GRAHAM'S LITTLE SISTER
Pairing: John Logan x Graham!Sister!Reader
Summary: You return to Boston for spring break determined to keep your secret relationship with your brother’s best friend hidden, but one look from John Logan is enough to unravel every boundary you swore you’d keep.
You’d been dreading this trip for weeks, but the second you stepped off the plane and saw Garrett waiting at arrivals with that stupid, familiar grin, your stomach flipped for an entirely different reason. Spring break. One week back in Boston with your brother and his crew. One week pretending John Logan wasn’t the guy who’d been fucking you senseless for the past twelve months.
Garrett pulled you into a bear hug, lifting you clear off the ground like you were still fifteen. “There’s my favorite sister.”
“I’m your only sister, dumbass.”
“Still favorite.” He set you down and ruffled your hair. “Hannah’s waiting in the car. Dean and Allie are already at the house pre-gaming. Logan’s… somewhere.”
Your pulse spiked at his name. You kept your face neutral. “Cool.”
The drive to the off-campus house was loud with Hannah’s laughter and Garrett’s terrible playlist. You sat in the back, phone buzzing in your lap.
Logan: You here yet, baby? I’m losing my mind.
You bit your lip and angled the screen away.
You: Just pulled up. Behave.
Logan: No.
The house looked the same—slightly worse for wear after another hockey season. Dean opened the door shirtless, Allie tucked under his arm, both of them already tipsy.
“Graham’s little sister!” Dean crowed, pulling you into a hug that smelled like tequila and cologne. “Look at you, all NYU sophisticated. Break any Ivy League hearts yet?”
“Only the ones that deserve it,” you shot back.
Then Logan appeared in the hallway behind him.
God, he looked good. Dark jeans, black thermal stretched across his shoulders, Bruins cap backwards. His brown eyes locked on you and the corner of his mouth twitched, the same smirk he gave you right before he buried his face between your thighs.
“Yo, Logan, come say hi to my sister,” Garrett called, oblivious.
Logan sauntered over, casual as hell. “Hey, stranger.” His voice was low, rough. His fingers brushed your waist as he hugged you—quick, friendly, brother-approved. But his hand lingered half a second too long, thumb pressing just above your hip bone where only he knew you were ticklish.
“Missed you,” he murmured against your ear, so soft no one else could hear.
You swallowed. “Missed you more.”
The first night was torture.
Everyone gathered in the living room, drinking, playing cards, telling stories. You sat on the couch between Hannah and Allie, laughing at Dean’s ridiculous impressions, while Logan lounged in the armchair across from you. His legs were spread, one ankle hooked over his knee, eyes never leaving you. Every time you crossed your legs, his gaze dropped. Every time you licked salt off your thumb after a tequila shot, his jaw tightened.
Around two a.m., people started drifting to bed. Garrett kissed Hannah goodnight and clapped Logan on the shoulder. “Don’t stay up too late, man. We’ve got ice time tomorrow.”
Logan’s smile was easy. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You waited fifteen agonizing minutes in the guest room before your phone lit up.
Logan: Back door. Now.
You crept downstairs in nothing but an oversized hoodie and panties. The kitchen was dark. The second you stepped outside onto the back porch, strong arms yanked you against a hard chest. Logan’s mouth crashed into yours, hungry and desperate, a whole year of secret touches and stolen weekends exploding between you.
“Fuck, I missed this mouth,” he growled, backing you against the siding. His hands slid under the hoodie, palming your ass, lifting you so your legs wrapped around his waist. “Missed how wet you get for me.”
“Logan—” You gasped as he ground his erection against you. “We can’t—not here—”
“Inside. My room. Now.”
He carried you through the dark house like you weighed nothing. The second his bedroom door clicked shut, clothes hit the floor. Your hoodie, his shirt, your panties, his jeans. He pushed you onto the bed, mouth on your neck, your tits, sucking hard enough to leave marks you’d have to hide tomorrow.
“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he muttered against your stomach, kissing lower. “Sitting there in those little shorts, knowing I can’t touch you.”
“Then touch me now.”
He did. Two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling just right. His tongue flicked your clit and your back arched off the bed. You shoved a pillow over your face to muffle the moan.
Logan ripped it away. “Let me hear you. Been too fucking long.”
He ate you out like a man starved—messy, filthy, perfect. You came hard, thighs shaking around his head, whispering his name like a prayer. Before you could recover, he was over you, condom on, cock nudging your entrance.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
You did. Blue eyes dark with lust and something deeper. He pushed in slowly, stretching you, filling you until you couldn’t breathe.
“Fuck, you feel like home,” he groaned.
Then he fucked you. Hard. Deep. The headboard banged against the wall and you didn’t even care. You clawed at his back, met every thrust, whispered dirty things in his ear that made him lose control. He flipped you over, pulled your hips up, and took you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair.
“Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it.”
You shattered again. He followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning your name into your shoulder.
You collapsed together, sweaty and tangled. Logan pulled you against his chest, pressing lazy kisses to your temple.
“I hate hiding this,” he said quietly.
“Me too. But Garrett…”
“Yeah.” His arms tightened. “I know.”
The next three days were a blur of stolen moments. Quick kisses in the hallway when everyone was distracted. Logan’s hand up your skirt under the dinner table. A frantic blowjob in his truck in the driveway at 3 a.m. while Garrett and Hannah slept upstairs.
You almost got caught twice. Once when Dean nearly walked in on Logan fingering you in the laundry room. Another when Garrett asked why your neck looked “weird” and you lied about a curling iron burn.
By day four, the tension was unbearable.
It snapped at the bonfire.
The guys had dragged an old fire pit into the backyard. Beers flowed. Music thumped. You were tipsy, wearing Logan’s hoodie because it smelled like him and because he’d growled in your ear to put it on before you came outside.
Garrett was telling some story about a game last season when he noticed you laughing at something Logan whispered.
His eyes narrowed. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
Logan leaned back, casual. “Just telling her about the time Dean face-planted during warm-ups.”
Garrett didn’t laugh. His gaze flicked between you and Logan. Something shifted in his expression—suspicion hardening into realization.
Later, when you slipped inside for another drink, Garrett followed.
In the kitchen, he cornered you. “You and Logan.”
It wasn’t a question.
Your heart stopped. “Garrett—”
“Don’t.” His voice was low, dangerous. “I saw the way he looked at you. The fucking hoodie. How long?”
You swallowed. “A year.”
“A year?” He looked like you’d slapped him. “My best friend has been screwing my little sister behind my back for a goddamn year?”
“It’s not like that. We’re together. For real.”
Garrett dragged a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ. I trusted him. I told him you were off-limits. I specifically said—”
“I’m not a kid anymore,” you snapped. “I’m twenty-one. I make my own choices.”
“Not with him.” His jaw clenched. “Not with Logan. He’s a fucking mess. Hockey, parties, girls—”
“He hasn’t touched anyone else since we started. He loves me, Garrett.”
The back door slammed. Logan stepped in, eyes blazing. “You got something to say to me, Graham?”
Garrett turned on him. “Yeah. Get the fuck away from my sister.”
Logan’s hands fisted at his sides. “Too late for that.”
The first punch came from Garrett. It cracked across Logan’s jaw, sending him stumbling into the counter. Logan roared and tackled him. They crashed to the floor in a mess of limbs and fury—fists flying, grunts, the sound of knuckles on flesh.
“Stop!” you screamed.
Dean and Allie rushed in. Dean grabbed Garrett, Allie tried to pull Logan back, but the two men were too far gone.
“You’re supposed to be my brother!” Garrett shouted, blood on his lip. “I would’ve taken a bullet for you, man!”
“And I love her!” Logan yelled back, shoving Dean off. His eye was already swelling. “I’m in love with her, you idiot. Have been for years. I tried to stay away. I couldn’t.”
Garrett lunged again. Another punch landed. Blood splattered the tile.
You stepped between them, hands out. “Enough!”
Both men froze, breathing hard.
Garrett wiped his mouth, glaring at Logan with pure betrayal. “Break it off. Right now. Or we’re done. Friendship. Everything.”
The silence was deafening.
Logan looked at you. Really looked. The fear in his eyes broke your heart.
“No,” he said quietly. “I won’t.”
Garrett’s laugh was bitter. “Then get the fuck out of my house.”
You found Logan in his room twenty minutes later, packing a duffel with jerky movements. His face was bruised, lip split.
“Logan…”
“I’m not ending this.” His voice cracked. “I can’t. Not anymore.”
You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him from behind. He turned, buried his face in your neck, holding you so tight it hurt.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“Not your fault. Should’ve told him sooner. Or not at all. I don’t know anymore.”
You kissed his bruised jaw, his split lip, gentle and reverent. He shuddered.
“Stay with me tonight,” you said. “One more night before everything explodes.”
He hesitated, then nodded.
You made love slowly this time. No rushing. Logan laid you down on his bed and worshipped every inch of you, his mouth on your breasts, hands mapping your curves like he was memorizing. When he finally slid inside you, it was deep and unhurried, eyes locked the entire time.
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips as he moved. “So fucking much.”
You came together, clinging to each other like the world outside might tear you apart.
Afterward, tangled in sheets, he traced patterns on your bare back. “Whatever happens tomorrow… I’m not letting you go.”
You believed him.
The next morning was war.
Garrett was in the kitchen nursing coffee and a black eye when you came downstairs with Logan right behind you. Hannah stood beside him, looking torn. Dean and Allie hovered awkwardly by the fridge.
Garrett’s eyes hardened. “You didn’t break it off.”
“No,” Logan said flatly. “And I’m not going to.”
Garrett stood. “Then you’re not welcome here.”
“Garrett, stop,” Hannah said softly. “They’re adults. They love each other.”
“He lied to me. For a year.” Garrett’s voice rose. “My best friend and my sister. Behind my back. How the fuck am I supposed to be okay with that?”
Logan stepped forward. “I know I fucked up the way we did it. But I’m not sorry for loving her. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You slipped your hand into Logan’s. “I love him too. And if you make me choose, Garrett… I’ll choose him.”
The words landed like another punch. Garrett flinched.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Garrett exhaled, long and shaky. “I’m disappointed in you, man. Really fucking disappointed.” He looked at you, eyes glassy. “Both of you.”
He walked out.
The rest of spring break was strained. Garrett barely spoke to either of you. Logan crashed at Dean’s for a couple nights. You spent every free second with Logan, talking, fucking, planning how to make this work when you went back to NYU and he stayed in Boston for the summer.
On the last night, Garrett cornered Logan on the back porch while you pretended not to watch from the window.
“I still want to kill you,” Garrett said gruffly.
“Fair.”
“But… if you hurt her, I will kill you. Slowly.”
Logan nodded. “I’d let you.”
Garrett sighed. “She’s happy. I can see that. Doesn’t mean I like it.”
“I know.”
A long pause.
“Don’t fuck it up, Logan.”
“I won’t.”
They didn’t hug. Not yet. But the fist bump was something. A start.
You left for NYU the next day. Logan drove you to the airport. In the parking garage, he kissed you like the plane might leave without you. Deep, claiming, hands in your hair.
“Call me when you land,” he said.
“I will.” You touched his still-bruised cheek. “I love you.”
“Love you more, baby.”












