#six.writes

New York City is all you have ever known your whole life. Private schools, private planes, grandeur manors your world was entirely walled off by old-money luxury, historic brownstones, and an overarching silence. Your mother had passed away the day you were born, a tragedy that left your father, Charles Verplanck, entirely single-minded in his purpose: to protect you from anything that could ever cause you a moment of pain. He didn't just provide for you; he fiercely insulated you. To him, you weren't just his daughter; you were the only piece of your mother he had left in the world.

In that quiet, structured upbringing, you naturally developed an eye for the arts. It started small—silly, disproportionate sketches scribbled on expensive heavy cardstock that you would proudly hand to your dad after he returned from the corporate office. While other millionaires collected pieces from Christie’s auction house, your father treated your childhood doodles like invaluable relics. He kept every single one. As the years slipped by and your technique matured, those silly drawings evolved into complex, sprawling landscapes and deeply observant portraits. Your dad remained your most loyal patron. By the time you turned fourteen, he had pulled strings across Manhattan to host an exclusive gallery exhibition entirely dedicated to your work.

But old money brings an invisible, crushing weight. Every gala, every dinner, and every formal introduction carried assumptions based entirely on your last name. You grew weary of being viewed through the lens of a family bank account. You wanted to breathe. You wanted a fresh start where you could just be an artist, evaluated purely by what you put on a canvas rather than what was sitting in your trust fund.

When you announced your desire to transfer to Briar University—a school miles away from the tight-knit circle of New York high society, your dad was deeply reluctant. He hated the idea of his only child being out of his immediate protective reach. But his soft spot for your happiness was absolute; he could never firmly put his foot down when it came to you. In the end, you had your way.

Which brought you to the current passage of your life.

Your belongings were packed into sleek, unmarked suitcases, moved into an oddly spacious off-campus apartment located exactly twelve minutes away from the university quad. Finding your front door on Saint Paul Street was always a bit of a running joke. You lived in apartment 6 or 9—the little brass plaque on the wood hung lazily by a single, stripped screw, spinning dynamically depending on how hard the front door was closed. No one really knew which number it was supposed to be. Some of the drafty corridor doors down the hall had no numbers left on them at all, just pale rectangular outlines where the old adhesive had long since given up.

Inside, however, the space was entirely yours. It featured a towering window that overlooked a secluded, quiet garden downstairs. Your easel stood right beside the glass, currently holding an unfinished, heavy oil painting of a hazy scenery. It was a peaceful sanctuary

Ever since your arrival at Briar, you had practically vanished into your own world. While other transfer students spent their first weeks navigating campus parties, joining clubs, and frantically trying to build a social circle, you had done the exact opposite. You holed yourself up in the campus art studio, retreating into the familiar, comforting scent of turpentine and linseed oil. Day after day, you would sit at your easel for hours on end, letting the campus life hum past outside the heavy glass windows without you.

The only real exception to your solitude was Maya. She was a fellow art student who shared a couple of your studio blocks—a bubbly, incredibly sweet girl who had practically adopted you on your very first day. Maya was the one who showed you where the best brushes were kept and which coffee cart on the quad actually brewed an edible espresso. You liked her genuinely, and the two of you would frequently exchange small talk about assignments or lend each other a hand when carrying heavy canvases across the room. But despite her warmth, you hadn't really let her all the way in. The walls you’d built to protect your identity as a Verplanck were still firmly intact, and while Maya was a great studio companion, she wasn't a confidante. You remained a friendly, quiet enigma, keeping her and everyone else at Briar at a polite, safe distance.

The following afternoon, you sought out the campus art wing to truly begin your new routine.

The soft, crackly croon of Elvis Presley was the only thing filling the high-ceilinged studio. Logan stopped by the half-open door, his gaze catching on the canvas first, then sliding to the girl in front of it. She was completely tuned out from the world, a smudge of dark oil paint on the edge of her jaw, moving her brush in sync with the slow tempo of the music.

The door gives a sharp, metallic squeak as Logan shifts his weight. She blinks, the brush freezing an inch from the canvas. She turns, her eyes wide, shifting from startled surprise to quiet curiosity as she takes him in.

Clearing his throat, instantly rubbing the back of his neck, "Sorry. I didn't mean to creep. The door was… yeah. I just noticed the painting."

Tucking a stray hair behind her ear, leaving a faint streak of paint on her temple, "Oh. It's fine."

Stepping entirely into the room, his eyes darting back to the canvas, "It's really beautiful. The lighting you're doing on the trees—it looks real." A small breathless laugh escapes her, shoulders dropping slightly, "Thank you. But trust me, it's not. It's actually missing…a lot. I've been staring at it for two hours and it feels completely unfinished." Logan gives her a quiet, genuine smile, "Well from where I'm standing, the unfinished version looks better than anything else on this campus."

He gives her one last look, a quiet nod, and steps out, closing the door softly behind him. She stands there for a moment, the room suddenly feeling a little bigger, before she turns back to her canvas. But for the first time all afternoon, her focus is completely gone.

"Well… I'll let you get back to it. Don't overthink the trees. They look good," he says. A smile touches her lips, "I'll try not to."

The next day, a quiet anticipation builds inside you, wondering if the mystery man from yesterday will actually come back. By 1:55 PM, you find yourself glancing at the clock, meticulously picking out a nicer playlist to fill the room. Meanwhile, Logan is rushing across campus after his lecture, intentionally slowing his pace at the last second just so he doesn't look completely out of breath when he reaches the art wing by 2:00 PM.

By the fifth day, a new rhythm forms. Logan shows up holding two coffees, setting one down on your stool without a word, and in return, you slide a spare sketch pad toward him.

"Still no name?" he asks, leaning back against the windowsill.

You look up from your canvas, a playful smile touching your lips. "Names carry too many assumptions. Let's see how long we can go."

He chuckles, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. "Deal."

Multiple afternoons spent talking, sharing quiet laughter, and telling stories had turned the chilly studio into your own private world. You had spent weeks piecing each other together through quick glances and comfortable pauses, learning the rhythm of each other's thoughts over steaming paper cups.

Until one gloomy afternoon, the steady, gray autumn downpour finally washed away the last of our carefully guarded boundaries.

The rain blurred the high, arched windows of the studio, creating a rhythmic, isolated hum that made the vast room feel incredibly small, safe, and entirely cut off from the rest of the campus. Usually, Logan spent his hour leaning back in his chair, quietly observing you paint with a steady, grounding presence. But today, the heavy silence in the room felt different. He was sitting at the desk he’d claimed, a textbook open in front of him, but his jaw was tight, his large shoulders tense, and his eyes were staring right through the pages, completely lost in a dark headspace.

You set your paintbrush down in the jar of water, the soft clink of glass breaking the quiet.

"You're going to burn a hole through those pages just by staring at them," you said softly, tilting your head.

Logan blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. He looked up from the textbook, letting out a low, tired breath that sounded less like a laugh and more like a sigh. He rubbed the back of his neck, his posture deflating.

"Yeah," he admitted, his voice a bit rougher than usual. "Sorry. Just... a lot on my mind today."

You hopped down from your stool, picking up your lukewarm coffee cup and walking over to lean against the windowsill near his desk. "Want to talk about it? Or do you want to keep intimidating your homework?"

Logan looked out at the rain, his fingers tracing the edge of the wooden desk. For a long moment, the only sound was the storm against the glass. He hesitated, a rare flash of raw exhaustion crossing his face before he finally looked up at you.

"My dad called before I came here," Logan said quietly, his tone dropping into a flat, heavy register. "He was... drunk. Again. It’s usually a fifty-fifty shot whether he’s sober enough to hold a conversation, but today was bad." He let out a harsh, self-deprecating breath. "I spent twenty minutes on the phone making sure he hadn't burned the kitchen down or driven his truck into a ditch. It’s just... exhausting. Spending half your life playing parent to the person who’s supposed to be taking care of you."

Your heart ached for him. The image of this massive, confident hockey star being reduced to a worried, tired kid over a phone call hit you with a wave of fierce empathy.

"I'm sorry, Logan," you said softly, your voice carrying a deep, unhurried sincerity. "You shouldn't have to carry that. Especially not by yourself."

"It's just the fear, I guess," Logan murmured, looking down at his worn sneakers, a tight line forming along his jaw. "Watching someone destroy themselves and knowing that if I slip up—even a little bit—everything falls apart. I didn't grow up like most of the guys on the team, or the kids on this campus. My family didn't have money. There was no safety net, no savings account, no inheritance waiting for me."

He gestured vaguely toward the window, looking out at the sprawling, historic brick buildings of Briar University.

"The only reason I'm sitting in this room, the only reason I can afford to walk through these halls, is because of my athletic scholarship. Hockey is my only ticket," Logan admitted, his voice dropping to a vulnerable, raw whisper. "If I get a career-ending injury, or if my grades slip because I'm too busy worrying about whether my dad is conscious back home... the scholarship vanishes. And if that goes, I’m done here. I'm back to a small town with a broken father and zero options. It feels like I'm carrying the weight of my entire future on the blade of a skate every single night."

He shook his head, instantly looking apologetic. "Sorry. That’s heavy. I shouldn't be dumping that on you. You've got this peaceful life, and I'm out here ruining the quiet vibe."

"You aren't ruining anything," you countered gently, stepping a fraction closer. You looked down at your coffee cup, tracing the rim as you allowed your own guard to drop—something you rarely did with anyone on this campus.

"My life isn't perfect, Logan. It’s just... quiet," you admitted, a wistful smile touching your lips. "My mom passed away when I was young, so it’s just been me and my dad. And he is incredible. He supports everything I do, he protects me fiercely, and he has never, not once, placed an ounce of pressure on me."

Logan listened intensely, his dark eyes locking onto yours, sensing the underlying weight in your words.

"But because he’s so good, and because he gives me absolutely everything... I do it to myself," you whispered, looking up to meet his gaze. "The pressure doesn't come from him, Logan. It comes entirely from me. I look at how much he loves me, how hard he works to protect my world, and I construct this impossible standard in my own head. I feel this crushing, internal need to be flawless. To never make a mistake, to always hold myself with composure, and to be entirely worthy of everything he’s sacrificed. I moved a state from home just to try and escape my own head, but I’m still the one holding the rope tight around my own neck. I’m terrified that if I'm not perfect, I'll be the one who lets him down."

"But because he’s so good, and because I’m all he has left... the pressure is suffocating," you whispered, looking up to meet his gaze. "Every day, I feel this invisible, crushing need to be flawless. To never make a mistake, to never cause him a second of worry, to inherit this massive family legacy and carry it without tripping. I moved twelve minutes away from home just to breathe, but I still feel like I’m walking on a tightrope. I feel like I'm letting down the only person who matters."

You let out a small, breathless laugh, suddenly feeling exposed. "It sounds silly, I know. Sitting here accumulating my own internal panic over a family that loves me, while you're fighting just to stay here."

"Hey," Logan interrupted softly.

Before you could step back into your poised, guarded shell, he reached out. His large, warm hand closed gently over your forearm, his thumb resting against your skin with a steady, grounding pressure.

"It doesn't sound silly at all," Logan said, his voice incredibly thick with emotion as he looked up at you. "Internal pressure is just as heavy as external pressure. It doesn't matter where the weight comes from, it still cuts into your shoulders the exact same way. You're holding yourself to an impossible standard because you care so much. That doesn't make you spoiled. It just makes you human."

You looked down at his hand on your arm, the warmth of his touch radiating through your sweater, melting away the lingering chill of the rainy afternoon.

Logan smiled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a deep, understanding tenderness. "I guess we both just need a place where we don't have to keep score against ourselves."

"Yeah," you breathed, a genuine, unburdened smile finally gracing your face. "I guess we do."

By the sixth week, he doesn't just linger by the door anymore. He claims a nearby desk, pulling out his homework or scrolling through his phone while you paint. The silence between you becomes a comfortable haven. Over these weeks, you gradually piece him together; you learn he plays hockey for Briar, and that every single afternoon before he heads off to practice, he chooses to spend his spare hour right here, with you.

The invitation didn’t come from a flyer or a massive group chat; it came in the quiet, low-lit printmaking studio on a Thursday afternoon.

You were meticulously cleaning an ink roller when your classmate, Maya, leaned against the heavy iron printing press, a mischievous look on her face.

"Dean Di Laurentis and Beau Maxwell are hosting a dynamic duo party tomorrow night for their birthday," Maya said, tapping a finger rhythmically against the metal. "The entire hockey team and half the student body is going to be there, and frankly, we've spent the last three weeks inhaling turpentine. We need to touch grass."

You had offered a faint, amused smile, initially inclined to decline. A loud party house was a far cry from the quiet galleries you preferred. But looking out the studio window at the autumn breeze, the thought of spending another weekend isolated in your spacious apartment felt a little too lonely. Besides, a small, quiet part of you wondered if a certain hockey player who frequented the studio at 2:00 PM might show up.

"One drink," you had negotiated with Maya, wiping your hands on a cloth with effortless poise. "And we leave the moment it gets too chaotic.

For the dynamic duo party, you and your classmate had opted for something that subtly nodded to your major: The Artist and the Masterpiece. Maya wearing overalls carrying a chisle, while your interpretation of the masterpiece was entirely high-fashion, like a sculpture—a beautifully draped, cream-colored silk midi dress that looked like wearable sculpture, your hair swept up into a loose, elegant twist secured by a vintage gold pin. It was understated, timeless, and effortlessly sophisticated.

Dean Di Laurentis’s off-campus house was a sensory overload of vibrating bass and cheap beer, a world entirely foreign to the quiet galleries and Manhattan brownstones you grew up with. You stood near the edge of the kitchen, observing the chaos with a detached, quiet amusement, holding a drink you had no intention of finishing.

That was when you spotted him across the living room.

The contrast was striking. In the art studio, he was a quiet, unassuming presence in dark hoodies. Tonight, he was surrounded by the loud, boisterous energy of the Briar hockey team, wearing a hawks shirt its sleeves cut off with a pair of metallic golden wings strapped over his broad shoulders. He looked entirely ridiculous, yet carried it with an easy, unbothered confidence.

Logan happened to glance toward the kitchen, his eyes scanning the crowd until they locked onto you. He stopped mid-sentence. A look of genuine relief crossed his face, and he immediately excused himself from the team, navigating the packed room with purpose until he stopped right in front of you.

Adjusting his costume, a self-deprecating smile pulling at his lips, "Please tell me you aren't going to hold this costume against me."

Amused, tilting your head slightly, "I don't know. Metallic gold is quite a statement outside of the art wing… Logan."

He stops, genuinely surprised, his eyes widening a fraction, "Wait—how do you know my name?"

A bit playful, taking a slow sip of your drink, "You play for Briar, and you're the star left wing. You're a little hard to miss on a campus this size. Besides, I do my research on the guys who steal my coffee warmth at 2:00 PM."

Logan gives a quiet laugh, a faint flush creeping up his neck as he rubs the back of his head, "Fair enough. Caught red-handed. As for the look... Tucker and I were supposed to be a dynamic duo. He went as a bumblebee, so I improvised. A hawk." He shakes his head, smiling. "We're calling it 'the birds and the bees' but honestly, it’s just a disaster."

His eyes trace the elegant drape of your silk dress, a look of genuine appreciation replacing his embarrassment. "You look incredible, by the way. What’s the duo theme?"

"The Artist and the Masterpiece. My classmate, Maya, has the chisle."

Logan looks down at you, his tone dropping into something soft and intensely sincere, "Masterpiece. Yeah. I can definitely see that."

Someone shoves past trying to get through, and Logan seamlessly shifts his weight, stepping in closer to shield you from the rowdy crowd. His focus narrows entirely to you.

"Look, the 'no names' rule was fun," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. "But since it's officially broken… I want to ask you properly. What’s your name?"

You offer him a small, genuine smile, extending your hand in a gesture that is entirely classic, poised, and polite.

"[Name]."

He takes your hand, his grip warm, large, and steady, reapeating it carefully as if committing it to memory, "[Name]. It's really nice to officially meet you. Honestly, I was wondering if you would go to the party tonight."

Before the moment can linger too long, Dean swagger-walks over, looking between you and Logan. "Yo, Logan. You skipped out right in the middle of my story. Who’s your friend?"

Logan turns to dean, his posture turning subtly protective as he introduces you, "Dean, this is [Name]. She's the artist from the studio."

Dean grins broadly, extending a hand, "Ah, the famous 2:00 PM appointment. I’m Dean. Welcome to the madhouse."

Before you could reply, a loud, booming laugh echoed from the living room, and a tall, athletic guy with an easy, commanding presence navigated through the crowd. Garrett Graham possessed the kind of effortless charisma that instantly marked him as the team captain. He had a gold medal prop looped around his neck—completely unbothered by the chaos around him.

Garrett slapping a hand on Logan's shoulder, "Don't let Logan bore you, [Your Name]. He’s been checking his watch all night waiting for you to walk through that door."

Shooting a warning glare at Garrett, a dark flush creeps up on Logan, "Shut up, Graham."

Right on Garrett’s heels was John Tucker, who looked remarkably too broad to be wearing a plush, striped bumblebee costume complete with bouncing antenna on a headband. He carried a plastic honey pot filled with punch, offering you a warm, southern, and genuinely polite smile that instantly made him feel approachable.

"Don't mind them, ma'am. I'm Tucker. And yes, before you ask, he’s the bird to my bee. We had a pact, though he clearly half-assed his end of the bargain."

You couldn't help the soft, genuine laugh that escaped your lips, the sheer absurdity of the hockey team completely contrasting with the stiff, formal galas you were used to. "It’s a pleasure to meet you all. The synchronization is... impressive, Tucker."

Logan, shaking his head, "Don't encourage him, please."

Finally, Beau Maxwell stepped up beside Dean, completing the core group. Beau possessed a sharp, discerning gaze, but it softened with an easygoing smirk as he took in your high-fashion silk dress and Maya's paint covered outfit nearby.

"The Artist and the Masterpiece. Clever. It’s definitely a massive step up from the usual crowd we get in this kitchen. I'm Beau. Happy to have you here."

As the guys fell into their natural, boisterous banter, a sharp, amused voice cut through the noise from the kitchen doorway.

"Oh, thank god. Someone with actual taste has finally entered this house."

You turned to see Hannah Wells walking in, holding a drink and looking at your draped silk dress with pure, unadulterated appreciation. Right behind her was Allie Hayes, who offered you an immediate, blindingly warm smile.

Hannah stepped past Garrett, who automatically looped a possessive arm around her waist. "I'm Hannah. And let me just say, your dress is spectacular. It's wearable art."

You smile, "Thank you. I'm [Name]. My classmate and I went as the Artist and the Masterpiece."

Allies eyes light up, "That is brilliant! I'm Allie. Honestly, [Name], please stay in this kitchen. If I have to listen to Dean talk about Top Gun flight trajectories for one more minute, I’m going to lose my mind."

Logan chuckling, though his posture remained subtly protective beside you, "Don't overwhelm her, ladies."

Hannah shooting a knowing and playful smirk to him, "Oh, please, Logan. We're rescuing her from you boys."

For the next twenty minutes, the initial barrier of the chaotic party completely melted away. Hannah and Allie effortlessly pulled you into the conversation, asking about your art major with genuine curiosity rather than the passive-aggressive scrutiny you usually feared from campus peers. For the first time since moving twelve minutes away from home, you felt a spark of true belonging.

But the dynamic shifted slightly when the kitchen crowd parted, and someone with a sharp, discerning gaze stepped up to the counter. Crossing their arms, eyes instantly sliding past Logan to lock into you with intense curiosity.

Sensing this, Logan cleared his throat, "Jules, this is [Name]. She’s the artist from the studio I told you—I mean, she’s from the art wing. [Name], this is my sibling, Jules."

You offered her a poised, elegant smile, extending your hand. "It's very nice to meet you, Jules."

Jules didn't just shake your hand; they took it, their sharp eyes taking in your beautifully draped, silk dress and your air of sophistication. They let out an appreciative hum.

"The costume suits you. Honestly, you're entirely too sophisticated for this house. And definitely too sophisticated for my brother."

Tilting your head, "Oh, I don't know. I think his golden bird wings are quite a statement."

Jules lets out a sharp, delighted laugh, "Oh, I like her. she's witty." She leaned her elbow on the counter, entirely disregarding Logan’s warning glare. "So, [Your Name]... give me the real story. What exactly is the nature of your relationship with my brother? Because Johnny here usually talks about hockey, hockey, and more hockey. But lately, all I hear about is a '2:00 PM appointment' and someone who apparently makes the absolute best coffee company on campus."

Logan groans out loud, rubbing a hand over his face, "Jules, please stop. Right now."

A burning blush hits your cheeks, but you maintain your quiet composure, a playful smile touching your lips) "We're just... breaking the rules of assumptions. No names until tonight, just coffee warmth and quiet sketching."

Jules’s eyes gave you a look of genuine, protective approval flashing in their expression. They tapped the back of their phone against their chin, giving you a playful wink.

"Well, if you can keep him quiet and compliant for an hour every day, you’re officially a miracle worker. I'll see you around campus." They say, quietly slipping back in to the crowd.

Eventually, the heat and noise of the kitchen grew a bit too suffocating. Sensing your subtle shift in posture, Logan leaned down, his voice a low, private rumble against your ear.

"Come with me. Let's get some air."

He guided you through the crowded hallway and out onto the quiet, shadowed wrap-around porch. The cool autumn air hit your skin like a relief, the heavy bass of the house instantly muffling behind the closed glass doors. You walked over to the wooden railing, looking out over the dark lawn.

Logan stepped up beside you, unstrapping the ridiculous metallic gold wings from his shoulders and setting them on a nearby bench.

"Much better," he sighed, running a hand through his hair, leaving it perfectly messy. "I love the guys, but they're a lot sometimes."

You tilt your head to look up at him, "I think they're charming. Especially Tucker's commitment to the bumblebee aesthetic."

Stepping a fraction closer, his large frame blocking the chilly breeze for you, "Yeah, well... Tucker is one of a kind. But honestly? I didn't bring you out here to talk about Tucker."

The playfulness in the air suddenly shifted, melting into something thick and magnetic. Logan’s eyes darkened, dropping down to trace the elegant slope of your jaw where the oil paint had been just days prior, before locking onto your lips.

His voice dropping a soft breathless whisper, "I meant what I said inside, You look absolutely breathtaking tonight."

Your breath hitched in your throat. The quiet confidence you usually carried around like armor suddenly felt fragile under the intensity of his gaze. He stepped in closer, his warmth radiating through his shirt. Slowly, intentionally, his hand rose, his thumb gently brushing against your cheekbone, tilting your face up just a fraction.

You leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut as his head began to incline. The space between your lips vanished until you could feel the ghost of his breath—

SLAM.

The porch door flew open with violent force.

Tucker bursts out, completely oblivious, the bumblebee antenna on his head bouncing wildly, "Logan! Bro! Dean is about to do a keg stand into a bush and Garrett says you have to anchor him! Move, move, move!"

The spell shattered instantly. Logan froze, his eyes snapping open with a flash of pure, unadulterated frustration. He closed his eyes for a brief second, inhaling deeply as if praying for strength.

Logan, without looking at Tucker, his voice strained, "Give me a minute, Tuck."

Finally registering the atmosphere, Tucker's eyes widening, "Oh. Oh. Wow. I am an insect of bad timing. Carrying on! Buzzing away!" He scrambled backward, slamming the door shut again.

A small, breathless laugh escaped your lips, breaking the tension. Logan looked back down at you, utterly defeated smile pulling at his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"I am going to kill him. I'm going to squash him."

Smiling softly, smooting down the front of your silk dress, "It’s fine, Logan. Duty calls. You should probably go make sure Dean doesn't break a bone."

Sighing, stepping back reluctantly, though his eyes remained intensely locked on yours, "Yeah, probably. But before I go..." He hesitated, a rare flash of nervousness crossing his features. "We have a home game this Friday. Against Harvard. It's going to be loud, and it's definitely not a quiet art studio... but I really want you there."

He reached out, his fingers briefly brushing yours.

Hannah and Allie always sit in the front section by the glass. If you come, you can sit with them. I'll make sure your name is on the list at the gate. What do you say?"

You looked at him—this broad-shouldered hockey star who spent his afternoons in a quiet studio just to be near you, now looking entirely vulnerable as he waited for your answer.

"I've never been to a hockey game before."

A smile breaks across Logan's face, "Then let me show you how it's done. Please?"

You offered him a small, sophisticated nod. "Alright, Logan. I'll be there."

His smile widening, taking a step toward the door backward, "I'll be looking for you on the glass. Don't overthink the trees tomorrow, okay?"

With a final, lingering look, he turned and jogged back inside to handle the chaos, leaving you on the quiet porch with your heart beating entirely out of rhythm.

Getting home after the party honestly filled with a buzz from the new friends made down to that moment with Logan. The heavy silence of your spacious apartment was a stark contrast to the thumping bass of the hockey house, but your mind was still racing, your heart doing a strange little flutter every time you pictured Logan’s eyes dropping to your lips on that porch.

The sharp ring of your phone abruptly disrupts your thoughts. Looking down at the caller ID, Dad it says.

You slide the screen to answer, a soft smile automatically gracing your face as you press the phone to your ear.

"Hi, Dad."

"There she is," his deep, familiar voice echoes through the line, instantly carrying the comforting warmth of Manhattan. You can hear the faint clinking of a crystal glass in the background—he’s likely winding down in his study. "I was starting to think my girl forgot about her old man. How is Briar treating you tonight? You aren't locking yourself away in that studio all weekend, are you?"

"Actually, no," you say, kicking off your heels and walking over to the large window, looking down at the moonlit garden. "I just got back from a party, believe it or not."

A brief pause hangs on the line, filled with genuine surprise. "A party? You? Who managed to drag my private little artist out into the wild?"

"A classmate from my major, Maya. We actually did a duo costume together," you explain, leaning against the window frame. "And it was actually... really nice. I met some great people. A girl named Hannah, and another named Allie."

"Well, look at you," your dad chuckles, the sheer relief and happiness in his tone palpable. He always placed your happiness above everything else in his universe. "I knew that campus wouldn't know what hit it. So, just a girls' night out, then? Or did some hotshot college boy try to sweep you off your feet?"

It was a standard, teasing dad question—one he’d asked a dozen times before over the years, usually met with your calm, indifferent dismissal.

Except this time, your throat completely locks up.

Logan's warm, steady grip on your hand flashes in your mind. Masterpiece. Yeah. I can definitely see that.

You open your mouth to give a smooth, poised reply, but nothing comes out. The silence stretches for one second. Two seconds. A sudden, burning blush creeps violently up your neck, coloring your cheeks in the darkness of your bedroom.

On the other end of the line, the clinking of his glass stops completely. Your dad’s voice drops an octave, the casual humor instantly melting into the hyper-alert sharpness of a protective millionaire father.

"Wait a minute," he says, his tone narrowing with sudden suspicion. "[Name]? Why are you quiet?"

"I'm not quiet," you squeak out, your voice a pitch higher than usual, completely betraying your carefully practiced composure.

"Oh, you are absolutely quiet. That is your 'I’m hiding something' quiet," he counters, his voice a mix of growing panic and fierce protectiveness. "Who is he? What’s his name? Is he one of those fraternity boys? Because I can look up his family records before sunrise—"

"Dad! No, please, stop," you interrupt, entirely flustered, burying your face in your hand as if he could see you through the phone. "It’s nothing like that. He’s... he’s just someone from the art studio."

Hearing the genuine panic in your voice, your dad sighs, softened by how fiercely he loves you. He knows he can never firmly put his foot down when it comes to you, especially when you sound this vulnerable. He lets out a breath, his tone turning incredibly gentle, persuasive.

"Sweetheart... you know you can tell me anything." He murmurs softly, a tender reminder of the bond the two of you shared since the day you were born. "If there’s someone making my daughter blush through a phone line twelve minutes away from campus, I think I at least deserve to know if he's a gentleman."

His gentleness completely disarms your guard. You look over at the canvas resting on your easel, a soft, helpless smile touching your lips as you decide to open up.

"His name is John Logan, but we call him logan" you admit softly, your voice barely a whisper in the quiet room. "He plays hockey here. And... we've been sitting in the art studio together every afternoon at 2:00 PM for the last three weeks. He brings me coffee."

There is a long silence on the line. You can practically hear your dad processing the words hockey player, wrestling with his internal protective instincts, before he sighs again, defeated by your happiness.

"A hockey player who frequents an art wing," your dad muses, a faint, reluctant amusement in his voice. "Well... at least he has good taste in coffee companions. Does he treat you right?"

"He's incredibly intentional, Dad. And observant," you say honestly, the memory of Logan shielding you from the rowdy crowd in the kitchen warming your chest. "He actually invited me to his game this Friday. He put my name on the guest list to sit with Hannah and Allie."

"Alright," your dad says quietly, though you can tell he's already mentally adjusting to this massive shift in your life. "You go to the game. Have your fun. But [Your Name]?"

"Yes, Dad."

"If he ever steps out of line, you tell me. I don't care how big he is on a skating rink."

You let out a soft, genuine laugh, the lingering tension from the party completely fading away. "I know, Dad. I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart. Get some sleep."

As the call disconnects, you set the phone down, the apartment suddenly feeling a little warmer as you head to bed, the anticipation for Friday's game already building in your chest.

The morning after an account on instagram popped up on your feed named The fifth line in its post, a photo of you and logan at the party looking at each other eyes, him holding your hand.

The stadium was a towering cauldron of sound, vibrating with a chaotic, electric energy that was entirely foreign to the refined world you grew up in. Long before you even reached your seat, the deep, rhythmic thumping of student chants rattled through the concrete floors beneath your boots. The air inside the arena was a unique mixture of crisp, artificial cold and the heavy warmth of thousands of packed bodies. Bright, unyielding stadium lights reflected harshly off the pristine white sheets of the ice below, creating an intense, almost blinding glow.

You navigated the steep stairs of the arena, holding tightly to the railing as students in matching blue and white jerseys shouted over the blaring stadium speakers. It was a high-stakes rivalry game against Harvard, and the tension in the air was thick enough to taste.

True to his word, Logan had left your name at the gate. The security guard had scanned your ID, smiled warmly, and directed you straight down to the glass—the exclusive friends and family section.

"Over here! [Name]!"

You looked down toward the very front row to see Allie Hayes waving frantically, a bright smile on her face. Beside her, Hannah Wells was wrapped in an oversized Briar hockey hoodie, offering you an immediate, welcoming nod. As you slid into the row next to them, the immediate feeling of being an outsider completely vanished.

"You actually made it!" Allie beamed, pulling you into a quick, enthusiastic hug. "We were hoping Logan wasn't just hallucinating when he said you promised to come."

"I keep my promises," you said, offering a poised, genuine smile as you took your seat right against the thick plexiglass. "Though I have to admit, I have absolutely no idea what is happening."

"Don't worry," Hannah laughed, leaning over the back of her seat with an easy, comfortable familiarity. "Just watch the guys in blue. If they hit someone into the boards, you cheer. If Garrett scores, I scream. If Logan scores, you get to look smug."

Before you could ask what the 'boards' were, a deafening siren echoed through the arena, and the crowd erupted into a frenzied roar. The heavy metal doors of the home tunnel swung open, and the Briar varsity team flooded onto the ice. They looked massive, almost monstrous in their full pads and helmets, gliding across the ice with terrifying speed and precision.

Your eyes immediately began scanning the sea of jerseys, searching for a specific number.

And then you saw him. Number 22.

Logan looked entirely different out here. The quiet, gentle boy who sat sketching in the low-lit art wing was gone. On the ice, he was a force of nature. He skated with a lethal, effortless grace, his broad shoulders cutting through the air as he finished his warm-up lap.

As the team huddled around their goal for the final pre-game breakdown, Logan suddenly detached himself from the group. He skated backward toward your section of the glass, his eyes instantly tracking the front row until they locked onto yours.

Even behind the heavy cage of his helmet, you could see the exact moment his eyes softened. A brilliant, breathless smile broke across his face. He raised his heavy hockey stick, tapping the thick blade gently against the glass right in front of your hands—a private, incredibly intentional salute just for you in a room full of ten thousand people.

"Oh, wow," Allie teased loudly over the roar of the crowd, nudging your shoulder. "Look at that. Johnny is officially clocking in for duty."

A sudden, fierce blush rushed up your neck, warming your cheeks against the chill of the ice. You offered Logan a small, elegant wave, your heart doing that strange, rhythmic flutter it had been doing ever since the party. He gave you one last lingering look, a confident nod, and spun back around to face the center line.

The referee blew the whistle, the puck dropped, and the game began.

It was a brutal, dizzying blur of speed. You watched in absolute fascination as Logan commanded the left wing. He was terrifyingly fast, his skates throwing up sprays of ice as he shielded the puck with his massive frame, completely unbothered by the Harvard defensemen trying to crash into him. It was a violent, chaotic dance, yet from your vantage point on the glass, you observed it with the sharp eye of an artist, capturing the raw, powerful composition of his movements.

By the second period, the score was tied 2-2. The arena was deafening, the student section screaming for a breakthrough.

The puck was jammed in the far corner of the Harvard zone. Garrett Graham fought through a heavy check, somehow hooking the puck backward with his stick and blindingly centering it right into the slot.

Out of nowhere, a flash of blue jersey cut through the defense. It was Logan.

With a single, explosive motion, he caught the pass on his tape and unleashed a devastating, lightning-fast wrist shot. The puck vanished into the top corner of the net so quickly you barely saw it move.

A red light flashed behind the goal, the horn wailed with a piercing shriek, and the entire stadium exploded into pure pandemonium.

Logan didn’t go to the student section to celebrate. He didn't even high-five Garrett first. Instead, he skated hard straight toward your section of the glass, his teammates swarming after him. He slammed his gloved hands against the plexiglass right where you were sitting, laughing breathlessly, his eyes burning with a triumphant, electric adrenaline as he stared directly at you.

You stood up with Hannah and Allie, completely swept up in the roaring magic of the moment. Abandoning your usual guarded composure, a brilliant, unrestrained smile broke across your face as you tapped your hands against the glass, matching his energy.

Logan’s gaze trapped yours through the plastic barrier, his chest heaving as his teammates threw their arms around his neck, dragging him into a celebratory huddle. But even as he was pulled away, his focus never left you.

In that loud, chaotic, freezing arena, surrounded by thousands of screaming strangers, you realized your private little world was officially expanding—and you weren't sure you ever wanted to shrink it back down again.

The locker room was a chaotic sensory overload of spraying champagne, blasting music, and screaming hockey players. The adrenaline from the 3-2 victory over Harvard was still vibrating through the concrete walls. Coach had just finished a roaring, prideful speech, slamming his clipboard against the table to a chorus of cheers before the team began dismantling into the showers.

As Logan was stripping off his heavy shoulder pads, a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder.

"Logan. A word in my office." Coach Jensen says, already walking towards the room.

Logan blinked, his heart instantly doing a nervous spike. On a athletic scholarship, being pulled into Coach's office right after a massive win usually meant something was wrong. He quickly tied a towel around his waist and walked into the quieter, fluorescent-lit office, the heavy thumping of the locker room music instantly muffled.

"Everything good, Coach? Did I mess up that defensive rotation in the third?"

Jensen, sitting back in his chair, a rare genuinely stunned expression on his weathered face. "Shut the door, son. And no, your rotation was fine. It’s not about the game." Coach picked up a piece of official university letterhead, staring at it before looking up at Logan. "I just got a call from the athletic director. An hour before puck drop, a private legal entity finalized a full institutional sponsorship for you."

Logan froze, his hand still resting on the doorknob. "A sponsorship? Like... gear?"

"No, Logan. A total financial package. They are covering your entire housing stipend, your meal plans, your training fees, and writing a blind check to cover the remainder of your tuition out-of-pocket. It removes you entirely from the standard athletic scholarship constraints. Even if you get injured tomorrow, your entire time at Briar is completely paid for."

The air left Logan’s lungs all at once. The room tilted slightly. He thought of his alcoholic father back home, the constant, suffocating fear of a single blown knee destroying his entire future, the absolute exhaustion of carrying his survival on the edge of a skate blade.

His voice barely a breathless whisper, complete baffled. "Who... Coach, who is it? Is it an agency? A scout?"

"They refused to give a name. The lawyers specified that the donor wishes to remain entirely anonymous. They just said it was an 'investment in raw talent.' I’ve been coaching twenty-two years, kid, and I’ve never seen a blind benefactor hand out a golden ticket like this."

Logan stood there, completely paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of the information. His mouth opened to say something—anything—but his brain couldn't process the sudden, overwhelming freedom. The invisible rope around his neck had just vanished.

Coach stood up, walking over to pat Logan’s soaked shoulder with a look of profound respect.

"Don't overthink it tonight, kid. Someone out there sees what you're doing, and they wanted to give you a level playing field. Go freshen up, get showered. You earned it."

Ten minutes later, Logan walked out of the varsity tunnel into the arena's quieter, chilly corridor. His hair was still damp from the shower, a duffel bag slung over his broad shoulder. He was completely numb, his mind spinning in a thousand different directions as he tried to comprehend the anonymous miracle that had just altered his entire life.

But the fog in his mind cleared the exact moment he saw you.

You were leaning against the concrete wall near the exit, your hands tucked into the pockets of your wool coat, looking entirely out of place in the sterile stadium hallway—yet completely, breathtakingly beautiful.

Hearing his footsteps, you looked up, an uncharacteristically wide, brilliant smile breaking across your usually calm face.

"There’s the star left wing. I believe you promised me a smuggler's look if you scored."

Logan stopped in front of you. He looked down at your face, your soft eyes, and the genuine happiness radiating from you. The urge to yell, to scream, to tell you that he was finally safe, that his future was secure, burned in the back of his throat.

But as he looked at your elegant composure, his pride—and the sheer, protective confusion of the anonymous gift—made him lock the secret deep inside his chest. He didn't want to ruin this perfect, unburdened night with heavy, complicated financial mysteries. He just wanted to be the guy who won the game for you.

A breathless, incredibly tender smile broke across his face as he stepped directly into your space, completely ignoring the lingering cold of the arena.

"Yeah, well... it’s easy to score when the prettiest girl in the stadium is standing right against the glass." He dropped his duffel bag to the floor, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "Come here."

Before you could offer a witty reply, his large, warm hands cupped your jaw, tilting your head up as he brought his lips down to yours...

His lips were warm against yours, tasting like the faint chill of the rink and pure, unfiltered adrenaline. For a few short seconds, the sterile concrete hallway of the arena completely vanished. Your hands naturally found the fabric of his damp hoodie, anchoring you to his chest as his thumb swept gently along your jawline.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of your breaths coming out in short, ragged puffs.

Logan murmurs against your lips, "Yeah. I'm definitely never letting you miss a game again."

A soft laugh escaped you, your fingers lingering on his chest. But before you could reply, a harsh, synchronized vibration rattled through the corridor.

Bzzzzz.

It wasn’t just your phone. Inside his duffel bag on the floor, Logan’s phone let out the exact same heavy, rhythmic buzz. Then, down the hall, you heard two passing students gasp, their thumbs instantly flying across their screens.

A strange, sudden chill settled over your skin. You pulled your phone from your coat pocket, the bright screen illuminating a notification that made your stomach instantly drop.

@TheFifthLine: Spotted: Briar’s star left wing checking in for duty at the front row glass tonight. Looks like a budding romance is officially brewing between Number 22 and our resident studio recluse. But word around the quad is our mystery artist isn’t exactly what she seems on the surface. Looks like Ms. Shadow carries a very opulent, lengthy background. Is there a reason you left Manhattan behind, Verplanck? Who are you really hiding behind that canvas?

Your voice suddenly betrays you, cracking on the first syllable "I—Logan, it’s... the campus blogs, they just take random names and rumors to get clicks. They just..."

You stammered, your fingers tightening around your phone so hard your knuckles turned white. The sudden confrontation, combined with the paralyzing fear of being entirely exposed, sent a wave of pure panic through your veins. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't find the elegant, poised words you usually used to shield yourself.

Logan saw the exact moment the color drained from your face. He saw the slight tremor in your hands.

He didn't push. He didn't demand answers. Instead, he took a step closer, his large hands gently but firmly wrapping around your wrists, forcing you to lower the phone.

His voice dropping into a calm, steady directive. "Hey. Look at me. Breathe."

You looked up, your eyes wide and frantic, capturing his gaze.

The crowd is about to empty out into this hallway. Come on. Let’s get out of here."

The drive back to your apartment twenty minutes away from campus was entirely silent, save for the rhythmic, heavy swipe of the windshield wipers clearing the lingering rain.

You stared out the passenger window at the passing streetlights, your heart still hammering against your ribs. It wasn't that your identity was some dark, elaborate lie. Your last name had always been on the class rosters, and you'd never denied who your father was—you had just deliberately kept it down low. You didn't wear flashing logos, you didn't talk about Manhattan townhouses, and you let everyone simply assume you were just another art major struggling through midterms. You had finally found a place where you were liked just for you, not for your family’s checkbook. If he looked up the history of the Verplanck name tonight, would he look at you differently? Would he think you were just playing a game?

When the truck finally rumbled to a halt in front of your oddly spacious apartment building, Logan turned off the engine. The sudden quiet of the cabin was deafening.

He shifted in his seat, looking at your profile in the dim light of the dashboard.

"You're completely frozen," he said softly, his voice lacking any judgment, only carrying a deep, protective concern. "Whatever that post is talking about... it doesn't change anything for me tonight. You don't have to explain it right now if you aren't ready."

You finally turned your head, looking at his kind, honest eyes. The vulnerability of the moment made your chest tighten.

"Logan... I'm sorry I panicked. My family... it’s not a secret. I just never talk about it because I wanted a completely fresh start here. I wanted to be a normal student. I wanted to see what it felt like to exist outside the assumptions that come with my name."

Logan looked down at his own large hands, a small, slightly complicated smile touching his lips as he thought about his own massive, secret financial news from Coach.

I get it more than you think. Everyone on this campus wants to put you in a box based on a name or what you have. But I know who you are in that studio. That’s the only version of you that matters to me."

He leaned over the console, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering against your warm skin.

"Go inside, get some sleep. Let me worry about the hockey blogs. I'll see you tomorrow at two o'clock PM?"

A genuine, relieved breath escaping you. "two o'clock PM. Promise."

You offered him a soft, lingering smile before opening the truck door and stepping out into the cool night air. As you walked up the steps to your building, you felt a strange, dual sensation in your chest. You were completely, utterly safe in Logan's arms—but the storm brewing on at campus, on the student body, on the Fifth Line account was officially spinning out of your control.

Overnight, your privacy completely vanished.

The online discourse surrounding you rampaged across campus forums and social media threads. Some users were bewildered, a few were genuinely nice, but most comments carried a sharp, passive-aggressive sting that made your stomach turn.

"What’s a trust fund kid even doing at Briar lol," one comment read.

Another thread was filled with links to old Manhattan society pages and financial articles about your father’s corporate acquisitions. It was all out there now, laid bare in the worst way possible. Your background had never been intended as a dark, malicious secret—you had just always had a hard time introducing that part of yourself to new relationships. You didn't want to be put on a pedestal or treated differently. It was completely and entirely against the exact reason you had come to Briar in the first place. You just wanted to be an artist.

Now, the morning light filtered through your apartment windows, but you hadn't moved from your kitchen island. You sat staring at your laptop screen, reading the comments as more and more information was pulled from Google. Anxiety crept heavily into your chest, a suffocating weight that made it hard to draw a full breath. Your fingers fidgeted restlessly, picking at the skin around the sides of your nails until they were raw.

It wasn't that you weren't used to attention; growing up a Verplanck meant gala photographers and strict etiquette. But being scrutinized this publicly, this outright, and by the very peers you were trying to fit in with was a completely different kind of terrifying.

A sudden, loud knock at your front door made you flinch so violently your coffee spilled slightly over the rim of your mug.

Before you could even stand up to check the peephole, the door swung open. Hannah and Allie walked straight into your apartment, completely bypassing any formal greetings. Allie was carrying a massive brown paper bag that smelled strongly of greasy diner pancakes, and Hannah had three oversized iced coffees balanced precariously in her arms.

Hannah seting the coffees down on your counter with a loud thud, "Step away from the laptop, Verplanck. Seriously, close the lid right now or I'm throwing it off your balcony."

Allie—already opening your cupboards to find plates, "We brought carbs. Heavy carbs. Because when the campus anonymous boards go feral, the only logical solution is chocolate chips and whipped cream.""We brought carbs. Heavy carbs. Because when the campus anonymous boards go feral, the only logical solution is chocolate chips and whipped cream."

You blinked at them, completely stunned, your hand still frozen near your laptop. "How did you guys even get past the lobby gate?"

Hopping casually onto one of your barstools, looking around your spacious, beautifully styled apartment with an appreciative nod "Please. Allie smiled at the security guard, and I told him we were your personal emotional support team. Plus, this place is incredible. We are officially making this the designated Friday night pre-game spot. The lighting in here is way too good for you to keep it all to yourself." Hannah says.

Allie walked over, gently but firmly reaching across the marble counter and snapping your laptop lid shut. She looked down at your raw, picked-at cuticles, her expression instantly softening into something incredibly sweet and protective.

"Hey. We saw the Fifth Line post. And we saw the idiot comments."

Your throat felt tight, your defenses instinctively trying to build a wall around you. "I'm sorry I didn't explicitly tell you guys about my family. I didn't want you to think—"

Interrupting with a dramatic roll of her eyes, hannah says, "Oh, please. Do you think we care that your dad owns half of New York? Allie’s boyfriend is going to the NHL, and my boyfriend is Garrett Graham—who literally thinks he’s royalty. If anything, having a millionaire heiress in the group just solidifies our status as the most elite table at the diner."

Allie smiled, sliding a plate of pancakes in front of you. "Seriously. You're the girl who sits in the dusty art wing and lets Logan buy her cheap campus coffee every day. We know who you are. The rest of the school is just bored because it's a Friday."

A massive, crushing wave of relief washed over you, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally loosening enough to let you breathe. You looked at the two girls sitting in your kitchen, realizing that the fresh start you wanted hadn't been ruined by the leak at all. If anything, it had just brought the right people closer.

With a genuine smile, breathless laugh escaping your lips. "You guys are ridiculous."

Hannah replies. "We know. Now eat your pancakes. We have to get you ready for your 2:00 PM hot date in the art studio tomorrow, and I fully intend to raid your closet first."

The protective bubble Hannah and Allie had built in your kitchen lasted exactly until you stepped out and walked onto the campus quad.

Usually, the walk from the apartment to the art wing was an invisible, peaceful routine. You’d keep your head down, headphones in, blending seamlessly into the sea of oversized hoodies and backpacks. But today, the atmosphere was thick with a sudden, suffocating shift in gravity.

The moment your boots hit the brick walkway, you felt it—the weight of dozens of eyes pivoting in your direction.

A group of girls sitting on the stone steps of the library stopped talking entirely as you walked past, their heads huddled together over a phone before they all looked up to track your movement. You could hear the low, distinct hiss of whispering.

"That's her."

"The Verplanck girl?"

"Look at her coat. Yeah, that's definitely not from the campus bookstore."

A guy walking toward the athletic center nudged his friend, both of them blatantly staring at you with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Overnight, you had been stripped of your anonymity. You weren't just a quiet art major anymore; you were a walking headline, a spectacle, a piece of Manhattan elite dropped into a college town.

As you neared the student union, a girl from your art history lecture—someone who had never spoken a single word to you all semester—suddenly stepped directly into your path, a bright, overly enthusiastic smile plastered on her face.

"Oh, hey, [Name]! I just wanted to say, I absolutely loved your costume at the duo party. It was so chic. Hey, a few of us are heading to a gallery opening in the city next weekend, and we were wondering if you wanted to come? We could all totally carpool."

The sudden, transparent shift in her demeanor made your stomach turn. She didn't want to get coffee; she wanted an invitation into a world she thought you belonged to.

Forcing a polite, rigid smile, your composure automatically clicking into place like armor. "Thank you, that's very kind. But I'm actually going to be completely buried in the studio next weekend."

The smile faltering slightly, her eyes quickly scanning your face for any sign of weakness. "Oh. Right. Of course. Well, let me know if you change your mind! See you in class!"

As she walked away, you let out a slow, shaky breath, your fingers tightening around the strap of your shoulder bag. The passive-aggressiveness from the online comments was one thing, but firsthand, the treatment was dizzying. Some people looked at you with resentment, some with newfound awe, and others with opportunistic calculation. None of them were seeing you. They were just looking at a dollar sign.

By the time you reached the heavy wooden doors of the art wing, your heart was hammering against your ribs. You pulled open the door, practically escaping into the quiet, familiar scent of turpentine and old paper.

You hurried down the corridor toward the high-ceilinged studio, praying that the one room that had always felt like a sanctuary hadn't been compromised, too.

You pushed open the door to the studio, the clock on the wall ticking to exactly 1:59 PM.

Logan was already there.

Without a single word about the post, comments and the rumors, Logan stood up straight, picked up one of the coffees, and walked directly over to you.

Logan stopped just a foot away from you, the warm scent of the fresh hazelnut coffee cutting through the sharp sting of turpentine in the room. He didn't look at you like you were a headline, but as he handed you the paper cup, you noticed a slight tightness around his eyes that hadn't been there yesterday.

"Did you see them on your way in?"

Logan paused, stepping back to lean his hip against the edge of your painting stool. "See who?"

"Everyone," you said softly, looking down at your coffee. The composure you’d forced yourself to wear outside was completely cracking. "The girls on the library steps... people from my lectures. They're all staring, Logan. The Fifth Line post was right. My full name is [Name] Verplanck. My family has been in New York since the shipping boom. My dad is... incredibly successful, and I grew up in a world where everything is structured, expensive, and completely public."

You swallowed hard, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "I didn't hide it to lie to you. I just wanted to see if I could be an artist first. Without a bank account attached to my introduction."

When you looked up, you expected his usual easy, reassuring smile.

But it wasn’t there.

Instead, Logan was staring at you, his dark eyes intensely searching your face. For a fleeting second, his expression was completely unreadable, a mix of caution, surprise, and a sudden, quiet distance. You could practically see his brain trying to reconcile the girl who sat on a dusty stool drinking cheap campus coffee with the historic, untouchable Manhattan dynasty of the Verplancks. To a guy who grew up with a scraping bank account and an alcoholic father, that name represented a world he couldn't even fathom.

The sudden silence stretched between you, heavy and uncertain. Your heart did a nervous flip. He’s looking at me differently.

Logan caught the flash of hurt on your face, and the defensive, brotherly instinct in him instantly overrode his own internal whiplash. He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped closer, closing the sudden distance between you.

"Sorry. It’s just... that’s a lot to take in. I’ve seen that name on news segments before." He looked down at his large, calloused hands, a slightly complicated smile touching his lips. "I’m not gonna lie to you and say it doesn't spin my head a little bit. We grew up on completely opposite sides of the track, [Name]."

You bit your inside lip, a wave of guilt hitting your chest. "Logan—"

"Hey, look at me," he interrupted softly. He reached out, his warm fingers gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb brushing over the raw skin near your nails where you’d been picking at them. "I’m thrown off, yeah. But I’m not stupid. I know who you are in this room. I know you're the girl who stares at a canvas of trees for two hours. I know you're terrified of letting down a dad who loves you. None of those things change because your last name is on a building in Manhattan."

He squeezed your wrist gently, though his eyes still carried a trace of that lingering, cautious complexity.

"If people out there want to be fake, let them. But you don't have to carry that rigid posture in here. You don't have to be perfect for me. I’m still just the guy on a hockey scholarship, remember? We're still just us."

Hearing him say we're still just us made the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally loosen. A genuine smile broke through your panic.

"We're still just us."

A playful, familiar smirk returning to his face as he let go of your wrist. "Good. Now, pick up your brush. You're losing light, and I didn't walk all the way across campus to watch you stress over a blog post."

You let out a real, unburdened laugh, turning back toward your canvas. Logan reclaimed his usual chair, pulling out his textbook, but as he stared at the pages, his mind was privately drifting.

He was thinking about his father. He was thinking about his sudden, massive anonymous financial sponsorship from an hour ago. And now, he was thinking about your millionaire background. The fragile, silent boundary between your two worlds had officially been drawn.

By the third week of November, the campus was practically vibrating with the frantic, excited energy of the upcoming Thanksgiving break. Students were already dragging duffel bags across the quad, and the air smelled like crisp frost and impending woodsmoke.

Inside your apartment, the radiators hissed a steady, cozy warmth against the freezing glass. It was Sunday night, and your living room had officially been overridden by the hockey team. Allie and Hannah were buried under a faux-fur blanket on your plush sofa, while Garrett, Dean, and Tucker had completely taken over your floor and lounge chairs, analyzing a game tape on your TV while aggressively demolishing three large pizza boxes.

Logan was stretched out on the opposite end of the sofa, his massive frame taking up almost the entire length of the cushions, one of his legs draped casually over your lap as you sat on the carpet, your back resting against his shins. Your fingers were idly tracing patterns on the denim of his jeans while Tucker and Dean argued over a defensive play.

Suddenly, your phone lit up on the coffee table, vibrating against the wood. The screen read: Dad.

His voice carries that familiar, wealthy, yet deeply warm New York register over the line) "Hello, sweetheart. I’m just leaving the office. I wanted to check in before the holiday rush hits. You're still coming home directly on Wednesday for Thanksgiving, right?"

"Of course. I already have my bags packed. I'll be there before dinner."

"Good. Because right along the holiday, we have the annual Verplanck Charity Gala. The board has been frantic about the catering, but everything is finalized. It’s our biggest night of the year for up-and-coming artists who need the financial backing." He paused, his tone softening into something incredibly intentional. "...And you've sounded happier over the phone these past few months than you have in years. You always talk about this new circle of yours at Briar. Why don't you invite your friends to come to Manhattan with you? Tell them I’m reserving a private table for them at the gala."

Your breath hitched slightly. You looked up at the absolute chaos in your living room. Tucker was currently trying to put Garrett in a headlock over the last slice of pepperoni, Dean was checking his reflection in your glossy media console, and Logan was looking down at you, his dark eyes observing your expression with a quiet, curious intensity.

"Dad... are you sure? They're a bit... loud."

Letting out a chuckle "I think a little noise is exactly what that stuffy ballroom needs. And don't worry about commercial flights, sweetie. I'll have the pilot fly the private plane up to the regional airfield near campus on Tuesday afternoon to pick them all up. They can fly down to the city, enjoy the gala, and the plane can take them wherever they need to go for Thanksgiving on Wednesday morning. Invite them, [Name]. Safe travels tomorrow. I love you."

"Love you too, Dad."

You clicked the phone shut, the living room noise instantly flooding back into your ears. You cleared your throat, setting the phone down.

Dean without looking up from his phone, adjusting his collar "Tell the old man I say hello. If he needs any real-estate tips for his next Manhattan high-rise, Di Laurentis is available for consultation."

Garrett snorting, shoving Tucker away "Shut up, Dean. What did he say, [Name]?"

"He wants me to invite you guys to Manhattan. My family hosts the annual Verplanck Gala on Tuesday night right before break. It’s a massive charity event dedicated to sponsoring and funding up-and-coming artists who need financial backing. He’s... reserving a private table for the entire group."

Tucker groans. "Man, I’d love to, but my flight back to Texas leaves early Wednesday morning, and trying to get to New York and back to the airport during Thanksgiving traffic sounds like a nightmare."

Rubbing the back of your neck, standard Verplanck luxury still feeling slightly awkward to say out loud "Actually... my dad said he’s sending our private plane to the regional airfield on Tuesday afternoon to pick you all up. You’ll fly into New York for the gala, and then the pilot will fly you guys directly to your hometowns on Wednesday morning so you don't miss Thanksgiving."

Complete, utterly stunned silence fell over the room. Tucker stopped mid-chew. Garrett blinked. Even Dean looked up from his phone, his eyebrows lifting in genuine shock.

Hannah's jaw practically dropping as she sits up straight. "Shut up. A private jet? We are flying to a Manhattan gala on a private jet?!"

A massive grin spreading across Tucker's face as he drops his pizza "Wait, a private plane? Does that mean free high-end catering in the sky and at the party? Paid for by millionaires? I am one thousand percent in!"

"Hell yeah. I’ve never been on a private plane in my life. Let's go!" Garrett exclaims.

Dean smirks leaning back. "Finally, a form of transportation suited to my natural preferences. I'll have to get my tuxedo shipped immediately."

Amidst the loud, chaotic cheering of the boys planning their impromptu luxury trip, your eyes instinctively drifted up to Logan

He hadn't joined in on the shouting. He was just looking at you, his jaw slightly tight as the staggering weight of your reality fully settled in. To a guy like Logan, who spent his holidays worrying about his alcoholic father and scraping by on a strict athletic scholarship, a family that casually sends a private jet to pick up a college hockey team just for a Tuesday night charity party was entirely unfathomable. It was a stark reminder of the opposite tracks you both lived on.

But as he caught the vulnerable, hopeful look in your eyes, the protective sweetness in him won out. He let out a low breath, a small, incredibly tender smile breaking through his caution. He reached his large hand down, his fingers wrapping around the back of your neck to gently pull you against his leg.

"A private jet and a charity gala, huh? Does that mean I actually have to brush my hair so I don't look like a stray hitchhiker?"

"You're renting a tuxedo, Logan. And I am personally approving it so you don't embarrass us on the tarmac." Hannah says.

Chuckling, his thumb gently caressing the skin of your shoulder "Fine. If it means supporting the artist, I'll fly in style."

You rested your head against his shin, the warmth of his presence grounding you completely. The invites were accepted. You were all heading into the holiday week on a private flight awaiting you in the glittering ballroom of the winter gala.

The transition from the cramped airport shuttle to the Verplanck estate was enough to give anyone whiplash. As the black SUV rolled through the massive wrought-iron gates and up the winding, tree-lined driveway, the chaotic chatter of the Briar gang slowly died down into a collective, awestruck silence.

The house wasn't just a house; it was a sprawling stone manor that looked like it had been lifted straight out of a classic film.

"Holy hell," Tucker muttered, his forehead pressed against the glass. "Are we staying here or auditioning for a period piece?"

Logan sat next to you, completely rigid. His large frame seemed to shrink back into the leather seat, his eyes taking in the manicured lawns, the pristine fountains, and the sheer, overwhelming scale of your world. You reached over, sliding your hand into his. His palm was damp, his knuckles tense, but he squeezed back immediately, desperate for the anchor.

When the car finally idled to a stop in the grand courtyard, the front doors of the manor swung open. Stepping out onto the stone portico was your father.

Logan braced himself, his shoulders squaring into his defensive, protective posture. He was expecting a titan of industry—someone cold, calculating, and intimidating. Someone who would look at a guy from a broken home with a father in rehab and see right through him.

Instead, your dad broke into a wide, genuine smile, his arms spreading out as he walked down the steps.

"They're here!" he called out, his voice warm and booming. He immediately went to you, pulling you into a fierce, loving hug that smelled of expensive cologne and familiar comfort. "Oh, it's good to have you home."

When he pulled back, his eyes landed directly on Logan, who was standing a step behind you like a bodyguard waiting for a blow.

"And you must be Logan," your dad said. Before Logan could extend a polite, terrified hand, your dad closed the distance and clapped a heavy, warm hand onto Logan’s shoulder, pulling him into a brief, hearty half-hug. "It is an absolute pleasure to finally meet you, son. This one does nothing but talk about you."

Logan froze for a fraction of a second, completely caught off guard by the effortless warmth. "Thank you, sir. It’s... thank you for having us."

"None of that 'sir' nonsense under my roof. It's Charles," your dad insisted, giving Logan's shoulder one last, affectionate squeeze. "Look at you, you're built like a linebacker. We're going to get some proper food into all of you. Come on inside, the staff will grab your bags."

As your dad turned to welcome the rest of the gang, Logan stood entirely still on the gravel. You looked up at him, smiling, but the smile faded when you saw his face.

His jaw was clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. His dark eyes were glossy, fixed on your father’s retreating back. It wasn't the intimidation that had shaken him—it was the casual, easy kindness. The realization of what a father could be hit him like a physical blow, casting a long, painful shadow over the memory of the quiet lobby and the marshmallow on a paper plate from that morning.

He looked so fiercely conflicted, tearing himself apart internally, that you could see the faint glint of unshed tears in the corners of his eyes.

"Hey," you whispered, stepping closer to him, blocking him from the view of the others. "You okay?"

Logan blinked rapidly, swallowing hard as he finally looked down at you. He forced a thick, tight nod, his voice rough. "Yeah. Yeah, fine. Just... a lot of flight time. Let's go inside."

By the time the rooms were assigned and everyone had settled in, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the estate in deep twilight shadows. Your dad had set the gang up in the guest wing, but you had managed to slip away to your personal suite in the west wing to unpack.

A soft, hesitant knock sounded at your door.

"Come in," you called out.

The door pushed open, and Logan stepped through. He had changed out of his travel clothes into a clean henley, but he still looked entirely out of place among the antique furniture, the plush rugs, and the sheer elegance of your bedroom. He closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding incredibly loud in the quiet space.

"Am I allowed in here?" he asked, a faint, tentative trace of his usual humor returning, though his eyes were still heavy.

"I make the rules in this wing," you smiled, walking over to him.

Logan didn't smile back. Instead, he just looked at you, then looked around the room, taking in the framed photos of your childhood, the massive canopy bed, and the fireplace. The air in the room suddenly felt incredibly thick, charged with an undeniable, heavy tension. The distance between his reality and yours was laid out bare, yet here he was, standing right in the middle of it.

"Your dad," Logan began, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. He stepped closer, closing the gap between you until you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. "He's... he's really great."

"He liked you a lot, Logan. I told you he would."

"It's not that," Logan whispered. He reached out, his large hands anchoring gently on your waist, pulling you just an inch closer. The heat radiating off him was dizzying. "It's just... seeing him with you. Seeing how he looks at you. It made me realize how much..." He trailed off, his throat moving as he swallowed the rest of the sentence. He didn't need to finish it. You knew.

"You deserve that kind of warmth too, you know," you said softly, reaching up to cup his jaw. His stubble scratched against your palm, a grounding, raw sensation against the backdrop of the pristine room.

Logan let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a brief second as he leaned into your touch. When he opened them, the vulnerability was gone, replaced by a dark, burning intensity that made your breath hitch. The sheer contrast of him, this massive, powerful force of a man completely unraveled by a little bit of kindness sent a shiver down your spine.

"Right now," Logan murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips, his hands tightening on your waist just enough to pull your hips flush against his, "all I want is to be right here. With you. Away from all of it."

The space between you completely vanished. The tension that had been building since the morning, the weight of his family secret, the shock of your wealth, the emotional whiplash of the day narrowed down into a single, breathless point.

"Then stay," you breathed against his lips.

Logan didn't answer with words. He leaned down, his mouth catching yours in a deep, bruising kiss that felt less like a greeting and more like a man desperately claiming his only safe harbor in a storm

The heavy, grounding weight of the kiss stayed with you long after Logan finally slipped out of your room, whispering that he didn’t want to push his luck on the very first night under your father's roof.

But down the hall in the guest wing, Logan couldn’t sleep. The mattress was too soft, the sheets had too high a thread count, and the silence of the massive estate was deafening compared to the familiar, chaotic ambient noise of the Briar house. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the stark contrast: the sterile, clinical lobby of the recovery center from this morning, and the bright, effortless warmth of Charles Verplanck’s smile from this afternoon.

His chest felt tight, a restless, heavy knot of emotion he couldn't shake. Needing to move, Logan threw on a dark t-shirt and quietly stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, tracking his way back downstairs by memory to find a glass of water.

The sprawling manor was dark, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the nightlights lining the baseboards. When he reached the massive, professional-grade kitchen, he expected it to be empty.

Instead, a single pendant light was turned on over the marble island. Sitting on a stool, nursing a mug of tea with a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, was your dad.

Logan froze in the archway, his instinct telling him to turn around and fade back into the shadows. But the floorboard gave a tiny creak, and Charles looked up.

"Ah, Logan," your dad said, his voice a low, warm rumble that didn't carry the sharp authority Logan had spent a lifetime associating with older men. Charles pushed his glasses up onto his head and smiled genuinely. "Can't sleep either?"

"Sorry, sir—Charles," Logan corrected himself quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, looking massive and slightly awkward in the doorway. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Just wanted to grab some water."

"You're not interrupting a thing. Come on in," Charles said, gesturing to the empty stool beside him. He stood up, walking over to a sub-zero refrigerator and pulling out a chilled glass bottle of water. He poured it into a heavy crystal glass and slid it across the smooth marble. "The first night in a new place is always a tossing-and-turning match. Especially a place this quiet."

Logan took a seat, his large forearms resting on the island. He took a slow sip, the cold water soothing the dryness in his throat. "It's beautiful here. Really. Thank you again for letting all of us crash."

"It is my absolute pleasure," Charles said, leaning back against the counter, looking at Logan with a quiet, observant gaze. It wasn't a judgmental look; it was the look of a father trying to understand the man who held his child’s heart. "You know, when they talk about you, their eyes completely light up. I haven't seen them this grounded in a very long time. I have you to thank for that."

The praise was so simple, so freely given, that it made Logan's breath catch in his throat. He looked down at his glass, his fingers tracing the condensation.

"I don't do anything special," Logan muttered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden rush of emotion he was fighting desperately to suppress. "I just... I care about them. A lot."

"It's not nothing, son," Charles said softly. He stepped closer, his expression softening as he noticed the tight, strained line of Logan's jaw and the slight glint of the amber light reflecting in his eyes. Charles had lived long enough to recognize a young man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. "You don't have to carry it all by yourself, you know. Whatever it is."

That was the breaking point. The sheer, unadulterated kindness of this man—a man who had every right to be protective, elitist, or cold, but chose instead to offer safety—fractured the last of Logan's defenses.

A single, hot tear escaped Logan's eye, tracking down his cheek into his dark stubble. He quickly swiped it away with the back of his hand, his chest heaving with a silent, shaky breath as he stared intensely at the marble countertop, utterly mortified to be breaking down in front of his partner's father.

"Hey," Charles said, his voice dropping to a fierce, protective whisper. He didn't pull back or act uncomfortable. Instead, he reached out and placed a heavy, reassuring hand firmly on Logan’s shoulder. "It’s alright. You’re safe here."

"I'm sorry," Logan choked out, his throat burning as he squeezed his eyes shut, a few more tears spilling over. "My dad... he's not... he's in a facility right now. For alcohol. We dropped something off for him this morning before the flight. And then I came here, and I saw you, and..." He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. "I just didn't know a dad could be like this. I didn't know it could be this easy."

Charles didn't say a word. He just tightened his grip on Logan's shoulder, anchoring the young man through the storm. He let the silence stretch, giving Logan the space to breathe through the heavy, suffocating grief of what he had missed out on his entire life.

"Your father’s struggles are his own, Logan," Charles said firmly but gently after a long moment. "They are not a reflection of your worth. And they certainly don't define the kind of man you are turning out to be. From what I see standing in front of me? You are doing an incredible job."

Logan let out a ragged breath, the tight knot in his chest finally loosening just a fraction. He opened his eyes, wiping his face properly this time, and looked at Charles.

Charles kept his hand on Logan's shoulder, his expression shifting from comforting to deeply earnest. "I mean it. I’ve watched them grow up, Logan. I've seen them navigate a lot of different people, a lot of different phases. But I have never seen them this happy with someone. Not like this. You give them a kind of peace they've been looking for."

Logan’s chest swelled, the raw weight of the compliment landing heavily in the quiet kitchen.

Charles squeezed his shoulder one last time, his gaze intense, a father's fierce love laying itself completely bare. "Take care of her, Logan. She's the only one I've got."

The vulnerability in Charles's voice struck a chord deep within Logan. It wasn't a threat; it was a sacred trust being handed over from one protector to another.

Logan met Charles's eyes evenly, his jaw setting with absolute, unwavering certainty. "I will," Logan whispered, his voice rough but steadier than it had been all night. "I promise you, Charles. I will."

"I know you will," Charles smiled, finally stepping back and giving the young man his space. "Now, drink your water. And if you ever need to talk, midnight or midday, my door is open. Understood?"

Logan nodded, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. "Understood."

The gala was held in the estate’s grand ballroom, a breathtaking space of soaring ceilings, massive crystal chandeliers that cast a warm, diamond-like glow over the crowd, and a full live orchestra playing a sweeping, elegant waltz on the raised mezzanine. The room was a sea of New York's elite, moving smoothly amidst champagne towers and velvet drapes.

But your eyes weren't on the crowd; they were on the entrance, where your friends were making their official debut. To say they cleaned up well was an understatement.

Tucker actually looked civilized, wearing a classic black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt, though he had already managed to smuggle three bacon-wrapped appetizers into his breast pocket and was actively trying to figure out if the ice sculpture was real.

Garrett looked effortlessly suave in a sharp, tailored midnight-blue suit that perfectly matched his confident smirk, a glass of expensive champagne already held loosely in his hand.

Hannah was wearing a sleek, floor-length emerald green satin gown that turned heads the second she walked in, her usual go to footwear replaced by heels she was practicing walking in with hyper-focused concentration.

Dean, looking every bit the brooding counterpart to the rest of the loud group, cut a devastatingly handsome figure in a sharp, all-black tuxedo and a dark silk tie, managing to look entirely sophisticated despite the slight, reluctant scowl he wore as he adjusted his collar against the stuffy atmosphere.

Allie looked absolutely radiant, wearing a stunning, flowing blush-pink gown that perfectly complemented her bright energy, her hair swept up in an elegant style that made her look like she belonged in a high-society magazine, even as she playfully nudged Dean to stop scowling.

And then.

Standing just a step behind them all was Logan, and the sheer sight of him made your heart do a slow, heavy thud against your ribs. He was adjusting the cuffs of a perfectly fitted black tuxedo that accentuated every single inch of his broad shoulders and commanding height. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his jaw was cleanly shaven. He looked like an absolute prince—classic, powerful, and utterly breathtaking.

When he finally looked up and saw you approaching, his breath hitched audibly, his dark eyes widening as they swept over your stunning formal gown and the way the chandelier light caught the fabric.

"Wow," Logan breathed, a rare, completely captivated smile breaking through his usual caution as he closed the distance between you. "You look... absolutely incredible. I don't even have a word for it. Beautiful doesn't cover it."

A blush crept up your neck as you reached out, your fingers gently smoothing the lapel of his jacket. "Thank you," you smiled, looking up into his dark eyes. "And look at you. You look incredibly dashing, Logan. I knew you'd clean up well, but this is almost unfair to everyone else in the room."

He let out a soft, rough chuckle, his hand coming up to gently cup your waist, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your dress. "I'm just trying not to trip over my own feet in front of your dad's friends," he murmured, leaning down so only you could hear. "But seeing you? It's making it a lot easier to forget anyone else is here."

Before the crowd could swallow you both up, the live orchestra transitioned into a slower, deeply romantic, sweeping melody, and Logan looked toward the dance floor with a sudden, nervous flash in his eyes.

"I don't really know how to waltz," he admitted softly, "but if you're willing to guide me, I'm not letting anyone else have this dance."

Whispering for him to just hold onto you, you let him lead you out onto the polished hardwood floor, drawing the eyes of several onlookers as he placed one massive, warm hand securely on the small of your back and pulled you flush against him. As you began to move, his natural athletic instincts took over, his long strides easily matching your pace in a rhythm that was surprisingly, intoxicatingly smooth.

You rested your head close to his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring thud of his heart as the anxiety from the previous nights, the weight of his family secret, and the fear of your different worlds all vanished under the canopy of the music. Spinning slowly beneath the glowing chandeliers, Logan looked down at you with a dark, burning devotion, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as his grip tightened just a fraction.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion so raw it made your chest ache. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm completely stuck on you."

You smiled against his shoulder, closing your eyes as the music swept around you.

The high of the dance shattered an hour later in the crowded gallery just off the ballroom. Logan had stepped away to grab you both fresh drinks, but on his way back, he was cut off by a man in a flawless, bespoke charcoal suit—a man whose face Logan had stared at on sports network broadcasts and athletic press releases for years.

It was Thornton Vance, the majority owner of the professional hockey franchise Logan had been training his entire life to break into.

"John Logan, right?" Vance asked, a sharp, business-like smile on his face as he stopped Logan in his tracks. "I thought that was you. Charles told me you'd be here tonight."

Logan’s heart stopped, his grip tightening around the crystal glasses in his hands. "Mr. Vance. Yes, sir. I didn't expect to see you here."

"Well, when Charles Verplanck invites you, you show up," Vance chuckled casually, gesturing out toward the grand ballroom. "Charles Verplanck has been our leading financial backer for the last five years. When he called me personally yesterday morning to tell me he had a phenomenal young defenseman staying under his roof this weekend—someone he wanted me to keep a very close eye on—I told him I’d make it a point to connect. Then told me how he sponsored your stay at Briar. You've got a hell of a fairy godfather in your corner, son."

Vance kept talking, offering a card, saying something about rookie camp invites, but Logan couldn't hear a single word over the sudden, violent roaring in his ears.

Yesterday morning. Before the flight. Before they even arrived.

The warmth he had felt from your dad, the safe harbor he thought he had found in your room, the magical dance under the chandeliers it all twisted into something transactional, something toxic, in a matter of seconds. He wasn't here because he was wanted. He was a charity case. A project. You had lined his future up like a chess piece, pulling strings behind his back because you looked at his messy, broken life and felt sorry for him.

Logan didn't put the drinks down; he practically slammed them onto a passing waiter's tray. His chest was heaving, his face pale and his dark eyes burning with a sudden, defensive fury as he stormed back into the ballroom, tracking you down near the edge of the crowd.

When he caught your wrist, his grip wasn't gentle like it usually was. It was desperate, tight, and trembling. He didn't say a word as he pulled you out of the noise, dragging you into a secluded alcove near the heavy velvet curtains.

"Logan? What's wrong?" you asked, your heart dropping at the sheer agony and anger radiating off him. "You're white as a ghost."

"Did you orchestrate that?" Logan rasped, his voice a low, jagged whisper that cut through you like a knife. He looked down at you, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. "Thornton Vance is out there. He just told me your dad is the primary sponsor for the team. He told me your dad called him yesterday morning to secure me an in."

Your eyes widened in genuine confusion. "Logan, I—I didn't know—"

"Don't lie to me!" he snapped, a harsh, broken laugh escaping his throat. He stepped closer, towering over you, completely consumed by the crushing weight of his own pride and insecurity. "Is that what this is? Is this whole relationship just a charity project for you? You look at my dad in rehab, you look at my broken-down house, and you think, 'Oh, let me save the poor guy from Briar'. Was this all just pity?"

The word hit you like a physical blow. Your breath hitched, the sheer injustice of the accusation tearing through your chest. "Pity? Logan, how can you even say that?"

"Because it makes sense!" he choked out, his voice cracking as his defensive walls slammed shut, completely mischaracterizing every single thing you were. "You're a Verplanck. You have everything. I'm just a guy with a messed-up family trying to scrape by, and you decided to fix me. You pity me."

Tears immediately flooded your eyes, hot and stinging, blurring the sight of the man you loved completely turning on you. Your chest heaved, a sob threatening to break through your throat. Unable to look at the cold, defensive mask he had put on, you tore your wrist from his grip, turned on your heel, and ran.

You fled the ballroom, ignoring the curious glances of the guests as you pushed through the heavy glass doors at the back of the mansion. You ran blindly into the sprawling back garden, where the cool night air hit your bare shoulders and the distant, rhythmic lull of the stone water fountains filled the quiet darkness. The heavy bass of the orchestra faded into the background, replaced only by the sound of your own ragged breaths and the tears spilling down your cheeks.

"Hey! Wait!"

Logan’s heavy footsteps crunched violently against the gravel path as he pursued you, his tuxedo jacket open, his tie slightly crooked. He caught up to you near the center fountain, reaching out to stop you, but you spun around, backing away from him until the stone rim of the fountain pressed against the back of your gown.

"Don't touch me!" you sobbed, your words stumbling over each other as the tears choked you. "I didn't know! I swear to God, Logan, I didn't know anything about the sponsorship! I didn't know my dad called him!"

"Then why did he do it?" Logan demanded, though the fiery anger in his eyes was starting to crack, replaced by a desperate, panicked confusion as he saw you breaking down.

"Because he loves me!" you shouted, your voice cracking completely, a sob escaping as you defended your father. "He saw how happy I was! All he had was pure intentions! He wanted to help the person who makes his child smile! How could you take something so kind and twist it into something ugly?"

Logan froze, his chest heaving as the weight of your tears began to pierce through his defensive armor.

"I don't care if you're penniless, John Logan!" you wept, the raw truth pouring out of you as you gestured wildly between the two of you. "I don't care if you have the entire world at your fingertips or absolutely nothing! I liked you for you. I loved your observantness. I loved how you always read me like a book, how you always knew exactly what I needed and when I needed it before I could even say it out loud!"

You took a ragged, trembling breath, wiping aggressively at your wet cheeks, your voice dropping into a devastatingly broken register.

"But I guess I was wrong," you whispered, the betrayal cutting deep. "I thought you knew me. All I ever had for you was admiration. I never, ever pitied you. How could you think so lowly of me?"

Logan blinked, the harsh reality of what he had just done crashing down on him. The defensive anger completely vanished from his face, leaving him looking hollow, horrified, and entirely exposed. "Hey... no. I—I didn't mean—"

"No, you did," you choked out, stumbling over your words as you took a step back, completely shutting down. You looked at him through your tear-stained vision, your heart breaking into a million pieces in the quiet garden. "John Logan... never talk to me again."

Before he could move, before he could open his mouth to beg, you turned and ran past the fountains, disappearing into the dark shadows of the estate, leaving him standing completely alone in the cold night air.

Logan walked back through the heavy glass doors of the ballroom, but the music, the laughter, and the glittering light no longer felt like a dream—it felt like a mocking indictment. His tuxedo jacket was completely unbuttoned, his collar felt suffocatingly tight, and the hollow, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was growing by the second. He moved through the high-society crowd like a ghost, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the far corner of the room where the Briar crew was clustered near the bar.

Garrett was mid-laugh, gesturing with his champagne glass, while Tucker was currently trying to explain something to Allie and Hannah. Dean was leaning back against a marble pillar, his arms crossed over his chest, his sharp eyes scanning the room.

As Logan approached, the laughter at the table died instantly. Garrett’s smile faded, his eyes narrowing as he took in Logan’s pale face and the absolute devastation radiating off his large frame.

"Logan?" Hannah asked, stepping forward first, her green gown rustling against the floor. "What happened? Where is she?"

"Man, you look like you just watched your own dog get run over," Tucker muttered, his usual humor dropping away into immediate concern.

Logan stopped a foot away from them, his hands shoving deep into his pockets just so they wouldn't see how violently they were shaking. He couldn't look any of them in the eye. He stared at the polished hardwood floor, his throat working hard as he swallowed the thick, suffocating lump of regret rising in his chest.

"I messed up," Logan choked out, his voice so rough and hollow it barely sounded like him. "I completely blew it."

Dean straightened up from the pillar, his brooding expression shifting into something intensely focused. "What do you mean, you blew it?"

"I ran into Thornton Vance out in the gallery," Logan said, the words spilling out of him in a desperate, ragged rush. He finally looked up, his eyes glassy and filled with a raw, agonizing panic. "He told me... he told me her dad is the primary sponsor for the team. He said Charles called him yesterday morning to get me an invite to rookie camp and my stay in briar was from his sponsorship."

Garrett blinked, shaking his head. "Wait you got a sponsor— wait—okay... and that's a bad thing? Logan, that's a massive hookup."

"I thought she set it up," Logan whispered, his voice cracking as the full weight of his mistake crashed down on him in front of his friends. "I thought... with my dad being where he is, and this place being what it is... I thought she looked at me and just felt sorry for me. I thought the whole thing was a charity project. I went crazy. I confronted her, and I accused her of pitying me."

A heavy, horrified silence fell over the group. Allie let out a sharp, quiet gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, while Hannah’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

"Logan, tell me you didn't," Hannah breathed, her voice a mix of anger and pity.

"I did," Logan said, a single, rough breath escaping him that sounded dangerously close to a sob. He rubbed a hand aggressively over his face, his broad shoulders shaking. "She didn't even know about it. She swear she didn't know. Her dad just did it because he saw how happy she was with me. And I... I twisted it. I told her she thought lowly of me. "

"She ran out into the back garden," Logan choked out, his dark eyes turning to Garrett, then to Dean, completely unraveled. "She was crying so hard she could barely get the words out. She told me she loved me because I was observant, because I always knew what she needed... and then she told me never to talk to her again. Guys, I've never seen her look at me like that. Like I was a stranger. I completely broke her heart because I couldn't handle my own stupid pride."

The remaining days of the Thanksgiving trip passed in a punishing, agonizing blur for Logan. True to your word, you completely vanished from his sight. He had spent the long hours staring out the guest wing windows, desperately hoping for a glimpse of you in the gardens, or lingering by the grand staircase hoping to hear the sound of your laugh. But your suite remained closed, and the crushing weight of your absence echoed through the massive halls of the manor.

Now, instead of leaving rejuvinated, the air was heavy unusual for Thanksgiving.

The Briar gang stood out in the grand courtyard, their bags piled neatly by the waiting vehicles. The lively, chaotic energy they usually carried was entirely subdued, everyone casting quiet, worried glances at Logan, who looked like a shadow of himself—hollow-eyed, silent, and carrying a reservoir of pure, unadulterated regret in his chest.

Charles Verplanck walked down the stone portico steps alone. Logan’s chest tightened painfully as he looked past your father, searching the grand front doors one last time. They remained firmly shut.

"The cars are packed and ready to take you to the tarmac," Charles announced, his voice carrying that same calm, booming warmth as the first day, though there was a distinct note of quiet somberness to it now. "The plane is fueled and ready to take you all straight back to Massachusetts."

Charles stopped right in front of the group, his eyes softening as he looked over the solemn faces of your friends. Then, he turned his gaze directly to Logan.

Logan braced himself, his jaw tight, fully expecting the righteous, defensive anger of a father whose child had been deeply hurt. He knew he deserved it. He deserved to be thrown out, to be yelled at, to be banned from ever breathing the same air as you again.

Instead, your dad just looked at him. There was no fury in his eyes, no elitist coldness. There was only a profound, quiet understanding, and a gentle sadness that felt like a physical blow to Logan’s ribs.

"She won't be coming back to Massachusetts with you on the plane today," Charles said softly, his voice steady. "She's decided to stay here at the estate for a little while longer."

The words felt like a final, devastating verdict. Logan closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his throat burning as he forced himself to nod, swallowing the bitter taste of his own failure.

Charles stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He didn't pull back his warmth. He didn't revoke the safe harbor he had offered in the kitchen. He simply reached out and placed that same heavy, reassuring hand firmly on Logan's broad shoulder. It was a gesture of complete, unearned forgiveness that made Logan's eyes sting fiercely.

"Do right by her, son," Charles murmured, his voice a low, protective register meant only for Logan. He gave the shoulder a tight, encouraging squeeze, a reminder of the sacred trust they had spoken about at midnight.

Logan looked up, his dark eyes glassy, his voice incredibly rough and thick with emotion as he managed to choke out the words. "I will, Charles. I swear to you, I will."

Your dad offered a small, sad, but genuinely hopeful smile, giving Logan's shoulder one last pat. "Safe travels, everyone," Charles called out to the rest of the gang, waving a warm goodbye before turning on his heel and walking back up the grand stone steps, disappearing into the quiet sanctuary of the estate.

The air inside the Briar off-campus house was heavy, suffocatingly quiet compared to its usual chaotic energy. Outside, the Massachusetts winter was bleeding into the gray afternoon, but inside, Logan hadn't moved from the worn leather armchair in the corner of the living room for hours. His duffel bag was still sitting unpacked by the front door, a bleak reminder of the sudden, silent flight back from the Verplanck estate.

Logan stared blankly at the floorboards, his knuckles white as his fingers locked together. He was drowning in it—absolute, unadulterated regret.

Every single time he closed his eyes, he didn't see the glittering ballroom or the professional hockey scouts; he just saw your face. He saw the hot, stinging tears blurring your eyes, heard the devastating crack in your voice, and felt the sheer, agonizing weight of the hurt he had inflicted on you.

How had he let himself get so blind?

He had allowed his own deep-rooted insecurities, his pride, and his shame over his father to completely hijack his mind. He had spun a twisted narrative in his head where he was a charity case and you were just a wealthy savior looking for a project. In that moment of blind panic, he had gotten so caught up in his own head that he had completely forgotten who you actually were as a person.

Now, in the quiet of the living room, the memories he had buried under his defensive walls came rushing back with agonizing clarity, forcing him to reminisce on the real truth of you.

He thought back to that afternoon in the art studio—the soft, dusty light hitting your face, the quiet focus in your eyes, and the effortless comfort of just being near you. He remembered the exact day he had first found out about your wealthy background. There hadn't been an ounce of arrogance in you. Not a single trace of superiority, and most importantly, not a single drop of pity.

That was just who you were. You were the person who loved unconditionally, who was always entirely willing to help the people you cared about, never expecting a trophy or a transaction in return. Your dad’s phone call hadn’t been a calculated setup; it was a reflection of the same pure, generous heart you carried every single day. And he had thrown it back in your face. He had called it ugly. He had called it pity.

Across the room, the heavy silence was wearing thin.

Garrett was leaning against the kitchen counter, a half-empty sports drink in his hand, his eyes fixed worriedly on his roommate. Tucker was sitting at the dining table, uncharacteristically quiet, lazily spinning a hockey puck on the wood but keeping his gaze glued to Logan's rigid posture. Even Dean, who usually kept to himself, had wandered downstairs and was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed with deep concern.

Logan was brooding so intensely, radiating a dark, hollow aura of self-hatred, that the guys were genuinely getting worried. He looked less like a fearsome athlete and more like a man who had completely broken his own soul.

"Hey," Garrett finally broke the silence, his voice unusually soft as he stepped into the living room, gesturing subtly to Tucker and Dean. "Logan. Man... you gotta breathe. You haven't blinked in ten minutes."

Logan didn't look up. He just let out a long, ragged exhale that sounded more like a fracture in his chest, the weight of your last words—never talk to me again—replaying on a merciless, agonizing loop.

A full week had passed since the disastrous night at the estate, classes at Briar resumed. Yet, your seat in the lecture halls had remained devastatingly empty. Logan had spent every morning scanning the campus crowds, his heart leaping at every glimpse of dark hair, only to be crushed by the reality that you still weren't there.

Until today.

When you finally walked down the quad, it felt as if a collective shift occurred in the air, but for Logan, the world simply stopped. You weren't hiding. You didn't look broken. Instead, you walked with an immaculate, chilling poise, your shoulders back and a beautifully constructed, polite mask firmly in place. Your eyes were entirely guarded, devoid of the bright, soft warmth that usually greeted the world. It was a terrifying sight for Logan; you looked exactly like the untouchable, high-society stranger you had been the very first day you met. The open, vulnerable person he had held in the ballroom was completely locked away behind iron gates.

He didn't dare make a scene in the courtyard. He knew he didn't have the right. So he waited, tracking your schedule by memory, until he knew you would head toward the old campus art studio, the place where the noise of the university faded, and where you had once shared an effortless, quiet peace.

The door to the studio gave a faint, familiar creak as Logan pushed it open. You were standing by an easel near the back windows, the pale winter light washing over your profile. You didn't jump or startle when he entered. You slowly paused your brush, your fingers tightening slightly around the wooden handle, but you didn't turn around to look at him.

Logan closed the door softly behind him, stepping into the room with none of his usual commanding, athletic stride. He looked entirely undone, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights, his face gaunt, his large frame looking almost defeated in a simple dark hoodie. He kept his distance, stopping a few feet away, terrified that if he took one wrong step, you would vanish again.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice so raw, hoarse, and broken it barely carried across the quiet room.

You took a slow, steadying breath, your shoulders rising and falling with that perfect, distant poise before you finally turned your head to face him. Your expression was completely blank. "I believe I asked you never to talk to me again, Logan."

The coldness in your voice cut straighter to his chest than any physical blow ever could. A visible flinch went through him, his jaw trembling as he looked at the sheer emotional distance between you.

"I know," Logan choked out, his dark eyes immediately filling with a desperate, stinging heat. He dropped his hands to his sides, completely defenseless, his broad chest heaving with a shaky breath. "I know I have absolutely no right to be in this room right now. I have no right to ask you for a single second of your time. But please... please, just let me speak. Then I'll go. I swear to God I'll go if you want me to, but I need you to hear me."

You didn't answer, your silence acting as a heavy, agonizing barrier as you simply watched him with guarded eyes

"I am so incredibly sorry," Logan rasped, the first tear finally spilling over his dark stubble, his voice cracking entirely. "I am so sick with myself for what I did to you. I let my own pathetic, ugly insecurities completely hijack my head. I was so terrified of where I come from, so ashamed of my dad, and so scared of losing you to a world I didn't think I belonged in, that I went completely blind."

"I don't expect you to forgive me today. I don't expect you to ever trust me again," Logan whispered, his voice cracking on every syllable as he looked back up at you, his eyes entirely bare and filled with an absolute, unwavering devotion. "But if you will have me, I will make up for it."

The winter chill of the Massachusetts campus became the backdrop for Logan’s absolute, unwavering undoing. The afternoon in the studio hadn’t magically fixed the deep fracture between you, and he didn't expect it to; he knew that words were incredibly cheap after the damage he had inflicted, leaving him with only one path forward—to prove himself brick by brick. He threw himself into doing every single "boyfriend thing" imaginable with a desperate, reverent humility, not because he assumed it would buy his way out of the doghouse, but because he was entirely

The afternoon in the studio hadn’t magically fixed the fracture between you, and Logan didn't expect it to. He knew words were cheap after what he’d done; he had to prove himself brick by brick with a desperate, reverent humility.

Every single morning, before early lectures, a heavy cream envelope would be waiting in your locker or on your desk. They weren't frantic text blocks, but beautifully penned letters where he poured his soul onto the paper—noting specific things he admired about your mind and making quiet, steady promises for the future. He never demanded a reply, just wanting you to wake up knowing you were loved.

You never knew when or where they would appear. A small bouquet of white hydrangeas left on the stool you sat on to paint, or a single, perfect peony waiting on the counter of your favorite campus coffee shop because he paid the barista in advance. There were no occasion cards—just small tags that read, "Thinking of you. Siempre. — L."

He paid attention with a hyper-focused intensity. One rainy afternoon, while sitting in the back of the studio just to be in your orbit, he noticed the tiny crease between your brows as you squeezed the very last ribbon of cobalt blue paint from your tube. You didn't say a word, throwing the empty tube away—but by the next afternoon, a brand-new, professional-grade set of blue acrylics and oils was waiting neatly on your stool.

His texts became a steady, protective constant. Every morning at 7:00 AM sharp: "Good morning. I hope you slept well. It’s freezing out today, please make sure you wear the heavy coat." Every night before bed: "Checking in to make sure you got home safe. You don't have to text back, just wanted to say goodnight." He never crowded your space, but he made sure you knew he was standing guard.

No matter how late your studio sessions ran, you would step outside into the freezing air to find Logan's massive frame waiting patiently. He wouldn't push himself near you; he would simply stand a respectful two steps behind, acting as a silent, protective barrier as he walked you back to your apartment, carrying your heavy canvas bags and shielding you from the biting winter wind.

When you finally agreed to a date, he didn't dare bring you to a loud college bar. He drove you forty-five minutes out of town to a quiet, dimly lit botanical conservatory you had casually mentioned months ago. He set up a private table tucked deep into the lush greenery, surrounded by the faint, soothing sound of running water, a gentle, intentional healing of the painful memory from the estate garden.

He spent the entire evening pulling out your chair, hanging up your coat, and looking at you as if you were the only living thing left in the universe, proving he was finally ready to hold the world for you.

The air inside the botanical conservatory was warm and heavy with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine, completely shutting out the freezing Massachusetts winter outside. Across the small candlelit table, Logan was watching you. He wasn't talking about himself, and he wasn't making excuses. He was just there, completely stripped of the defensive pride that had ruined that night at the gala, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering flame between you with an absolute, quiet devotion.

You looked down at your hands, then out at the lush green canopy surrounding you. You thought about the stack of handwritten letters sitting on your nightstand. You thought about the fresh tubes of cobalt blue paint waiting in your studio locker, and the freezing nights he had spent standing outside the art building just to ensure you walked home safely.

How could you resist a love that was willing to entirely rebuild itself from the ground up?

The anger that had kept your shoulders tight for weeks finally, beautifully melted away, leaving only the simple truth that you missed him. You missed him—not just the attentive boyfriend he had been trying so hard to be lately, but the boy who knew exactly how to read you like a book.

Slowly, you reached across the table, your fingers trailing over the linen cloth until your palm rested flat against the wood.

Logan’s breath hitched. His eyes dropped to your hand, tracking the movement as if he couldn't entirely believe what he was seeing. Slowly, tentatively, his massive, warm hand came up, his long fingers sliding over yours, his palm burning against your skin with that same intoxicating heat you had missed so desperately.

"You don't have to walk two steps behind me anymore, John Logan," you whispered, a soft, genuine smile finally breaking through your guarded expression.

Logan let out a long, ragged exhale, his entire chest heaving as the crushing weight of the last few weeks finally lifted. A breathless, relieved laugh escaped his throat, his grip tightening around your hand just a fraction, secure, protective, and completely unyielding.

"I'm right here," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion so raw it made your heart do that familiar, heavy thud. He leaned across the table, his dark eyes shining with an absolute, burning promise. "Right beside you. For as long as you'll have me."

An hour later, the drive back to campus felt entirely different than the quiet, tense rides of the past weeks. The interior of Logan’s car was warm, the radio playing a soft, low melody that filled the space between you with an effortless comfort.

When he pulled up to the curb outside your apartment building, he didn't just let you slide out. He hurried around to the passenger side, opening the door for you and taking your hand to help you down onto the snow-dusted pavement. But instead of letting go, he drew you gently into his space, his large hands coming up to secure themselves gently on the small of your waist.

You looked up at him, the amber glow of the streetlights catching the sharp lines of his jaw and softening the usual brooding intensity in his eyes. Without the walls of his pride blocking the way, he looked happier than you had seen him in a very long time.

"Thank you," Logan whispered, leaning down so his forehead rested gently against yours, his warm breath mingling with the cold winter air. "For not giving up on me. For letting me fix it."

"Just don't make me run into any more gardens," you teased softly, your fingers coming up to gently smooth the collar of his heavy coat.

He let out a low, rough chuckle, pulling you flush against his chest until you could hear the steady, reassuring thud of his heart beneath his layers. "Never again," he promised fiercely, his lips brushing against your temple. "You're stuck with me now."

Smiling against his shoulder, you closed your eyes and wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, finally back where you belonged. "Good," you whispered into the quiet night. "Because I'm never letting you go."