 

“Take your shirt off.”

Logan’s eyebrows lift with mock dignity,

“Wow.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying, very forward of you.”

You point the tape threateningly.

“I can and will mess this up on purpose.”

That finally earns a laugh out of him before he grabs the bottom of the shirt and peels it up slowly over his stomach and chest before pulling it fully off. The movement flexes the muscles across his shoulders and arms in a way that makes your hands pause for just a second too long before continuing.

The first time you’d seen Logan shirtless, you’d nearly walked face-first into a supply cart. Now you liked to think that you mostly handled it with dignity. 

But even though you have seen him shirtless before, plenty of times, your brain still stalls for a second. Of course he notices, a Cheshire smirk spreading across his face.

“Are you checking me out right now?”

You snap your eyes back up to his. “Relax.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’ve literally taken your shirt off in front of me like a hundred times.”

“Exactly,” he says, leaning back on one hand. “So why are you acting shy now?”

“I’m not acting shy.”

“You stopped moving.”

“I was thinking medically.”

That gets a laugh out of him, low and warm and entirely too satisfied.

“Sure you were.”

You shove lightly at his shoulder. “Sit properly before I ruin your tape on purpose.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He straightens up obediently, but the second you lean closer to inspect the swelling, his hands settle automatically on your hips, warm and familiar through the fabric of your leggings. Logan constantly touched you in ways so absentminded, they almost felt instinctive - a hand at your back, fingers catching your sleeve, knees knocking together under tables. 

You glance down at them while peeling the backing off the tape.

“That’s not very professional of you.”

Logan looks at you innocently. “Neither is ogling your patient.”

You snort despite yourself and press your palm flat against his chest to push him back slightly so you can work properly.

“Shut up unless you want me to tape your arm to your torso.”

“Bit kinky for a medical facility.”

“John.”

You press the tape down slightly harder against his shoulder, he laughs quietly through the wince, shoulders shaking beneath your hands before finally relaxing when you glare at him.

“Abuse of power.”

“Keep talking and I’ll make it asymmetrical.”

That finally shuts him up.

The room settles into something quieter after that, the air hums softly around the two of you, close and warm and familiar in a way that makes the rest of campus feel very far away. You focus on the tape, fingers smoothing it across the curve of his shoulder and down his arm while Logan watches you with that same soft, steady attention he always gets when he thinks you aren’t noticing.

“You concentrate really hard,” he murmurs eventually.

“I’m trying to stop you from destroying your rotator cuff.”

“Hot.”

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says lightly, thumbs brushing absentmindedly against your hips, “you keep me around.”

You finish the final strip and smooth your hand over it one last time, making sure it’s fully adhered before tossing the empty backing aside.

“There,” you murmur, “Done.”

The clinic suddenly feels too quiet without the team in it.

Just the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint smell of your strawberry chapstick, and Logan looking at you like he has absolutely nowhere else he’d rather be.

You don’t step away and his hands tighten slightly at your hips while you’re still leaning forward over him, palms braced against the crinkling paper beside him on the treatment bed. Suddenly you’re very aware of how close your faces are.

You can feel his breathe against your parted lips, warm and steady

“You’re staring again,” he says quietly.

“You’re shirtless in a medical facility.”

“You invited me.”

Your eyes flick down to his mouth first and you lean in to kiss him before he can say something smug about it.

The first kiss is soft, more amused than anything, except Logan enthusiastically kisses you back. It’s not so chaste anymore.

His hand slides from your hip up along your waist while your fingers instinctively catch against the back of his neck, and the second you kiss him deeper, he exhales softly against your mouth like it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

You can feel the warmth of his skin beneath your hands, nails digging into his shoulder.

His mouth stays slow at first, then the kiss deepens steadily until your breathing catches halfway through it, a small involuntary sound escaping you before you can stop it, and Logan takes the opportunity to tilt his head and kiss you deeper like he’s been waiting for permission.

One of his hands slides into your hair, the other stays firm at your waist.

The new angle arches you against him properly now, your chest pressed lightly to his as he kisses you harder this time, slower and warmer and very deliberately not innocent.

His mouth is still curved faintly like he’s enjoying the fact that you started this, but the smugness fades quickly when your fingers slide into the damp hair at the base of his head and tug lightly.

The sound he makes against your mouth is quiet, but enough to make heat rush straight through you.

“Oh, you liked that,” you murmur before kissing him again. Logan’s hand tightens instinctively at your waist like he’s annoyed you noticed, which only makes you want to tease him more.

“Don’t get cocky,” he says, voice lower now.

“You literally started pouting for attention five minutes ago.”

“And it worked.”

He kisses you again before you can answer, his fingers creep below the hem of your scrubs and his palm flattens up on your spine, against your bare skin. The other slides down from your hair to your neck, guiding you harder into his lips, mouth parting to swallow your shallow breaths.

The paper beneath him crinkles loudly when he shifts forward toward the edge of the bed, and you can’t help laughing softly into the kiss at how absurdly obvious the sound is.

“You’re so clingy,” you whisper.

“Mm,” he hums against your mouth. “You love it.”

You pull away from him, chest heaving as you make room for his hands to skate up your sides, your scrub top going with them, "Actually...", his hands pause against you. You grin, going to press hot kisses to his neck, "I love you."

He groans at that, blunt nails digging into your ribs, just below your bra- itching to take it off.

You’re about to help him peel off your layers, when the clinic door suddenly slams open hard enough to hit the stopper behind it.

“YO LOGAN-”

You jerk back just enough to look toward the doorway while complete silence takes over the room.

You and Logan freeze for approximately half a second while the entire hockey team stands in the doorway staring in collective disbelief.

One teammate points aggressively.

“I KNEW IT.”

Another gasps dramatically.

“MRS. LOGAN CONFIRMED IN REAL LIFE.”

You bury your face briefly in Logan’s shoulder, mortified and laughing at the same time, meanwhile, Logan looks ready to commit murder.

He reaches blindly for the tape roll beside him and chucks it directly at them.

“Get out, you perverts.”

The tape bounces uselessly off one guy’s chest and nobody leaves.

If anything, they move further inside.

“HE’S DEFENSIVE!” someone yells.

“BRO WE INTERRUPTED FOREPLAY.”

“You guys are so annoying,” you groan, face burning.

Logan just watches you laugh for a second, despite the fact his teammates are actively ruining his life in real time, something in his expression softens completely.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he mutters quietly.

You look back at him with teary eyes.

“You threw tape at them.”

“They interrupted me.”

“That sounded possessive. Maybe Dean was right?”

“It was, can't believe I'm proving him correct.”

"YES MRS. LOGAN" Dean cheers from within the pack.

That makes you laugh all over again.

Logan, meanwhile, tightens an arm around your waist and glares at them with absolutely zero shame. He doesn’t even bother to move away from you anymore, which is probably the most embarrassing part.

“Door,” he says flatly.

The boys finally retreat, still yelling over each other, and the second the door slams shut again, the clinic falls back into silence.

You look down at Logan. He looks up at you.

Casually, then completely unavoidable.

It was Dean who said this one first. 

You were reorganising the boys fridge one night after he turned the takeout containers into a game of tetris “relax mom.” It made Logan laugh as he didn’t look up from his phone while he sat at the kitchen counter. 

He claimed he was there as moral support, but it was really because he just wanted to be near you “don’t encourage her.” He warned “she gets worse when shes stressed.” 

His words were met with a gasp “excuse me?” You scowled letting your mouth fall open when you turned to glare at him. 

Tucker grinned as he stole the chicken wings from your hands “careful dad, mom might get ya.” And somehow it just stuck. 

Mom and Dad. You and Logan. 

It wasn’t even meant to be the case at first but somewhere along the way, the two of you became the glue that kept everyone together. 

Logan kept track of the practice schedule and ensured that everyone ate the food that Tucker cooked.  

You kept a list of everyone’s birthdays, deadlines, arguments, and who wasn’t talking to whom.

Logan calmed the chaos, and you seemed to organise it. And somehow the two of you worked perfectly together. 

So of course, the jokes kept on coming. 

“Ask mom if I can go out.” Dean would say as he peered into the living room where you read a book, “Logan said no.” You knew all about the house arrest Logan had Dean on because he needed to study for a major midterm. 

Your brother huffed as he sprawled out on the couch, resting his feet on your lap “hey!” You scoffed, watching him grab a carrot stick from your plate, “your boyfriend is being dramatic again.” His words came as he stuck his tongue out at you. 

The sound of Logan complaining about the blocked shower drain travelled down the stairs. And Garrett was surprisingly calm about it, which was saying something as he’d once sworn that Logan wouldn’t live long enough to graduate if he dated you. 

Now he just complained like Logan was already a part of the family. 

Which in a way, now that your dad didn’t totally hate the idea, he was. 

Except lately, you couldn’t laugh at it the same way. 

Because something had shifted and only you knew why. 

It all happened three weeks ago. 

You were standing in your bathroom, staring at the sink as if it had personally betrayed you.

Two pink lines and those words you hated so much to see. 

You were pregnant. 

And the world did not stop. That was the most terrifying part. It just kept on going. 

Outside of that room, Hannah was laughing at something on her laptop while Allie was humming as she got ready for class. Someone could even be heard yelling in the hallway about how they needed coffee. 

Normal life kept on going on, while yours had just split into two. 

You pressed your hand to your stomach instinctively; it was still flat and still normal. 

Nothing looked different about you, yet everything was.

You were meant to see the boys later that day for lunch and you had no clue how to tell them. 

Garrett took so long to accept that Logan was your boyfriend, but this was a different ballpark. 

And Logan loved you like you were something delicate that he had to protect. 

You were terrified that this would break that. 

Logan on the other hand, was feeling like an idiot. 

He was ready to marry you, as if you asked him to go to Vegas tomorrow to do it he would. 

But it felt like you were ready to break up with him.

So rather than talking about it, he picked up whatever he could. Odd jobs to fill the time that he wasn’t spending with you. 

And for the most part, that really did work. He was able to make himself so busy that there wasn’t time during the day to think about what you might have been doing that didn’t involve him. 

But at night?”

That was a whole different story. 

He’d park his truck outside your building and send you a text begging to let him come up. He knew he could ask Allie or Hannah to let him in, but he wasn’t going to go against your boundaries like that. If you didn’t want to talk to him, well, he was convincing himself that he was okay with that.

So instead, he would hide away in his room, scrolling through the album on his phone of the two of you that you organised one day while he studied. 

It had everything from the time the two of you used to sneak around before anyone knew you were seeing each other. All the way to when Dean and Tucker would crash your couple pictures, swearing that ‘your kids’ have to be in them too. 

It made him laugh, honestly remembering how you’d shoo the boys away so that Allie could get a decent picture. Then Logan got to the one that Hannah took. 

It was from a party after a big win when the couples were playing each other in beer pong, despite the fact that Garrett swore he should be the one to play with his sister. 

Logan’s arm was wrapped around your waist as you had your tongue out, trying to focus on the throw. All the boy was focused on, both now and then, was you. 

Hannah couldn’t help it when her eyes stayed glued to the sight “I know Wellsy, he loves her more than he loves hockey.” Garrett’s voice was louder than he intended it to be as he spoke. 

The words made your cheeks redden as Logan tightened his grip on you “no I don’t.” He shook his head, convincing nobody, as his eyes were still on you. 

Garrett let out a dry laugh “I’m pretty sure she could ask you to drop hockey and move to Vermont to become tree farmers, and you’d do it.” Logan couldn’t argue with that because it was actually true. 

That boy was ready to move to the end of the world for you if you asked him to. 

You furrowed your eyebrows “that's not true.” You mumbled, finally turning your attention back to your boyfriend. Your eyes settle onto his lips “we’d totally farm goats.” Your words made everyone laugh as you kissed Logan. 

It earned a groan from Garrett with a complaint for you to just throw the ball. And all you did was flip him off in response.

The day when you knew you could no longer hide it from Logan came; it was gameday and also your one-year anniversary. 

After the game, the two of you had plans to go out, but with the way you had been acting. Logan honestly wondered if you were even going to be at the game. 

That was how Garrett ended up at your door. 

Well more like in your room.

Because that’s where you found your brother sat, comfortably on your bed when you came back from getting a smoothie with Allie “oh please make yourself at home.” You grumbled letting your bag drop to the floor. 

Your brother couldn’t help it when he let out a soft laugh “look are you okay?” The question made your eyes widen. 

Because you were so clearly not okay “I’m perfect Gar.” You forced the lie out as you sat on your chair. 

“No you’re not.” 

You rolled your eyes “why’d you ask me if you already knew the answer?” You sucked at your teeth crossing your arms in the process “you’ve been avoiding your boyfriend.” The point made you feel nauseous all over again. 

Garrett saw your reaction. It was like his little twinstinct to know exactly when your slight movement meant something so much worse “if he did something-” he was already getting up ready to march back to the house.

You were quick to press your hand into his chest, stopping him from leaving your room “he didn’t do anything I swear.” As much as you loved your brother, you knew that if he could. You’d be wrapped in bubble wrap and hidden away from the world. And even then he’d still worry himself sick over protecting you.

Garrett leaned against your table “then what is going on with you?” He knew that your dad had been blowing up both of your phones to meet his fiance but Garrett knew you ignored him in the best of times, so why would this affect you now. 

Staring at the ground, you frowned, “I need to tell Logan first.” If you could have it your way you’d never tell your brother, and just say you fund your child on the street.

You couldn’t help it when you sighed, pulling your brother into a hug that usually made you feel better “I just need to find the right time.” You knew your answer didn’t make sense but when you were going with it. 

Garrett nodded, not because he wanted to believe you but because he knew he had no choice in the matter “but please tell him before he eats himself up over something that isn’t his fault.” You wanted to point out that your boyfriend was in fact the exact reason why you were in this position. 

But you couldn’t so instead you nodded “I promise I’ll tell him after the game tonight.” You nodded, forcing a smile onto your lips when your brother kissed your head.

The game should have been an easy win. A game where they could have put up a B team and still won by 3 goals. But instead, it was an utter shitshow.

Logan spotted you in the crowd immediately; he always did the moment he stepped onto the ice. But tonight it seemed that once he knew you were there, he actually didn’t want to see you. He got into a fight, was thrown against the boards and spent more time in the penalty box than actual time on the ice as the coach pulled him off, seeing that his head wasn’t in the right place. 

Garrett actually pitied his teammate; he never thought there’d be a day when he thought you were in the wrong and that whatever issues you two were having would be your doing. 

So when you saw the look your brother gave you at the end of the game, you knew you were to stand by Logan’s truck waiting for him as the game ended. Or else Garrett would get involved, and quite frankly, nothing ever went well when he did. 

And that was exactly where Logan found you after the game “I’ll see you guys later.” He announced, no longer looking at Dean or Tucker; instead, his eyes had settled on you. 

You sent him a soft smile as the boys waved at you “hey.” Your voice was quiet as your boyfriend threw his bag into the back of his truck. 

He remained silent, “look we need to talk.” Your announcement almost made him laugh. 

Because how was it that you got to decide that tonight was when you’d finally talk “nice to know that my girlfriend still knows how to do that.” The comment came off harsher than it was intended to. 

The boy sucked at his teeth when you reached for him “look I know I have been an ass-“ Logan had to admit he was glad you had more emotional awareness than your brother “it’s our one-year anniversary and I didn’t even know if I still had a girlfriend!”

You wanted to respond, you really did. But you felt your stomach churn, and suddenly you were bent over in the direction of the nearest bushes.

Instinctively, he reached for your hair, pulling it out of your face as he rubbed your back “you eat something bad today?” Logan cocked his head, knowing that it wasn’t like you to throw up. 

You spat out a glob of spit as you shook your head “it’s what I wanted to tell you about.” You groaned, feeling your stomach churn again. 

To his credit, Logan didn’t push until you were standing upright again “I wanted to have some speech, but that clearly isn’t gonna happen.” you brought your sleeve up to wipe your mouth, not caring that you’d regret it later.

“I’m pregnant.” 

Your words made him freeze as his eyes went wide “we’ve been careful.” He spoke as if his word was gospel. 

Your cheeks reddened at the memory, “not always.” Your eyes trailed back to the truck. It was a night where both your place and his were busy and the two of you just couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. So you figured that his car was the best place for the two of you to be.

Logan frowned as he furrowed his eyebrows “this is what you’ve been avoiding me for?” He realised as he shoved his hands into his pockets, “did you think I’d leave you?” 

He wasn’t angry. 

He was hurt. 

Hurt that you would think that he’d leave you, and especially hurt that you thought he’d make you deal with this alone.

But you shook your head as tears welled in your eyes, “i thought you’d hate me.” Your voice broke as it broke something in him. 

He hated seeing you sad “hate you?” His voice broke as his hands cupped your cheeks “are you actually insane?” He would have laughed if you weren’t upset.

That was the thing that broke you. Finally, tears streamed down your cheeks and Logan didn’t think twice about pulling you into his embrace “I’m scared.” Your confession made his heart break as he could only think about how long you had been dealing with that emotion alone. 

His fingers ran through your hair, immediately soothing you “we will figure this out together, okay.” His words made you nod as you looked up at him. 

His eyes didn’t hesitate to meet yours. 

He was still him. 

He was still yours. 

And just like that Logan let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding “I thought you were leaving me.” It made your heart hurt that he could have thought that it was the issue. 

You shook your head “I thought I was ruining your life.” You whispered back. 

Just like that, his expression changed. It changed into something solid, yet protective in a way that made your knees weak “you are not ruining my life.” He said firmly, “you’re my life.” His words were easy to roll off his tongue as if he hadn’t said the one thing that finally made the last few weeks feel like they were nothing. 

So the two of you stood there in silence as his hand rubbed slow circles on your back before his tired laugh finally broke it “I’m gonna be a dad.” You nodded, matching his tone “we’re gonna be parents.” He grabbed your hand, giving it a solid squeeze. 

Before his face dropped, “your brother is actually going to kill me.” His words made you really laugh now, that was something you realised a while ago. 

Logan guided you into the passenger seat of his car before he made his way to his own “you know,” you trailed off when he put the key into the ignition. 

You leaned over to kiss his lips “we could always just become goat farmers in Vermont.” 

The locations expand. The cramped, freezing backseat of your Toyota Corolla. The spacious, cologne-scented cab of his pickup. Your dorm room at Northeastern, whenever your roommate is conveniently away visiting family or out partying. Everywhere and anywhere you can find a locked door and ten minutes of privacy. 

The only boundary, the one strict, unspoken rule you both adhere to, is the off-campus house Logan shares with Garrett, Dean, and Tucker. That is enemy territory. That is a step too far. 

Tonight, however, you have home-ice advantage. 

Briar just crushed their out-of-state rivals, and Logan played out of his mind, netting two gorgeous top-shelf goals. He arrived at your dorm an hour later, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline, smelling of body wash and the crisp winter air. 

Now, the adrenaline has bled out of him, leaving a heavy, sated exhaustion in its wake. 

You are lying tangled in the sheets of your twin-sized dorm bed, your head resting comfortably on Logan’s bare chest. The room is dark, illuminated only by the amber glow of the streetlamps filtering through the blinds. Logan’s hand rests on your bare hip, his thumb slowly tracing lazy, absentminded circles against your skin. His heart is beating a steady, rhythmic thrum against your ear. 

It’s quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that makes it dangerously easy to let your guard down. 

“You were incredible tonight,” you murmur into the warm skin of his chest, pressing a soft kiss right over his heart. 

Logan chuckles, the sound vibrating through his ribs. “I had decent puck luck. And the defense was practically handing me the neutral zone. But thank you. I aim to please.”

“I’m serious,” you say, shifting slightly, pulling yourself up on your elbows so you can look down at his face. His dark hair is a messy, sweat-dampened halo against your white pillow. His sharp jawline is relaxed, his eyes soft and heavy-lidded. “I looked at your stats.”

Logan’s thumb stops moving on your hip. A subtle, almost imperceptible tension tightens the muscles of his stomach beneath you. “My stats?”

“Your draft year stats,” you clarify, your voice quiet but firm. “Logan, you scored seventy-eight points that season. Your plus-minus was off the charts. You were easily a second-round pick. Maybe third, at worst.”

“Stats don’t mean everything,” Logan deflects, his voice dropping an octave. He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to distract you. “NBD. No Big Deal.”

“Don’t do the acronym thing,” you warn gently, catching his wrist and pressing his hand flat against the mattress. “Even if you pulled your name from the draft, why hasn’t an NHL team snapped you up as an undrafted free agent? They do it all the time. Guys with half your talent get signed. But you haven’t even gone to a development camp.”

Logan stares up at you, the easy, charming facade completely stripping away, leaving behind a raw, tired vulnerability that breaks your heart. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the dim light. 

“Because I can’t,” he says simply. 

“Why not?”

Logan sighs, a long, heavy exhale that seems to carry the weight of the entire world. He shifts, pulling you down slightly so he can wrap both arms securely around your waist, burying his face in your hair for a moment before he speaks. 

“My dad was supposed to run the family business,” Logan begins, his voice quiet, almost a whisper in the dark room. “Logan & Sons. It’s a mechanic shop back home. Been in the family for three generations. But my dad ... he’s not exactly reliable.”

“Garrett said he has a drinking problem,” you offer softly. 

“That’s putting it mildly,” Logan laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. “He’s a fall-down, blackout drunk. Has been since I was a kid. When I got the scholarship to Briar, everything was falling apart. The shop was going bankrupt. My dad was completely useless. I was going to turn the scholarship down. Stay home. Run the shop.”

You feel a sharp ache in your chest. You look at this guy — this funny, sarcastic, wildly talented guy — and realize just how much he’s been carrying underneath the jokes. 

“But you didn’t,” you say. 

“No,” Logan shakes his head against the pillow. “My older brother, Jeff, stepped in. He had a great job, a life he was building, but he quit. He moved back home to run the shop and keep an eye on the old man so I could come to Briar.”

Logan pauses, his grip on your waist tightening slightly. “We made a deal. Jeff puts his life on hold for four years so I can play college hockey and get a degree. But the second I graduate? We swap. I go back, take over the shop, take care of our dad, and Jeff gets his life back. He gets to go free.”

The silence in the dorm room is deafening. You stare at him, processing the sheer magnitude of the sacrifice he’s making. He is willingly walking away from a multi-million dollar NHL career, from a dream he is actively living, out of a misplaced sense of duty. 

“Logan ...” you breathe out, the injustice of it making your blood boil. 

“It is what it is,” Logan says, offering you a tight, forced smile. “It’s fair. Jeff sacrificed for me, I sacrifice for him. End of story.”

“No,” you say, your voice suddenly hard. You push yourself entirely out of his arms, sitting back on your heels near his waist. The sheet pools around your hips, leaving you completely exposed to the cool air of the room, but you don’t care. 

Logan frowns, reaching a hand out toward you. “Y/N-”

“No, Logan, listen to me,” you interrupt, leaning over him, your eyes blazing. “You do not owe that man your life.”

Logan flinches slightly, dropping his hand. “He’s my dad.”

“I know exactly what it’s like to have a monster for a father,” you say, your voice trembling with a fierce, protective anger. “You know what my dad was. You know what he did to me, to Garrett, to our mom. Being a father is a biological fact, not a lifelong debt.”

Logan stares at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “It’s not just him. It’s the shop. It’s Jeff.”

“So sell the shop!” You practically shout, mindful at the last second to keep your voice down so you don’t wake the RA next door. You lower your volume, leaning closer, your hands pressing flat against his chest. “Sell it. Let it burn to the ground. Take the NHL contract, take the signing bonus, and give half of it to Jeff to start whatever business he wants. Why do you have to go back to a dead-end town to run a failing shop for a man who clearly doesn’t give a shit about either of you?”

Logan looks entirely taken aback. His eyes are wide, searching your face as if he’s looking for the punchline, but you are deadly serious. 

“It’s family legacy,” Logan murmurs weakly, though the conviction in his voice is entirely gone. 

“It’s an anchor,” you correct him fiercely. “Logan, you are brilliant on the ice. You are a star. You deserve to see that become a reality. You don’t have to set yourself on fire just to keep your father warm.”

Logan closes his eyes, a heavy shudder running through his large frame. He brings a hand up to drag over his face, completely overwhelmed. He’s spent the last three years perfectly resigned to his fate, perfectly compartmentalizing his impending doom, and you have just ripped the walls completely down. 

“I can’t,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I gave my word.”

“You made a bad deal,” you counter, softening your tone. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, your fingers combing gently through his hair. “I’m not saying you have to screw your brother over. I’m saying you have other options. Better options. You just have to be brave enough to take them.”

Logan opens his eyes, looking up at you. The raw, desperate affection in his gaze makes your breath hitch. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

“It’s why I’m a good center,” you smile softly. “I don’t let the play die.”

“I’ll ...” Logan swallows hard, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw, the line of your collarbone. “I’ll think about it. Okay? I can’t promise anything else right now, but I will think about it.”

“Promise me you’ll actually think about it,” you demand, holding his gaze. “Promise you won’t just bury this the second you leave this room.”

“I promise,” Logan says, and you can hear the sincerity ringing crystal clear in his deep voice. 

The heavy, emotional tension in the air hangs between you for a moment longer. You look down at him, taking in the broad expanse of his chest, the heavy muscles of his arms, the faint, silver scars scattered across his collarbone from years of taking hits on the ice. He is so incredibly strong, yet he’s letting himself be completely vulnerable with you. 

A fierce, possessive kind of affection swells in your chest. You want to take all the heavy burdens he’s carrying and completely erase them, even if it’s just for the rest of the night. You want to remind him exactly how good it feels to just exist in his own body, entirely for himself. 

“Good,” you whisper, a slow, wicked smile curving onto your lips. 

You slowly slide backward. 

Logan’s breath catches in his throat as your knees drag down the sides of his hips. You catch the edge of the white duvet cover and pull it up over your head, plunging yourself into the warm, dark cocoon of the bed, right between his legs. 

“Y/N,” Logan gasps, his hands instantly dropping to his sides, his fingers gripping the fitted sheet. 

You ignore him, crawling further down. The heat radiating off his skin under the heavy duvet is intoxicating, mixing with his masculine scent. You settle between his thighs, the muscles in his legs instantly tensing against your ribs. 

You reach out, your hands flattening against his lower stomach, feeling the sharp, defined ridges of his abs clenching under your touch. You press open-mouthed kisses along his hip bones, taking your time, letting your lips drag against his sensitive skin. 

Logan lets out a ragged, trembling exhale above the covers. The mattress shifts as he tilts his hips up into your touch, completely at your mercy. 

You trail your hands lower, your fingers wrapping around his thick, heavy length. The second your skin makes contact with him, Logan lets out a choked, desperate curse. 

You lean down, flicking your tongue out to taste the salty, musky skin at the tip before taking him completely into your mouth. 

The sound Logan makes is a guttural, wounded moan that vibrates straight through the mattress. You hear the rustle of the sheets above you as his hands completely let go of the bed, diving under the covers to find you. His large, calloused fingers tangle instantly into your hair, gripping the strands tightly, though he doesn’t push you down. He just holds on like he’s drowning and you are the only lifeline he has left. 

You set a slow, torturous pace. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, swirling and sucking with a deep, deliberate suction that makes his hips snap upward involuntarily. 

“Holy fuck,” Logan breathes out, his voice cracking entirely. “Y/N. Sweetheart.”

You slide your hands down to cup his heavy, warm base, your thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there while you take him deeper into your mouth. You love the contrast of this. Out in the real world, Logan is the untouchable hockey star, the guy with the easy grin who deflects everything, the guy who carries the weight of his family’s failure on his broad shoulders. 

But right here, hiding under the sheets of your dorm bed, he is completely unraveling. 

You increase your pace, your mouth working rhythmically, creating a tight, wet friction that is driving him completely insane. You can feel the rapid, frantic pulse beating against your tongue. You drag your teeth lightly — just enough to tease — against the underside of his shaft, and Logan’s entire body violently arches off the mattress. 

“Don’t—fuck, don’t stop,” he begs, his grip in your hair tightening almost painfully as his hips begin to thrust up to meet your mouth. 

He is losing whatever control he had left, his movements becoming erratic and desperate. You accommodate him perfectly, swallowing his harsh, rhythmic thrusts, letting him set the pace as he chases the high. The musky, intoxicating taste of him fills your mouth, the heat under the covers becoming stifling, thick with the scent of sex and sweat. 

“Look at me,” Logan commands suddenly, his voice a harsh, breathless rasp. 

He tugs firmly on your hair, pulling the duvet down just enough so you can see his face. 

The sight of him makes your own core throb with a sharp, answering heat. Logan’s head is thrown back against the pillows, his neck arched in absolute agony. His chest is heaving, completely slick with sweat, every single muscle locked tight. His eyes are blown wide, his pupils dilated so completely that his irises are barely visible in the dim light. 

He looks down at you, watching your mouth slide over him, and a dark, primal sound rips from his throat. 

“You are going to kill me,” he groans, his hips snapping upward with a brutal, punishing force. 

“Let me,” you dare him, your words muffled against his skin. You drop your head back down, taking him as deep as you possibly can, swallowing his moan entirely. 

Logan shatters. 

His body goes completely rigid, a massive shudder wracking his large frame. He cries out your name, a loud, broken sound that completely fills the small dorm room. He holds you tightly in place, his hips pinned upward as wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure crashes through him. 

You continue to use a gentle suction, milking every last drop of his climax, swallowing him completely. He tastes salty and rich, an incredibly intimate reward for completely breaking down his walls. 

Slowly, the violent tremors wracking his body begin to subside. His hips drop back down against the mattress heavily, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged gasps for air. 

You pull back slowly, licking your lips, before crawling back up his body. 

Logan’s eyes are closed, a look of utter devastation and absolute peace painted across his handsome features. As you settle back onto his chest, he wraps his arms around you instantly, crushing you against his sweaty skin with a desperate, terrifying strength. 

He presses a fierce, bruising kiss to the top of your head, burying his face in your hair. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Logan whispers, his voice still shaking with the aftershocks of his climax. “But I swear to God, Y/N, I am never letting you go.”

You wrap your arms around his torso, holding him just as tightly, ignoring the lingering threat of Garrett, the complicated mess of his family, and the terrifying reality that you are falling entirely, deeply in love with your brother’s best friend. 

“Good,” you whisper against his skin. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

***

You are officially a terrible person, a liar, and a fraud. But as Logan drags his open mouth down the sensitive column of your neck, you decide you really, truly do not care. 

It has been exactly three months and twelve days since that rainy night in Logan’s truck. Three months of sneaking around, of perfectly timed lies, of stolen glances across crowded rooms while Garrett remained blissfully unaware. You’ve mastered the art of the secret relationship. 

Tonight’s masterpiece? Faking a debilitating stomach bug. 

Your roommate had looked at you with deep pity before heading out to dinner. You coughed weakly, clutching your stomach, and promised her you’d just sleep it off. The second the door clicked shut behind her, you were texting Logan. Ten minutes later, he was slipping through your door, locking it behind him, and dropping his duffel bag to the floor with a heavy, hungry look in his eyes. 

Now, the dorm room is suffocatingly hot, the air thick with the heavy scent of sweat, expensive cologne, and sex. The blinds are drawn tight, the only light coming from the small desk lamp in the corner. 

Logan is a heavy, solid weight pressing you deep into your mattress. He’s completely bare, his broad, violently muscled chest slick with a sheen of sweat. You are tangled beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back to pull him as close as physically possible. 

“You’re beautiful,” Logan rasps, his voice a dark, jagged sound that vibrates against your collarbone. 

“Stop talking,” you manage to gasp out, your hands sliding up the slick, hot skin of his back to grip his broad shoulders. “Just please, Logan.”

Logan chuckles against your skin, a rough, devastating sound. He shifts his weight, rising up slightly on his forearms to look down at you. His dark hair is completely disheveled, hanging in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, drowning out the color of his irises entirely. The raw, predatory hunger in his gaze makes your heart hammer a frantic rhythm against your ribs. 

He aligns himself perfectly, his hips cradled securely between your thighs. He doesn’t hesitate. With one long, smooth, devastating push, he sinks completely inside you. 

You cry out, the sound muffled entirely by Logan’s mouth as he swoops down to capture your lips. The kiss is deep and frantic, his tongue mimicking the slow, agonizing stretch of his body filling yours. You are stretched so perfectly, filled so completely, that a violent shiver wracks your entire frame. 

He is quite literally balls-deep, the heavy slap of his hips meeting yours echoing sharply in the quiet room. 

“God, Y/N,” Logan groans into your mouth, tearing his lips away to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He begins to move. 

The pace he sets is punishing. There is no slow buildup tonight, no teasing restraint. It is raw, desperate, and entirely unhinged. Every thrust is impossibly deep, drawing a high, breathy moan from your throat that you can’t even try to suppress. Your nails drag down his back, leaving faint, pink crescent moons in his skin. 

The mattress squeaks rhythmically under the violent force of his movements. Logan’s hands find your hips, his large, calloused fingers digging into your skin, anchoring you to the bed as he dominates the space. 

“Logan,” you sob, throwing your head back against the pillow, your eyes fluttering shut. “I’m going to-”

“I know, sweetheart,” he grunts, his thrusts turning jagged and erratic as his own control begins to snap. “Come on. Let it go.”

You are completely lost to the storm. The tight, spiraling coil of heat in your lower stomach is pulling tighter and tighter with every heavy slide of his body. You arch up to meet him, matching his desperate, punishing rhythm. You are seconds away from shattering. Logan is right there with you, his jaw clenched tight, his entire body going rigid as he prepares to find his release. 

And then, the sound of a key sliding into the lock of your dorm door echoes like a gunshot. 

The heavy deadbolt clicks. 

The door swings open. 

“Hey, kiddo, Cammi told me you were dying, so I brought-”

Garrett’s voice fills the room. 

Everything happens in a fraction of a millisecond. 

Logan freezes entirely, his body locking up mid-thrust, still buried impossibly deep inside you. You freeze beneath him, your eyes snapping open in absolute, paralyzing horror. 

Garrett stops dead in the doorway. 

The plastic grocery bag in his hand — heavy with chicken noodle soup, a two-liter bottle of ginger ale, and a box of Saltines — slips from his fingers. It hits the linoleum floor with a sickening, wet crash. The plastic container of soup bursts open, sending hot broth splashing across the floorboards. The ginger ale bottle rolls lazily toward the edge of the rug. 

For a single, agonizing second, the universe completely stops spinning. 

Garrett is staring at the bed. At his best friend. At his baby sister. Tangled together in a mess of bare skin and heavy breathing. 

The color drains entirely from Garrett’s face, leaving him a sickly, ghostly pale. And then, the shock violently transforms into pure, unadulterated, murderous rage. His face flushes a deep, dangerous crimson. The veins in his neck bulge against his skin. 

“What the fuck?” Garrett roars, the sound shaking the very walls of the dorm room. 

Chaos erupts. 

Logan violently scrambles backward, pulling out of you so fast you gasp. He practically falls off the side of the narrow bed, desperately grabbing for his discarded sweatpants on the floor. 

You scramble backward against the headboard, frantically pulling the thin white duvet up over your bare chest, your hands trembling so violently you can barely grip the fabric. 

“Garrett!” You scream, your voice cracking with sheer panic. 

But Garrett isn’t looking at you. He is looking at Logan. 

With a guttural, animalistic snarl, Garrett lunges across the room. He clears the distance in two massive strides, his hands curling into tight, white-knuckled fists. Logan is only halfway into his sweatpants, entirely off-balance, when Garrett grabs him by the throat and slams him brutally against the cinderblock wall. 

“Garrett, no!” You shriek, scrambling out from under the covers. 

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Garrett bellows, drawing his right fist back, preparing to shatter Logan’s jaw into a thousand pieces. 

Logan doesn’t even raise his hands to defend himself. He just stands there, pinned against the wall, taking it. He looks entirely resigned to his fate, his eyes locked onto Garrett’s furious face. 

You don’t think. You just move. 

You launch yourself off the bed, entirely uncaring that you are wearing nothing but a frantically grabbed bedsheet wrapped haphazardly around your body. You throw yourself directly between them, pressing your back flush against Logan’s chest and throwing your hands up to shove hard against Garrett’s shoulders. 

“Stop it! Get away from him!” You scream, your voice tearing painfully at your throat. 

Garrett’s fist stops mere inches from your face. 

He freezes, staring down at you. His chest is heaving violently, his eyes completely wild. He looks down at your bare shoulders, at the white sheet clutched desperately to your chest, and then over your shoulder at Logan’s pale, terrified face. 

The raw, physical betrayal hitting Garrett is palpable. It’s like watching a building collapse in real-time. He steps back, his hands dropping to his sides as if he’s been burned. 

“Y/N,” Garrett whispers, his voice cracking, entirely devoid of the rage from a second ago. Now, it just sounds broken. “What ... what is this?”

You swallow a massive lump of panic, tears springing to your eyes. “Garrett, please. Just give us a second. Let us put some clothes on. Please.”

Garrett looks between the two of you, his jaw clenching so hard you can hear his teeth grinding together. He looks nauseated. He takes another step back, kicking the empty ginger ale bottle out of his way. 

“Two minutes,” Garrett bites out, his voice a terrifying, deadpan monotone. “You have two minutes. And then I am coming back in here, and if you lie to me, Logan, I am going to end your fucking life.”

Garrett turns on his heel and storms out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force to rattle the hinges. 

The silence he leaves behind is suffocating. 

You let out a harsh, jagged sob, dropping your face into your hands. Your knees finally give out, and you slump down onto the edge of the mattress. 

Logan is beside you in an instant. He pulls his sweatpants up, tying the drawstring with shaking fingers, before grabbing an oversized hoodie from the floor and pulling it over your head. He helps you guide your arms through the sleeves, his touch incredibly gentle despite the sheer panic radiating off him in waves. 

“Hey,” Logan whispers, crouching down in front of you, gripping your knees. His face is pale, a faint red mark forming on his throat where Garrett grabbed him. “Look at me, sweetheart. Look at me.”

You drop your hands, looking at him through blurry, tear-filled eyes. “He hates me. He hates us.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Logan says fiercely, though his own voice is shaking. “He’s shocked. He has every right to be pissed. I broke the one rule he gave me.”

“We both broke it,” you sniffle, grabbing a pair of sweatpants from your dresser and hastily pulling them on. 

Logan stands up, running both hands through his messy hair, pacing the small stretch of floor. He grabs his own shirt, pulling it over his head. “I’m not going to let him blame you. This is on me. I’m the older guy, I’m his best friend. I should have ...” 

Logan cuts himself off, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not sorry. I can’t even lie and say I regret it.”

You look up at him, your heart aching. “Me neither.”

The door handle rattles angrily. 

“Time’s up,” Garrett’s voice barks from the hallway. 

“Come in,” Logan says, squaring his broad shoulders, stepping deliberately in front of you as if to shield you from the blast zone. 

Garrett walks back into the room. He pointedly ignores the puddle of spilled soup on the floor. He looks at Logan, and the utter disdain in his eyes makes you flinch. Garrett crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the closed door. 

“Talk,” Garrett demands. “And it better be the absolute, unvarnished truth.”

Logan exhales slowly. “It didn’t start the way you think it did, G.”

“Oh, really?” Garrett spits, his tone dripping with venom. “How did it start, Logan? Did you slip into her DMs? Did you corner her after a game? Did you look at the one person in this world I told you to protect and decide you wanted to screw her instead?”

“Garrett, stop,” you say sharply, stepping out from behind Logan. You refuse to let Logan take the entire firing squad alone. “He didn’t do any of that.”

Garrett’s eyes snap to you, the betrayal flaring up again. “Then how, Y/N? Because from where I’m standing, my best friend has been sleeping with my baby sister behind my back for God knows how long.”

“Since the first night of the season,” you say quietly. 

Garrett’s brow furrows in confusion. “What? The first night ... you went out with your team.”

“Exactly,” Logan interjects, his voice calm, trying to de-escalate the vibrating tension in the room. “We were both there. I walked away from the guys to get a drink. I saw a girl on the dance floor. I went up to her. We ... we hooked up.”

Garrett’s eyes widen slightly. “In the club?”

“In the bathroom,” you clarify, a hot flush of shame creeping up your neck, but you refuse to break eye contact with your brother. “We didn’t know who each other was, Garrett. It was dark. We didn’t exchange names. We didn’t talk about schools. It was just a random hookup.”

“A random hookup,” Garrett repeats, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He looks at Logan. “You didn’t know it was her?”

“I swear to God on my life, G, I had absolutely no idea,” Logan says fiercely, stepping forward, his hands held out pleadingly. “If I had known, I never would have touched her. You know me.”

“Do I?” Garrett laughs bitterly. “Because if that’s true, when did you figure it out? The diner?”

“Yes,” you answer for him. “Outside your locker room, when you introduced us. That was the first time we realized.”

Garrett stares at you both, processing the timeline. The anger in his eyes slowly, painfully shifts into a deep, profound hurt. “So, at the diner ... when I sat there, pouring my heart out to you guys. When I begged you, Logan, to treat her like a sister. To protect her. You sat there, looking me dead in the eye, having already fucked her. And you promised me.”

Logan physically recoils as if Garrett just punched him in the gut. He closes his eyes, a heavy shudder running through him. “I know. I know, G. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I felt like absolute scum.”

“You are scum,” Garrett snaps. 

“Garrett, that’s not fair,” you plead, taking a step toward your brother. “We tried to stay away from each other. We really did. But we couldn’t. It just ... it happened. And it kept happening. It’s not just a physical thing anymore. I care about him. A lot.”

Garrett looks at you, his protective instincts warring violently with his sense of betrayal. He sees the absolute sincerity in your eyes. He sees the way you stepped in front of Logan’s body to protect him from the punch. You aren’t just some puck bunny Logan is using. You’re in deep. 

Garrett drags a hand down his face, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He looks at Logan, who is standing completely still, waiting for the verdict. 

“How long?” Garrett asks, his voice entirely drained. “How long has it kept happening?”

“Since the night her car broke down,” Logan answers quietly. “Three months.”

“Three months,” Garrett shakes his head in disbelief. “You’ve been lying to my face for three months. Sitting in our living room, drinking my beers, playing video games, pretending nothing was going on.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Logan says earnestly. “I brought it up a hundred times, but we knew how you’d react. We knew you’d lose your mind. I didn’t want to ruin the team. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“Well, congratulations,” Garrett says coldly. “You managed to do both.”

“Garrett, please,” you beg, tears finally spilling over your lashes, tracking hot and fast down your cheeks. “Don’t do this. Don’t cut him off. Don’t cut me off.”

Garrett looks at you, seeing the tears, and his harsh exterior finally cracks. He has spent his entire life trying to protect you from getting hurt, from crying. The fact that he is the one causing it right now, even if he feels justified, breaks him. 

He walks over to you, wrapping his large arms around you and pulling you into a tight, suffocating hug. You bury your face in his chest, sobbing quietly. Garrett rests his chin on the top of your head, glaring dagger at Logan over your shoulder. 

“I’m not cutting you off, kiddo,” Garrett whispers into your hair. “I could never cut you off. You’re my sister.”

He pulls back slightly, keeping his hands firmly planted on your shoulders. He turns his head to look directly at Logan. The atmosphere in the room instantly shifts from a broken family to a deadly serious warning. 

“But you,” Garrett points a thick, accusatory finger at Logan. “Sit down.”

Logan immediately drops into the desk chair in the corner of the room, looking up at Garrett with wide, cautious eyes. 

“You listen to me, John Logan, and you listen to me very carefully,” Garrett begins, his voice low, deadly, and completely devoid of any brotherly affection. This is the captain speaking. This is the fiercely protective older brother who survived a monster. 

Logan nods tightly. “I’m listening.”

“You and I are going to have a very long, very painful conversation about trust and friendship later,” Garrett says, his eyes boring into Logan’s. “But right now, we are talking about her.”

Garrett points to you. “You know what we went through. You know the hell our father put us through. You know how hard it is for her to trust guys, how hard it is for her to let anyone in.”

“I know,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting to you, softening entirely. 

“I don’t give a shit about your daddy issues. I don’t give a shit about your family mechanic shop, or the deal you made with your brother, or how much you hate yourself for giving up the NHL,” Garrett continues, ruthlessly utilizing the deepest, darkest secrets Logan had confided in him over the years. Logan flinches at the casual weaponry of his secrets, but he takes it. 

“If you make her your emotional punching bag,” Garrett snarls, taking a step closer to Logan, looming over the desk chair. “If you use her to escape your own miserable reality, and then you drop her when things get too hard ... I will not just punch you.”

Garrett leans down, his face inches from Logan’s. “I will systematically destroy your life. I will break both your legs so you can never step foot on the ice again. I will make sure you wish you had never met me. Do you understand?”

The room is completely silent, save for the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner. 

Logan doesn’t look away. He doesn’t cower. The cocky, charming boy from the Briar team is completely gone, replaced by a man who knows exactly what he wants and exactly what it costs. 

“I understand,” Logan says, his voice steady, entirely lacking the fear Garrett was trying to instill. He looks up at his best friend. “But you’re wrong about one thing, G.”

Garrett narrows his eyes. “Oh?”

“I’m not using her to escape,” Logan says fiercely, standing up from the chair. He is an inch taller than Garrett, and right now, he uses every bit of that height to stand his ground. “She is the only real thing in my life. I love her, Garrett.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. You gasp, your hands flying up to cover your mouth. He has never said that to you. Not in the dark of his truck, not in the quiet of his bed. He chose to say it here, to your brother, facing down a firing squad. 

Garrett stares at Logan, completely stunned. The anger deflates entirely, leaving him disarmed. He looks at Logan’s resolute face, then looks over at you, seeing the absolute awe and adoration radiating from your tear-stained eyes. 

Garrett sighs, running a hand through his hair, looking suddenly incredibly exhausted. “You’re an idiot, Logan.”

“I know,” Logan agrees softly. 

“And you,” Garrett points at you, though there is no heat behind it anymore. “You’re grounded.”

“I’m in college, Garrett,” you laugh, a wet, watery sound. “You can’t ground me.”

“Watch me,” Garrett mutters. He looks at the spilled soup on the floor, the puddle of chicken broth soaking into the cheap dorm rug. He groans. “I bought that soup for nothing. You aren’t even sick.”

“I have a slight headache,” you offer weakly. 

Garrett rolls his eyes. He looks at Logan one last time, offering a slow, reluctant nod. It isn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it is an acceptance of the reality. 

“Clean up this mess,” Garrett orders Logan. “And then get the hell out of here. I don’t want to see your face for at least forty-eight hours.”

“Got it, Cap,” Logan says, the relief in his voice palpable. 

Garrett walks to the door, pulling it open. He looks back at you, a small, tired smile on his face. “Call me tomorrow. We are having lunch. In public. Where everyone can see your hands.”

“Okay,” you nod. 

Garrett leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. 

The silence returns, but the suffocating tension is completely gone. Logan stares at the closed door for a long second before his knees practically give out. He leans heavily against the desk, letting out a massive, shaky breath, dragging his hands down his face. 

You walk over to him slowly. You reach out, wrapping your arms around his waist from the front, resting your cheek against his chest. His heart is still racing. 

Logan immediately wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you so tightly it aches. 

“You love me?” You whisper against his skin, the words feeling incredibly fragile. 

Logan pulls back just enough to look down at you. His eyes are bright, filled with a terrifying, absolute certainty. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. 

“I love you,” Logan says, his voice completely clear. “More than hockey. More than anything. NFD.”

You let out a watery laugh, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “No Freaking Doubt.”

“Exactly,” Logan smiles, the familiar, charming smirk finally returning to his handsome face. He looks over your shoulder at the massive puddle of chicken soup on the floor. He sighs. “Now, where do you keep the paper towels?”

***

The roar of the crowd inside the TD Garden is a living, breathing entity. It vibrates through the concrete floors, rattling the expensive plastic of the seats in the lower bowl, and humming straight into your bones. 

“I’m just saying,” Dean shouts, leaning over Tucker to make himself heard over the deafening noise of the arena. “That jersey is a literal crime against the sport of hockey. If the purists see you, they will drag you out of here and burn you at the stake.”

“It’s a masterpiece,” you shout back, smoothing your hands over the front of the heavy fabric. 

You are wearing a custom-stitched abomination. The left half is a black and gold Boston Bruins jersey with GRA and the number 4 across the back. The right half is stitched directly down the middle, featuring GAN and the number 2. It is incredibly ugly, utterly confusing to the casual fan, and the most prized possession in your entire closet. 

Tucker adjusts his glasses, looking at the jagged seam running down your spine. “It’s structurally unsound, Y/N. The tensile strength of that thread is fighting a losing battle against the heavy-weight polyester.”

“Shut up, Tucker,” you laugh, your eyes completely glued to the ice. “Just watch the game.”

It is the final game of the regular NHL season. The Bruins have already clinched their playoff spot and secured the top seed in their division. In a brilliant, strategic move to rest their battered veterans before the grueling post-season begins, the coaching staff called up their newest, youngest prospects to fill out the roster for the night. 

To let the young guns show exactly what they can do. 

Down on the ice, the game is tied 2-2 against the Panthers in the third period. And right in the middle of the offensive zone, weaving through professional, fully-grown NHL defensemen like they are training cones, is Logan. 

Your chest swells with an overwhelming, suffocating amount of pride. 

The last twelve months have been an absolute whirlwind of chaos, triumph, and sheer, stubborn willpower. You hadn’t let Logan back down that night in your dorm room. You forced him to see his own worth, and slowly, painfully, he had unraveled the heavy chains of his father’s legacy. 

He had driven back home with Garrett for backup. He and his older brother had sat down and finally, honestly talked. They sold Logan & Sons to a commercial developer who wanted the land. It wasn’t a fortune, but Logan aggressively fought for Jeff to keep every single dime of the meager profit so he could start his own life. The hardest part had been their father, but with the money from the sale, they finally checked the old man into a long-term, specialized rehab facility. 

For the first time in his entire life, Logan was free. 

And he played like it. Free of the crushing weight of his future, Logan had absolutely dominated his senior year at Briar. He and Garrett had led the team all the way to the Frozen Four, culminating in a spectacular, nail-biting victory to win the NCAA National Championship just three weeks ago. 

And then, the phone rang. Undrafted, overlooked, but undeniable — the Boston Bruins offered John Logan an Entry-Level Contract. 

Now, he is here. Earning his ice time. 

The puck cycles around the boards. Garrett, wearing the black and gold like he was born for it, digs the puck out of the corner with a vicious check that sends a Panthers defenseman crashing to the ice. Garrett doesn’t even look, he just knows. He fires a blind, spinning backhand pass straight across the slot. 

Logan is exactly where he needs to be. 

He doesn’t stop the puck. He doesn’t stickhandle. He drops to one knee and one-times the shot with the devastating, explosive power that has haunted goalies all year. 

The puck goes top-shelf, completely blowing past the goaltender’s glove, pinging off the crossbar, and burying itself in the back of the net. 

The goal horn absolutely shatters the air. The red light flashes. The TD Garden erupts into pure pandemonium. 

You jump to your feet, screaming so loudly your throat instantly burns. Dean and Tucker are out of their seats, too, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you as the crowd completely loses its mind. 

Down on the ice, Logan throws his arms in the air, a massive, blinding smile breaking across his face. Garrett is the first one to reach him, tackling his best friend into the glass. The rest of the line swarms them, a massive pile of black and gold celebrating the rookie connection. 

“That’s my boyfriend!” You scream at the top of your lungs, not caring who hears you. “And my brother! Those are my boys!”

“Absolute filth!” Dean yells, high-fiving a random stranger in the row in front of you. “Did you see those hands? The Briar boys are taking over!”

The final five minutes of the game pass in a blur of frantic defense, but the Bruins hold the lead. When the final buzzer sounds, securing the 3-2 victory, you feel tears hot and heavy in the corners of your eyes. 

He did it. They both did it. 

***

The tunnel underneath the TD Garden smells like millions of dollars of athletic equipment, sweat, and cheap champagne. You, Dean, and Tucker are waiting by the family and friends barricade outside the Bruins locker room. 

The heavy double doors swing open, and a wave of massive, suited-up men begins to filter out. 

Garrett spots you first. He is wearing a sharp, dark blue suit, his hair still damp from the showers. He looks completely exhausted, sporting a fresh cut on his chin, but he is glowing with sheer adrenaline. 

“Get over here!” Garrett grins, bypassing the barricade and wrapping you in a massive, bone-crushing hug. 

“You were amazing,” you laugh, squeezing him back just as fiercely. “That pass was unreal, G.”

“Hey, I just put it in his wheelhouse,” Garrett says, pulling back and ruffling your hair affectionately. “He had to do the hard part.”

Garrett turns to fist-bump Dean and Tucker, launching immediately into a breakdown of the defensive pairings. 

You look past Garrett’s shoulder, and your breath completely stalls in your chest. 

Logan walks out of the locker room. He is wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit, a crisp white shirt completely unbuttoned at the collar, and no tie. He looks older, sharper, completely transformed from the college boy in the messy hoodies. But when his eyes lock onto yours, the incredibly soft, reverent expression on his face is exactly the same. 

He drops his duffel bag entirely. He doesn’t say a word. He just walks straight up to you, wrapping his large hands around your waist, and lifts you completely off the floor. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne. 

“You did it,” you whisper against his skin, your voice shaking with emotion. “You’re in the NHL, Logan.”

Logan presses a hard, lingering kiss to the side of your head before setting you back down. He doesn’t let go of your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He looks down at you, his eyes scanning your face before dropping to the absolute monstrosity you are wearing. 

A slow, highly amused smirk spreads across his face. 

“Sweetheart,” Logan drawls, his voice a low, raspy rumble that instantly makes your stomach flip. “I love you with my entire heart. But that jersey is a profound tragedy. AFT. Absolute Fucking Tragedy.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, slapping his chest lightly. “It represents my dual loyalties. I couldn’t pick just one of you for your debut.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” Garrett chimes in, though his lips are twitching. “Even if my side is clearly the superior half.”

“Debatable,” Logan shoots back effortlessly. He looks down at you again, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate line over your hip bone, right through the heavy fabric of the jersey. His eyes darken significantly, the adrenaline of the game bleeding seamlessly into a different, much heavier kind of hunger. “You ready to get out of here?”

You look at the tight clench of his jaw, at the raw heat burning in his eyes, and you instantly know exactly what he needs. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, your voice dropping an octave. “Take me home.”

***

Logan’s new apartment in the city is a sleek, modern high-rise with massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Boston skyline. But tonight, you couldn’t care less about the view. 

The second the heavy front door clicks shut behind you, locking the world outside, the remaining shred of Logan’s restraint violently snaps. 

He drops his keys onto the console table, grabbing the lapels of your ugly, half-and-half jersey, and pulls you flush against his chest. His mouth crashes down onto yours with a desperate, bruising force. You gasp into his mouth, your hands immediately flying up to tangle in his damp, dark hair. 

The kiss is explosive. It is loaded with the pent-up tension of the last year, the sheer relief of his father’s rehab, the triumph of the National Championship, and the blinding reality of his NHL debut. Every single emotion he has been bottling up is pouring directly into you. 

“Logan,” you moan against his lips, tasting the faint, lingering salt of his sweat mixed with the sharp mint of his gum. 

“I need you,” he groans, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your core. “Right now. I need you right now.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. His hands grip the bottom hem of the jersey, pulling it up and over your head in one fluid motion, tossing the expensive, custom-made fabric carelessly onto the hardwood floor. 

You are left wearing a small, black lace bra and your jeans. Logan’s eyes sweep over your body, completely blown wide with lust. 

“My turn,” you breathe, reaching for the lapels of his charcoal suit jacket. 

You push it off his broad shoulders, letting it join your jersey on the floor. Your hands move frantically to the buttons of his crisp white dress shirt. You manage to undo three before your patience entirely runs out, and you just grip the fabric and pull. Two buttons pop off, pinging sharply against the floorboards, but neither of you cares. 

You push the shirt off his arms, leaving him entirely bare from the waist up. His chest is heaving, the heavy, defined muscles of his torso rising and falling rapidly under your touch. You press your palms flat against his hot skin, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach. 

Logan lets out a harsh, jagged breath, his hands dropping to the waistband of your jeans. He pops the button and pulls the zipper down, sliding his large, warm hands inside the denim to grip the bare curve of your hips. 

With effortless strength, he lifts you entirely off the floor. 

You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, your ankles crossing behind his back. Logan walks you backward through the apartment, his mouth devouring yours the entire way, until your back hits the cool plaster wall of the hallway. 

He pins you there, his body a solid, immovable weight against yours. The heavy friction of his slacks grinding against the soft denim of your half-undone jeans is maddening. 

“You have no idea,” Logan mutters against your neck, his lips blazing a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jawline and over your collarbone. “You have no idea what you do to me. You saved my life, Y/N.”

“You saved yourself,” you whisper, arching your neck to give him better access. 

“No,” he counters fiercely, biting down gently on a sensitive spot just below your ear, sending a violent shockwave of pleasure straight to your center. “I was drowning. I was perfectly content to drown. And you pulled me out.”

His hands slide around to cup the back of your thighs, lifting you slightly higher against the wall. The angle is agonizingly perfect. 

“Show me,” you challenge him, your voice shaking with pure, unadulterated need. “Show me, Logan.”

His eyes flash with a dark, primal heat. He sets you back down on your feet just long enough to ruthlessly strip the rest of your clothes away. You kick your jeans aside, stepping out of your underwear, leaving you completely bare. Logan makes quick work of his slacks and boxer briefs, his eyes never leaving your face. 

The second he is free, he crowds you back against the wall. The sudden, intense shock of his hot, bare skin pressing flush against yours draws a loud gasp from your throat. 

Logan reaches down, his calloused fingers sliding between your thighs. He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t prep. He knows exactly how ready you are. He finds your center, his thumb pressing firmly against your most sensitive spot, and you completely shatter before he even truly begins. 

“Logan!” You cry out, your knees buckling entirely. 

He catches you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist to hold you up as the violent wave of the orgasm rips through you. You sob into his shoulder, your muscles clenching uncontrollably around nothing, desperate for the solid weight of him. 

“I’ve got you,” Logan murmurs, his voice thick and rough. “I’ve always got you.”

He waits for the tremors to subside before shifting his grip. He parts your thighs with his knee, aligning himself perfectly at your entrance. He looks down at you, the raw, desperate devotion in his eyes making your breath completely stall in your lungs. 

“Mine,” Logan whispers, the word a fierce, undeniable claim. 

“Yours,” you agree instantly. 

He pushes inside you in one long, devastating thrust. 

The sensation is entirely overwhelming. You throw your head back against the wall, a loud, broken moan escaping your lips as he fills you completely. Logan groans deeply, resting his forehead against yours, his chest heaving as he takes a second to simply feel the incredible, suffocating tightness of your body wrapping around his. 

“You feel incredible,” he breathes out, his voice shaking. 

“Don’t stop,” you plead, your hands sliding up to grip his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. 

Logan pulls back almost entirely before driving forward again, setting a slow, agonizingly deep pace. The hallway is entirely silent save for the heavy, wet slide of bodies and the ragged, desperate sound of your synchronized breathing. Every thrust is precise, deliberate, completely burying himself inside you. 

The friction against the wall is intense, the cool plaster a stark contrast to the boiling heat of his body. 

“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan commands, his voice a harsh rasp. 

You comply immediately, lifting your legs to wrap securely around his waist, locking your ankles together. The change in angle allows him to hit perfectly, impossibly deep. 

The slow, torturous pace vanishes. Logan’s restraint completely snaps. 

He grips your hips with bruising force, his thrusts becoming frantic, punishing, and entirely unhinged. He is completely lost in you, chasing the high, pouring every ounce of the night’s adrenaline directly into your body. You cling to him, matching his desperate rhythm, your moans bouncing off the walls of the quiet apartment. 

“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a hard, bruising kiss against your pulse point. “I’m going to-”

“Me too,” you sob out, the second climax building with terrifying, blinding speed. “Logan, please.”

He thrusts deeply, pulling out, and driving forward one final, devastating time. 

A harsh, jagged cry tears from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid, his muscles locking tight as he finds his release. He holds you flush against the wall, completely pinning you in place, taking the full brunt of your own explosive orgasm as it crashes over you simultaneously. 

You completely melt against him, your vision literally going white around the edges. 

For a long time, the only sound in the hallway is the frantic, hammering rhythm of your hearts and the ragged gasps for air. Logan’s face is still buried in your neck, his heavy weight supported entirely by his own legs as he holds you up against the wall. 

Eventually, slowly, the reality of the apartment seeps back in. 

Logan carefully lowers your legs, sliding out of you with a soft, wet sound, keeping one arm securely wrapped around your waist so you don’t collapse onto the floor. Your knees are trembling so violently they feel like water. 

He leans his forehead against yours, looking down at you with an incredibly soft, sated expression. 

“Wow,” you breathe out, letting your head loll back against the wall. 

Logan chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your chest. He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen lips. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. Before you actually pass out in my hallway.”

He sweeps you up into his arms, carrying you effortlessly into the massive master bedroom. The city lights of Boston filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft, amber glow over the massive king-sized bed. 

He sets you down on the soft sheets, pulling the heavy duvet up over your bare body before crawling into the bed beside you. 

You instantly curl into his side, resting your head on his bare chest, your hand flattening over his heart. He wraps a heavy arm around you, holding you close, his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your bare shoulder. 

“Are you happy?” You ask quietly, looking up at him in the dim light. 

Logan looks down at you. He thinks about the heavy, suffocating pressure of his dad’s failing business. He thinks about the guilt of watching Jeff put his life on hold. He thinks about the terrifying moment he almost walked away from hockey forever. 

And then he thinks about the moment the puck hit the back of the net tonight. He thinks about Garrett tackling him against the glass. He thinks about you, wearing that ridiculous, beautiful half-and-half jersey, screaming his name from the stands. 

“I’m more than happy,” Logan whispers, the absolute truth of it ringing crystal clear in the quiet room. “I’m exactly where I am supposed to be.”

He shifts, pulling you up slightly so he can look you directly in the eyes. The cocky, sarcastic facade is completely gone. There is only John Logan, the man who finally got his life back. 

“I love you, Y/N,” Logan says, his voice thick with emotion. “You gave me the courage to fight for my own life. And I swear to God, I am going to spend the rest of my life fighting for you.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You smile, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his jaw. 

“You don’t have to fight for me, Logan,” you whisper against his skin. “I’m already yours.”

Logan smiles, that bright, devastatingly handsome smirk that first caught your attention in a dark, sweaty Boston bar over a year ago. He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, sweet, impossibly tender kiss. 

“HEA,” Logan murmurs against your mouth, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You laugh softly, running your hands through his messy hair. “Happily Ever After?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What look?”

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“Liar!” 

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

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

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

So here you are. 

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

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

***

Logan freezes halfway to the bar. 

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

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

“Well, damn,” Logan mutters to himself. 

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

You step back, and Logan steps in. 

***

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

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

You glance over your shoulder. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a bold strategy.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Balance?”

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

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

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

“Puck,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

“Prove it,” you challenge. 

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

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

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

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

You don’t need to be told twice. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The angle is perfect. The friction is maddening. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, she’s got the talent,” Garrett says, and for a second, the cocky, commanding captain of the Briar team melts away, replaced by a fiercely proud older brother. “Just watch number twenty-one.”

Logan leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He hasn’t met Garrett’s little sister yet. He knows they’re incredibly close, knows a little bit about the dark, heavy history they share with their father — a topic Garrett rarely touches, but when he does, it’s with a protective ferocity that Logan respects. The timing just never worked out for them to meet. When you were visiting Briar, Logan was usually back home dealing with his dad or at the shop. And since you started at Northeastern a few weeks ago, their schedules have been a nightmare of overlapping practices and away games. 

The buzzer blares, echoing through the arena, and the starting lines skate out to the center circle. 

Logan’s eyes immediately scan the red jerseys for the number twenty-one. He spots you lining up for the face-off. Even under the bulky pads and the caged helmet, there’s a distinct posture to you. A coiled, aggressive energy that reminds him so much of Garrett it’s almost funny. 

The referee drops the puck. 

You win the draw instantly, a sharp, precise flick of the wrist that sends the puck straight back to your defenseman. And then, you explode into motion. 

“Whoa,” Dean says, sitting up a little straighter. “Okay. She’s fast.”

“Told you,” Garrett says smugly. 

Logan watches in genuine awe as the game unfolds. You aren’t just fast; you’re brilliant on the ice. Your hockey IQ is off the charts. You anticipate plays before they happen, finding open ice where there shouldn’t be any. Halfway through the first period, you receive a pass in the neutral zone, weave through two Harvard defenders with a blindingly quick deke, and fire a wrist shot that pings off the crossbar and into the net. 

The crowd erupts. Garrett jumps to his feet, screaming his head off, slamming his hands against the glass. 

“That’s my sister!” Garrett roars, looking back at the guys with a wild grin. “Did you see those hands? Did you see that?”

“NFD,” Logan mutters, his eyes wide as he watches you celebrate with your team, slamming your gloves against your teammates’. 

“Don’t do it, Tucker,” Dean warns. 

“I have to,” Tucker sighs. “What does NFD mean, Logan?”

“No Freaking Doubt,” Logan says, a grin spreading across his face. “She’s lethal. G, I think she might actually be better than you.”

“Don’t push it,” Garrett warns, sitting back down, though he’s practically glowing with pride. “But yeah. She’s incredible. Has been since she was five. I basically taught her everything she knows.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Logan laughs. 

For the rest of the game, Logan can’t take his eyes off the ice. It’s a distraction he desperately needs. For the past three weeks, his mind has been a broken record, constantly skipping back to the girl in the red dress from the club. It’s driving him insane. He’s the guy who lives in the moment, the guy who never gets hung up on a one-night stand. But that night in the bathroom wasn’t just a hookup. It felt like a collision. He’s spent the last twenty-one days scanning crowds, looking for that wild hair, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He doesn’t even know her name. He’s half-convinced he hallucinated the entire thing. 

But watching you play, the sheer aggression and skill you bring to the ice, it centers him. It’s a damn good game of hockey. 

By the time the final buzzer sounds, Northeastern has secured a 4-2 victory, with you notching a goal and two assists. You’re the clear MVP of the match. 

“Alright,” Garrett says, standing up and stretching. “Let’s head down to the tunnels. I texted her to meet us outside the locker room.”

The boys shuffle out of the stands, joining the flow of parents and friends heading down to the lower levels of the arena. The air down here is thicker, smelling strongly of sweat and sports tape. They find a spot against a cinderblock wall just outside the double doors of the Northeastern locker room. 

“So, what’s the protocol here?” Dean asks, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “Do we bow? Do we offer her a tribute for absolutely carrying her team today?”

“Just be normal,” Garrett snaps, suddenly looking a little anxious. “And keep your gross, flirtatious comments to yourselves. She’s my baby sister. Look at her, tell her she played well, and do not hit on her. I mean it. Especially you, Dean.”

“Hey! I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests. 

Logan chuckles, leaning his head back against the cold wall. “Relax, Garrett. We know the bro code. Best friend’s sister is strictly off-limits. Untouchable. It’s, like, the fundamental law of the universe.”

“Exactly,” Garrett says, pointing a firm finger at Logan. “I trust you, Logan. You’re the only one of these idiots who actually respects boundaries.”

“I am a pillar of morality,” Logan agrees solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. 

Tucker snorts. “You’re a pillar of something, alright.”

They wait for another fifteen minutes as players slowly trickle out, greeting their families. The heavy double doors swing open again, and Logan hears Garrett suck in a sharp breath. 

***

You push through the locker room doors, a heavy duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Your hair is still damp from the showers, falling in messy, natural waves around your face. You’re wearing a pair of comfortable gray sweatpants and a massive, oversized Northeastern Hockey hoodie that swallows you whole. Your muscles are aching, your legs feel like lead, but there is a triumphant, soaring feeling in your chest. 

You beat Harvard. You proved you belong here. 

You scan the crowd of lingering families in the hallway, your eyes searching for a familiar face. And then you see him. Standing tall in his Briar letterman jacket, looking exactly the same as he always does. 

“Garrett!” You call out, a massive, exhausted smile breaking across your face. 

You drop your duffel bag instantly, not caring where it lands, and practically launch yourself at him. Garrett catches you easily, wrapping his large arms around you and lifting you entirely off your feet, burying his face in your damp hair. 

“God, you were amazing,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “I am so damn proud of you. That goal in the first period? Filthy. Absolutely filthy.”

“I learned from the best,” you whisper back, squeezing him tight. 

In this moment, the rest of the world fades away. It’s just the two of you. The two kids who used to hide in a locked bedroom in New York, the two survivors who made it out to the other side. Every time you step onto the ice, you play for yourself, but you also play for him. Because he made sure you survived long enough to lace up your skates. 

“Okay, okay,” Garrett laughs, finally setting you down, though he keeps one arm securely draped over your shoulders. He looks down at you, his eyes shining. “Let me look at you. You look terrible. Exhausted.”

“Thanks,” you scoff, punching him lightly in the ribs. “I feel terrible. But winning takes the edge off.”

“I brought the guys,” Garrett says, his tone shifting into his captain voice. He turns slightly, gesturing to the three tall, intimidating hockey players standing a few feet away. “They’ve been dying to meet the mythical little sister. Guys, this is her.”

You turn, a polite, friendly smile already plastered on your face. You’re ready to meet the famous Briar boys you’ve heard so much about. 

“Hey, it’s nice to-” 

The words die in your throat. 

Your eyes sweep past a blonde guy with a cocky grin, past a tall, quiet-looking guy with curly hair, and land squarely on the third guy. 

The tall guy with the messy, dark brown hair. The sharp jawline. The broad shoulders. The guy who, three weeks ago, pinned you against a heavy wooden door in a club bathroom and made you see stars. 

The blood instantly drains from your face. The world tilts on its axis. 

***

Logan freezes. 

Every single muscle in his body locks up. He stops breathing. He stops blinking. The cinderblock wall behind him is the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor. 

He stares at you. At the damp hair, the gray sweatpants, the oversized hoodie. But it’s the eyes. It’s the sharp, expressive eyes that he spent an hour staring into in a dark, sweaty hallway. It’s the curve of your mouth that he had bruised with his own. 

*No. No, no, no.*

The realization hits him with the force of a freight train colliding with a brick wall. The girl in the red dress. The girl who tasted like whiskey and mint. The girl whose moans he still hears when he tries to fall asleep. 

It’s you. 

It’s Garrett’s little sister. 

Panic, cold and sharp, floods Logan’s veins. His heart begins to hammer violently against his ribs, a frantic, terrified rhythm. He is a dead man. He is literally going to die today, right here in the Matthews Arena. Garrett is going to murder him. Garrett is going to strip him of his hockey gear, drag him out onto the ice, and beat him to death with his own stick. 

“Earth to Logan,” Dean says, elbowing Logan sharply in the ribs. “Introduce yourself, weirdo.”

Logan swallows hard. His mouth is completely dry. He tries to form words, but his brain is short-circuiting. Code Red. CR. Catastrophic Failure. CF. I Am Going To Die. IAGTD.

He looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the exact same horror mirrored in your eyes. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Your lips are slightly parted, your chest rising and falling rapidly as the shock registers. 

“Hey,” Logan manages to croak out, his voice sounding entirely unlike his own. It’s an octave higher, strangled and tight. “I’m Logan.”

***

“Logan,” you repeat, the name slipping out of your mouth like a curse word. 

John Logan. Garrett’s best friend. The guy your brother trusts more than anyone else in the world. 

You slept with him.

You can feel the hysterical urge to laugh bubbling up in your throat, but you ruthlessly suppress it. Your mind races, trying to stitch together the pieces of that night. No names, no schools, no complications. What a spectacularly stupid rule that turned out to be. If you had just asked his name, if he had just mentioned he played for Briar ... 

“Yeah, this is Logan,” Garrett says, oblivious to the nuclear bomb currently detonating in the space between you two. He claps Logan on the shoulder, and you watch Logan flinch as if he’s been burned. “And this is Dean, and Tucker. Guys, my little sister.”

“Incredible game out there,” Tucker says smoothly, stepping forward to offer a fist bump, which you return mechanically. “Your vision on the ice is insane.”

“Uh, thanks,” you manage to say, tearing your eyes away from Logan to look at Tucker. “I appreciate it.”

“Seriously,” Dean chimes in, flashing a bright, flirtatious smile that instantly makes Garrett narrow his eyes. “You didn’t tell us she was a superstar, G. Or that she was this pretty.”

“Dean,” Garrett barks, his voice low and dangerous. “I will end you.”

“Just stating facts!” Dean raises his hands in surrender. 

You try to focus on the banter, try to act normal, but it’s impossible. You can feel Logan’s stare burning a hole into the side of your head. The tension radiating from him is palpable. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler. 

“So,” Garrett says, turning back to you, completely blind to the silent panic attack Logan is having three feet away. “We were thinking of grabbing food to celebrate. There’s a diner a few blocks from here. You up for it, or are you too dead?”

“I ...” You desperately want to say no. You want to grab your bag, run back into the locker room, lock the door, and never come out. But you look at Garrett, at the sheer happiness on his face. He’s so excited to have you here, to introduce you to his world. You can’t ruin this for him. 

“I’m starving,” you lie, forcing a bright smile. “Food sounds great.”

“Awesome,” Garrett beams. “Logan, you’re driving.”

“I am?” Logan stammers, his eyes snapping to Garrett. 

“Yeah, you drove us here in your truck,” Garrett points out, looking at Logan like he’s grown a second head. “Are you okay, man? You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“I’m fine,” Logan says quickly, too quickly. “Just hungry. Blood sugar is low. LBS.”

“Stop with the acronyms,” Garrett sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns to you. “He does this thing where he makes up acronyms. It’s annoying, but you learn to tune it out.”

“I know,” you say softly. 

The words slip out before you can stop them. 

The hallway goes completely silent. 

Dean and Tucker pause. Garrett frowns, looking between you and Logan. Logan looks like he’s about to sprint down the hallway and jump into moving traffic. 

“You know?” Garrett asks slowly, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “How do you know?”

Crap. Crap. Crap.

“I mean,” you backpedal frantically, your heart hammering against your ribs, “I assume it’s annoying. You know? Guys who do that ... it’s usually annoying.”

Garrett stares at you for a second longer before his face clears, and he laughs. “Yeah. See? Even she thinks you’re annoying, Logan.”

Logan manages a weak, strained chuckle. “Yeah. Hilarious.”

The walk to Logan’s truck is the longest walk of your entire life. Garrett walks beside you, excitedly breaking down the plays from the game, asking you about your linemates, while the three boys trail behind. 

You can feel Logan’s eyes on your back the entire time. It’s a heavy, burning weight. 

When you reach the parking lot, Logan clicks his keys, and a massive, beat-up black Chevy Silverado chirps. 

“I call shotgun!” Dean yells, lunging for the front door. 

“No way,” Garrett says, grabbing Dean by the back of his jacket and yanking him backward. “Sister gets shotgun. You animals get in the back.”

“Garrett, it’s fine,” you protest immediately, holding your hands up. “I can sit in the back.”

The idea of sitting in the passenger seat, mere inches away from Logan, in the enclosed space of his truck, sounds like absolute torture. 

“Nonsense,” Garrett insists, opening the passenger side door for you. “You’re the VIP today. Get in.”

You shoot a desperate, fleeting glance at Logan over the hood of the truck. His face is pale, his jaw clenched tight. He looks completely out of his depth, which is terrifying, because Logan is supposed to be the guy who has it all together. The cool, calm, collected one. 

You climb into the truck. The smell of the interior hits you instantly. It’s the exact same smell that clung to his skin that night in the bathroom. Woodsmoke and that same masculine cologne. It makes your head spin. 

Logan climbs into the driver’s seat. He shuts the door, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. 

Garrett, Dean, and Tucker pile into the back seat, instantly filling the cab with noise and chaos as they argue over legroom. 

“Alright, Logan,” Garrett says from the backseat, leaning forward to clap Logan on the shoulder. “To the diner. Let’s get some food in this champion.”

Logan starts the engine. The low rumble of the truck vibrates through the seat, sending a phantom shiver up your spine. He puts the car in drive, finally turning to look at you for the first time since the locker room. 

His eyes are dark, filled with a chaotic mixture of panic, disbelief, and something else — something dangerously similar to the raw hunger you saw in the club. 

“Buckle up,” Logan says, his voice a low, raspy whisper that is meant only for you. 

You swallow hard, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across your chest. The click of the buckle sounds as loud as a gunshot in the tense silence of the front seat. 

“Ready,” you whisper back. 

Logan tears his gaze away, staring straight ahead at the road as he pulls out of the parking lot. 

It’s going to be a very, very long lunch.

***

The bell above the door of Della’s Diner chimes a cheerful, tinny note that sounds entirely too happy for the funeral march currently playing in Logan’s head. 

The diner is a quintessential college town staple — smelling of old frying oil, burnt coffee, and maple syrup, with neon beer signs buzzing faintly in the grease-stained windows. It’s usually Logan’s favorite place to recover after a rough practice, but right now, it feels like an interrogation room. 

“Booth in the back,” Garrett declares, pointing to a circular corner booth upholstered in cracked red vinyl. 

It’s a tight squeeze. Too tight. 

Garrett slides in first, pulling you in right beside him. Dean drops into the opposite side, dragging Tucker with him. That leaves one spot left. Right in the middle. Directly across from you. 

Logan stands in the aisle for a fraction of a second too long, staring at the empty space on the vinyl seat like it’s a trap door. 

“Sit down, man, you’re blocking the aisle,” Tucker says, giving Logan a shove. 

Logan practically falls into the booth. His knees immediately bump against something soft under the table. 

You jerk your legs back so fast you nearly spill the glass of water the waitress just set down. “Sorry,” you murmur, your cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of crimson. 

“My bad,” Logan chokes out. He pulls his long legs back, pressing his knees firmly together. He feels like he’s trying to defuse a bomb with a pair of chopsticks. 

The waitress, a gum-chewing woman in her fifties named Stacy, pulls a notepad from her apron. “What can I get you boys? And the lovely lady?”

“Three orders of the lumberjack special,” Garrett says without looking at the menu. “Extra bacon for me. Tucker will have the chicken wrap, because he’s boring.”

“It’s called macronutrients, Garrett,” Tucker sighs. 

“And for the lady?” Stacy asks, giving you a warm smile. 

“I’ll just take a side of fries, please,” you say, peeling off your oversized Northeastern hockey hoodie to reveal the gray tank top underneath. “And a strawberry milkshake. Extra thick.”

Logan swallows. Hard. 

“Coming right up, hon,” Stacy says, clicking her pen and sauntering away. 

“Just fries?” Garrett frowns, shifting in the booth to look at you. “You played a hell of a game, you need protein. You want some of my eggs?”

“I’m too amped up to eat a heavy meal, G,” you say, leaning back against the vinyl. “You know how I get after a game. Adrenaline crash hasn’t hit yet.”

“Suit yourself,” Garrett shrugs. “But you’re eating at least half my bacon.”

Logan stares blankly at the laminated menu in front of him, seeing absolutely nothing. He is in hell. A very specific, vinyl-upholstered circle of hell. 

You are sitting directly across from him. The diner lighting is catching the faint sheen of sweat still lingering on your collarbones. He can see the subtle shift of your athletic shoulders under the thin fabric of your tank top, and all he can think about is the way those shoulders felt under his hands when he pinned you against that bathroom door. 

Stop it. Logan squeezes his eyes shut for a microsecond. Wayne Gretzky. 2,857 career points. 894 goals. 1,963 assists.

“So,” Dean starts, leaning his elbows on the table and giving you his best, most dazzling smile. The one that usually makes puck bunnies melt into puddles. “Northeastern, huh? Why didn’t you come to Briar with Garrett?”

You look at Dean, your expression perfectly composed. “Northeastern offered me a full ride and a starting position at center. Briar wanted me to sit on the bench for a year to develop. It wasn’t a hard choice.”

“Ouch,” Dean laughs, clutching his chest. “Brains, beauty, and she’s ruthless. You sure you’re related to Garrett?”

“Dean, I swear to God,” Garrett warns, his voice dropping an octave. “I will stab you with this fork.”

“Just making conversation!” Dean defends himself, picking up a sugar packet and tossing it at Garrett. “It’s nice to actually meet her. You’ve kept her locked in a tower for years.”

“I haven’t kept her in a tower,” Garrett grumbles. “She was back home. I was here.”

Logan keeps his eyes glued to the table, tracing the wood-grain pattern with his thumbnail. He needs to say something. If he stays silent, it’s going to look suspicious. He is the loud one. The funny one. The guy who never shuts up. 

“So,” Logan forces his vocal cords to work, glancing up to meet your eyes. “Center. You like running the offense?”

Your breath hitches slightly when his eyes lock onto yours, but you recover instantly. You are incredibly good at this game. 

“I do,” you nod, wrapping your hands around your glass of water. “I like controlling the pace. Setting up the plays. Better than waiting around for someone else to pass me the puck.”

Oh, Jesus. Logan’s brain completely short-circuits. She likes controlling the pace. Mario Lemieux. 1,723 points. 690 goals. 1,033 assists. Won the Stanley Cup in ‘91 and ‘92.

“She’s a control freak on the ice,” Garrett laughs, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Always has been. Even when we were playing street hockey as kids, she bossed me around.”

“Someone had to,” you shoot back, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face. It’s the exact same smile Logan saw in the club right before he kissed you. 

Stacy returns, balancing a massive tray of food. She deposits plates of eggs, pancakes, and greasy bacon onto the table. Finally, she places a tall, condensation-beaded glass filled with pink milkshake directly in front of you. It comes with a thick red straw and a mountain of whipped cream. 

“Enjoy, sweetheart,” Stacy says, winking before she walks away. 

“Thanks,” you say, grabbing the glass. 

Logan watches in slow motion as your lips wrap around the thick red straw. 

You take a long, deep pull of the milkshake. Your cheeks hollow out slightly from the effort, the thick ice cream requiring serious suction. You swallow, your throat working, and pull the straw away, your lips slick and shining with the pale pink liquid. A tiny drop of milkshake lingers on the corner of your mouth. 

You dart your tongue out and lick it away. 

Logan’s hands grip the edges of the table so hard his knuckles turn stark white. Bobby Orr. Number 4. Eight consecutive Norris Trophies. 270 career goals. It’s not working. The stats aren’t working. 

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust his jeans without anyone noticing the distinct, painful problem developing below the table. He is having a physical reaction to his best friend’s sister drinking a strawberry milkshake. He is a monster. A depraved, irredeemable monster. 

He just wants to finish the season. He wants to play his final year of college hockey, graduate, and go back to his dad’s mechanic shop. That’s the deal. He just needs to survive these next few months before Garrett inevitably finds out and murders him with his bare hands. 

“You okay, Logan?” Tucker asks, pausing halfway through a bite of his chicken wrap. He looks at Logan with narrow, analytical eyes. “You’re sweating.”

“I’m fine,” Logan rasps, reaching for his ice water and downing half the glass in one go. “It’s hot in here. HC. Heat Casualties.”

You let out a soft, sudden sound — a cross between a cough and a laugh — and choke on your milkshake. 

Garrett immediately drops his fork and thumps you on the back. “Whoa, easy. Breathe. You good?”

“I’m fine,” you wheeze, covering your mouth with a napkin. Your eyes, bright and watery, dart across the table to glare at Logan. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”

“It’s Logan’s stupid acronyms,” Garrett sighs, handing you another napkin. “I told you, he’s insufferable.”

“They’re not stupid, they’re efficient,” Logan says defensively, though his voice is still a little tight. “Saves time.”

“Saves time for what? More terrible jokes?” Dean quips around a mouthful of pancake. 

“Exactly,” Logan snaps back, finally finding his rhythm. The banter is safe. The banter is familiar. “At least I have jokes. Your entire personality is just hair gel and daddy issues, Dean.”

“Hey!” Dean protests, running a self-conscious hand through his perfectly styled hair. “I love my father, thank you very much.”

You laugh, and the sound does funny things to Logan’s chest. It’s warm and real, totally different from the dark, heavy lust that defined your first encounter. He realizes, with a sinking feeling of dread, that he likes you. Not just the physical memory of you, but you. The way you hold your own against his idiot friends. The way you look at Garrett with pure adoration. 

I am so dead, Logan thinks, watching you steal a piece of bacon off Garrett’s plate. I am absolutely, definitively dead.

The rest of the meal passes in a blur of hockey talk, arguments over NHL standings, and Tucker quietly destroying everyone’s logic with statistics. You fit into the group seamlessly. You speak their language. 

Under the table, it’s a different story. 

The booth is small, and Logan has long legs. Twice, your knee brushes against his. The first time, he flinches so violently he nearly knocks over his coffee mug. The second time, he freezes, holding his breath as the soft denim of your sweatpants drags slowly across the heavy denim of his jeans. 

He looks up. You are casually talking to Dean about Northeastern’s defensive lineup, sipping your milkshake, acting completely unaffected. But Logan sees the slight tremor in your hand holding the glass. He sees the high color in your cheeks. 

You are feeling it too. The electricity. The undeniable pull. 

It’s making the situation infinitely worse. If you hated him, if you were disgusted by him, he could back off. He could bury it. But knowing that the memory of that bathroom is playing on a loop in your head just like it is in his? It’s a ticking time bomb. 

“Alright,” Garrett says, tossing his napkin onto his empty plate and reaching for his wallet. “I got this.”

“You don’t have to pay for me, G,” you protest, reaching for your own bag. 

“Put it away,” Garrett orders, throwing a twenty-dollar bill onto the table. “Big brother privilege. Besides, you’re a broke freshman. Save your money.”

You roll your eyes but let your bag drop back onto the seat. “Fine. Thank you.”

“Okay, before we get out of here,” Garrett says, his tone suddenly shifting from casual to commanding. He looks at Dean, Tucker, and finally, Logan. “Phones out. All of you.”

Logan stares at him. “What?”

“Phones out,” Garrett repeats, pulling his own cell phone from his pocket. “You too, Y/N.”

You look just as confused as Logan, pulling your phone out of your hoodie pocket. 

“Exchange numbers,” Garrett instructs, gesturing between you and the boys. 

Logan’s blood runs cold. He stares at Garrett, convinced this is some sort of elaborate trap. “Why?”

“Because,” Garrett says, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looks at the three of them with deadly serious eyes. “You three are my brothers. You’re the only people I trust completely. My sister is living in this city now. She’s at Northeastern, dealing with a new team, new classes, new everything.”

Garrett pauses, looking at you, his expression softening slightly. “I’m not always going to be available. We have away games. I have practice. Sometimes my phone dies. If she ever needs anything — a ride, help moving a couch, someone to bail her out of a bad situation — and she can’t reach me, I want her to be able to reach you.”

You stare at your brother, your throat working. “Garrett, I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitting squad.”

“It’s not a babysitting squad,” Garrett says firmly. “It’s an insurance policy. Mom is gone. Dad is ...” Garrett’s jaw clenches, the muscles ticking violently. “Dad is dead to us. It’s just you and me. And these guys. This is our family now.”

The diner goes totally quiet. Dean drops the joking facade, his face sobering instantly. Tucker nods slowly. 

Even Logan feels a sharp, painful ache in his chest. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to deal with a toxic father. He knows what Garrett has sacrificed to protect you. Garrett is handing over the most precious thing in his life to his best friends, trusting them to protect her. 

“He’s right,” Tucker says quietly, unlocking his phone. “Read us your number, Y/N.”

You look overwhelmed, blinking rapidly as if fighting back tears, but you softly read out your ten-digit number. 

Dean types it in, saving the contact. “Got it. And hey, for the record? I’m honored, G. We got her back.”

“Always,” Tucker agrees. 

Garrett looks at Logan. “Logan?”

Logan’s hands are shaking as he unlocks his phone. He types your number into the keypad. The screen glows brightly, mocking him. He hits Save Contact. 

Y/N Graham.

“Got it,” Logan forces the words past the massive lump in his throat. He looks up, meeting Garrett’s eyes. 

“I need you to promise me,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion, looking specifically at Logan. “You treat her like a sister. All of you. She is off-limits to everyone on our team, everyone you know. You look out for her like she’s your own blood. Understood?”

“Understood,” Dean says solemnly. 

“Got it, Garrett,” Tucker nods. 

Garrett doesn’t look away from Logan. He knows Logan is the wild card. The guy who hooks up and moves on. The guy who never commits. 

“Logan?” Garrett prompts. 

Logan looks at his best friend. The guy who covered for him when his dad showed up drunk to a home game. The guy who let Logan sleep on his floor for a week when things got too bad at home. Garrett trusts him implicitly. 

“I promise,” Logan says, the lie tasting like ash on his tongue. “Like a sister. I swear, G.”

“Good,” Garrett exhales, clapping Logan on the shoulder. The tension breaks, the heavy atmosphere dissipating back into the background noise of the diner. “Alright. Let’s get out of here. I need to ice my ankle again before practice tomorrow.”

They all slide out of the booth. You grab your hoodie, pulling it over your head to hide your face for a second. 

As they file out of the diner into the crisp autumn air, Garrett walks ahead, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. You lean into him, laughing at something he says. 

Logan hangs back, trailing behind with Dean and Tucker. 

He stops on the sidewalk, looking up at the gray, overcast Boston sky. The clouds are thick, heavy with the promise of rain. 

He promised Garrett he would treat you like a sister. 

He thinks about the heavy wooden door of the club bathroom. He thinks about the way your nails dug into his shoulders. He thinks about the sounds you made when he pushed inside you, the desperate, uninhibited way you wrapped your legs around his waist and begged him not to stop. 

Logan closes his eyes, tilting his head back toward the sky. He lets out a long, ragged exhale that turns into a white cloud in the cold air. 

I have done things to her, Logan thinks, a feeling of absolute doom settling deep in his bones, that absolutely no one should ever do to their little sister.

He opens his eyes, staring at your retreating back as you walk to the truck with Garrett. 

Fuck his life.

***

The dashboard of your beat-up Toyota Corolla flickers violently, a dying strobe light of warning symbols, before the entire console goes pitch black. The engine gives one final, pathetic shudder and dies, leaving you coasting in terrifying silence down a dark, empty stretch of road just outside the Boston city limits. 

You wrench the steering wheel hard to the right, using the last of your momentum to pull onto the gravel shoulder before slamming the car into park. 

For a moment, the only sound is the frantic beating of your own heart and the rhythmic, aggressive drumming of the freezing November rain against your windshield. 

“Perfect,” you whisper to the empty car. “Just perfect.”

You slam your hands against the steering wheel, letting out a frustrated groan. It’s nearly midnight on a Tuesday. You were just driving back from a late-night study session at the library, your brain completely fried from staring at anatomy textbooks. Now, you are stranded in the freezing cold. 

You grab your phone from the cup holder. Your fingers are already starting to go numb. You pull up your favorites list and immediately hit Garrett’s name. 

The line rings once. Twice. Three times. 

“Hey, this is Garrett. Leave a message, unless you’re Dean, in which case, stop calling me.”

“Damn it, Garrett,” you mutter, hanging up. You try again. Straight to voicemail. He must have finally fallen asleep after complaining all afternoon about the massive bruising on his ribs from practice. 

You lean back against the headrest, staring blankly at the dark screen of your phone. You need a jump. Or a tow. Or a miracle. 

Your thumb hovers over the contacts list. Garrett’s mandate from the diner echoes in your head. If she ever needs anything ... I want her to be able to reach you.

You never thought you’d actually have to use the emergency hockey-player hotline. 

You scroll down. Dean? Absolutely not. He would show up with a stupid grin, probably hit on you while holding the jumper cables, and make the entire ordeal ten times more exhausting. Tucker? Tucker is a solid option. He’s quiet, respectful, and probably knows how to fix a car. 

But then your thumb stops on the last name. 

John Logan.

A hot flush of heat floods your chest, completely counteracting the freezing temperature of the car. It’s been weeks since the diner. Weeks of aggressively avoiding him. If you go to Briar to see Garrett, you make sure Logan isn’t around. If the boys come to your games, you keep a safe, polite distance. But avoiding him hasn’t stopped you from thinking about him. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in that club bathroom. 

You stare at his name. If you call Tucker, it’s safe. If you call Logan, you are willingly inviting the chaos back into your space. 

But there is a strange, twisted logic forming in your tired brain. Logan has already seen you completely unraveled. He knows what you sound like when you lose control. The barrier of intimacy is already so irrevocably shattered between the two of you that calling him almost feels ... easier. There’s no pretense to keep up. 

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press the green call button. 

It rings twice. 

“Hello?” His voice is rough, heavy with sleep, and the sound of it sends a sharp jolt straight to your core. 

“Logan,” you say, your voice trembling slightly — mostly from the cold, but partly from the sheer adrenaline of hearing him say your name. “It’s ... it’s Y/N.”

There is a split second of silence on the line, followed by the sound of rustling sheets and a loud thud, as if he just vaulted out of bed. 

“Y/N?” His voice is suddenly wide awake, sharp and entirely focused. “Are you okay? Where are you? Did something happen?”

“I’m okay,” you say quickly, not wanting to trigger a full-blown panic. “I’m not hurt or anything. I’m just ... my car died. I’m stuck on the shoulder off Route 9, a couple of miles past the exit for the campus.”

“Is anyone with you?” He demands, the protective edge in his voice so fiercely reminiscent of Garrett it makes your throat ache. 

“No, I’m alone. I tried calling Garrett, but he’s not picking up, and-”

“I’m on my way,” Logan cuts you off smoothly. “Lock the doors. Keep the hazards on if the battery has enough juice for them. Do not get out of the car for anyone but me. Understood?”

“Understood,” you whisper. 

“ETA is twenty minutes. Hang tight, sweetheart.”

The phone clicks dead. You stare at the screen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering gymnastics routine in your chest.

***

True to his word, exactly eighteen minutes later, the blinding headlights of a pickup truck cut through the rain, pulling up right behind your dead Civic. 

You unlock the door the second Logan steps out of his truck. He’s wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and a dark Briar hockey hoodie, the hood pulled up against the freezing rain. He walks over to your window, his jaw clenched tight, scanning the dark road around you before he looks down at you. 

“You okay?” He asks, his voice muffled by the glass. 

You roll the window down an inch. “I’m freezing, but I’m fine. The engine just completely died.”

Logan nods, immediately shifting into a mode you haven’t seen before. It’s not the sarcastic jokester from the bar, and it’s not the panicked guy from the diner. This is Logan in his element. He grew up in a mechanic shop. 

“Pop the hood,” he instructs, turning back to his truck. 

You pull the lever under the dash. By the time you step out of the car, wrapping your thin jacket tightly around yourself, Logan is already hooking up a set of heavy-duty jumper cables to his battery. 

“Get back in the car, Y/N,” Logan barks over the sound of the rain, glancing up at you. “You’re shivering. I’ve got this.”

“I want to help,” you insist, your teeth chattering. 

Logan sighs, walking over to the front of your car. He effortlessly lifts the heavy hood, propping it open. He moves with practiced, confident precision, attaching the red clamp to the positive terminal of your battery, then the black clamp to a piece of unpainted metal on the engine block. 

“It’s a dead battery,” Logan says, wiping his wet hands on his sweatpants. “Alternator might be shot, too, considering it died while you were driving. But this should get you enough juice to get to my place or back to your dorm.”

“Your place?” You echo, the words slipping out. 

Logan pauses, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. “Yeah. My place. Or your dorm. Whichever you want.”

He turns away, walking back to his truck. “Start it up!” He yells over his shoulder. 

You slide back into the driver’s seat, turning the key. The engine sputters, whines a pathetic, high-pitched noise, and then, miraculously, roars to life. The heat instantly blasts from the vents. 

You let out a massive sigh of relief, leaning your head against the steering wheel. He saved you. 

You step back out of the car into the rain. Logan is already disconnecting the cables, tossing them into the bed of his truck before slamming the tailgate shut. He walks back over to you, rain dripping from his nose and chin, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. 

“Good to go,” he says, his voice a low rumble over the idling engine. “SRO. Successful Rescue Operation.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up through the cold. You are so overwhelmed with relief, so utterly grateful that you didn’t have to spend the night freezing on the side of the road, that you don’t even think about what you’re doing next. 

You step directly into his space. 

“Thank you, Logan,” you say, looking up at him. “Seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”

Before he can respond, you rise up on your toes, press a hand flat against his damp chest for balance, and press your lips to his. 

It is meant to be a thank-you kiss. A quick, friendly peck on the corner of the mouth. But the second your lips touch his, muscle memory violently hijacks your brain. 

Logan freezes. For a millisecond, his entire body goes completely rigid under your hand. And then, with a sharp, desperate intake of breath, he breaks. 

His large hands come up, gripping your waist with bruising force. He pulls you flush against his body, opening his mouth over yours, entirely swallowing your gasp. The kiss is instantaneous fire. It’s exactly like the bathroom at the club — frantic, hungry, and completely consuming. You tangle your fingers into the wet hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, your mouth opening to the familiar, intoxicating slide of his tongue. 

The freezing rain soaking through your clothes suddenly doesn’t matter at all. The only thing that exists is the burning heat of his mouth, the solid wall of his chest, and the desperate, crushing grip of his hands on your hips. 

Logan groans into your mouth, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your toes. He walks you backward until your spine hits the wet metal of your car door, pinning you there just like he did before. 

But then, as quickly as it started, the reality of the situation crashes down on both of you. 

Logan tears his mouth away, his chest heaving violently. He rests his forehead against yours, his hands still gripping your waist in a vise. You are both panting, staring into each other’s wide, terrified eyes. 

“What are we doing?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling. 

“I don’t know,” you breathe back, your hands still resting on his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart. 

“Garrett is going to bury me under the ice rink,” Logan says, his eyes squeezing shut. “He is going to murder me. He’s going to use my bones to make a new hockey stick.”

“And I’ll be shipped off to a convent,” you add, your voice tight with panic. “I’ll be the first ever hockey-playing cloistered nun.”

Logan lets out a breathless, choked laugh, his forehead still resting against yours. “We can’t do this. You know we can’t do this.”

“I know,” you whisper. “We really can’t.”

You wait for him to step back. You wait for him to let you go. 

He doesn’t move an inch. 

Instead, his thumbs slowly begin to stroke the curve of your waist, right through the wet fabric of your jacket. The touch is so agonizingly slow, so heavy with intent, that a small, broken whimper escapes your lips. 

“I’ve been going insane,” Logan admits, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp. He opens his eyes, staring directly into yours. The raw vulnerability in his expression makes your heart shatter. “Since the diner. Since the club. I can’t sleep. I can’t think on the ice. Every time I close my eyes, I see you drinking that damn milkshake.”

“Logan ...”

“I know I’m supposed to be the reliable guy,” he continues, his hands sliding up your sides to grip the lapels of your jacket. “I promised Garrett. I swore to him. But Y/N, I can’t stop. You are all I think about.”

The admission hangs heavy in the freezing air between you, thick and undeniably true. You feel the exact same way. The rules, the brother, the consequences — none of it feels real compared to the overwhelming, magnetic pull you have toward this man. 

“My backseat is practically a living room,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting down to your lips. 

“Logan ...” you say his name again, but this time, it’s not a warning. It’s a surrender. 

“Tell me to get in my truck and drive away,” Logan pleads, his face inches from yours. “Tell me right now, and I will.”

You look at him. You look at the rain dripping from his lashes, at the desperate, agonizing hope in his eyes. 

“I don’t want you to drive away,” you say, your voice perfectly clear over the sound of the storm. 

Logan lets out a sharp exhale, his restraint finally snapping completely. He kisses you again, hard and bruising, before grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your car. He drags you toward the truck. He throws open the heavy back door, practically lifting you off your feet and tossing you onto the wide, expansive upholstered bench of the backseat. 

He climbs in after you, slamming the door shut. 

The sudden silence inside the truck is deafening. The windows are heavily tinted, shielding you from the outside world. The only light comes from the faint glow of the dashboard in the front. 

Logan wastes absolutely no time. He crawls over the leather seats, caging you in against the soft upholstery. He straddles your hips, looking down at you with a gaze so hot it could melt glass. 

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands instantly reaching for the zipper of your wet jacket. He pulls it down with frantic haste, tugging the damp material off your shoulders and tossing it onto the floorboards. 

“You talk too much,” you breathe, reaching up to grab the collar of his hoodie, pulling him down to you. 

The kiss is explosive. It’s different from the club. At the club, it was pure, anonymous lust. This is heavier. This is loaded with weeks of pent-up desire, forbidden attraction, and the terrifying realization that there are real feelings involved. 

Logan’s hands are everywhere, exploring you with a desperate reverence. He pushes your tank top up, his large, warm palms flattening against the bare, shivering skin of your stomach. You gasp into his mouth as he trails his hands higher, mapping the curve of your ribs before pushing the fabric up entirely. 

“God,” Logan groans, pulling back just enough to look at you in the dim light. His eyes trace the lines of your body, filled with a deep, consuming hunger. 

“Don’t stop,” you plead, your fingers tangling into his wet hair. 

Logan leans down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of your breast. The contrast of his scorching mouth against your cold skin sends a violent shiver down your spine. He traces his tongue along the edge of your bra, biting down gently on the sensitive skin, eliciting a loud, uninhibited moan from your throat. 

“You like that?” Logan rumbles against your skin, his hands moving to the button of your jeans. 

“Logan, please,” you beg, arching your back off the leather seat. 

He works the button and zipper with practiced ease, his fingers sliding beneath the denim. The second his rough skin brushes against your center, your entire body completely locks up. 

Logan watches your face intently as his fingers begin to move. He sets a slow, maddeningly precise rhythm, his thumb circling and pressing exactly where you need it. You throw your head back into the leather seat, your hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. 

“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice thick with lust. 

You force your eyes open, meeting his dark, intense gaze. 

“You are mine,” Logan whispers fiercely, the words slipping out of him like an undeniable truth. He increases the pressure, his fingers moving faster, deeper. “You hear me? You’re mine.”

You can’t even form words to agree. The pleasure is too absolute, too consuming. The heat inside the cab of the truck is suffocating, completely fogging up the windows and isolating you both in a cocoon of raw, desperate need. 

You feel the climax building rapidly, a tight, coil of energy in your lower stomach. 

“Logan,” you sob out, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders. 

“Let it go, sweetheart,” he encourages, leaning down to capture your lips in a devastating kiss. “I’ve got you.”

You shatter completely. The orgasm rips through you with a violent intensity, pulling a loud, muffled scream from your throat directly into his mouth. Your muscles clench tightly around his fingers, your entire body trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. 

Logan holds you through it, his chest heaving, waiting until the violent tremors begin to subside. 

When you finally open your eyes, you are gasping for air. Logan is looking down at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Without a word, he reaches down and grabs the hem of his own hoodie, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. He tosses it aside, revealing his broad, heavily muscled chest. 

He reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants. 

“My turn,” he whispers, his eyes completely dark. 

You reach up, helping him push the fabric down. The second he is free, he settles back over you, parting your knees with his thighs. He aligns himself perfectly, pausing for just a fraction of a second to look at you, to make sure you are ready. 

You nod, lifting your hips to meet him. 

Logan pushes inside you in one long, smooth, devastating thrust. 

A sharp gasp leaves your lips, your eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming sensation of being completely filled by him. It is infinitely better than the club. There is no door to pin you against, but the heavy, solid weight of his body pressing you deep into the leather seat is so much better. 

Logan lets out a low, guttural groan, resting his forehead against yours as he takes a moment to adjust. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice shaking. “You feel perfect.”

“Move,” you demand softly, your hands tracing down the hard, sweaty planes of his back to grip his hips. 

He obeys. He sets a slow, agonizingly deep pace. Every thrust is deliberate, completely burying himself inside you before pulling almost entirely out. The friction is maddening. The truck rocks gently on its suspension with the force of his movements, the only sound inside the cab the wet slide of bodies and the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing. 

“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan whispers harshly. 

You immediately do as he asks, crossing your ankles over the small of his back, pulling him even deeper. 

The change in angle is all it takes for Logan’s restraint to snap. The slow, deliberate pace vanishes, replaced by a frantic, punishing rhythm. He grips your hips so tightly it’s definitely going to leave bruises, his hips snapping forward with a force that drives you further and further into the seat. 

You cling to him, entirely lost to the storm. The feeling of him inside you, the way his body covers yours perfectly, the desperate sounds he makes against your neck is intoxicating. 

“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic and entirely unhinged. “I’m going to-”

“Do it,” you sob out, your own second climax building with terrifying speed. “Logan, please.”

He thrusts deeply one final time, a harsh, jagged cry tearing from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid as he finds his release, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The force of his climax pushes you directly over the edge, your body shattering around him simultaneously. 

For a long time, neither of you moves. 

Logan is a heavy, completely exhausted weight on top of you. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your chest, his skin slick with sweat despite the freezing temperatures outside. The windows of the truck are entirely opaque with condensation. 

Slowly, the reality of the situation begins to creep back in. The rain is still drumming relentlessly against the roof of the truck. 

Logan slowly lifts his head, looking down at you. His eyes are soft, devoid of the frantic panic that usually accompanies your interactions. He brushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, his touch remarkably gentle. 

“Garrett is going to kill me,” Logan says quietly, the words lacking their usual terror. 

You let out a soft, tired laugh, running your hands through his messy hair. “Yeah. He really is.”

“It’s worth it,” Logan says, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “For the record. I would let him kill me a thousand times if it meant I got to do this again.”

Your heart does a painful, stuttering flip in your chest. You look up at him, seeing the utter sincerity in his eyes. He isn’t joking. He isn’t deflecting with acronyms. 

“Me too,” you whisper. 

Logan smiles, a devastatingly soft expression that completely alters his face. He rolls off you gently, reaching down to grab his hoodie. 

“Come on,” he says, pulling the hoodie over his head before handing you your damp jacket. “Let’s get you back to your dorm before you catch pneumonia. SVD. Safe Vehicle Drop-off.”

“You’re an idiot,” you laugh, sitting up and starting to re-dress. 

“Yeah,” Logan agrees, watching you with an expression you can’t quite place. “I am.”

The house was loud enough to feel like it was shaking. Music thumped through the walls, cups were scattered across every surface, people were packed into the whole downstairs so tightly that moving required shoulder-checking strangers just to get through.

Dean sat across from Logan at the dining table finishing a drinking game neither of them had been taking too seriously.

”You cheated,” Logan accused immediately.

Dean snorted. ”You say that every single time you lose.”

”Because you cheat every single time i lose.”

”Well, that sounds like a you problem.”

Logan flipped him off while Dean laughed and reached for his beer.

The instinctively glanced around the room. Looking for her. Without even realizing it.

But his smile faded when he didn’t spot her immediately. Weird. She’d been everywhere all night. Holding onto him earlier while he talked to Garret, stealing drinks from him and everyone around here every chance she got, dancing with Allie hard enough that she crashed into more people than she probably even realized. Talking about the most random things with Tucker.

Dean glanced around again. Still nothing.

Beau noticed immediately. ”What?”

Dean shrugged once. ”Haven’t seen her in a while.”

Beau looked around lazily. ”She’s probably just off terrorizing somebody for drinks.”

”Hopefully not.”

He quickly pulls out his phone and sends her a text. Asking her where she is. But no answer.

Across the room he spotted Allie and Hannah, he stood automatically and made his way through the crowd toward them. ”Allie.”

She looked up immediately.

”Where’s she at?”

Allie frowned slightly. ”I thought she was with you.”

”Well as you can see, she’s not.”

”we haven’t seen her since we were in the kitchen.”

”How long ago was that?”

”A while ago?” Hannah nodded in agreement.

Dean’s jaw tightened slightly. ”And?”

”She was fine,” Hannah said quickly. ”I mean, she was really drunk. But she seemed fine.”

Dean smiled tightly at them before turning away. Taking his phone out of his pocket. Attempting to call her. But yet again no answer.

”Maybe she went to your room?” Allie offered.

”Yeah. Probably”

He barely finished his sentence before he was walking towards his room. Pushing through the thick crowded room of people.

He checked his room. Empty. Bathrooms. Empty other than the ones with couples making out. The guys bedrooms were empty aswell.

He then checked the backyard. Nothing.

He pushed through the room again and walked out onto the porch. Cold air hit him instantly.

The noise from inside muffled slightly behind him as he closed the door.

He scanned the porch. Then froze. She sat on the front steps leaning against the railing. With her eyes closed and one arm dangling loosely across her lap.

”Baby.”

No response.

Dean crossed the porch quickly and crouched in front of her.

”Hey.”

She opened her eyes slowly. And her face softened when she realized who was sitting in front of her. Her boyfriend. Her Dean.

”There you are.” She slurred quietly.

Dean let out a breath through his nose. ”What are you doing out here baby? You must be cold.”

She blinked at him lazily. ”I just wanted some air.”

”Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gone with you.”

”I don’t know.”

Her head lolled slightly against the railing while Dean looked her over carefully. Hair messy from the wind. Mascara faintly smudged underneath her eyes. Her tiny dress ridden dangerously high on her thighs from how she’d been sitting curled up. And she was shaking.

Then Dean’s eyes dropped lower. One heel. One bare foot. He stared.

”…where’s your shoe?”

She looked down slowly. There was a long pause before genuine horror crossed her face. ”Oh.”

”Yeah.”

”I had both earlier.”

”I know you did sweetheart.”

She kept staring at her foot like she couldn’t fully process it.

”When did that happen?”

Dean laughed quietly despite himself.

”You tell me.”

A weak laugh escaped her before another shiver ran through her hard enough Dean noticed almost immediately.

That settled it.

”Okay, let’s get up.”

She frowned slightly. ”Why?”

”Because you’re freezing.”

”I’m okay.”

”You’re literally shaking.”

Dean stood and reached for her carefully, sliding his hands around her waist to pull her upright.

The second she stood, her entire body swayed violently sideways.

”Whoa—”

Dean tightened his grip on her immediately.

She burst into startled laughter.

”Yeah,” he muttered. ”C’mon”

She leaned heavily against him while he steadied her, one hand firm on her waist while the other tugged the hem of her dress back down where it had ridden up.

She smiled at him. ”You love me.”

Dean looked down at her for a second. Completely drunk. One shoe missing. Barely able to stand. But still smiling at him like he hung the moon.

”Yes, i do.”

She giggled against him.

Dean kept his hands securely on her hips as he guided her back inside. Warm air and noise hit them immediately.

The second Logan looked up from his conversation and saw her climbing onto Dean, he barked out a laugh.

”Holy shit. You okay?”

”I’m fine.” She replied weakly.

”Where is her other shoe?” He asked Dean.

”I don’t know man.”

Dean guided her further into the kitchen. Every few seconds she drifted sideways into him. Practically melting against his chest while he moved her carefully around people.

He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and twisted the cap off before placing it in her hands. ”Drink.”

She held the bottle with both hands like it required actual concentration.

Garrett leaned against the counter watching them. ”Dude. Maybe you should take her upstairs and put her to bed. She’s obliterated.”

”Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

She took two tiny sips before looking up sadly.

”Dean?”

”Yes, baby.”

”My shoe’s gone.”

”I know.” Dean said patiently.

”I really liked those shoes.”

”I’m sure they liked you too.”

That made both her and Garret laugh, before she nearly tipped sideways again.

”Okay. Let’s get you upstairs now.”

She clung onto him the entire way upstairs, arms looped loosely around his neck whenever she stumbled while Dean kept both hands steady on her waist to keep her upright.

By the time they reached his room, she was giggling at absolutely nothing.

Dean shut his bedroom door behind them, muffling the party downstairs slightly.

”Alright.” He said gently. ”Sit down.”

She dropped heavily onto his bed.

Dean crouched to pull off her remaining heel before tossing it near his closet.

Then he looked up at her properly. Still drunk. Still blinking slowly. Hair a mess.

He sighed quietly before standing and grabbing one of his t-shirt from his dresser. ”You need help to put this on?”

”Yes.”

Dean helped her zip of the tight dress she had been wearing, and pulled the t-shirt over her head. After some struggle she was now only wearing his shirt and a pair underwear.

”It smells like you.”

”That’s usually how my clothes work.”

That earned a laugh from her.

He kicked off his shoes. And took of everything but his boxers, and then climbed into bed next to her. Tugging a blanked over them as they laid down.

The second he settled against the pillows, she practically collapsed onto him.

Arms wrapping around his waist. Face buried against his chest. Legs thrown over his.

”I love you.” She whispered.

Dean’s expression softened instantly.

You had to stop yourself from blushing, because it was getting annoying how much he could make you blush with even just the tiniest of things.

Dick.

Garrett continued messing around on his phone as you finished lining up the cans of beer in the ice-cooler.

You sighed, tired but feeling accomplished.

“You okay?”

Garrett slid his phone in his pocket and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, so he could pull you in for a quick kiss on your head.

You melted into his hold, feeling like you could just close your eyes and drift off in the comfort of him.

“Mhm.”

You inhaled his presence. He slightly smelled of Tucker’s cooking from inside, but mainly the laundry detergent he used that was on your list of five favourite things about him.

“Sure?” He pulled you back away from him, meaning you had to pull on your fakest smile.

“Yeah.” You nodded, smiling up at him.

“Okay.” He leaned down to kiss you softly. He would have kissed you longer than a few seconds, but the guys started whistling and cheering on from the kitchen window. “Fuck off, creeps.”

“Y/N - can you help me with this?” Tucker shouted from inside.

Garrett rolled his eyes and you couldn’t help but let out a laugh.

“Duty calls.” You patted his chest.

“Cannot catch a break.” Garrett muttered - something he always said when you were forced from his side for more than 5 minutes. It did make you feel very loved.

——

The bonfire had officially started an hour ago, but people had only really started joining in the last five minutes or so.

You, Hannah, Allie, Grace and Sabrina had been playing cards in the living area with a couple drinks between you, but now there were more people arriving you’d decided to give it up for the day.

The girls had gone to get more drinks and join the guys out back, but you’d stayed back to clear up.

“Y/N!”

You turned to see Beau enter the house with a couple of his friends behind him.

“Hey, Beau.” You smiled, packing away the last of the cards.

The guys had a cupboard just beneath the TV where they kept all their board games - including the game of Twister that you and Garrett played on your second date, and it made you fall for him really hard (Literally).

“You doing okay?” He asked, hands in his jean pockets.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” You smiled.

“Cool.”

He left you to find the guys outside. No doubt he had some dramatic entrance or speech planned with Dean.

You sat back against the sofa, and took your phone out to give yourself literally anything to do rather than go back outside.

You opened up your texts, responding to a couple of people that were asking whether they could come to the bonfire. Garrett had said it was an open house, so you replied yes.

You opened Instagram next, smiling when you saw Garrett had a new story posted. You clicked it and smiled even wider when you realised he had posted the picture of you setting up the drinks before.

“Can’t get rid of her ❤️”

That’s what he’d written as the caption.

You chuckled to yourself as you replied saying, “No refunds or returns.”

You opened up your work calendar next, your smile instantly disappearing when you realised how many shifts you had upcoming. It was made even worse when you realised you’d be missing out on being with Garrett for the start of summer.

It sucked, having to work for money.

Of course Garrett always offered to help you out, but you enjoyed the independence of earning your own money. Lord knows that didn’t stop him for always paying for dates and days out together.

“Absolutely not.” Your phone was plucked out from your hand by your boyfriend, as he sat up on the couch behind you.

“Hey!”

“This is a party, baby.”

“I know.”

“So what are you doing sitting here on the floor, looking at the most depressing calendar?” He challenged.

You sighed, tipping your head back to lean against his thigh.

You closed your eyes, enjoying this quiet moment with him.

“Sure you’re okay?” He took your chin between his forefinger and thumb, causing you to open your eyes sleepily.

“Mhm.”

“You’re not about to crash out on me, hm?”

You shook your head.

“Okay, then. Come keep me company outside.” He said, not giving you the opportunity to choose because he knew you’d stay inside given the option. He knew you too well.

“I’m keeping you company right now.”

Garrett huffed out a laugh, dropping his hand from your face. Your head automatically went back to leaning heavily against his thigh.

“You’ve been hiding in here for like ten minutes, baby.”

“I haven’t.” You squinted at the accusation.

“Beau arrived a while ago and immediately came out to find me, completely bypassing Dean, because he wanted to check in with me to see if I knew you were in here alone.”

“You both worry too much.” You cupped his cheek at an awkward angle, which he leant into.

“Of course I worry.” His eyes furrowed as he tried to comprehend why you’d think otherwise.

“I’m okay. Promise.”

“Okay. C’mon then, please?”

And because he asked nicely, of course you went with him.

——

The music is loud and the conversations are louder.

The main group of your friends are sitting around the bonfire. Garrett had saved you a camping chair beside him, but it didn’t matter because you were more comfortable sitting on his lap.

Dean had been talking about summer plans when you’d last properly listening to the conversation.

Since then your friends had talked about hockey, then movies, which somehow turned into hotdogs. You hadn’t contributed one word to any of their conversations though.

You were too busy fighting your heavy eyes by playing with the tassels on your boyfriend’s hoodie. It didn’t help that he had been constantly rubbing slowly circles on your lower back with his thumb.

Your head was resting against his shoulder as you sat sideways on his lap.

“Should I be offended that Y/N hasn’t laughed at a single one of my jokes?” You heard Dean ask, cracking a small smile from you but you didn’t have the energy for anything more.

Garrett looked down at you, which you knew because you could feel his eyes on you.

His face leant down so he could be close to you, without anyone else interrupting or overhearing.

“Shall we call it a night?” He asked.

Your eyes flicked to his and you immediately softened.

Maybe it was unfair that Garrett could look at you like that. Like there wasn't anywhere else he'd rather be. Even with half the hockey team sitting around the fire.

You made no big protesting movement, which told Garrett everything he needed to know. You were shattered.

You shook your head. “It’s your party.”

“You know that’s not an answer, baby.” He gave you a half-smile.

“You should be down here, with your friends.”

“I just want to be with you.”

“Okay Troy Bolton.” You huffed, which turned into a proud smile when Garrett laughed because he understood your reference.

“Tell me honestly. If you’re tired, we can go.”

“I don’t want you to be disappointed or feel like you’re missing out.” You looked down from his eyes to focus on picking at his hoodie tassels again.

“I promise I won’t. I’d be more sad missing out on something with you than this lot.”

And you know he means it.

You gave him a small nod and that was all the confirmation that Garrett needed.

You stood up from his lap with all the strength you could muster, your muscles aching to sit back down and rest for at least twelve hours. Garrett stood up quickly after you, taking your hand in his.

“We’re heading out.” Garrett announced to the group.

“Already?” Dean complained and Allie hit him on the arm.

“Yeah. Deal with it.”

“Get home safe.” Hannah smiled at you both as Garrett led you away from the fire.

“Bye guys.” Logan smiled.

“Bye.” You mustered a smile and a wave, and followed Garrett away from the party.

——

Garrett’s room was surprisingly quiet, considering the party going on downstairs - or maybe you were just too tired to notice.

As soon as you’d gotten upstairs, Garrett handed you his sweatshirt that he knew you loved wearing.

He helped you get changed, after noticing how slow and groggy your movements were. He was always happy to help, especially when it earnt him a thank you kiss.

Now you were laying on your side of his bed, curled up under the duvet and feeling like this is where you were meant to be.

Garrett had continued to potter around his bedroom, tidying aimlessly.

“What are you doing?” You asked, eyes half open.

“Tidying.”

You watched him throw socks and pants into his landry basket without any care for whether they were clean or dirty.

“Why?”

“Because my girlfriend is staying over and it looked like a dumpsite.”

“Graham, just get your ass in bed.”

Garrett chuckled, throwing the last of his messy clothes in his laundry basket before joining you in bed. He wasted no time getting underneath the covers and sliding in tight behind you.

“Babe?” You prompted.

“Hmm?”

“The light.”

“Oh for—.” Garrett mumbled some profanity as he got back out of bed to turn off the big light - which honestly why he had it on in the first place was a mystery and disgrace.

He quickly got back into bed with you.

This time he all but merged himself with you, entangling your legs with his and wrapping his arms around your body tightly.

The smile on your face was completely valid.

Being held in Garrett’s arms like this was second to none.

“Garrett?”

“Yeah?”

“I think my social battery died five hours ago.”

“Baby, I know.” He chuckled, which caused his hot breath to tickle the back of your neck.

“Thank you for leaving with me.”

“Any time.”

“It’s—.”

“Baby?” He cut you off.

“Yeah?”

When you sighed dramatically for what had to be the hundredth time, he chuckled at your exasperation. “Someone’s feeling needy, huh? Just give me a second, bunny.”

Caught off guard by the new term of endearment, you let out an almost imperceptible gasp.

When he glanced up from the screen and noticed the subtle change in your expression, his eyebrow lifted as a cocky smirk overtook his face.

“Oh, you liked that huh?”

Before long he had you naked and quivering in his lap, your soft thighs straddling his waist, fingernails gripping his broad shoulders as you slowly sank down on him, swearing you could feel each ridge of his thick cock as it stretched you open.

Taking your time to adjust to the sensation of almost impossible fullness, you let out a satisfied sigh. But before you could start to move, his big hands held you in place, firm on your hips as he gave you a devilish grin then picked up his controller to resume his game.

“Now be a good bunny for me and wait.”

Since that day he’s used the nickname to tease and torment you, saying it’s a fitting one because you’re so soft and sweet.

He likes how just whispering it into your ear when you’re alone gets you all worked up and whiny. How it makes your pussy drip for him. You can pretend you don’t like it, but knows you do.

He’s obsessed with the sweet way you whimper when he has you underneath him in his bed, rubbing slow circles over your clit with his thumb before stretching you out on his fingers to get you ready for him.

“Cum for me, bunny,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours until you gush all over his fingers, leaving your pussy a sweet, sticky mess that he loves to clean up with his tongue.

“Taste so good, bunny,” he groans, voice muffled by your pussy, big hands holding you open while you squirm beneath him. “Could eat you all day long.”

With his curly head buried between your soft thighs, he’ll greedily lap up every last drop of you like he’s starving, grinding his hips against the mattress while savoring in your exquisite taste.

Sometimes when you pull on his curls just right and let out the softest little moan, he’ll cum long before he’s ready, rutting into the sheets and leaving them a soiled, tangled mess.

“Look what you did to me, bunny,” he’ll gasp under his ragged breath with a smile, lips shiny to match the gold chain around his neck. “You’re going to have to make it up to me later.”

And you definitely don’t mind ;)