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🜼 — 𝟎𝟓 . 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄

thank you @serxndgifites for the gif <3 and for the divider <3

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : 𝐣𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 𝟏𝟒,𝟖 𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 : 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐯𝐲 — 𝐩𝐭. 𝟓

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 : 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭. 𝐎𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 — 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝, 𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐫, 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐦, 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐬𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬. 𝐒𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐢𝐫, 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐉𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬. 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠-𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝, 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 ! 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 🜼

The problem with school spirit was that it had rules. Not official rules. Nobody had handed you a handbook titled Appropriate Emotional Dress Codes For Supporting College Hockey Players You Were Not Dating But Had Recently Been Invited By In A Way That Felt Technically Ambiguous.

That, frankly, would have been useful.

You liked a framework. You liked knowing whether something was normal, sweet, too eager, or the kind of thing Allie would describe as “girl, stand up” while actively placing the item in your basket. Instead, you had Hannah sitting cross-legged on your bed with a Briar sweatshirt folded in her lap, Allie standing in front of your open wardrobe with the focus of a woman selecting a dress for an assassination, and you hovering between them in a tank top and white socks, holding two different hair ribbons like one might represent a reasonable level of casual support and the other might represent emotional self-immolation.

“This one is too red,” you announced. Allie turned slowly, “Are we talking about you…?” She pointedly bounced her eyes around your room. You rolled your eyes and shook the hair accessories in response, “Yes, and therefore I must be careful. There is branding, and then there is propaganda.” Hannah glanced at the ribbon, “It’s a hair ribbon.” “A hair ribbon can still communicate intent.” Allie’s grin arrived immediately, “And what intent are we communicating?” You looked at her through the mirror. “School support.” “Mhm.” “And friendship.” “Sure.” “And general athletic enthusiasm.” Hannah’s mouth twitched, “General athletic enthusiasm.” “Yes.” You held the ribbon up to your ponytail and frowned,“Obviously.” Allie leaned one hip against your wardrobe, “You bought a Briar sweatshirt yesterday.” “That is what people wear to games.” “You changed your earrings three times.” “Because the first pair was wrong.” “For hockey?” “For symmetry.” “And you asked if white socks were too suggestive.” You lowered the ribbon, “I asked if they were too schoolgirl.” “That’s worse.” “It is not worse. It is a separate aesthetic concern.”

Hannah finally laughed, quiet and warm, the kind of laugh that made you feel less like you were being judged and more like you were being loved through a mild crisis. She stood, sweatshirt in hand, and crossed the room toward you.

“Put this on,” she said. “I haven’t chosen the ribbon.” “The ribbon will become clearer once you stop arguing with your reflection.” “I am not arguing.” “You told yourself to calm down five minutes ago.” “That was encouragement.” “That was a threat,” Allie said.

You ignored her and took the sweatshirt from Hannah. It was new, soft inside, oversized in the way all university sweatshirts seemed to be, the Briar logo bold across the front in a shade of blue that looked fine in the shop and suddenly looked like a declaration in your bedroom. You pulled it over your head, emerging with static in your hair and immediate emotional uncertainty.

The sleeves covered down past your arms, you pushed the cuffs over your wrists, praying they'd stay there.

Allie gasped like she had just witnessed art in the making, “Oh, he’s cooked.” “Who?” “Don’t do that.” “I am just asking.” “Allie,” Hannah said, though she was smiling too. “No, because look at her.” Allie pointed, frankly, which was rude, “Briar sweatshirt, tiny skirt, red lip, ribbon. It says "supportive” in every hockey guy’s wet dream." “It says I am attending a sports fixture with weather-appropriate layering.” “It says you want Logan to skate into a wall.” “I do not want him to skate into a wall.” You paused, “Also, given what Hannah has told me about hockey, that might happen regardless of my outfit.” Hannah winced, “Try not to panic if it does.” You turned to her, “That is not a comforting sentence.” “It’s honest.” “Your honesty is often hostile.”

Allie moved behind you and started gathering your hair before you could overthink the ponytail. You met her eyes in the mirror and immediately narrowed yours.

“What are you doing?” “Fixing it.” “It was fixed.” “It was okay. I’m fixing it.” “That sounds like criticism with kindness." “It is.”

You huffed, but stood still as Allie smoothed your hair back, efficient and surprisingly gentle. Hannah sat on the edge of the bed and began sorting through the little pile of things you had decided might need to go in your bag, lip balm, gum, hand cream, tissues, a mini packet of plasters, a pen, a hair clip, and two emergency safety pins because sports venues felt like places where one might unexpectedly require hardware. Hannah picked up the plasters.

“Cherry.” “What?” “Why are these coming?” “Blisters. Cuts. Unexpected failure.” “At a hockey game?” “Have you met athletes?” Allie, still behind you, said, “She has a point." “Thank you.” “She also made Logan a first-aid kit for his truck.” Hannah’s head snapped up,“You did?” You looked at Allie in the mirror, betrayed. “That was confidential information.” Allie tied the red ribbon around your ponytail with the smugness of a woman who knew she had found the correct thread to pull, “Confidential information?” “His previous kit was unacceptable.” “It had one plaster and a protein bar,” Allie told Hannah. “It also had receipts,” you said. “Oh, sorry. One plaster, a protein bar, and archival trash.” Hannah’s smile softened into something more dangerous than teasing, “You’ve been in his truck enough to audit his first-aid kit?” You lifted your chin, “Winston required transport.” “Once.” “Winston’s transport needs are emotionally ongoing.” Allie laughed and released your hair, “You also left a scrunchie on his gear shift.” “It kept falling out of my bag.” “And the cherry lip balm?” You turned, “That one has a tint. I warned him not to use it.” Hannah pressed her lips together. “What?” you demanded. “Nothing.” “That is not a nothing face.” “It’s just…” Hannah’s eyes moved over you, fond and far too perceptive, “You’ve become part of each other’s routines.” The room went quieter than it had any right to. You looked away first, “That is a very dramatic way to describe emergency lip balm.” “It’s not just the lip balm,” Hannah said gently, “You study at the hockey house now.” “I study with you.” “And somehow Logan always ends up at the same table.” “He lives there.” “You went to the shop twice this week,” Allie added, climbing onto the bed beside Hannah with the delighted cruelty of a friend who had been waiting to cross-examine you, “Once without cherry.” “The garage has good coffee.” “The garage has coffee that tastes like a tire fire.” “Logan made the second one.” Allie pointed at you,“Exactly.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“That is not evidence.” “It is absolutely evidence,” Hannah said. “Of what?” “That he knows how you take coffee now.” “Friends know things.” “Does Dean know how you take coffee?” Allie asked. “Dean once asked if cappuccino was a pasta.”

Hannah laughed. You turned back to the mirror, pretending the warmth in your face had been caused by the sweatshirt. It had nothing to do with Logan knowing your coffee order. Or Logan at the Boston farm on Sunday, holding a gate while you tried to convince Winston to stop eating the edge of a laminated safety notice. Or Nana watching him fix a loose latch near the feed room without being asked and later telling you over the phone, with frightening calm, “Useful boy,” in a tone that had made your mother clasp her hands together like a wedding planner discovering an open church date. It did not have anything to do with the fact that Logan had been to the farm twice now.

Once for Winston.

Once because he had come to drop off a part for Cherry and somehow stayed long enough to help one of the farm-boys move an old tool cabinet that three grown men had called “temperamental” instead of “impossible.”

He had done it without complaint, sleeves pushed up, hands steady, listening when you explained briefly that the animal farm was the original Boston property, that the orchards were further out, that the cherry farm had once been smaller until your Nana decided “small fruit operations encourage small thinking.”

Logan had smiled at that, like he understood the way you came from people who spoke in dramatic declarations. You still hadn’t decided what to do with that knowledge.

Allie’s reflection appeared beside yours, “Oh, she’s thinking about him.” “I am thinking about agriculture.” “That’s worse.” Hannah stood and handed you your little bag, “You do look good.”

You glanced at yourself again. The sweatshirt was a stark, briar blue against your skin, swallowing you slightly because of it's oversized fit, but the hem of your skirt peaked from below, leaving a sliver of your thighs exposed between it, and the white lacy socks you had tugged up past your knees from where they were tucked into the only pair of sneakers you owned, since Hannah had confiscated the original choices, reprimanding you with a, “absolutely not, rink floors are evil.”

You looked like yourself, just, translated into his world- the thought made your stomach twist.

“You’ll be fine,” Hannah said, reading your face again. “I know.” “You don’t have to understand every rule.” “I would like to understand some rules.” “Garrett can explain.” “Allie said Dean explains hockey like he’s narrating a crime.” Allie nodded, “Because he is.” You turned to her, “Is that good or bad?” “Depends how much you enjoy men being dramatic about violence.”

You thought about Logan at the garage, oil on his wrist, vest damp with heat, saying you kept getting close and acting surprised when he noticed. You thought about his mouth hovering over the inside of your wrist, not quite kissing, the warmth of his breath there staying long after you left. Your face warmed and Allie’s eyes sharpened.

“No,” you said immediately. “I didn’t say anything.” “You looked.” “I have eyes.” Hannah zipped your bag shut with finality, “Come on. If we leave now, we can get decent seats, and you can panic in an educational environment.” “I am not panicking.” Allie opened your bedroom door, “You asked if a sweatshirt could be theoretically slutty.” “I asked in confidence.” “You asked in front of Hannah.”

You grabbed your bag and followed them out, trying not to think too hard about the fact that you were going because Logan had asked.

The rink was louder than you expected. Not in volume alone, though there was plenty of that. People shouting across rows. Music pulsing through the speakers. Skates cutting the ice in sharp bursts. Sticks knocking. Whistles shrieking. The whole building seemed to hold sound and throw it back harder, every cheer bouncing off the walls, every slam against the boards cracking through your ribs like the arena wanted to make sure you understood impact as a concept. You sat between Hannah and Allie, hands tucked into the long sleeves of your sweatshirt, eyes wide as the players moved through warmups. You spotted Logan before either of them pointed him out.

It should not have been easy. Everyone was in helmets and gear, bodies bulked out by pads, jerseys moving fast across the ice. But you knew him anyway. The shape of him, maybe. The way he moved. Right wing, Hannah had said on the way over, and now you watched him skate down that side of the ice with a kind of controlled speed that made your fingers tighten around your sleeves. He looked different yet somehow completely recognisable. His body was all purpose- knees bent, shoulders angled, stick low, head up, scanning like he could see lines before they formed. He took a pass along the boards, cut forward, snapped a shot toward the net that the goalie blocked with a thud, and circled back like the whole thing had been a question he intended to ask again.

“Oh,” you said quietly. Allie leaned closer, “Did you say something?” “Nothing.” “That was not nothing.” “I’m observing.” “You’re glowing.” “It’s cold.” “That is not how an indoor rink works.” Hannah bumped your shoulder gently, “He’s good.” You nodded, eyes still on the ice, “Yes.” “You sound surprised.” “I’m not surprised. I just…” You watched him chase a loose puck into the corner, press hard along the boards, shoulder in, stick working quickly until he knocked it loose to a teammate. “He’s very decisive.” Allie smirked, “Decisive.”

You ignored her with dignity. Then Logan looked up. It was quick. So quick you might have missed it if you had not already been tracking him with an attention span that felt both embarrassing and highly justified. He skated past centre during the warmup rotation, turned his head toward the section where families and friends were beginning to crowd together, and found you. The look lasted maybe two seconds- the helmet and cage didn't allow much expression, which should have been your saving grace. It was not. You saw the pause in his body before you saw anything in his face. The tiny delay in his turn. The way his stick dipped slightly before he caught himself. The way his eyes stayed fixed on you long enough that one of his teammates bumped his shoulder with a gloved hand as he passed. Logan looked away.You stopped breathing like an idiot.

Hannah noticed. Allie noticed.

A small, evil silence settled over the three of you. “Do not,” you said. Allie leaned back in her seat, smiling at the ice, “I didn’t say anything.” “You were spiritually loud.” “He saw you,” Hannah said, softer. You pulled your sleeves over your hands, “He saw the section.” “He saw you.”

On the ice, Garrett skated close to Logan and said something you could not hear. Logan shoved him lightly with one glove, and Garrett grinned before skating away. Allie made a sound of pure satisfaction.

“Oh, he is being bullied already.” “That could be unrelated,” you said.

Allie looked at you, unimpressed.

“What?” “There are coincidences, and then there are hockey boys chirping their friend because he just forgot how warmups work after seeing you in his school colours.” You stared straight ahead, but your mouth betrayed you by smiling, “I’m wearing Briar colours.” “Sure,” Allie said, “For the institution of it all.” “For general athletic enthusiasm,” Hannah added. “You are both demoted.” “From what?” Allie asked. “My styling committee.” “You need us.”

Unfortunately, she was right.

The game started faster than you imagined and it was futile to try and follow the puck- you immediately understood why people on television yelled at screens. The puck was an inconsiderate object. It vanished under skates, ricocheted off boards, flew across the ice, and somehow everyone else seemed to know where it was except you. Hannah explained quietly when she could, pointing out offsides, icing, line changes, and why Garrett kept talking to the ref like he owed him money. Dean chirped from the bench with such visible enthusiasm that Allie covered her face with both hands and muttered, “I love an idiot.”

“You say that with concern,” you said. “I say it with lived experience.”

The first time a player took a hit along the boards, you flinched so hard your knee knocked into Hannah's- however, much to your surprise, the Briar player got up instantly, rebounding onto his skates in less time than it took you to find your breath.

You stared. “Is he dead?” “No,” Hannah said. “He hit the wall with his whole soul.” “He’s fine.” “That is not fine.” Allie leaned around you, “That’s hockey.” You turned slowly, “That is not an explanation.” “You get used to it,” Hannah said. “I don’t think that should comfort me.”

It did not. For the next period and a half, you learned that hockey was essentially a sport built from speed, strategy, and the collective refusal of men to admit that being thrown into a wall was unpleasant. Logan took a hit along the boards and kept moving. Garrett made a pass so clean that Hannah actually gasped before the crowd did. Tucker looked calmer than everyone else until the puck got near the crease, at which point he became unexpectedly terrifying. And Logan was everywhere, down the right side, forechecking hard enough to make the Harvard defense rush a pass. Cutting toward the slot. Battling near the crease. Taking a shot off the rush that snapped into the goalie’s pads and made half the arena groan. He played like he knew exactly where the game wanted to go and intended to get there first. You were worried, you were also impressed. And were starting to understand that those two feelings could apparently coexist in deeply inconvenient ways.

Then came the fight. It started after a hit that, to your untrained eye, looked both too hard and extremely personal. One of the Harvard players shoved Logan near the boards after the whistle. Logan shoved him back. There was a sharp exchange of words you could not hear but could absolutely read from body language. Then gloves were dropping, the crowd was rising, and your entire body went still.

“Oh my God,” you gasped. Hannah’s hand found your wrist, “It’s okay.” “That does not look okay.” Allie craned her neck, “Oh, that’s definitely a fight.” “Why are you saying that like you’re identifying a bird?”

On the ice, Logan had one hand fisted in the Harvard player’s jersey, the other swinging once before both of them locked up, bodies twisting against the pull of referees trying to get between them. It was not elegant. It was not cinematic in the clean way you might have imagined if someone said hockey fight. It was rough, fast, messy with adrenaline, and your heart was in your throat the whole time. You curled your fingers into the hem of your skirt.

The Havard player grabbed at Logan's helmet, and almost mercifully, Logan ripped it off after two swipes. He hit his gloved hands against his chest, baiting the player into taking off his own protective gear. Which he did. The two then lunged at each other, barely breaking apart when their bodies tangled in the most painfully inhumane ways, but you couldn't see a hint of discomfort on their faces, just pure adrenaline and anger coursing through their jerky movements, like the only thing they truly cared about was beating the others face off.

“Do they just let them do this?” you demanded. Hannah winced, “Sometimes.” “That is insane.” “Yes.” “But you still come?” “Yes.” “You all need supervision.”

The refs managed to separate them fully, along with more dangerous shouts from their respective teams. They were each shoved towards their penalty boxes, drips of blood followed the Havard player, you angrily slumped into his seat whilst Logan glided away with visible irritation, breathing hard from beneath his pads- mouth tight as he entered the box. The first thing to go were his gloves, he tugged them off and threw them towards the plexiglass glass, the newfound freedom let him thump a fist against the clear barrier before he stepped back, unlocking his mouth guard from his teeth and barely blinking at the blood stained saliva that spilled from the exposed end. Logan fell into the seat, pushing a hand through his hair as he focussed on the game. It was almost worse that he didn't look up at you once, he wasn't softening because you were in the stands watching him, he wasn't performing as the perfect prince on ice just for your reaction. He threw his stick to the ground when the team took a few seconds to recalibrate from his penalty.

Your fingers tightened around your skirt, you'd grown up around blood, violence as well. Farmers weren't always the kind-hearted souls people believed them to be. They could be cruel, tyrannical even, and when as a child you'd visit your family's farms, managed by those who worked on them day and night, you'd watch them argue with neighbours over land disputes, and order fights- bordering on illegal, based on livestock trades. You'd realised how far violence could take you. But watching Logan currently visibly fight with himself to calm down, his face stone cold and eyes flitting around the ice as the game progressed, you felt an oddly timed shiver down your spine that made you straighten.

“Oh no,” you whispered. Allie leaned closer, “What?” “Nothing.” Hannah glanced at you. “You look worried.” “I am worried.”

You were. You were horribly worried about the source of blood from Logan's face. You were also horribly worried about the fact he was pressing into his side and arm- his face changing minutely with each laboured press of his fingers. Unfortunately, that was not the only thing you were. Allie looked at the penalty box, then at your face, then back at the penalty box. Her expression turned delighted in the way only a best friend’s could when your life had become inconveniently obvious.

“Do not,” you said again. “I didn’t.” “You are looking with punctuation.” “I am admiring the violence.” “And you looooove what it does to Logan.”

You looked aghast at the suggestion, even if the sight of him panting heavily, sweat dripping from his hair, made you press your legs together just for some form of relief. But it was terrifying at the same time, watching him so easily enter a state of mind where he wasn't the Logan you knew, the patent, soft-spoken man who stayed up with you in the library, assuring you that the 5th time you recited the same flashcard about reptile digestion was in fact, correct.

Hannah squeezed your wrist once, half comfort, half warning, “Breathe.” You tried to.

Briar won with a late goal in the third period. Not Logan, but Logan was part of the rush, drawing the defence wide and sending a pass into space before a teammate buried it. You did not understand the geometry until the crowd exploded and Hannah yelled, “That was beautiful,” which gave you permission to feel triumphant about something you had only half-tracked. Logan skated through the celebration cluster, helmet back on, stick lifted briefly. Then, as he circled away, his head turned toward your section again. This time, you were ready, you clapped and jumped in time with Allie and Hannah, who were just as excited as you were. Before you could think better of it, you pressed your fingers to your lips and blew a kiss sin his general direction, and the sheer happiness that washed over you prevented you from realising he had briefly stopped, and blinked before getting dragged back into the victory pile.

“Allie,” you said without looking away. “Yes?” “If you speak, I will push you into the row below us.” She laughed, “I said nothing.” “Spiritually,” you repeated, “you are deafening.”

The corridor outside the locker rooms was crowded with girlfriends, friends, parents, students, and the general post-game chaos of people trying to look casual while waiting for men who smelled faintly like soap, sweat, and violence. Hannah stood on her toes every few minutes to look for Garrett. Allie pretended she was not waiting for Dean. You stood between them, still buzzing, your hands wrapped around the strap of your little bag. Garrett came out first, hair damp, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, face splitting into a grin when he saw Hannah. She walked right into his arms like that was where the game had been leading the whole time. He kissed her quickly, then again, softer, and you looked away because it felt rude to watch tenderness too closely. Dean came out next and immediately lifted Allie off the ground when she hugged him.

“Put me down,” she laughed. “Say you missed me.” “You were on the ice for two hours.” “Say it.” “I missed you, you idiot.”

He kissed her loudly on the cheek, “Good.” Tucker followed, quieter, smiling at the scene with a fondness that made him look older than the rest of them. He came over to you first.

“First game,” he raised his eyebrows at you, questioning. “Yes.” “How’d you survive?" “I loved it.” Dean, still attached to Allie, turned, “You looked terrified.” “I was terrified. That was part of the experience.” Garrett laughed, one arm around Hannah, “You picked a good one. Harvard games always get weird.” “All games where people are thrown into walls are weird.” “That’s hockey,” Dean said. “You all keep saying that like a legal defence.” “It is,” Tucker said mildly.

You pointed at him, “Et tu?” He smiled into his water bottle. Dean leaned a shoulder against the wall, welcoming Allie into his front with an arm banded around her waist, “What was your favourite part?” You thought about Logan in the penalty box, helmet off, breathing hard, hair damp, jaw tight. Then immediately thought about something else because that answer was not fit for public consumption.

“When Garrett did that pass in the third period,” you said, “The one where everyone made the noise before the goal actually happened.”

Hannah beamed like you had complimented her personally. Garrett looked pleased, “You caught that?”

“Yes. It was very elegant.”

Dean made a gagging sound, “She called a pass elegant.”

“It was,” you insisted, “It had the same satisfaction as watching an animal move correctly after you’ve been staring at a limp for twenty minutes.”

Tucker nodded thoughtfully, “I get that.” Dean stared at him, “No, you don’t.”

“I kind of do.”

Allie grinned, “She’s converting him.” Garrett jerked his chin toward the locker room door, “Logan’ll be out in a sec. Trainer’s patching him up.” Your throat tightened immediately, “Patching him up?”

“Nothing bad,” Garrett assured you quickly, “Cut near his jaw. Maybe a bruise on his arm.” “Maybe?” “He and Kyle got into it.” “Who is Kyle?” “Harvard guy,” Dean said, “Right wing too. Logan and him always get stupid.” “Always?” you repeated. “Yeah. Kyle’s actually decent off the ice,” Garrett said, “In game, he’s a prick.” “That is the second time today someone has explained attempted murder with personality differences.”

Dean smiled, “You’re learning.” The locker room door opened again. Logan came out with his hockey bag in one hand and his suit jacket in the other, shirt collar open at the throat, hair damp and curling slightly from the shower, a small line of red near his jaw where the cut had been cleaned but not fully hidden. He looked tired and wired at the same time, flushed from the win, eyes bright with the kind of post-game energy that made him look younger, rougher, more like a college boy who had just fought someone and won a hockey game and still had adrenaline running through his bloodstream. He spotted the group. Then you. You moved before you thought. One second you were standing beside Allie, and the next you were crossing the little stretch of hallway toward him, the sleeves of your Briar sweatshirt falling from where you had scrunched them to your elbows, your bag bumping your hip.

Logan barely had time to set his feet before you hugged him. Because he had the hockey bag in one hand and his jacket in the other, he caught you with one arm around your waist, rocking back half a step from the force of it. You rose onto your toes, arms around his shoulders, face pressed briefly into the warm line between his neck and shoulder.

“You were so good,” you said.

His arm tightened half a second late.

“Yeah?” “Yes. Terrifying, but good.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his arm lingered around your waist like he had forgotten it had somewhere else to be. His eyes flicked over you quickly. Sweatshirt. Skirt. Ribbon. Red mouth.

“You wore blue.” “For Briar.” “Right.” “Obviously.”

His mouth curved. Dean made a sound behind you. You ignored it and insteadnoticed the cut near Logan’s jaw properly, you frowned, “The fight looked like it hurt.” Logan glanced down at his own arm as if checking which injury you meant, “Oh. Yeah. Kyle and I somehow always end up doing that.”

“Kyle is the Harvard guy?” “Yeah. He’s a good guy off the ice. Just pisses me off in the game.” “You almost killed each other.” Logan snickered, “Yeah, that’s kind of the point, Cherry.” You turned to the rest of the group, “This is a masochistic institution.” Hannah nodded, “I’ve said that.” Allie lifted her hand, “Many times.” Garrett sighed, “It’s controlled.” “Controlled violence is still violence,” you said. Dean slung an arm around Allie’s shoulders, “But with rules.” “Bad rules.” “Fun rules.” “Morally suspicious rules.”

Logan’s hand had moved from your waist by then, but as the group began walking down the hallway, it hovered at the small of your back. Close enough that when someone passed too near, his fingers brushed the fabric of your sweatshirt. Close enough that you noticed. Close enough that he probably noticed you noticing. The argument about hockey violence continued all the way outside. The boys defended it like theology, but you remained unconvinced.

“It’s part of the game,” Garrett said, holding the door open with one hand, Hannah tucked against his side. “So is injury,” Allie said, “That doesn’t make it romantic.” Dean looked offended. “Nobody said anything about romance.” “You looked very emotionally fulfilled after Logan punched Kyle.” “I was proud of him.” “Exactly.” Tucker walked behind them, hands in his pockets, “She has a point.” Dean turned, “You’re supposed to be on our side.” “I’m on the side of accuracy.”

Outside the arena, the afternoon had started tipping toward evening. The air was cool, a little damp, the pavement still crowded with people spilling out in clusters. You stood with Allie and Hannah near a low brick wall while the guys stopped to talk to someone from the team. Your cheeks still felt warm from the building, your pulse still not entirely settled from the game, and your phone buzzed in your bag with a text from Mama.

Mama 🌽❤️

Did you eat real food or only stadium items?

You typed back

You

A pretzel with structural integrity.

Mama 🌽❤️

That is not dinner.

You were about to defend the pretzel when someone said your name. Nathan stood a few feet away, backpack slung over one shoulder, cheeks pink from the cold. You knew him well enough to smile. Bovine seminar. Sat two rows ahead. Once lent you a pen and then forgot to ask for it back, which you still felt guilty about because it had been a good pen.

“Hi!” you chirped, “You came to the game?” “Yeah. A few of us did.” He smiled, glancing toward the arena, “Didn’t know you were into hockey.” “I’m newly informed.”

Allie coughed softly into her hand. You ignored her.

Nathan laughed, “Good game to start with.” “Apparently. Though I do think Harvard and Briar might benefit from structured conflict resolution.” “You mean the fight?” “Yes. That felt avoidable.” “It was Logan, right? The guy who fought?” You nodded before you thought better of the speed, “Yes.” “He’s good. Right wing?” “Yes.” “He had a hell of a game.”

The boys returned just in time to hear that. Logan walked beside Garrett and Tucker, Dean slightly ahead of them, still talking animatedly about some third-period call. His eyes moved from Nathan to you. Just once. But you saw the flicker because you were apparently close enough to notice these kinds of tiny things. He approached with an easy expression.

“Nathan, right?” he greeted.

Nathan looked surprised but pleased, “Yeah. You’re Logan. Hell of a game, man.”

“Thanks.”

Logan’s smile was genuine. Nathan had done nothing wrong except stand near you and say nice things, so Logan was nice back. They talked briefly about the game, about Kyle, about Harvard’s defense, and you watched with a strange warmth in your chest because there was something very weird about Logan noticing how Nathan would grin at you after every joke, and could still be polite, friendly even.

A cluster of people passed too close on your left, loud and jostling, someone backing up without looking. Logan’s hand moved before you did.

He set it lightly at your waist and drew you half a step closer, out of their path. Quick and warm through your sweatshirt. His attention stayed on Nathan for the first second, still answering something about the second period, but his hand remained at your waist until the group passed.

Nathan’s eyes flicked down. Then back up.

You looked at Logan but he had released you smoothly, like the gesture had been nothing.

Nathan smiled, but something had changed,“I didn’t realise you were close with the team,” he said.

You opened your mouth. The answer should have been easy. You were friends with Hannah. Hannah dated Garrett. Allie dated Dean. Logan had fixed your car. Winston had needed transport. The truck had become complicated. You had become part of each other’s routines in the way Hannah had said that morning, though you had rejected the phrase on purely emotional grounds. But Logan was standing beside you, just close enough that the sleeve of his suit jacket brushed your wrist, and his hand had been on your waist five seconds earlier.

“Everyone sort of knows everyone,” you offered.

A technically useless answer.

Nathan nodded anyway, “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Allie looked away with the expression of someone eating a laugh. Logan did not look at you, and you were too scared to look up at him. To see if your answer affected him.

Nathan stayed for a few more minutes, focussing his attention back to you, asking how your practical placement was going, whether the farm was doing their yearly internships, whether your equine course was still difficult.

“Not really!” Your chirped, fingers brushing the hem of your skirt as you bounced on the balls of your feet, “I mean-” You corrected yourself, remembering how you’d complained to him after your last seminar together, “It is difficult, and I wish my professor had more practical knowledge. But the work is interesting, so I’m enjoying the challenge.” Nathan laughed and shook his head, “You’re always so positive,” He sighed, eyes flicking to Logan who had taken your bag from your shoulder while you were speaking and was now miming something to your friends. He took the cue to leave, his own group starting to get restless behind him, “I’ll see you in bovine seminar Monday, yeah? Dr. Patel said she’s using your gait notes.” You brightened, “Really! I submitted those a while ago,” you clapped to yourself, “I’ll see you then Nathan.”

Nathan left to his friends, and Dean immediately announced that everyone needed to stop standing around like a badly organised tour group and go back to the hockey house before the afterparty. Garrett had the Jeep. Logan had the truck. This created what Dean called strategic distribution and what Hannah called do not overthink it, Dean.

The final split placed Garrett, Hannah, and Tucker in Garrett’s Jeep, while you ended up in Logan’s truck with Allie and Dean in the back. This, according to Dean, was suspicious before anyone had even opened a door.

“It is not suspicious,” you said, climbing into the passenger seat. Dean appeared behind you, one hand on the frame of the open back door, “You said that too fast.” “I speak efficiently.” “You panic efficiently.” “I am not panicking.”

Logan came around the front of the truck, keys in hand, still damp-haired and post-game bright, his suit jacket folded over one arm, “Dean, get in.”

“Bossy.” “Now.”

Dean climbed into the back with the offended dignity of a man being unjustly prevented from investigating romance in real time. Allie slid in beside him, already smiling at the ceiling like she was trying to ask God for patience and receiving none. You reached for the seatbelt, only for Logan to open his door, get in, and say, without looking over, “Seat’s too far back?”

You paused. Allie paused. Dean paused.

Your fingers hovered over the belt, “What?” Logan put the key in the ignition, “The passenger seat. Tucker drove with me last week. He pushes it back.”

You furrowed your brows at looked down, the usual spot where your feet rested, just slanted onto the floor- was now inches ahead of your toes. The seat was too far back.

“Oh,” you said, “Yes. A little.”

Before you could blindly search for the lever to launch yourself forward, he reached over the dash, not looking away from the flow of cars exiting before you- his semi-dry hair brushed against your nose and it took the strength of multiple ancestors not to inhale deeply, not that you needed to. The scent of his body wash, which you knew he packed blindly into his game day bag, mixed with the heady scent of the garage that never seemed to escape his tresses, but together along with the faint hint's of his deodorant, it made you want to nuzzle into the curls and force him to stay parked in the bay for hours until you had your fill.

With a practiced pull, you jolted ahead, your chin bumping against his ear, Logan pulled away quickly, fast enough that you hadn't; t noticed the faint pink that drenched into the tips of where your mouth had hovered over. He sat as normal, resting an elbow on his window while threading his hands through his hair, as if he hadn't adjusted your chair from memory. The silence in the back seat went so loud it nearly became structural.

Dean whispered, “Bro.” Logan started the engine, “Don’t.” “I haven’t said anything.” “You breathed weird.” “I witnessed something.” “There is nothing to witness,” you said, clicking your seatbelt with more force than necessary. Allie leaned forward between the seats, “He knows your seat setting.” “It is a seat,” you said. “It is your seat,” Dean said. “It is the passenger seat.” “In his truck.” “Many people sit here.” Logan reversed out of the space, one hand on the wheel, eyes on the mirror, “Not really.”

You turned to him. He looked entirely too calm.

“What?” His mouth twitched, “What?” You narrowed your eyes. Behind you, Allie made a tiny sound into her hand. Dean slapped the back of Logan’s seat once, triumphant, “Not really.” “Dean.” “I’m repeating evidence.” “Stop saying evidence,” you and Logan said at the same time.

There was a beat. A truly horrible beat.

Then Allie burst out laughing, “Oh my God.” “That was a coincidence,” you said. Logan pulled out of the lot, “Yeah.” “Do not agree like that.” “Like what?” “Like you’re enjoying yourself.” “I’m driving.” “Smugly.” “I’m driving smugly?” “You have smug shoulders.” Dean leaned toward Allie, “She knows his shoulder moods.” “I do not.” “You literally named one.” “It was observational.”

Allie rested her chin on the space between the front seats, eyes bright with delight, “Are we going to discuss the fact that there’s a blanket folded under your feet?”

You looked down. There was, in fact, a blanket folded neatly beneath the dashboard, tucked beside your bag. Soft cream fleece, rolled tight and held with one of the red ribbons you had used last week to tie up a feed sack after Winston had tried to destroy the original twine. Your face warmed instantly. Logan’s eyes stayed on the road.

“It gets cold in the truck,” he said. Dean leaned forward, “For who?” “For passengers.” “Which passengers?” “All of them.” Allie reached down and touched the ribbon, “This is her ribbon.” “It was available,” Logan said. He changed lanes. Dean looked around the back seat with renewed purpose, as if the truck had become an archaeological site. “Oh, absolutely not,” you scolded, turning in your seat, “Do not rummage.” “I’m not rummaging.” “You are rummaging.” “I am appreciating the environment.”

Allie had already noticed the folded paper tucked into the pocket behind Logan’s seat. She pulled it out before either of you could stop her. You saw the top corner and immediately made a sound of distress.

“Allie.”

She unfolded it. Then stopped. It was a printed map of the Boston animal farm, one you had marked up weeks ago for Logan after he had driven Winston over the first time and then asked, very reasonably, why every gate had a name and why those names were not written anywhere useful. You had circled the animal barn, the feed room, Nana and Granddad’s house, the staff lot, and the back lane that avoided the orchard road when delivery vans were blocking the front. Logan had added his own pencil notes in the margins.

Gate sticks in rain. Do not trust Winston near office. Cherry’s grandfather's tools: left shed. Cherry says cows by name. Don’t guess. Allie stared at the map and then looked up.

Her smile was gone now, replaced by something softer and infinitely more dangerous.

“Oh.” You reached for it, “Give me that.” She held it out, but Dean leaned over her shoulder before you could take it. “What is that?” “Nothing.” Dean read upside down with surprising accuracy, “Do not trust Winston near office?” “He ate a visitor badge.” Logan sighed, “And a corner of a clipboard.” “Three clipboards,” you corrected. “Right. Three.” Dean looked between you, “He knows clipboard history.” “Everyone knows Winston’s crimes,” you said. “I do not know Winston’s crimes.” “That’s because Winston has no interest in you.” Dean looked wounded, “That goat and I haven’t even met.” Allie quietly refolded the map and handed it back to you, still looking at you like she had just found a love letter disguised as livestock logistics. You shoved it into your bag, “This is practical.” Hannah would have said something kind but Allie, because she was Allie, said, “You made him a farm cheat sheet.” “He needed directions.” “And he kept it.”

Logan’s hand shifted on the wheel. Your face warmed. Dean, unfortunately, noticed both things.

“He kept it,” he echoed. Logan glanced in the mirror, “It’s useful.” Allie laughed softly, “I bet.”

You turned forward again, flustered and pretending not to be. Outside, the campus streets slid past in grey flashes. The truck smelled faintly like Logan, clean fabric and old leather and the cold damp air coming in through the vents. The heat was on low, angled slightly toward your side because you always got cold at this time in the evening, and you were beginning to suspect that had not been an accident either. You reached for the dial to turn it down.

Logan glanced over. “Too hot?”

You stopped. Allie made another tiny noise.

“No,” you said, quieter, “It’s fine.” His eyes returned to the road, “Okay.” Allie sat back slowly, “You two are actually worse than Hannah and Garrett.” Dean gasped, “Do not disrespect the captain’s marriage.” “Hannah and Garrett are dating.” “Exactly. These two are doing whatever this is without benefits.” You choked, “Allie.” Dean considered, “Is emotional support a benefit?”

Logan made a sound that might have been a laugh and might have been a prayer for death. At the first red light, you turned toward him properly and saw the cut near his jaw again under the streetlight. It looked small but angry, a neat scrape at the edge of his jaw where the trainer had cleaned it quickly. You frowned before you could stop yourself.

“Hold still.”

He did. The truck idled at the light while you leaned closer, your fingers hovering near his jaw before brushing lightly below the cut. His skin was warm. Clean from the post-game shower. You could smell the faint sharpness of antiseptic beneath soap.

“It doesn’t even hurt,” he said. “That is a suspiciously specific thing to say before anyone has asked.” “It doesn’t.” “You said that about your hand last Sunday.” “My hand was fine.” “Your knuckles were swollen.” “I fixed the latch.” “You punched the latch.” “It was stuck.” “It was a gate latch, not a sworn enemy.” Dean leaned forward, “Wait. What latch?” You dropped your hand from Logan’s jaw, but not quickly enough to hide the fact that you had been touching him, “The back gate at the animal farm.” Dean looked at Logan, “You fixed a gate?” Logan’s attention moved back to the road as the light changed, “It was sticking.” Allie sat forward again, “When were you at the animal farm?” You answered too quickly, “Sunday.” Dean stared, “This Sunday?” “Calendars would suggest yes.” “With Logan?” “Winston needed supervision.” “Winston is a goat.” “Exactly.” Dean looked like he was trying to put the world into categories and failing, “So Logan goes to your farm on Sundays and fixes gates?” “It happened one time.” Logan said, very unhelpfully, “A few times, if you count the feed room shelf.”

You turned to him in outrage. He looked calmly ahead.

Allie’s mouth fell open, “Feed room shelf?” Dean’s voice went reverent, “Brother.” “It was loose,” Logan said. “You are going to make me sound like I'm inviting you to the farm for manual labour,” you said. “You don’t.” “Thank you.” “Your granddad does.”

You made a scandalised sound. Dean laughed so hard he hit his head lightly against the window.

Allie was staring between you again, but there was something sweet under the glee now. “Her granddad likes you?”

Logan’s face did something small. Careful.

“I’ve never met him in person, normally he tells Cherry to call me over- but he seems nice.”

“He called you steady,” you said, then immediately wished you had not.

The truck went quiet, and you briefly considered praying for one merciful catastrophe to interrupt the conversation Logan glanced at you. You looked out the windshield- waiting for your prayed upon disaster.

“He did?” You adjusted your sleeves with as much dignity as you could muster, “Maybe.” “Cherry.” “It was a private conversation.” Dean whispered, “Steady.” Allie slapped his thigh, “Shut up.” Logan drove one-handed for a stretch, the other resting low on the wheel, streetlights sliding over his face in alternating gold and shadow. You tried not to look at the cut again. Failed. Tried not to look at his hands. Failed more. Your phone buzzed.

Mama.

You answered because family calls, in your experience, did not wait for optimal context.

“Hi, Mama.”

Logan’s eyes flicked to you, then back to the road, but you saw his attention sharpen.

“Yes, the game was good. Very violent. No, I ate a pretzel, but it had structural integrity. Yes, Hannah was there. Allie too.” You paused, listening, “No, Mama, Daddy made it to the harbour dinner, he texted me the picture of Uncle Robert with the lobster napkin.”

Logan glanced at you.

Dean leaned forward, “Lobster napkin?” Allie slapped his arm, “Shut up.” “Yes, he met Logan. No, he behaved. Daddy, not Logan. Well, both. Yes, Logan showed him the garage.”

A pause. Your face warmed.

“Mama.”

Logan’s mouth curved. You turned slightly toward the window, pretending to study traffic.

“No, I did not say boyfriend. Marian said boyfriend. That was a separate incident.” Another pause, “No, Mama, I am not collecting incidents.”

Logan’s hand tightened once on the wheel. Dean made an inhuman noise in the back seat.

Allie whispered, “I’m telling Hannah.” You covered the phone and hissed, “You are not.”

“Yes, I can come to the farm in the morning before class,” you said into the phone again, “Only if Winston is not doing public relations. Why is Winston doing public relations again?” A pause, “Nana said what?” You looked horrified, “He is not an ambassador. He has eaten three clipboards.”

Logan lowered his head briefly, laughing under his breath.

“No, I do not need the blue cardigan sent by the driver. I already have a Briar sweatshirt.” You looked down at yourself, “Yes, it’s cute. No, I am not receiving agricultural envoys tonight. I’m going to a hockey party.”

A longer pause.

“Mama, please stop saying Garage Logan like that.”

Logan’s head turned and you ignored his pleased smile.

“Yes. I’ll call after. Love you.”

You hung up and dropped your phone into your bag. The truck was silent.

Dean leaned forward again, “Garage Logan?”

“No.”

Allie clapped a hand over her mouth. Logan looked like he was trying very hard to hide his smile.

You turned to him, “Don’t.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You are about to.”

He shook his head, eyes on the road- but the corner of his mouth remained lifted.

Dean was still staring, apparently not finished with his investigation, “So your mom knows him as Garage Logan, your dad met him, your granddad called him steady, your nana trusts him around goat ambassadors, and he keeps a map of your farm in his truck.” You stared out the windshield.

“That is an extremely manipulative sentence.” “It was a summary.” “It was an attack.”

Allie leaned forward and rested her chin against the space between the front seats, she plucked at your bow and called your name wistfully.

“No.” “I didn’t ask anything.” “You were going to.” “I was going to say something.” “That is worse.” Allie’s voice softened, though the smile stayed. “You know this is a lot, right?”

The truck moved through another pool of streetlight. You did not look at Logan. You could feel him beside you anyway. The steady line of him. The attention he was pretending not to give the conversation. The quiet in his body when people pointed too close to the truth.

“It’s not a lot,” your voice came out less sharp than you meant it to.

“It’s just…” You looked down at your hands, one sleeve pulled over your fingers, “He helps.”

Logan’s hand went still on the wheel. Allie’s face softened fully then. Dean did not make a joke.

You cleared your throat immediately. “With farm gates and expired protein-bars.” Logan exhaled, almost a laugh, “Important work.” “Crucial.” Dean recovered first, obviously, “So, to clarify, normal friend stuff.” You looked at him, “Yes.” Logan glanced at you then, brief and warm. “Normal friend stuff,” he said.

It should have sounded like a joke. By the time the hockey house came into view, Allie had her phone out and was texting Hannah with such focus that you knew you were being discussed in real time. Dean was humming wedding music under his breath until you threatened to tell Allie about the sock inside-out incident in full detail. Logan pulled into the driveway and parked behind Garrett’s Jeep. For a second, nobody moved.

Then Dean opened his door and announced, “I need a drink and a lawyer.” Allie climbed out after him, “You need water.” “Same thing.”

You reached for your bag, but Logan got it first from where it had slipped against the centre console. He held it out to you without comment. You took it from him, and your fingers brushed against his.

“Thank you.” “Yeah.”

His eyes met yours for half a second too long.

Then Dean stuck his head back in through the open rear door, “Garage Logan, are you coming?”

Logan closed his eyes with a self-suffering sigh and you burst out laughing. He looked at you then and you quietened slightly, still breathing out small chuckles. Cut at his jaw, tired eyes, mouth curved despite himself, one hand still resting on the gear shift with your red scrunchie tied around it from the week before. Something in your chest folded. You opened your door before it could become a problem.

“Come on, mechanic,” you said, climbing down.

Behind you, Logan’s laugh followed you into the cold.

By the time the party at the hockey house got going, the sky had gone dark and the whole downstairs smelled like beer, pizza, warm bodies, and someone’s terrible decision to mix citrus vodka with blue sports drink. Music shook through the floorboards. People moved through the kitchen in clusters, laughter spilling into the hallway, doors opening and closing, the living room packed with players and friends and people you half-recognised from campus. You fit better than you expected.

Maybe because Hannah and Allie were there. Maybe because Garrett, Dean, Tucker, and Logan had already made the group feel less like entering a party and more like entering a conversation that had been waiting for you to catch up. Maybe because you were still buzzing from the game, warm in your Briar sweatshirt, red ribbon loose in your hair, carrying a bowl of crisps Tucker had handed you like it was a noble responsibility. Dean challenged you to shots within the first half hour. Allie told him not to be stupid. You asked what kind.

Hannah looked at you, “No.” “What?” Dean grinned, “Oh, she’s dangerous.” “I am not dangerous.”

You beat Dean at shots. Dean stared at the empty shot glass in your hand like it had personally betrayed him. You placed it down neatly, “My uncle would be disappointed if I lost to a man wearing one sock inside out.”

Dean looked down and his mouth fell open- he shot Allie a betrayed glare when she screamed with laughter. Logan, who had watched from the edge of the kitchen with a beer in his hand, looked at you like he was learning a language that kept changing its alphabet.

“You good?” he asked when you passed him a few minutes later. “Yes.” “You sure?” “I am pleasantly warm and victorious.” “Over Dean?” “Yes.” “Low bar.” “I accept all victories.”

He smiled into his beer.

You reached up without thinking and touched the collar of his shirt, straightening it where it had folded slightly beneath the edge of his jacket. Logan went very still.

The movement was small, inconsequential even, just a piece of fabric adjusted between two people standing too close in a crowded kitchen. But your fingers lingered for half a second at his throat.

Long enough for his eyes to drop to your hand and for you to realise what you were doing. You pulled back, a drunken warmth leaking into your cheeks, his gaze lifted to yours- and neither of you spoke.

Then across the kitchen, Dean yelled your name, “Rematch!” You turned too fast, “Absolutely not. I have already defeated you.” “That was round one.” “There are no rounds. This is not a boxing match.”

Logan did not say anything as you walked away. But when you looked back, because of course you had to look back, he was standing there, half listening to what Garrett and Tucker were talking about with his beer in one hand, the other loosely resting on the counter next to him- his eyes on you. The party kept moving. You spent twenty minutes talking to Hannah about the game and pretending not to ask too many questions about Logan’s fight. You helped Allie bully Dean into drinking water. You listened to Tucker explain why the snack selection was unbalanced and then watched him fix it with the solemnity of a man repairing society. You congratulated random players politely when they came through the kitchen, and somehow this resulted in two of them telling you long stories about blocked shots you only half understood but fully appreciated. Logan was everywhere and not always near you.

He moved through his team, laughing with the guys, taking teasing, giving it back, two beers in, then three, but still steadier than Dean had been after one and a half drinks and an argument about whether tequila had a personality.

Sometimes you caught Logan’s eye across the room. Sometimes he smiled. Sometimes he lifted his bottle slightly, a small check-in from across the room, then turned back to the conversation.

Around the time the kitchen became too crowded, you found yourself near him again without remembering the route. He was standing by the counter with Tucker and two guys from the team, one hip against the cabinet, sleeves pushed to his forearms. Someone had given him a fresh beer, though from the look of it, he had been nursing it for a while. You slid into the space beside him because the living room had become loud enough to rattle your teeth.

Logan looked down, “Hey.” “Hi.” “You hiding?” “I am observing from a calmer location.” “You’re hiding.” “A woman can do both.”

His mouth curved. You leaned your shoulder against the cabinet beside him, close enough that your sleeve brushed his arm. He glanced down at the contact but did not move.

“What are we talking about?” you asked. Tucker lifted a bowl of pretzels, “How Dean has survived this long.” “Luck,” you said immediately. “Hey!” Dean shouted from across the room, apparently able to hear criticism at any distance.

Allie, seated on the arm of the sofa beside him, lifted her cup, “Accurate!” You laughed and tipped slightly into Logan’s side without meaning to. His arm lifted instinctively behind you, not around you, just catching your shoulder before you fully lost balance.

“You good?” “Yes.” You looked up at him, “Your house has uneven gravity.” “That’s the vodka.” “I have had minimal vodka.” “You had shots with Dean.” “I had an honourable duel with Dean.” “You beat him.” “Exactly. Honourably.”

Logan’s hand was still near your shoulder, you noticed at the same time he did, but instead of stepping away, you reached for his wrist, turned his hand over, and studied his palm with the solemnity of a scholar discovering an old text. Logan stared at you, “What are you doing?”

“Comparing.” “To what?” “My hand.”

You placed your palm against his. His hand was much bigger. You knew this already, too well and for too long- some may argue. But knowing didn't make the real-time comparison any less interesting. Tucker looked between you and Logan, then silently turned away to refill the pretzel bowl. Logan’s fingers flexed against yours; your pulse jumped but you blamed it on the rum and tequila mixing.

“Scientific?” he asked, voice lower. You nodded, “Very.” “And what’s your conclusion?”

You looked at your hand pressed to his.

Then, because the drink had warmed the space between thought and speech, you said, “You have good hands.” Logan’s expression changed, slowly, his eyebrows raised fractionally. Your brain caught up, “Oh.” His mouth curved, but his eyes had gone darker. “Oh?” “I meant mechanically.” “Mechanically.” “Yes.” “You’ve said that before.” “Because it remains true.” “Right.” “You fixed Cherry.” “I did.” “And the gate latch.” “Yeah.” “And the shelf in the feed room that Granddad said was cursed.” Logan laughed softly, “He did say that.” “He likes you.” His smile softened, “Yeah?” “Yes. Nana too.” “She scares me.” “She should.”

His thumb moved once against the side of your hand and your mouth dried as your brain emptied. Across the kitchen, Allie shouted your name, waving you over to adjudicate something Dean had apparently done with a bottle opener. You pulled your hand back too quickly.

Logan let you, like always, but his eyes stayed on you as you left.

By eleven, the party had loosened around the edges.

You were not drunk in a catastrophic way. You were simply warm and bright and less interested in the invisible line between wanting to touch Logan and actually doing it. The line had become foggy. Soft. Badly lit. Whenever you saw him, your body seemed to make decisions before your mind could form objections. You grabbed his wrist when you wanted him to hear a story. You leaned into his side while laughing at something Hannah said. You touched two careful fingers near the cut on his jaw and told him, with grave seriousness, “Still ugly, but healing.”

He blinked,“Thanks.” “Not you. The wound.” “Good to know.” “You are visually acceptable.” “High praise.” “You’re welcome.”

You stole a sip of his beer because yours was too sweet and then made a face because his tasted worse. He laughed and took the bottle back, fingers brushing yours. You rested your chin on his shoulder for approximately three seconds while trying to see what Garrett and Hannah were doing across the room, and Logan went so still beneath you that you lifted your head.

“What?” “Nothing.” “Are you injured?” “No.” “You looked injured.” He took a slow drink of beer. “I’m fine.”

You narrowed your eyes. Logan looked away and you decided, magnanimously, to let him live.

Dean and Beau announced the costume party from a table in the courtyard. That was not a metaphor. They were physically standing on one of the outdoor tables behind the hockey house, which looked like a very poor structural decision, though no one else seemed alarmed. People had spilled out after them in laughing clusters, drawn by Dean’s shout of “COURTYARD, EVERYBODY, OFFICIAL BUSINESS,” like he had been elected mayor of terrible choices. The cold air hit your warm face as you stepped outside with Hannah on one side and Allie on the other. Your sleeves were pulled over your hands again, red ribbon looser now, ponytail slipping slightly from the careful shape Allie had given it that afternoon. Someone had brought the blue sports drink vodka outside, which felt illegal under the night sky. Someone else had a speaker balanced on a windowsill. The music from the house bled into the courtyard in muffled pulses. Dean cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and emotionally unstable athletes-” “Speak for yourself!” someone yelled. “I am!” Dean shouted back, “Beau and I are proud to announce that next weekend is our annual birthday costume party.”

The courtyard exploded.

Beau lifted his drink, “No shitty costumes!” Dean pointed into the crowd, “No repeating last year’s costumes. No lazy jerseys, no bedsheet ghosts, no I’m a tired student bullshit. We want commitment.” Beau grinned, “Couples costumes will be judged, mocked, and possibly rewarded.” A wave of cheers and insults rolled through the group.

You stopped halfway beside Hannah.

Costume party.

Annual birthday costume party.

Your eyes widened. Allie looked at you. Hannah looked at you.

You looked at the crowd, the table, Dean and Beau, the phones beginning to ping as the invite went live in whatever group chat held the hockey house’s social infrastructure together.

A slow smile spread across your face.

“Oh,” you said.

Allie started laughing before you even finished.

You clasped your hands together, delighted,“I love costume parties!” Hannah groaned affectionately, “Of course you do.”

“They are the last true social art form.” “They are fabric-based warfare,” Allie said. “Yes,” you said happily, “Exactly.” Dean, still on the table, saw your face from across the courtyard and pointed at you with prophetic intensity. “She gets it!” “I do!” you called back.

Logan, standing a few feet behind Beau with Tucker and Garrett, turned at the sound of your voice. You did not mean to look at him.

He was leaning against the brick wall, beer bottle low in one hand, the cut at his jaw catching the courtyard light. His hair was curling slightly where it had dried badly. He looked relaxed now, looser from the party and the win, but the moment he saw your expression, something in his face shifted.

Like he knew, immediately, that a costume party was not just an event to you. It was a battlefield. A runway. A moral test. You pointed at him across the courtyard without thinking,“You need a costume.” His eyebrows lifted, “I do?” “Yes.” “I wasn’t aware I’d been assigned homework.” “You have now.” Dean shouted, “No mechanics!” You turned on him, “That was not my suggestion.” Beau cupped a hand to his mouth, “No goats either!” “Winston is not a costume,” you yelled back, offended on the goat’s behalf, “He is a citizen.”

A cheer went up from three people who had no context but enjoyed your delivery. Dean looked deeply pleased. Allie leaned toward Hannah, “She’s drunk enough to defend goat rights publicly.” “I am not drunk,” you said. Hannah smiled, “You are warm and morally invested.” “Thank you.”

Logan had started smiling into his beer.

The costume party announcement changed the party’s texture immediately. The courtyard became a chaos of ideas and claims: group costumes, couples costumes, threats of terrible outfits, arguments over whether angels and devils counted as lazy if done “with a fresh perspective.” Dean insisted he and Beau already had “vision.” Beau insisted Dean’s vision involved too much aviator energy. Allie said if Dean went as anything involving sunglasses indoors, she would end the relationship for aesthetic reasons.

You drifted back inside with the girls, still talking too fast,“Betty Boop,” you said. Allie stopped in the doorway, “What?”

You turned, already seeing it. Red dress. Black curls. Little heels. Garter, maybe. Not too obvious. Not too babyish. Vintage. Playful. Hot without looking like you were begging for attention, which was always the best kind.

“Betty Boop.” Hannah’s eyes lit, “Actually…” Allie grabbed your arm, “Wait. That’s perfect.” “I know.” “You have the red dress?” “My nana might have something.” Hannah blinked, “Your nana?” “Her attic has better archival value than most museums.” Allie stared at you, then laughed, “That sentence just came out of your mouth like it was normal.” “It is normal in my family.” “That is exactly the problem.”

The three of you reached the kitchen again, and somewhere between the doorway and the counter, you found Logan. Or he found you. Or the room simply folded around the fact that you had looked for him and he had already been looking back.

He was standing near the fridge, talking to Tucker- who was saying something vaguely related to the birds and the bees, but his attention moved to you the second you stepped in. It was subtle enough that anyone else could call it nothing. You were beginning to learn the difference. You walked toward him with full intention. Or at least, what felt like full intention until the floor tilted slightly beneath your feet. You caught his sleeve, Logan’s hand came out immediately, steadying you by the elbow.

“Hey.” “Hi.” “You good?” “Yes.” “You keep saying that.” “Because I keep being good.”

Garrett, who had somehow joined you, snorted into his drink.

You looked at Garrett, “You were also good today.” He blinked, “Thanks.” “Very elegant pass.” Garrett smiled, “You keep saying elegant.” “Because it was.”

Logan’s hand stayed at your elbow. Garrett looked between the two of you, then glanced toward the living room where Hannah was talking to Allie, “I’m gonna go find my girlfriend.”

“Good,” you said, “She is unsupervised.”

Garrett laughed and walked away. Leaving you with Logan. In the kitchen. Again.

His hand slipped from your elbow to your wrist for half a second before letting go. You felt the ghost of it after,“Betty Boop?” he asked. You blinked, “What?” “For the costume party.” “Oh.” You smiled, “You heard that?” “You were yelling.” “I was speaking with confidence.” “Right.” “Do you know who Betty Boop is?” His mouth curved, “Yes.” “Good. I was worried you might be culturally malnourished.” “Mechanics know cartoons.” “You’re not just a mechanic.”

The words came out too easily. Logan’s expression shifted. You realised, belatedly, that your drink had removed some of the usual insulation between thought and speech.

“I mean,” you continued quickly, “you are also hockey Logan.” He leaned back against the counter, watching you. “And?” “And Winston Logan.” His smile grew, “And?” “Truck Logan.” “Truck Logan?” “You have a truck.” “Strong classification system.” “Garage Logan is Mama’s term, not mine.” “I heard.” “I told her to stop.” “I appreciate that.” You nodded gravely, “You’re welcome.”

He looked down at you, something warm and amused sitting in his eyes. The party moved around you. People came into the kitchen, grabbed bottles, yelled over music, and left again. Someone bumped the counter behind you. Logan’s hand moved to your waist without hesitation, pulling you closer to him and away from the jostle.

Your breath caught as you braced yourself against him.

His hand stayed,“You okay?”

You nodded and blinked when his thumb moved once over the soft Briar fabric at your waist.

“You keep doing that,” you said. His brows lifted slightly. “Doing what?” “Moving me.” His hand loosened at once, “Sorry.” “No.” You caught his wrist before he could pull away fully, “No, I didn’t say stop.”

The words made both of you still. Your fingers were around his wrist.

Logan looked down at your hand around him, then at your face, “You didn’t say stop,” he repeated. “No.” His voice lowered, “What are you saying?” You stared up at him. Your thoughts arranged themselves very slowly. Badly. Then Dean burst into the kitchen and yelled, “WHO’S READY FOR THE THIRD ROUND?” You jumped and his hold and Logan closed his eyes briefly, his hand loosening against your side.

You dropped his wrist, “Absolutely not,” you said. Dean pointed at you, “You’re scared.” “I’m victorious. There is a difference.” “You know what winners do?” “Retire before their legacy is compromised.” Allie appeared behind Dean and grabbed his arm, “You are not challenging her again. She has class tomorrow.” Dean looked horrified, “Class after a win?” “The university is oppressive- and I’d like to graduate as a semi-qualified vet,” you said. Hannah slipped into the kitchen with Garrett behind her, cheeks flushed, smile loose and pretty, “You also have to be at the farm in the morning too.” Logan’s gaze flicked to you, “You’re going to the farm?” You nodded, still trying to recover the shape of yourself after the almost-question he had asked, “Nana wants me to check Winston’s ambassadorial conditions before class. ” “His what?” “He has been assigned public relations duties.” Logan’s mouth twitched, “He ate a clipboard.” “Exactly. He is unfit for office.” Tucker entered behind Garrett, holding a glass of water and looking like the only person in the house still connected to logistics, “How many people are being dropped off?” Garrett checked his phone, “Usual route. Hannah, Allie, Cherry.” Dean gasped, “My girlfriend is leaving?” Allie pecked his cheek, “I told you twenty minutes ago.” “I didn’t consent.” “You don’t have to.” “I object.” “Noted and dismissed.”

You looked toward the clock on the microwave and frowned. The numbers seemed unnecessarily bright.

“I should probably go,” you said, and immediately disliked how final it sounded.

Logan looked at you, you looked back whilst the kitchen felt louder than it had previously- maybe that was because the distance between you had become too thin for ordinary noise.

“You leaving now?” he asked. “Soon.” “Need your bag?” You blinked, “My bag.” “You left it in the living room, by the chair.” Before you could answer, Logan pushed away from the counter,“I’ll get it.” “You don’t have to-” He was already gone.

Allie appeared beside you like a summoned demon, and hummed, “Normal friend stuff.”

“Do not.” “He knows where your bag is.” “Many people have spatial awareness.” “He knows where your bag is because he watches where you leave things.” “That is practical.” “All romance is practical if you’re boring enough.” “I am not boring.” “No,” Hannah said softly from your other side, smiling, “You’re terrified.” You looked at her, “Maybe,” you said, because the drinking had made honesty too accessible. Hannah’s eyes softened. Allie’s hand slipped into yours and squeezed. That was friendship, you thought. Not simply telling you to kiss him or stand up or stop being ridiculous. It was Allie squeezing your hand because she knew the joking could only carry you so far, and Hannah standing close enough that you felt surrounded in the best way.

“It’s scary when it’s real,” Hannah said. You swallowed, “Is it?” Allie’s mouth softened, “Yeah.” You looked toward the living room where Logan had disappeared. Then he came back holding your little bag in one hand, strap looped over his fingers, your lip balm already tucked safely inside because apparently he had checked. Your chest did something stupid.

“Found it,” he said. “Thank you.”

He handed it to you. Your fingers brushed. You both noticed. Dean, fortunately, chose that moment to yell from the doorway, “COURTYARD AGAIN! BEAU SAYS I CAN’T DO A BACKFLIP!”

“You cannot,” Allie shouted. “That sounds like doubt.” “It is a certainty.”

People began moving again, pulled by the horrifying possibility of Dean attempting gymnastics. The leaving plan dissolved temporarily as the girls were dragged toward the back of the house, Garrett groaning, Tucker muttering something about liability, Allie already shouting at Dean not to climb anything. You followed because leaving a tipsy Dean unsupervised near raised surfaces felt irresponsible. Logan followed because everyone followed. The courtyard was colder now. The night had deepened, breath showing faintly as people crowded near the table again. Dean did not do a backflip, because Allie threatened to call his mother. Beau did, however, demonstrate something he called “controlled athletic commitment” which was essentially jumping off the low table with unnecessary flair. The courtyard cheered anyway.

You laughed so hard you stumbled backward into Logan's chest, his hand found your waist and before you could step away for propriety’s sake, you drunkenly leaned back into it, his fingers spread fractionally at your side.

“You’re gonna fall,” he said near your ear. “I am structurally sound.” “You are swaying.” “The ground is moving from poor party infrastructure.” “Sure.” “You don’t believe me.” “No.” You turned your head, almost enough for your cheek to brush his jaw. “You’re very rude for someone with a head wound.” “It’s not a head wound.” “It’s on your head.” “It’s my jaw.” “Part of your head.” “Your farm logic is terrifying.” “You love my farm logic.”

He did not answer, that made you look back at him, that's when you cursed your drunk brain for not realising how close he was. Warm breath puffed against your face, slightly stained by beer but mainly minty fresh from the quick brush the team doctor made him do before his checkup. His eyes were on your face, warm from his drinks and night air and something else you were increasingly less capable of naming without wanting to run away. His hand was still at your waist. Your back was still almost against his front. Around you, the courtyard was loud, stupid, alive.

“Yeah,” he said finally, “I do.”

Your laugh caught in your throat. Allie shouted your name from near the gate.

“We are actually leaving now before Dean becomes a headline!” Dean yelled, “I would be a good headline!” “You would be a cautionary tale,” Hannah replied.

Garrett had the Jeep keys in hand. Tucker was already doing a headcount with the patience of a man who had discovered his true calling was herding drunk idiots. Allie was tipsy enough to be giggly and mobile in a concerning way. Hannah was softer drunk, leaning against Garrett while insisting she was perfectly capable of walking and then proving it by walking directly into his side. You started toward them and Logan walked with you, watching carefully as you tripped over your feet but managed to stay upright, with the help of your hand braced on his arm.

At the side of the driveway, the goodbye became complicated.

It should not have been. But your drunk friend group treated departures like military extractions. Garrett unlocked the Jeep, Tucker opened the back door, Hannah immediately forgot which side she was supposed to enter, Allie began telling Dean an emotional story about how proud she was of his lack of backflip, and Dean looked genuinely moved despite not having done anything.

“I could have done it,” he said. Allie patted his face, “I know, baby.” “You stopped me because you love me.” “I stopped you because I enjoy your spine intact.” “That’s love.” Tucker looked at Garrett, “I’ll get the door.”

Garrett had Hannah tucked under one arm, laughing as she tried to explain something about Garrett’s third-period pass being “hot in an upsetting way.” He looked over her head at Tucker with the expression of a man deeply happy and deeply exhausted. “I’ve got Hannah,” Garrett said. “Can you get Allie?” Tucker turned just as Allie suddenly gasped. “My jacket!” Dean blinked, “What jacket?” “My jacket. The little black one. I left it inside.” “I’ll get it,” Dean said, far too confidently for a man who had almost attempted a backflip four minutes ago. Allie narrowed her eyes, “You will get distracted.” “I will not.” “You once went to get me water and came back with a sandwich.” “I thought you were hungry.” “I was thirsty.” “You were also hungry.” “Dean.” “I’ll go with him,” Tucker said, already moving because he understood the crisis before it fully formed. Then Allie, spotting someone near the porch holding up what looked like her jacket, pointed triumphantly. “There!” And ran. “Allie!” Garrett shouted. Dean turned, “Baby, wait-”

He tried to follow her, stumbled once on the driveway curb, and Tucker caught the back of his shirt before he could launch himself after her in the least graceful pursuit ever witnessed.

“Absolutely not,” Tucker said. “I’m saving my girlfriend.” “You are endangering both of you.”

Garrett, still holding Hannah, laughed so hard he nearly lost his grip on her. Hannah laughed too, face pressed into his shoulder, which made Allie turn around halfway across the driveway and shout, “I’m fine!”

“You’re not wearing a jacket!” Dean yelled. “You were supposed to get it!” “You ran!”

Tucker sighed with the air of a man considering retirement. Logan stood beside you, one hand in his pocket, watching the chaos with quiet amusement. You, meanwhile, had reached the open passenger side of Garrett’s Jeep and sat down sideways on the edge of the seat because the world had become slightly too full of movement. Your legs hung out of the Jeep, white socks bright in the driveway light, skirt tucked carefully beneath your thighs, Briar sweatshirt soft around you. The cold air felt nice as you sat facing Logan. You exhaled.

He turned toward you immediately, scanning you for discomfort. Instead he was met with your giddy, swaying from, your head rested on the seat as your fingers curled around your bag, slightly red from the bitter cold as it turned sour as the hours dragged on. He could barely make out on the other side of the vehicle, beyond your shoulder, Garret stood with Hannah wrapping his jacket around her shoulder and warming her up with firm rubs of his palms against her arms.

“You okay?” “Yes.” He stepped closer, stopping in front of you, “Sleepy?” “No.”

Your eyelids felt heavy. He looked unconvinced.

“I am resting with my eyes closed,” you clarified. “That’s not a thing.” “It is now.”

His mouth curved.

Garrett called from across the driveway, “Logan, can you watch her for one sec?” Logan lifted a hand, “Yeah.”

Garrett shifted Hannah toward the back seat, Tucker dragged Dean toward Allie, and suddenly the driveway noise moved away from you in layers. Distant enough that you and Logan stood in a pocket of quiet beside the open Jeep. You looked up at him, he looked down at you. The air between you changed softly. You were sleepy now. You could feel it settling over you, heavy and warm, the party’s brightness folding itself away. Your legs swung slightly over the edge of the Jeep. Logan’s hand hung at his side, close to yours. You reached for it. His fingers stilled when yours slipped into them.

“Cherry.” “Hm?” “You good?” “Yes.”

His hand was warm. Very warm. You looked down at your joined hands with the kind of serious attention drunk people gave simple discoveries.

“You’re warm.” “It’s cold out.” “That doesn’t explain everything.” “No?” “No.”

You turned his hand in yours, palm up, then pressed your fingers against his like you had done in the kitchen. His hand engulfed yours easily. You smiled at that. Logan was very still. Around you, Allie was arguing with Dean about jacket custody. Hannah was telling Garrett she could absolutely climb into the Jeep without help, while actively not doing that. Tucker sounded like he was counting people under his breath. You lifted Logan’s hand. Then, because you were tired and wanted warmth and Logan was warm, you guided his hand down to rest on your thigh. Over the bare skin above your sock, where the cold air had made you shiver. You patted his hand once, as if placing it somewhere useful.

“There.”

You felt Logan stop breathing and you looked up at him from under sleepy eyelashes.

“What?”

His eyes were fixed on his own hand, they then flicked to your thigh, then your face.

“Cherry.” He started carefully. “Hm?” “You know where my hand is?” You looked down,“Yes.” “Yeah?” “You’re warm.” His jaw flexed, “I’m warm.” “Yes.”

He did not move his hand. He also did not let his fingers flex, or stroke, or do anything except rest exactly where you had put it. His thumb stayed carefully lifted, like touching too much would be crossing a line he had drawn in his own head. You found this interesting, “Why are you being a statue?”

His mouth twitched despite whatever private suffering was happening in his head.

“Statue?” “Yes.” “I’m trying not to die.”

You blinked at him. Then smiled, slow and pleased.

“You’re dramatic.” “Yeah?” “Yes.”

His gaze moved over your face. Soft. Sleepy. Warm from the party. Your red lipstick had mostly worn down to a stain. The ribbon in your hair had slipped almost completely loose. The Briar sweatshirt had fallen off one shoulder enough that the neckline pulled wide, exposing the curve of your collarbone to the cold. Logan’s hand stayed still on your thigh. You were suddenly aware of the silence between you.

He swallowed, “You remember what you told me inside?” You frowned slightly, trying to gather the party back into order. “I told many people many things.” “Yeah.” “I was educational.” “You were.” “And morally victorious.” “Also true.” “And Dean needs supervision.” “Definitely.”

His mouth curved, then faded into something quieter.

“You told not to move my hand.”

Oh.

Your fingers tightened around his. The driveway did not go silent. Not really. Allie was still laughing somewhere. Dean was still protesting something. Garrett was opening another door. Tucker was saying, “No, that’s not your jacket, that’s Beau’s.” The world continued. But your little pocket by the Jeep became very still.

“Oh,” you said.

“Yeah.” Logan’s voice was quiet. “Oh.”

You looked down at his hand on your thigh. Your hand over his. The sight made your stomach feel strange, “I didn't mean to say that out loud.”

“You told me.”

“That was a error.”

His mouth twitched, “Was it?”

“Yes.”

“Because you didn't want me to move my hand?”

Your eyes lifted to his. The question was soft. It would have been easier if he had teased you. Easier if he had smiled and made it a joke. Easier if he had given you somewhere to hide. Instead, Logan looked at you like he genuinely wanted the answer and would take whatever you gave him. Like he was not going to reach for something you had not placed in his hands sober. Like his own hand on your thigh, exactly where you had put it, was not currently destroying his ability to appear unaffected. You swallowed.

The words felt slow with sleep trying to pull at their edges.

“I don’t lie,” you said finally. “No,” he said softly. “You don’t.”

You smiled faintly and then yawned. Logan’s expression went through at least three emotions, one of which looked very close to pain.

You blinked up at him, offended by your own body, “No.” His mouth curved. “No?” “I was saying something.” “You were.” “It was important.” “I know.”

Your head felt heavy. So you leaned forward without thinking, forehead dropping against his stomach. His free hand came up instantly, hovering at the back of your head before settling there lightly, careful not to disturb the almost-dead ribbon. You sighed. He was warm there too. His hand was still on your thigh, yours was still over it.

“Cherry,” he said.

“Hm?”

His voice was different when he said your name now, low and soft- as if he were afraid of the answer, but was too far gone not to ask.

"Why didn't you want me to move my hand?”

You smiled against his shirt.

“You know,” you murmured. Logan went completely still but your eyes closed, like a weight had been taken off your shoulders, “That’s the problem.”

For a second, nothing happened. Then Logan inhaled like the night had punched him in the chest, “Cherry.” You meant to lift your head. You really did. You meant to look at him, maybe. Say something else. Something clear. Something clever enough to make the confession survivable. Something that would put the power back in your hands before the softness could swallow you whole.

Instead, sleep took you.

Your forehead stayed against him, your hand going lax over his, breath evening out in the middle of the open Jeep door, with half the friend group ten feet away and the rest of the party still roaring behind the house. Logan stared down at you. His hand on your thigh did not move for several seconds, because he seemed to have lost the ability to send instructions to his body.

Then, slowly, carefully, he slid his hand out from beneath yours and moved it to the hem of your skirt, tugging it down just enough to cover more of your thigh against the cold. He adjusted the Briar sweatshirt where it had slipped off your shoulder. His fingers were gentle at the back of your head as he eased you upright, keeping you from tipping sideways.

“Tucker,” he called, voice rougher than usual.

Tucker looked over from where he was helping Dean identify the correct jacket while Allie stood wrapped in it, triumphant. His expression changed when he saw Logan’s face.

He walked over immediately, “She out?”

Logan looked down at you. Your cheek had settled against the side of the Jeep seat now, eyes closed, one hand curled loosely in the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

“Yeah.” Tucker studied him for a second, “You good?”

Logan did not answer right away. Across the driveway, Garrett had Hannah safely in the back seat. Allie was laughing into Dean’s shoulder while Dean insisted he had completed a rescue mission. The porch light flickered slightly. The party carried on behind them, loud and bright and completely unaware that Logan’s entire world had just tilted on its axis beside an open Jeep door. Finally, Logan looked at Tucker.

“Yeah.”

Tucker waited. Logan’s jaw tightened.

Then, quieter, “No.”

Tucker’s face softened, but he did not ask, “Alright,” he said instead, “Help me get her buckled?”

Logan nodded.

They moved carefully. Tucker shifted your bag from your lap. Logan slid one arm behind your back and one beneath your knees, lifting you just enough to angle you properly into the passenger seat. You stirred once, head turning toward him.

“Mechanic,” you mumbled.

Logan froze. Tucker looked away very deliberately.

“Yeah,” Logan said, voice low. “I’m here.” Your hand found his sleeve, “Don’t go.”

He closed his eyes. Then he crouched beside the open door, bringing himself level with you.

“I’m not going anywhere.” “You’re warm.” His mouth pressed into a line, “I know.” “You’re not just mechanic,” you murmured, eyes still closed.

Logan’s face changed. Tucker, still looking away, suddenly became extremely interested in the driveway.

You did not say anything else, hand loosening on his sleeve as sleep pulled you under again. Logan stayed crouched there for another second too long. Then he carefully buckled your seatbelt, making sure the strap did not catch your hair or wrinkle the sweatshirt oddly at your neck. He tucked your bag by your feet. He adjusted the red ribbon that had half slipped out, then seemed to realise what he was doing and stopped, hand hovering.

Garrett came around the Jeep, Hannah already drowsy in the back, Allie tucked beside her and whisper-laughing with Dean through the open door on the opposite side. He kept pecking her lips and giggling drunkenly as she would scrunch up her nose.

“All set?” Garrett asked. Tucker answered for both of them, “Yeah.”

Logan stood. His hand brushed once over the top of the Jeep door.

Garrett looked at him briefly,“You okay to get back inside?” Logan nodded. “Yeah.” “You had a few.” “I’m not driving.” “I know. Just checking.” “Yeah,” Logan said. “I’m good.”

Dean appeared around the side of the Jeep, tipsy enough that he swayed when he noticed your sleeping frame against Hannah’s droopy shoulder.

“Is she asleep?” “Yeah,” Tucker said. Dean leaned down toward the open door and whispered, loudly, “Goodnight, tiny farm tyrant.” You did not stir. Allie, from the back seat, gasped, “She won’t be happy with you tomorrow.” “She can try. I’m beloved.” “She will weaponise Nana.”

Dean went pale. Garrett laughed and shut the back door.

Tucker climbed into the passenger seat beside Garrett after helping Allie adjust her seatbelt. Garrett started the Jeep, headlights washing over the driveway. Logan stepped back, hands in his pockets, watching through the open passenger-side door until Garrett leaned across and pulled it mostly closed. Before the door shut fully, your head shifted against Hannah.

For one second, under the porch light, Logan saw you in Briar blue and Cherry red, sleeping like the confession had not just left him standing in the cold with nowhere to put his hands.

Then the door clicked shut and Garrett drove away.

Logan stood there until the Jeep turned out of sight. The cold settled around him as the party noise rushed back in. Tucker’s words from earlier seemed to echo in the space where you had been.

You good?

Logan breathed out once, slow.

No. Not even a little.

Inside, Dean shouted something about leftover pizza.

But Logan stayed in the driveway a moment longer, looking at the empty space where your legs had been hanging out of the Jeep, where your hand had guided him to your thigh with sleepy certainty, where you had answered and not answered all at once.

You know. That’s the problem.

He pushed a hand through his hair. Laughed once under his breath, but there was no humour in it.

Just the awful, perfect knowledge that he could not unknow it now.

He went upstairs for a minute and stood in his room where your red aux cord was still coiled on his desk because you had replaced it with a better one in his truck, where the faint cherry tint of your lip balm had once marked the rim of his water bottle by mistake, where small pieces of you kept appearing in his life and refusing to leave.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he pulled out his phone- mentally scolding himself for expecting a message from you. He was the one who had tucked your sleeping figure into the car, but after five minutes his phone buzzed.

Mommy Tuck 🍼

She’s dropped off. All good. Hannah and Allie inside too.

Logan stared at the text. Then typed back.

Emotionally stunted third child

Thanks.

She say anything?

Mommy Tuck 🍼

She said Winston should not hold public office.

Logan laughed despite himself.

Mommy Tuck 🍼

And she said that “mechanic” was warm. Whatever that means.

Logan looked at the screen for a long second. Then locked the phone and set it face down on the bed. Outside his room, the party continued, someone shouted for him- along with the mention of tequila. But he didn’t move.

He sat there in the quiet, cut on his jaw starting to sting now that the adrenaline had worn off, and thought about your hand over his, the warm bare skin of your thigh under his palm, your sleepy voice saying words he would hear for days. You know. That’s the problem.

He wanted to kiss you in that moment, but he didn’t. You were drunk. Sleepy. Soft enough to confess and gone before you could choose what came after. Logan had enough beer in his system to know he should not pretend the night was cleaner than it was, and enough sense to know that being good meant doing nothing with the answer except keeping it safe. So he kept it.

Like your bag. Like your lip balm. Like your red ribbon, nearly undone and still somehow the only thing he could see.

And downstairs, the costume party invite kept buzzing through everyone’s phones, setting the stage for next weekend like the universe had decided to be obvious. Logan realised he was, finally, fully, absolutely cooked.

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