bri the bee

Maybe it was silly, but something about going through every pair Santos had shoved into that duffel bag felt almost…symbolic.

You’d done laundry here before. Your tanks after yoga. Towels. Pajamas. 

But this felt different.

As ridiculous as it sounded, running out of clean underwear meant time had passed.

Twelve days to be exact. 

Twelve days of waking up in the same house. Ignoring each other. Sharing meals. Scheduling blocks of time to use the couch. Falling into routines that no longer felt novel enough to notice. Twelve days of learning which cabinet he kept the mugs in, and how he always checked the locks before bed without even seeming aware he was doing it.

Twelve days of becoming accustomed to someone.

All to turn into what?

The thought settled uncomfortably in your stomach as you stared at the washing machine, watching the fabrics tumble lazily behind the glass.

This was almost over.

Tomorrow would be your last full day here. Then, the following evening, you’d both walk back into Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center and somehow return to normal.

Or whatever normal was supposed to look like now.

You weren’t sure when Jack had become woven so tightly into your day. Maybe he always had been and you simply hadn’t noticed it before. At work, there had always been a reason to seek him out. 

Here, there were no excuses.

Just you and him.

The machine hummed steadily beside you, pulling you from your thoughts only when footsteps sounded in the hallway.

A minute later, Jack appeared around the corner, fresh from a shower. His hair was still damp, a towel slung over one shoulder as he rubbed absently at the back of his neck.

His eyes landed on you immediately.

Then the washing machine.

Then back to you.

The pause that followed told you he was trying to determine whether you were having an actual problem or one of your moments that usually you brought upon yourself. 

“…What happened?”

You sighed.

“I’ve reached the end.”

His brows furrowed.

“The end of what?”

“The underwear supply.”

For a moment, he simply stared.

Then his eyes drifted to the washing machine.

Understanding dawned.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“And just so I’m clear,” you saw him come to stand beside you in your peripheral vision. “Once they’re clean, you’ll have a replenished supply?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“I’m failing to see the issue.”

You groaned. “She only packed me enough to last the quarantine.”

“Oh, so she underpacked you?”

“No, it’s just—” Your head tilted back as you took a breath. “We’ve only got two days left.”

“Right.”

“And then this is over.”

“And by ‘this,’ you’re referring to…?”

Your head turned, giving him a look.

His turned to meet yours, face as expressionless as ever, as if he were asking whether it was going to rain and not where your entire relationship was headed in forty-eight hours.

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Jack.”

“Use your words.”

You stared at him.

He stared right back.

Infuriating, infuriating man.

“The quarantine,” you finally said, as if it were obvious.

“Mhm.”

“And the living together.”

“Mhm.”

“The…” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Whatever this has been.”

For the first time, something flickered across his face.

It wasn’t concern or uncertainty.

It could only be described as…understanding. Which, really shouldn’t surprise you. Over the last few days, you were starting to learn that it was very possible that he was the only one fully capable of that. 

“Ah.”

You hated how small that sound made you feel. The pause that came after it, like it was your turn to respond again. 

“That’s all you’ve got?”

A corner of his mouth twitched.

“I’m letting you finish.”

You rolled your eyes and looked back at the washing machine.

The clothes continued tumbling around as if they weren’t currently starring in one of the most uncomfortable conversations of your life.

“We go back to work,” you said quietly. “And everything gets complicated.”

Jack was silent for a moment.

“We always knew it would.”

“I know.”

“You’ve been thinking about this.”

You scoffed unpleasantly. “Jack, I’ve thought about this approximately every six minutes since day nine.”

That actually got a smile out of him.

“Only every six?”

“Don’t mock me.”

The smile lingered for a moment before fading into something gentler.

“You know what’s interesting?”

“What?”

“You keep saying this is over.”

Your brows furrowed.

“Because it is.”

“The quarantine is.”

His shoulder bumped yours lightly.

“I’m not.”

The response was so immediate, so matter-of-fact, that you almost missed it.

Like he wasn’t making a declaration—he was simply stating a fact. The sky was blue. Never shock for asystole. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Your chest tightened. 

“Jack—”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“You say that like it’s just that simple.”

“No.” His gaze stayed on the washing machine. “I say it like it’s worth figuring out.”

The room fell quiet.

You wished his answer made it that easy.

Part of you desperately wanted it to be.

You wanted to take his confidence and wrap yourself up in it. To believe that because Jack Abbot said you’d figure it out, then somehow the universe would rearrange itself accordingly.

But your brain wouldn’t let you.

Because twelve days ago, you were convinced this man couldn’t stand you.

Twelve days ago, you’d been preparing to ask Robby for a shift change because working with him felt impossible. Twelve days ago, every interaction had felt like a battle you were somehow losing. Every critique was—or felt—personal. Every argument chipped away at the already-barely-there will to make it through the shift. 

Twelve days ago, if someone had told you that you’d be standing in Jack’s laundry room discussing the future of your relationship while your underwear spun in his washing machine, you would’ve asked for a psych eval.

You huffed out a laugh at the absurdity of it.

Jack’s eyes slid toward you.

“What?”

“I just…can’t believe I’m the one being practical here.”

His brow furrowed.

“The practical one?”

“Yes, practical.” You gestured vaguely around the laundry room. “Because somebody has to be.”

The corner of his mouth slid into a grin, like he thought you were joking. 

“Sweetheart—”

“No.” You pointed at him. “Don’t ‘sweetheart’ your way out of this.”

His expression immediately shifted.

Not angry, but alert. Almost…braced. Like he knew this tone and body language.

The same tone that usually preceded an argument in the ED. Your arms were crossed, feet planted in the only way you knew how to go toe-to-toe with this man. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” You scoffed. “That’s your response?”

“What would you like my response to be?”

“I don’t know, maybe something that acknowledges this is insane?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“What part?”

You stared at him.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

A scoff escaped you, incredulous.

“Twelve days ago I thought you hated me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, yeah, I know that now.”

“Good.”

You threw your hands into the air.

“See? That’s exactly what I mean.”

“What?”

“You’re acting like that explanation just…fixes everything.”

His face hardened a fraction.

“It explains a lot.”

“It explains your side.”

“And your side is?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Because there it was—that…feeling you used to get in the ED.

The feeling of being backed into a corner by Jack Abbot until you were forced to articulate what was actually bothering you.

“I don’t…know how to trust this.”

The words came out before you could stop them.

The room went quiet.

Jack’s expression immediately softened, which you hated. 

Because it wasn’t supposed to. You wanted his expression to harden, with knowledge and agreement that this was, in fact, an insane fucking situation. Because at least then, you’d have an easy out. 

“I mean, come on.” You looked away. “For years, every interaction we’ve had has been an argument. Every patient, every procedure. You made me feel like I was under a damn microscope.”

His jaw flexed.

“I know.”

“So forgive me if I’m having trouble immediately jumping to ‘we’ll figure it out.’”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“It kind of sounds like you are.”

“No.” His voice remained frustratingly calm. “I’m asking you not to decide it’s doomed before we’ve even tried.”

You crossed your arms.

“And that’s easy for you to say.”

Something flashed across his face.

For the first time since this conversation started, he looked irritated.

“Easy for me?”

“Yes.”

He barked out a short laugh.

“That’s an interesting assessment.”

“Is it?”

“You think this is easy for me?”

You shrugged.

Compared to the alternative—that he was just as scared as you were—that seemed safer.

Jack stared at you for a long moment before shaking his head.

“That’s your problem.”

“What is?”

“You still think I’m the confident one.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because standing in front of you wasn’t Dr. Abbot. It wasn’t your attending. It wasn’t the man who always annoyingly had an answer.

It was just Jack.

“I’m the one that was hesitant to do this,” he spoke, words sounding slightly strained now. “The one considering your role in this and the impact it could have on your success. Making sure I didn’t incriminate us in every single moment we’ve had because of how I felt towards you.”

Your jaw ticked.

“Congratulations?”

His eyebrows shot upward.

“No, seriously.” You laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “What am I supposed to do with that, Jack?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means twelve days ago I thought this was basically a prison sentence.”

The words landed harder this time.

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” You shook your head. “You keep saying that like it explains everything, but it doesn’t. For years, every interaction we’ve had has been through the lens of me thinking I wasn’t good enough for you. That I wasn’t smart enough, experienced enough, careful enough—pick one.”

He shook his head incredulously at your words as they continued.

“And now I’m just supposed to just flip a switch because it turns out you’ve secretly been in love with me the whole time?”

“I never said—”

“You don’t have to say it.”

The washing machine hummed steadily beside you.

Neither of you looked at it.

“I spent years convincing myself I was imagining things,” you continued. “Then I convinced myself I disliked you. Then, that I hated you. Do you know how hard that was? To convince myself that, while everyone had this amazing experience of you, I was the outlier?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“…How hard it was to deprive myself of that?” It was barely even audible. 

You’d heard the stories—the attending who stayed hours after his shift to help a struggling intern, the good guy who quietly paid for a patient’s medication, the mentor who somehow managed to be demanding and deeply respected at the same time. 

Everyone seemed to get that version of Jack Abbot.

Everyone except you.

He was quiet for a moment, his broken gaze settling on you. “I do know.”

“Because you had years to process that.” The word came out sharper than you intended.

His gaze dropped briefly to the floor.

“And it wasn’t hard for me?”

You opened your mouth.

Stopped.

Because that wasn’t what you’d meant, but it wasn’t entirely wrong either.

“You had certainty,” you said finally.

His head lifted. “No.” The answer was immediate.

“You think I was certain?”

You blinked.

“Jack—”

“I spent years wondering if it was me reading too much into something.” His voice was rising now too, not angry, but frustrated. “Years making sure I wasn’t treating you differently because of how I felt. Years watching you date other people and convincing myself it didn’t bother me because there wasn’t another option.”

The room went quiet.

“I wasn’t certain,” he continued. “I was careful. For years I got to watch everyone else have the version of you that I wanted.”

The words knocked the breath from your lungs.

“I watched residents become your friends. Watched nurses invite you out after shifts. I listened to stories about your dates, your weekends, your life.” His gaze settled back on yours. “And every time I wanted to know more, I had to remind myself that it wasn’t my place.”

The frustration had drained from his voice now, leaving something quieter. Something painfully honest. 

“You think you deprived yourself of some version of me?” He huffed a laugh. “I deprived myself of you, too.”

Your throat tightened.

“Every time you sat in the break room laughing with everybody else while I walked past. Every time I wanted to ask how your weekend was and couldn’t justify it. Every time I had to pretend I wasn’t looking for your car in the parking lot when I came in for a shift.”

His eyes dropped briefly.

“I know what it feels like to watch everyone else get something you don’t.”

It wasn’t enough to erase the fear—but enough to make you realize he’d been standing on unstable ground too.

“You got to think I hated you,” he said quietly. “I got to think you’d never look at me the way I looked at you.”

His smile was small.

Sad.

“Neither of us exactly won there.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The quiet swish of the washing machine rumbled in the background, water sloshing rhythmically through a load of laundry. It felt absurd, somehow. Such a mundane, ordinary sound accompanying a conversation that seemed to be rearranging years of assumptions in real time.

Just existing alongside two people standing in a laundry room, finally admitting things they’d spent years trying not to feel.

Your eyes drifted over his face to the tension in his jaw and the exhaustion around his eyes.

The vulnerability that still looked foreign on him, like he hadn’t intended for you to see this much of him when the conversation—or, hell, the day—started.

You thought back to all the times you’d imagined what was going on inside Jack Abbot’s head.

Every shift where you’d driven home angry.

Every critique you’d replayed in his voice.

Every argument you’d dissected with Santos over drinks on your days off.

He’d existed in every crevice of your life for years.

And somehow, despite all that time spent trying to understand him, you’d never once landed anywhere close to the truth.

Not until right now. 

And for somebody who spent most of his professional life maintaining complete control over every room he entered, he suddenly looked remarkably unguarded.

Like he’d finally run out of places to hide—or, maybe, decided he didn’t want to anymore.

Jack was the first one to look away.

His hand rubbed across the back of his neck before he exhaled slowly.

“I think we should spend tonight apart.”

The words hit like a bucket of cold water, your face falling before you could stop it.

Jack noticed immediately.

“Not—not like that.”

“Then how?”

“Sweetheart, we’ve spent almost every waking moment together for nearly two weeks.”

You crossed your arms. “That’s kind of what quarantine is.”

A small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

“Fair.”

The smile disappeared just as quickly.

“But, I think we’ve gotten a little too good at avoiding this conversation.”

Your eyes dropped to the floor.

Because unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong.

Every time reality crept in, you’d found a way around it. A distraction in the form of avoidance. A passionate kiss against the counter. A joke about the ongoing bet.

Anything to postpone the inevitable.

“We don’t have to decide everything tonight,” he continued. “But I think we owe it to ourselves to actually think.”

Your stomach twisted.

“And if we don’t come to the same conclusion?”

The question escaped before you could stop it.

Jack went quiet.

When you finally looked up, he was already watching you.

“Then we’ll deal with that.”

He didn’t say we’ll be fine. Or don’t worry. He didn’t make some reassuring promise he possibly couldn’t keep.

He just told the truth.

And you hated how much you appreciated that.

“You really want to spend the night alone?”

A faint laugh escaped him. “No.”

The answer came so quickly that it caught you off guard.

His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.

“Not even a little.”

That made something in your chest hurt.

“Then why suggest it?”

Jack glanced toward the washing machine. Toward godforsaken underwear tumbling endlessly in circles.

“I think I’ve wanted this for so long that I’m willing to accept almost any version of it.”

His voice was quieter now. “And that’s not fair to either of us.”

Your breath caught.

Because that was the most frightening thing he’d said all day.

You couldn’t sleep. 

The room was quiet. Empty. Every shift of the mattress reminded you that for the last few nights, warm hands were only an inch away. A presence now so obviously absent. 

Your mind went where it was told to—

Back to him.

Back to the quarantine.

It replayed itself in fragments rather than a sequence. The first day, in shock and irritated, convinced Jack Abbot was the worst possible person you could have been stuck with. The arguments that followed almost immediately after, sharp enough to feel personal even when they weren’t supposed to be. The way he never seemed impressed by you in the ways you wanted him to be, and somehow always noticed the things you were trying to hide.

Then it shifted, slowly, into something deeper.

The kitchen. The couch. The small ways you hadn’t realized you were letting each other in. Finding each other in different rooms without being surprised to find each other there. Falling into conversations that no longer felt like arguments just for the sake of them.

The way he had always paid attention.

Not loudly. Not obviously. But consistently, in a way that had been easy to misread when you were convinced he didn’t like you. Or worse, that he thought you weren’t enough.

Instead of paying attention to see you fail, he’d been paying attention to learn you. 

You turned onto your side, pulling the blanket closer, as if that could keep the thoughts from spreading.

Because the worst part was realizing that the quarantine hadn’t created anything new.

It had only removed everything that usually stood in the way.

The hierarchy. The patients. The interruptions. The carefully maintained distance required by the hospital and social setting that had shaped every interaction between you for years.

And it had granted you time. Proximity. And honesty, whether you were ready for it or not.

Your thoughts drifted again to PTMC. 

You had built an entire version of him in your head over the years.

A version that explained everything neatly: He was hard on you because you weren’t good enough. He was distant because he didn’t like you. He challenged you because he wanted you to fail.

It had made things safer, in a way.

Because if that version of him was true, then nothing more complicated had to exist underneath it.

You stared up at the ceiling, exhaling slowly.

Because the alternative—the one you kept circling back to no matter how many times you tried to avoid it—was that you had been wrong about the foundation of all of it.

Not just about him, but about the space between you.

And that meant the last twelve days hadn’t been an anomaly. They weren’t some isolated event. They had been what happened when neither of you had anywhere left to hide from it.

Your heart rate quickened as you thought about tomorrow. About the last full day. About what came after.

The return to work. The eyes on you. The roles snapping back into place out of habit more than intention. The version of yourself that knew exactly how to survive him professionally, even if you no longer trusted your understanding of him personally.

You pressed your hand against your face, letting out a slow breath. 

Because no matter how many ways you turned it over, you kept landing in the same place: this wasn’t something you could un-know anymore.

You couldn’t unlearn the way his body felt against yours, the way that awareness had settled into your system so completely it no longer felt like something you could switch off.

It was in the smallest things, the ones your mind kept replaying without permission. The way his gaze would catch on you across the counter, a glint in his eye during  a hushed compliment that you struggled to accept. That brief flicker of satisfaction he didn’t ever bother hiding.

Even the ordinary parts of the day had started to feel different now that you knew what it was like to be on the other side of him.

Breakfasts that used to feel like an unfortunate shared space had become something else entirely, especially when he’d lean in just slightly to say something under his breath, low enough that it felt like it was meant only for you, and you’d feel your face betray you before you could stop it. And he noticed. 

Then there were the quieter moments, the ones that should have been easy to dismiss. Sitting on the couch in the late afternoon, some movie playing in the background that he’d insisted on putting on but wasn’t really watching. The two of you ending up closer than necessary without either of you moving away, like distance had slowly stopped being the default and started becoming optional.

At some point, you’d stopped paying attention to when you were touching and when you weren’t. An arm brushing yours. Your head resting against him without thinking. His hand finding your shoulder like it had always belonged there.

And now, lying alone in bed, it was all still happening anyway, just without him in the room.

You sat up suddenly, the movement sharper than you intended, like your body had finally decided it couldn’t stay still with all of this inside it anymore. Your head throbbed from the sheer weight of everything you’d been turning over and over in your mind until it no longer had clear edges.

Twelve fucking days.

That was all it had taken to undo years of push and pull.

You let out a breath that turned into something halfway between a laugh and a sigh, pressing your fingers briefly against your forehead as if that might slow your thoughts down.

“God damn it,” you whispered to yourself, shaking your head.

Because it wasn’t just confusing anymore. It wasn’t just annoyingly complicated.

It was obvious in a way that felt almost insulting, like your brain had been the last one to arrive at a conclusion everyone else had already seen coming.

You dropped your hand slowly, staring into the dark of your room, the realization sitting there with an infuriating kind of calm.

You were done trying to figure out what this was anymore.

Because you already knew.

And that was way worse.

Because it meant there wasn’t a version of this where you could go back to. 

Not after the non-dairy milk. Not after the spoon-feeding you soup. Not after the way he looked at you like he had stopped pretending, even before you had.

You swallowed, the thought settling deeper than you wanted it to.

Of course it had happened like this.

Of course it couldn’t be gradual in a way you could ignore for a few months and mull over at a pace you were comfortable with.

Of course it had been him, of all people, undoing you in less than two weeks after years of intentional distance.

You leaned back against the headboard, exhaling slowly, staring at nothing.

And in the quiet, unhelpfully honest part of your mind, there it was.

It wasn’t framed as a question anymore. Not something you were still debating.

Just simply the truth, arriving late and unapologetic:

You were in love with Jack Abbot.

And you had absolutely no idea what you were supposed to do with that in the morning.

Logan got the text at 10:43 p.m.

He was sitting on the couch at the hockey house with his feet on the coffee table, half-listening to Dean tell a story that had started as a complaint about laundry and somehow became a full legal argument against fitted sheets. Garrett was in the kitchen making toast he did not need, Tucker was half-asleep in the armchair with a mug of tea balanced dangerously on his knee, and Logan was about four minutes away from calling it a night when his phone buzzed against his thigh.

He glanced down.

cherry 🍒

His body reacted before his brain had the chance to be normal about it.

That was becoming a problem. He looked around the room, hoping that Dean’s sixth sense for gossip hadn’t been activated. Luckily, he was still ranting about scent beads and which ones made his 24-carat skin itch. 

He unlocked the phone

cherry 🍒

hi mechanic!! very sorry to ask this so late but do you and/or your truck have availability tomorrow morning for a very small livestock-related favour?

not dangerous livestock. mostly decorative. emotionally manipulative, though.

Logan stared at the message.

Read it again.

Then a third time, because surely “livestock-related favour” had not been part of his life ten seconds ago.

Across from him, Dean paused mid-rant, “You got your girl face.”

Logan locked his phone immediately, “I don’t have a girl face.”

“You do. It’s softer. Also suspicious.”

Garrett walked back in with toast, “Is it Cherry?”

Logan looked up, “Why would you assume that?”

“Because you lock your phone like it’s state evidence every time she texts.”

Dean leaned over the back of the couch, “What’d she say?”

“Nothing.”

Dean gasped, “She sent a nude.”

“She did not send a nude.”

“You answered too fast.”

Logan stood, because continuing this conversation from a seated position felt like giving them an advantage they didn’t need, “She needs help tomorrow.”

“With what?” Tucker asked, eyes still closed.

Logan looked at his phone again.

Then said, flatly, “Livestock.”

Tucker opened one eye.

Garrett stopped chewing.

Dean’s face lit up like Christmas had arrived early and shirtless.

“Sorry,” Dean said, “Did you say livestock?”

Logan ignored him and typed back.

Mechanic 🔧

Define small livestock.

The reply came almost immediately.

cherry 🍒

Winston.

Logan waited for what seemed like an obviously necessary follow up. There was none. 

Mechanic 🔧

Who is Winston?

cherry 🍒

Clementine’s baby.

Logan stared at the phone.

Mechanic 🔧

Who is Clementine?

cherry 🍒

my childhood goat.

She was very elegant.

Winston is her son and a criminal.

Dean, who had silently crept close enough to read over Logan’s shoulder, made an unholy noise.

Logan shoved him away, “Stop.”

“Her childhood goat,” Dean repeated, delighted, “Bro, your girl has lore.”

“She’s not my girl.”

Garrett, Tucker, and Dean all looked at him; their silence worse than mockery.

cherry 🍒

sorry that sounds insane without context.

Mechanic 🔧

A little.

cherry 🍒

so basically. Winston is supposed to go to this children’s learning farm tomorrow because they’re doing a farm animals module and he is very good with children once he’s decided they aren’t trying to disrespect him.

normally Nana and Granddad would do transport because the big Boston farm has the proper van and crate situation but it’s last minute and they can’t. I said yes weeks ago and then forgot the transport was not magically attached to the promise.

I cannot drive him myself because Cherry can’t fit him and any rental company would almost certainly object to a goat.

But you have a truck.

And hands.

And mechanical intelligence.

A second later, his phone pinged before he could process that this girl had mentioned his hands and a goat in the same text thread. 

cherry 🍒

that sounded like I’m objectifying your truck and hands. I apologise.

Logan read the messages twice, his mouth fighting a smile.

Mechanic 🔧

You’re asking me to transport a goat?

cherry 🍒

Clementine’s son.

Mechanic 🔧

Who is a goat.

cherry 🍒

Yes but it’s different.

Logan sat back down slowly.

Dean leaned in again, “Tell her yes.”

Logan jumped and covered the screen with one hand, “You don’t even know what she’s asking.”

“She’s asking you to be a farm boy tomorrow. Say yes.”

“I’m not a farm boy.”

“You’re gonna be.”

Garrett sat on the arm of the couch, “Is this the goat transport thing Wellsy mentioned?”

Logan looked up, “Hannah knows about this?”

Garrett shrugged, “She said she has a goat problem sometimes.”

“A goat problem sometimes,” Logan repeated.

Tucker, still mostly horizontal, lifted his mug without opening his eyes, “Sounds like a euphemism.”

“It’s not,” Logan said.

“Could be.”

“It’s literally a goat.”

“That’s what makes it good.”

Logan ignored them again and typed.

Mechanic 🔧

What time?

cherry 🍒

really?

like really really?

because you can absolutely say no. I know this is a weird favour and you did not sign up for Winston-related transportation when you gave me your number.

Mechanic 🔧

What time, Cherry?

There was another pause and Logan had to mentally lasso his brain from conjuring up the image of you at home, bundled up in your pajamas, biting your lip as you texted him. 

cherry 🍒

8:15?

I will bring coffee.

Your favourite.

Which I don’t know yet.

What is your favourite coffee?

Mechanic 🔧

Anything’s fine.

cherry 🍒

That is not a coffee order.

Logan smiled despite himself.

Mechanic 🔧

Black coffee.

cherry 🍒

That is a cry for help.

Mechanic 🔧

Cherry.

cherry 🍒

Size? Roast? Hot or iced? Do you have a preference for milk? Sugar? Cinnamon? Are you anti-syrup or just pretending to be tough? I am bribing you. Please let me do it properly.

Logan leaned back into the couch, aware of Dean watching him like a spectator at a tennis match.

Mechanic 🔧

Large hot coffee. Two sugars.

cherry 🍒

see? progress.

Do you want breakfast?

Mechanic 🔧

No.

cherry 🍒

That was too fast.

I’m bringing a croissant.

Mechanic 🔧

Then why ask?

cherry 🍒

Consent.

Logan laughed quietly, shaking his head. 

Dean slapped Garrett’s arm and whispered, “He laughed at his phone.” That got him kicked without Logan looking up.

cherry 🍒

thank you, mechanic. genuinely. Winston and I appreciate you very much.

Winston will not express that respectfully because he was raised with too much confidence.

Mechanic 🔧

I’ll be there at 8:15.

cherry 🍒

okay!!

wear shoes you can live without.

Logan looked at that last message for a long moment, his mind suddenly reaching the moment 10 seconds late. He was going to pick up a girl that made his chest do very, weird, “just-friends” leaps. To transport a goat. 

He locked his phone.

Garrett looked at him. “You’re going.”

“Yeah.”

“To transport a criminal goat.”

“Yeah.”

Dean leaned back dramatically. “Love changes a man.”

“She bribed me with coffee.”

“Love and caffeine.”

“She needs help.”

Garrett’s expression softened and he nodded, understanding enough that Logan hated him for it. Dean did not soften. Dean grinned.

“Your girl needs livestock support, and you’re providing livestock support.”

“She’s not my girl.”

Tucker opened both eyes this time, looked at Logan for one long, unimpressed second, and closed them again.

“Sure, man.”

Logan went to bed thirty minutes later and dreamed, annoyingly, of red ribbons, trailer straps, and goats with criminal records.

By 8:08 the next morning, he was pulling into the long gravel driveway of the small holding where you had told him to meet you.

It was not the big Boston farm, which was something he learnt minutes before leaving,  this was “one of the smaller places,” which, to Logan, still looked like something from a lifestyle magazine about people who owned extremely good boots. 

The low wooden gates had creaked open; he barely caught the copper hardware glinting in the pale morning light as he drove through, but he did notice the gravel of the driveway leading up to the entrance had been perfectly raked, and each structure of the yard had gentle, hand-carved crests etched into the wood. 

There was a white farmhouse at the end of the drive, a red barn with clean black trim, a fenced paddock to the right, and a cluster of outbuildings that all looked more expensive than the hockey house despite being designed for animals.

Logan parked near the barn and cut the engine.

For one second, he stayed in the truck. Just looking around him. 

A goat-related favour. Fine. He could do that. He could move things. He could drive. He could check straps and make sure nothing dangerous happened. He had been raised around tools, engines, towing weights, the basic principle that a truck was only useful if the person driving it knew what they were doing.

He could handle a goat.

Probably.

Then the barn door opened, a slow creak emanating from the bright red, black trimmed sliding door. And you stepped out.

Logan forgot the goat.

You were wearing denim shorts, not too short but short enough to make his morning a little more complicated, a fitted white baby tee with tiny cherries printed across the chest, and old brown boots that had clearly seen dirt, scuffed slightly on the leather soles.

 Your hair was tied back with a red ribbon that should have looked impractical but somehow stayed in place, gold hoops in your ears, a little necklace at your collarbone, and your lips tinted cherry-red even though you were standing outside a barn before nine in the morning.

In one hand, you held two coffees.

In the other, a paper bag.

A canvas tote hung from your shoulder, decorated with embroidered cherries, Logan could already see a lead rope, a folded towel, a packet of wipes, and what appeared to be a small bag of animal treats poking out of the top.

You spotted his truck and brightened immediately. Physically brightened, like you had taken a straw to the sun and ingested its rays. 

Logan’s hand tightened on the steering wheel, he dropped his forehead to his knuckles. 

“Oh, I’m cooked,” he muttered to himself.

Then he got out, like the big boy he was. 

“Hi!” you called, walking toward him with careful steps over the gravel. “Good morning. Thank you again. I brought the coffee and the croissant and also a banana, but the banana is technically for Winston if bribery becomes necessary.”

Logan shut the truck door, “Will it be necessary?”

“Yes.”

“For the goat.”

“For Winston.”

“Right.”

You handed him the coffee with both hands, like it was an offering.

“Large hot coffee, two sugars. I did not get milk because you didn’t specify it, and I didn’t want to assume your dairy boundaries.”

“My dairy boundaries are fine.”

“Noted for future bribes.”

Future. 

His hand paused mid-acceptance while the word sat there for half a second longer than it needed to. You seemed to realise it too, because you blinked, then lifted the paper bag quickly. “Croissant.”

“Thanks.”

“You don’t have to eat it now.”

“I figured.”

“But you should eat something at some point because goat transport is tiring.”

Logan took the bag. “You say that like you’ve done it a lot.”

“I have.”

He looked past you toward the barn. “Where is the criminal?”

Your face changed. It softened first, then became stern in a way that was still somehow sweet.

“Winston is in the side pen. And he is not a criminal in the legal sense.”

“In the illegal sense?”

“He has tendencies.”

“Great.”

You turned toward the barn, and Logan followed.

Inside, the air shifted cool and earthy, full of hay, wood, clean straw, and the faint animal warmth of a place that was used properly. It did not smell bad. That surprised him, everything was swept, labelled, tidy in a way that made him think of your wardrobe, he wondered if it was just as organised, and then immediately regretted having a brain.

There were laminated charts on the wall. Feed bins with names written in marker. Hooks with ropes coiled neatly. A little shelf of medical supplies arranged with the precision of someone who believed antiseptic deserved order.

Near the doorway, a framed photograph hung slightly crooked, a younger you, maybe ten or eleven, kneeling beside a pale brown goat with a little white patch on her forehead. Your grin in the photo was missing one tooth. The goat wore a pink collar and looked, somehow, judgmental.

Logan stopped, holding the cup to his lips as he twisted his foot into the dusty floor.  You noticed.

“That’s Clementine,” you said.

He looked from the photograph to you.

“She was your childhood goat?”

“Yes.” You stepped closer to the photo and gently straightened the frame with one finger. “She was technically my grandparents’ goat first, but she decided she belonged to me when I was seven. Nana said Clementine had excellent taste and poor boundaries.”

Logan smiled at your expression, soft in a way where thinking of clementine didn’t make your heart ache, instead it warmed the love you had for her like a soft marshmallow to a flame. 

“She looks like she had opinions.”

“She had many. Strong ones. Mostly about breakfast and men in hats.”

“Men in hats?”

“She distrusted them.”

“Fair.”

You turned back to him. “Winston inherited the opinions, but not the elegance.”

A bleat came from the side pen. A loud, demanding one.

You closed your eyes briefly, “Speaking of.”

Logan followed you around the corner.

Winston was small.

Not tiny exactly, but small enough to be ridiculous. A young goat with soft cream-and-caramel colouring, white markings on his face, little horns just starting to look like they might someday become threatening, and the expression of a creature who had never once suffered consequences that stuck.

He stood on a low wooden platform in the side pen, chewing thoughtfully on something that looked like it had once been part of a bucket label.

You put both hands on your hips.

“Winston Clementine Junior.”

Logan looked at you. “His middle name is Clementine?”

“Technically, yes.”

Winston stopped chewing. Looked at you. Then resumed.

You inhaled through your nose, unimpressed, but clearly masking it.

“Do not embarrass me in front of our company.”

Winston bleated.

Logan looked at the goat. The goat looked at Logan.

For a moment, they simply assessed each other.

Then Winston jumped off the platform, trotted to the gate, stuck his head through the bars, and immediately tried to eat the drawstring of Logan’s hoodie.

Logan looked down, eyebrows furrowed- his hand came up to tug it from his teeth.

You gasped softly, eyes sparkling, “He does not do that.”

Logan lifted the string slightly out of Winston’s mouth. He grimaced at how the slightly frayed knot had become wet and dark, “Seems like he does.”

“No, but he doesn’t. He usually screams at men.”

“Good to know.”

“He once screamed at a veterinarian for eleven minutes.”

“Maybe he had notes.”

“He did not. Dr. Patel is very kind.”

Winston leaned to the hoodie string again. Logan pulled it back before he could snap his jaw around it.

The goat bleated with what sounded like personal offence. You stared at Winston like he had betrayed a family legacy.

“You like him?”

Winston bumped Logan’s thigh with his head.

Your mouth fell open, “Oh.”

Logan glanced at you. “Is that rare?”

“He likes children. He likes Nana. He tolerates me when I bring food. He does not like unknown men.”

“Maybe he likes trucks.”

“He has never met a truck in his spoiled life.”

Winston tried to climb the gate.

You snapped back into motion immediately.

“No. Absolutely not. Four feet on the ground, sir.”

Logan watched as you opened the gate just enough to slip inside, your whole energy changing the second you were in the pen. Not tense, not controlling, but focused. You moved like someone who knew exactly how close to stand and when not to reach. Your voice changed too, softening into something lower and coaxing, the rhythm of it easy and familiar.

“Come here, darling. We have a very important outing, and you are not going to make me look incompetent before nine in the morning.”

Winston backed up, bleating softly.

You dug in your pocket and held out a carrot shaped treat. He considered it, tilting his head at your offering. 

Then darted left.

You sighed. “Okay. We’re doing that.”

“What?” Logan asked.

“He’s decided this is a chase day.”

Winston hopped onto the platform again.

Then off it.

Then behind a stack of hay bales.

You turned to Logan, expression very serious. “Do not chase him directly. He likes that.”

Logan nodded. “What do I do?”

“Block him in spirit. You can’t show fear.”

He stared.

You looked back at Winston. “And physically, if possible.”

That was how Logan ended up standing near a hay bale with one arm slightly out, trying to look like an uninteresting wall while you moved slowly across the pen with a banana slice in your palm and the patience of a saint.

Winston did not respect the wall.

He bolted toward Logan, then swerved at the last second with surprising speed, hooves skittering in the straw.

Logan lunged half a step.

Missed.

You laughed. Bright and breathless, cheeks flushed, ribbon slipping slightly in your hair, boots planted in the straw like you had been born there. The sound caught Logan off guard. You were not flustered in the way he had expected, not helpless or panicked. You were alive with it, amused, focused, clearly annoyed with Winston but never out of control.

“Sorry!” you called. “He feints.”

“He feints?”

“He has a strategy.”

“He’s a goat.”

“He knows.”

Winston jumped onto an overturned bucket.

You gasped. “Winston! That is not structurally approved.”

Winston bleated from the bucket like a king addressing subjects.

Logan should have been annoyed. Instead, he was worried he was currently being charmed by the little shit. By you, he knew that he was far past being charmed. 

You crouched low, held out the banana, and stopped chasing entirely. Your voice softened again.

“Winnie. Come here. You have a job today.”

The goat stared.

“You like jobs.”

Winston did not move.

“You like children.”

Still nothing.

“You like being applauded by children.”

Winston’s ears flicked.

Logan looked at you. “He gets applauded?”

“He has a bowing trick.”

“He bows?”

“Only when he wants the tax benefits.”

Logan laughed.

Winston looked at him.

You did not move.

“See?” you whispered. “He’s deciding.”

“Deciding what?”

“If we deserve cooperation.”

“Do we?”

“No idea. He has a complex moral framework.”

Winston hopped off the bucket.

Took one step.

Then another.

You stayed perfectly still, palm open, banana slice waiting. Logan watched, breath held despite himself, as the goat approached with the theatrical caution of an animal who knew he was beloved enough to be forgiven.

Winston took the banana.

You clipped the lead rope to his collar in the same smooth motion.

“Ha,” you whispered.

Then looked up at Logan, eyes bright.

“Got him.”

Logan stared at you.

There was straw on your boot. A loose strand of hair had escaped your ribbon. Your red lipstick had faded slightly at the centre from where you had pressed your lips together in concentration. You were smiling with open, victorious delight over having outmanoeuvred a baby goat.

And Logan knew, with sudden, deeply inconvenient clarity, that he was in trouble. The kind that made a man want to be useful forever if it meant seeing that smile aimed at him even once.

You stood, brushing your knees off.

“Okay,” you said, all business again. “Now we need to get him into the truck.”

Logan blinked himself back into usefulness. “You have a crate?”

“Yes. It’s in the storage room. Not the big transport crate, because that’s at the Boston farm with Nana and Granddad, but this one is approved for short drives. It has ventilation and bedding and a little clip for his lead. I checked the latch twice.”

“Good.”

You glanced at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you said, then looked away too quickly. “It’s just nice when people don’t make me feel dramatic for checking latches.”

Logan’s chest did something strange.

“You’re transporting an animal,” he said. “You should check the latch.”

You looked back at him, “Yes,” a slow smile gracing your face, “Exactly.”

He carried the crate from the storage room to the truck while you walked Winston outside on the lead, narrating the entire process to the goat in a low, steady voice.

“The truck is not your enemy. The truck is simply a vehicle with strong masculine energy. We are not judging Logan’s truck. Logan’s truck is helping us.”

Logan, setting the crate carefully in the truck bed, glanced over.

“Strong masculine energy?”

You looked up. “It’s a compliment.”

“To the truck?”

“Yes.”

“What about me?”

You blinked, then your face went pink in the morning light.

“I was also referring to you adjacently.”

“Adjacently.”

“Please focus on the crate.”

He smiled and checked the truck bed.

The crate fit better than he expected. He grabbed two ratchet straps from behind the seat, checked the anchor points, and secured the crate while you watched with Winston at your side, the goat chewing slowly on nothing as if judging his technique.

“Is that okay?” you asked.

Logan tugged once on the strap. “It’s not moving.”

You stepped closer, careful with Winston’s lead, “Is the angle okay? For braking?”

“It’s against the cab. Weight’s balanced. Strap’s tight but not bending the frame.” He tugged and tapped at the points he was referring to for added assurance.

“Oh.”

He looked at you, “What?”

“No, nothing. That was…” You cleared your throat. “Informative.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

“Informative?”

“Yes.”

“You like truck safety?”

“I like competence.”

The second the words left your mouth, your eyes widened. Logan went still, his hands curled in his pockets as he watched you adjust the lead in your hand.

Winston sneezed.

You looked down at the goat like he might save you.

He did not care about the situation you got yourself into.

You pressed your lips together, then said, very quickly, “In all contexts. Competence is broadly positive. Nana always says you should marry someone who can deal with a leak without making it everyone else’s emergency.”

Logan’s eyebrows lifted.

“Marry?”

Your face went hot.

“No. Not- I didn’t mean- That was Nana speaking generally through me.”

“Through you.”

“Yes. Like a proverb.”

“A marriage proverb.”

“I am going to put Winston in the crate.”

You moved toward the truck before he could reply.

Winston immediately resisted, his hooves dug into the dirt beneath him. You coaxed him to the tailgate, then looked at Logan. “Okay. I need you to carry him.”

Logan stared at Winston. Winston stared back. Challenging him to try.

“You said he likes me.”

“He does. That doesn’t mean he respects the lift.”

“The lift.”

“Yes.”

You handed Logan the lead, then stepped close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm. “You have to support him properly. One hand under his chest, and the other here.”

Logan bent to reach for Winston.

“No, wait. Not like that.”

Your hands were suddenly on his.

Logan froze.

You had stepped in close behind his shoulder, your fingers wrapping over his wrist, guiding his palm into place beneath Winston’s chest. Your other hand moved his free hand lower, over Winston’s side.

“Here,” you said softly, focused entirely on the animal. “Around his waist. But don’t squeeze his stomach. He gets offended and then pretends he can’t walk.”

Logan tried to listen. He did. He was a respectful man. 

But you were close enough that he could smell your perfume under the hay and grass, cherry and something warm threaded through the air. Your fingers were small and sure over his, your voice low and instructive, your body angled into his space like touching him meant nothing because Winston mattered more than self-consciousness.

It should not have affected him.

“You have to support him like he’s precious but valuable,” you said.

Logan looked down at Winston.

“He knows if we don't?"

Your laugh brushed his shoulder.

“Yes.”

Together, they lifted Winston.

The goat made one outraged noise, then immediately went quiet when Logan held him correctly.

You blinked.

“He settled.”

Logan adjusted his grip carefully. “Is that good?”

“That’s very good.”

Winston rested his little chin against Logan’s forearm.

You stared.

Logan looked down at the baby goat nuzzling into his chest, then at you.

“What?”

“He really likes you.”

He cleared his throat. “Good. He’s got taste.”

You smiled. The tilt of your lips was soft, unfair in the way it made him automatically copy your movements. 

Then Winston tried to eat Logan’s sleeve.

“Moderate taste,” you corrected.

They got Winston into the crate with less drama than the chase had suggested. You clipped his lead safely, checked the bedding, checked the latch, asked Logan to check the latch, then checked it again after he did.

He did not complain, just stood behind you and clicked open your door when you were satisfied.

The drive itself began quietly.

Winston bleated once when the truck started, then settled into suspicious silence. You sat in the passenger seat with your coffee between your hands, knees angled toward Logan, the canvas tote at your feet. 

Logan drove more carefully than usual, not slow enough to be annoying, but he reminded himself, no sharp braking. No quick turns. He kept checking the rearview, partly for traffic, partly for the crate.

You noticed out of the corner of your eye, glancing at him from your phone. 

“You don’t have to keep looking,” you said after the fourth glance, your voice gentle with unplaced gratitude.

“I know.”

“He’s okay.”

“I know.”

You smiled into your coffee when the conversation paused.

“Thank you.”

“For driving?”

“For looking.”

Logan did not know what to say to that.

So he changed lanes carefully instead.

For a while, you gave him Winston’s biography.

Not because he asked, exactly, though he did ask one question about Clementine and accidentally opened your entire emotional archive. Clementine had been born at your grandparents’ Boston farm. She had been stubborn, elegant, and allergic to being ignored. She had once escaped a pen during your cousin’s birthday party and eaten half a floral arrangement. She hated rain but loved being brushed. She had slept outside your bedroom window during the summer when you were nine because, according to you, she believed you were emotionally unstable and required supervision.

“Was she right?” Logan asked.

You looked out the window.

Then said, “A little.”

He glanced at you.

Your expression was fond, but quiet.

“Moving around a lot made me weird with attachments,” you said, like you had not just handed him something delicate. “Animals were easier. They don’t care if you’re only somewhere for the summer or for school breaks or until adults decide logistics. They just care if you show up with food and remember where they like to be scratched.”

Logan kept his eyes on the road.

“You showed up for Clementine?”

“Always.”

“And Winston?”

Your smile returned. “Winston shows up for himself. Usually in places he is not allowed.”

He laughed.

You looked pleased.

The fields gave way to a smaller road lined with trees. Morning light flickered through the windshield. In the back, Winston made a small, conversational noise.

You twisted around. “You’re fine, darling.”

Another bleat.

“You are not being kidnapped. You have attended this programme before.”

Logan glanced at you. “Programme?”

“The learning farm does rotating animal visits for schools. Winston is very good with the younger children because he’s small and dramatic, which they respect. Today they’re doing a farm animals module, so he’s part of the goat section.”

“There’s a goat section.”

“Yes.”

“What’s in it?”

“Winston.”

“That’s the whole section?”

“He’s very engaging.”

“Clearly.”

You took a sip of coffee. “Mama helps coordinate some of the education partnerships. Not all. Just the ones connected to the smaller farms and a few community programmes. Daddy says children should understand animals as living creatures before they understand them as products, which sounds intense when he says it at dinner, but he means well.”

Logan processed that.

“Your family has more than one farm.”

You went still for half a second,“Yes,” you replied.

“How many?”

You looked down at your coffee, picking at the straw that had been stained with your lipstick, then out the window. Then back at him, smiling too brightly. “Depends how you define a farm.”

Logan’s mouth twitched.

“That many?”

“No. Not- Well. Some are farms, some are holdings, some are partnerships, some are more like educational land, and some are technically not ours but connected through Nana’s side or Granddad’s old agreements.” You took another sip. “It’s not as grand as it sounds.”

Logan looked at the barn-dirt on your boots, the gold around your wrist, the cherry ribbon in your hair, the canvas tote stuffed with goat supplies, and the coffee you had bribed him with because your grandparents’ Boston farm transport was unavailable.

“Sure.”

You glanced at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You said sure like you do not believe me.”

“I don’t know enough to not believe you.”

“That is a very careful answer.”

“I’m a careful guy.”

You watched him for a second.

Then looked away, but he could see your smile.

The learning farm was tucked behind a low stone wall and a wooden sign painted with cheerful animals and curling letters. It was not large, but it was busy in a familiar, organised way. The closer you got you could see into the centre, two staff members moved feed buckets, a group of children’s backpacks were stacked near a picnic table, little laminated signs marked animal areas, and a woman in green overalls and greying hair tied into a braid stood near the entrance with a clipboard.

She waved the moment she saw the truck. You waved back, instantly bright.

“That’s Marian,” you chirped. “She coordinates the visits. She loves Winston, but she pretends she doesn’t because he once ate the corner of her attendance sheet.”

Logan parked where you directed him.

Before he even got out, Marian was already approaching with a smile.

“Cherry!” she called. “You made it.”

You hopped out of the truck, coffee abandoned in the cup holder, “Yes. Sorry. Logistics were a little last-minute, but Winston has arrived emotionally intact.”

Marian laughed and hugged you like someone you’d known for years, “He usually does. Where is the little tyrant?”

“In the back.”

Logan got out offering her a polite wave, one hand braced on his door, Marian waved back, nodding while glancing at you approvingly. You didn’t notice, more focussed on Logan who had started towards the truck bed. 

Marian’s eyes flicked to him.

Then back to you.

Her smile changed knowingly.

“Oh,” she said. “And is this the boyfriend?”

You froze. Completely. Logan’s hand paused on the tailgate latch.

For one impossibly long second, nobody moved except Winston, who bleated from inside the crate as if delighted by social destruction.

Your mouth opened.

“No,” you blurted, too quickly. You buffered, horrified by how fast you had said it.

Logan looked down at the latch because if he looked at your face, he was going to smile, and that felt unkind.

“Not no like-” you continued, already spiralling. “I mean, not that there would be anything wrong with- Logan is- he’s my friend. My very helpful friend. He has a truck. And hands. For carrying Winston! I mean-”

Marian’s eyebrows lifted with delighted restraint.

Logan bit the inside of his cheek.

You were bright red now. “He helped very kindly,” you added, as if determined to make it worse. “He woke up early, and he let me bribe him with coffee, and he knew how to secure the crate properly without making me feel silly for asking twice, and Winston likes him, which is actually significant because Winston has strong opinions about men, not that Logan is significant only because of Winston, obviously, he is significant as a person, all people are significant, but-”

“Cherry,” Logan called softly, mid-lean towards Winston, who had mysteriously gone silent.

You stopped, eyes flicking to him. He gave you a small smile that made your shoulders lower by half an inch.

Marian, who had absolutely seen everything she needed to see, smiled warmly. “Helpful friends are very useful.”

“Yes,” you said faintly. “They are.”

Logan opened the tailgate and checked Winston before unfastening the straps. The goat looked entirely pleased with himself, as if he had personally arranged the misunderstanding.

“You okay, buddy?” Logan muttered.

Winston bleated.

“Yeah, thought so.”

You stepped beside him, still pink-cheeked but trying very hard to recover professionalism. “We should bring him to the small pen first. The children don’t arrive for twenty minutes, so he can settle.”

Marian nodded, “Perfect. Do you want me to take the crate?”

“I’ve got it,” Logan said.

You looked at him quickly, “Are you sure?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s awkward, not heavy.”

“I know.”

“And Winston shifts his weight dramatically.”

“I noticed.”

“And the left latch sticks.”

“I saw.”

You stared at him and pressed your lips together like you were trying not to smile.

“Okay.”

Logan carried the crate toward the small pen while you walked beside him, one hand hovering near the latch as if Winston might stage a political uprising. Marian followed, still smiling to herself.

“You’re good with him,” she said to Logan.

“He’s not bad.”

You made a noise, something between a snort and huff in the back of your throat.

Logan glanced at you. “What?”

“He is bad. You’re just being polite.”

Winston bleated from inside the crate.

“Do not act wounded,” you told him, “You know what you are.”

At the pen, Logan set the crate down carefully. You crouched to open it, murmuring softly to Winston before letting him step out. He emerged with great dignity, shook himself once, then immediately tried to eat the edge of Marian’s clipboard.

Marian pulled it away, “Absolutely not.”

You sighed, fingers pressed to the bridge of your nose, “of course he remembers.”

“He holds grudges.”

“He gets that from Clementine.”

“Clementine was a lady.”

“Clementine once climbed onto Nana’s dining table.”

“Still a lady.”

Logan watched the two of you bicker over goat lineage with the sober familiarity of people discussing a family member.

It should have been ridiculous. It was ridiculous. But he also realised this was not an aesthetic. Not a quirk designed to make you interesting. The goats, the farms, Clementine, Winston, the education modules, the way you checked latches and knew his tricks and spoke to him like a difficult cousin - this was a real, full part of your life. 

A whole world Logan had only glimpsed from the outside, full of rules and routines and strange wealth you treated as logistics rather than status. And you had called him into it.

Winston settled into the pen after only one attempt at escape, which you predicted and blocked with your foot without even pausing your conversation with Marian.

Logan saw it happen. So did Marian.

The older woman laughed. “Still got it.”

You looked down at Winston, narrowing your eyes at the baby goat, who had the audacity to look innocent.

“I was trained by his mother.”

Marian turned toward Logan, “Clementine was her shadow when she was little.”

Your face softened, but you looked embarrassed too, “Marian.”

“She was. Followed her everywhere.” Marian smiled at Logan, “Cherry used to come here when she was tiny, all ribbons and muddy knees, telling every child within hearing distance that goats were emotionally intelligent and deserved better public images.”

Logan looked at you, pressing his lips together as he nodded.  You covered your face briefly with one hand, pointedly avoiding his gaze.

“I was eight.” The defence was weak, and muffled by your hand

“You were correct,” Marian said.

Logan’s mouth curved, “Goats do have bad PR.”

You lowered your hand just enough to look at him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Winston does not help the cause, but broadly, yes.”

Winston sneezed.

The first group of children arrived ten minutes later, escorted by two teachers and armed with the sort of excitement that made all small animals either beloved or doomed. Winston transformed immediately. It was almost alarming. The criminal goat from the barn became a patient, charming little ambassador, standing calmly while Marian explained basic goat care and you crouched beside a nervous child to show her how to hold out a flat palm.

Logan stood back near the fence, watching.

You were good with the kids too. Of course you were.

Not in a sugary way, the way where you would give them fake ideals and promises based on hypotheticals. In a calm, genuine way that treated their questions like they mattered.

“Does he bite?”

“He can nibble if your fingers look like snacks, so we keep our palms flat.”

“Is he a baby?”

“He’s young, yes, but he thinks he is a senior manager.”

“Why is his name Winston?”

“Because his mother was Clementine, and my grandmother said he needed a name that sounded like it had opinions.”

One little boy asked if Winston had a job. You looked very serious as you nodded.

“Yes. Today his job is to help you learn that animals have personalities and boundaries.”

The boy nodded solemnly and patted Winston on the head, thanking him for his service. Winston took the affection greedily. 

Logan had to look away for a second.

He was so cooked. Completely. Irrevocably. Possibly medium-well. Dean would never let him live this down if he were here. 

But he couldn’t find himself caring about what Dean would tease him for, or what Garrett would silently file away in his brain or even what Tucker would silently snap a picture off to use against him later. 

Especially near the end, where a shy little girl, barely five years old came up to you and tugged at your shirt gently. You were crouched, murmuring at Winston as you scratched his head and offered him a treat- but you turned away from the baby menace when you felt her at your side. Smiling down at her, you offered your hand and introduced yourself, tilting your head when the little girl gave you her name, garbling slightly from her thumb that she had wedged between her teeth. 

“My name is Emmy," She shifted on the tips of her toes and glanced between you and Winston- her large, blue eyes blinked up at you. 

You reached for a treat in your back pocket, “Hi Emmy,” you tapped at her hand that was settled in front of her mouth, wrapping her thumb in a handkerchief he hadn’t even seen until you produced it out of thin air, “have you met a goat before?”

Emmy shook her head, blonde pigtails messily flowing over her shoulders, “No miss.” Emmy watched you rub her thumb clean, and take both clean hands into yours, resting them on the front of her dress- which was a simple baby yellow, and ended at her knees, “Is he scary?” 

Logan bit his lip as you smiled at her, squeezing her hands, “Not at all,” You looked back at Winston, who was watching Emmy with wide eyes, his eyelashes fluttering at her, “You don’t have to touch him to meet him. You can just say hello first.”

You let go of her hands, and demonstrated a large open palm wave to Winston. Emmy copied, her small hand robotically oscillated in front of her, “Hi Winston.” 

Winston bleated in response and Emmy jumped, her other arm curled into her side and you settled a comforting hand on her waist, “Winston! Manners please.”

The goat shuffled guiltily, and bumped his head against Emmy's hand, which had fallen quickly to her front- she stilled at the feeling of his soft, freshly washed and conditioned fur rubbing against her knuckles. 

“Oh.” Emmy’s face broke into a shy smile as she giggled and rubbed Winston's head. 

You looked up at Logan and grinned at his expression. To the untrained eye he looked enamoured with the heartwarming interaction. But only he knew that his heart thumped wildly against his ribs, watching you run your hand up and down the little girl's side as she clapped her hands at Winston’s bow. 

When the first session ended, Marian took over with the teachers, and you came back toward Logan with slightly dusty knees and happiness all over your face.

“He was good,” you bounced slightly on your boot heels, like this was a miracle.

“He was.”

“Did you see the bow?”

“I did.”

“Wasn’t it good?”

“It was very good.”

You smiled so widely that he felt it in his chest.

Then your phone buzzed. You glanced down, face changing with affection. 

“Oh. Mama.”

Logan tried not to react.

You stepped slightly aside and answered, your voice becoming softer and brighter at once.

“Hi, Mama. Yes, we got him here. No, Winston behaved in the car. Mostly. Logan secured the crate, so it didn’t shift at all. Yes, Logan from the garage. No, not garage Logan like he lives there- Mama”

Logan turned away and pretended to inspect the truck bed.

It did not help. He could still hear you on the phone with your mother. 

“Yes, he brought the truck. No, I brought him coffee. Yes, the proper order. Large hot coffee, two sugars. I know. Yes, he was very helpful. No, Marian thought-” You stopped abruptly. “Nothing. She thought nothing.”

Logan bit back a smile.

A pause.

“Mama.”

Another pause.

“No, I did not say boyfriend. Marian did.”

Logan’s smile vanished into something warmer.

You turned further away, but your voice carried just enough.

“No, I didn’t correct her like that. I mean, I did, but then I sounded rude, so I clarified that he is a very helpful friend. Yes. No. Mama, please don’t say it like that.”

There was a long silence.

Then your voice softened, “Yes, I think you’d like him.”

Logan stopped inspecting the truck bed, hand resting on the tailgate. 

You were quiet for a moment, listening, then you whispered, so softly he nearly missed it, “He doesn’t make me feel silly.”

Logan looked over.

You were standing near the fence, one hand wrapped around your phone, the other worrying at the end of your red ribbon. Your face was turned away, but he could see enough. The warm embarrassment. The honesty you had not planned to say out loud. The way you held yourself very still after saying it, as if the sentence had surprised even you.

A few seconds later, you cleared your throat.

“Yes, Mama. I’ll call you after. Love you.”

You ended the call and stood there for one beat too long before turning back, worrying your lip between your teeth. Your eyes found Logan’s and you knew he had heard. Not all of it, but enough that it made your face warm.

“My mother is nosy,” you started.

Logan’s voice came out quieter than he expected, “Most moms are.”

“Yes, but mine has resources.”

He smiled faintly watching you walk back toward him, tucking your phone into your pocket.

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“The boyfriend thing. And the helpful friend monologue. And the part where I said you had hands.”

“For carrying Winston.”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

You looked at him, eyes narrowing despite your blush. “You are enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“It was a verbal car crash.”

“It was impressive.”

“It was not.”

“You called me significant.”

Your mouth fell open. Then closed. Then opened again.

“I said all people are significant.”

“After saying I was.”

“That was philosophical.”

“Sure.”

“It was.”

“And the hands?”

“For goat carrying.”

“Helpful hands.”

“Logan.”

“What?”

“You are being very smug for a man who was almost defeated by a baby goat less than two hours ago.”

He grinned when you looked away, poorly hiding your similar smile. 

For a while, the day continued gently.

Winston did his second session. Logan helped move the empty crate back to the truck. Marian gave you a paper packet of thank-you notes the children had drawn for past animal visits, and you held them like they were something precious. One had a picture of Winston with horns the size of tree branches and the caption “Goat man.” You declared it accurate.

By late morning, Winston was settled for the rest of the module, and you were free to leave until pickup later that afternoon. Marian hugged you goodbye, shook Logan’s hand, and told him it had been “lovely meeting the helpful friend” with exactly the tone of a woman who had not retired her theory.

You nearly tripped over a pebble and Logan steadied you with one hand at your elbow. 

Marian’s smile widened. You pointed back at her with a warm, warning glare.

The drive back was quieter than the drive there.

Without Winston in the back, the truck felt oddly empty. You sat curled slightly toward the window, your boots dusty, ribbon loose, lipstick faded from coffee and nerves. Logan kept both hands on the wheel.

The boyfriend's comment sat between you, not awkwardly, but heavy enough that he was aware every time you shuffled in your seat, fingers running along your phone case. Another nervous tic you had. 

After ten minutes, you said, “I really am sorry.”

Logan glanced at you. “Cherry.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to keep apologising.”

“I know. I just…” You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Because Marian can be very presumptive in a well-meaning way, and I know we’re friends, and I know sometimes people assume things when a boy and a girl arrive with a goat, but that doesn’t mean-”

“Cherry.” 

You stopped, sucking in a breath.

He kept his eyes on the road, but his voice softened.

“I wasn’t uncomfortable.”

You looked at him for a long moment studying his face, then nodded, sinking back into your seat with a gentle exhale. 

“Okay.”

Another quiet mile passed.

Then Logan, because he liked torturing himself asked, “Were you?”

“Was I what?”

“Uncomfortable.”

You stared at the road ahead, blinking as the familiar briar crowd leaked into the parts of the city you were driving through. The answer took longer than he expected.

“No,” you said finally. “Not uncomfortable.”

His fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

“But?”

You sighed, “But I don’t like lying.”

He glanced at you.

Your face was serious now, thoughtful in a way that made every part of you go still.

“And it wasn’t true,” you said, “so I had to correct her. But correcting her too fast felt like I was saying the idea was ridiculous, which would have been rude, because you are not ridiculous. And then I tried to explain that, but explaining made it worse because I accidentally complimented you a lot.”

Logan’s mouth twitched. You wore every emotion on your sleeve and didn’t realise it half the time, until you were halfway through a sentence you were going to regret by your next breath. It was endearing and startling all at the same time, and he wasn’t sure how he would survive it without eventually driving into a hedge. 

You pointed at him immediately.

“Do not laugh.”

“I’m not.”

“You are, I can tell.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m being vulnerable.”

The smile faded from his face, because you were right.

You were trying, in your own painfully honest way, to tell him something without stepping too far ahead of where either of you had agreed to stand.

Logan slowed at a red light and turned to look at you. 

“You can compliment me,” he murmured into the comfortable silence.

Your face warmed, playing with the aux cord, “That is not the point.”

“It can be one of them.”

“Logan.”

“I’m serious.”

He switched gears when the light blinked green,

“You were good today,” you said after a while,

His chest tightened and he fixed his eyes on the road. 

“With Winston?”

“With Winston,” you paused, “And with me.”

Logan swallowed, turning away from the city, back towards the yard he had picked you up from, “I didn’t do much.”

“You did.”

“I drove.”

“You showed up. You checked the crate. You didn’t laugh when I checked it twice. You listened when I told you how to hold him. You didn’t act like any of it was stupid.” Your hands twisted together briefly, then relaxed, “That matters to me.”

Logan was quiet.

He wanted to say something light. Something easy. Something that would let both of you step back from the sudden tenderness before it got too obvious.

He could not find it.

So he settled for, “It wasn’t stupid,” replying to you with a tenderness that should’ve been casual, but instead settled deep in your bones,“you care about him,” he continued, like it was the most normal, obvious conclusion in the world, “That’s not stupid.”

Your breath caught, “you’re very good at that,” you whispered.

“At what?”

“Making things sound simple.”

He smiled faintly, “Maybe they are.”

“They aren’t.”

“No,” he agreed, “But sometimes they can be.”

You looked out the window again.

When he pulled back into the holding, the barn glowed bright in the early-afternoon sun. Logan parked near the same spot as before and cut the engine. Neither of you got out immediately, you turned to him.

“Thank you, mechanic.”

His mouth curved, “You’re welcome, Cherry.”

Your smile widened, but there was something softer underneath it now, as you were reaching for the door handle- you paused, “Oh,” you glanced at the centre console, “your coffee.”

“What about it?”

“You didn’t finish it.”

“I was driving.”

“I’ll get you another one later.”

“Later?”

You froze, realising what you had just implied. 

“I mean, if you want. For pickup. Or another time. As repayment. Not as a date. Unless- not unless. I mean- coffee is broadly available in many contexts.”

You snapped your mouth shut and closed your eyes. “I need to stop speaking.”

“No,”You winced at him,“I like when you speak.”

For once, you had nothing immediate to say. Your mouth parted slightly. Then closed. You looked down at your feet, pressing your lips together in the hopes it would dampen your bright smile. 

Outside, somewhere inside the barn, an animal knocked against a bucket. The moment slipped away like sand as you both looked towards the sharp thud. 

“The things I do before 1pm,” You inhaled slowly, shaking your head “That had better not be Winston’s cousin.”

Logan laughed, and you opened the truck door and hopped out.

This time, when he followed, you waited for him at the front of the truck instead of walking ahead. Logan noticed, because he was starting to notice every small thing you did, and he tucked his hands into his pockets to hide the realisation that bloomed in his chest. 

You started back toward the barn together, dusty boots crunching over gravel, red ribbon loose in your hair, the smell of hay and cherries still caught in the morning air, he realised with a quiet kind of dread that he did not want this to be the last strange errand you called him for.

Not the last goat transport.

Not the last coffee bribe.

Not the last time you pulled him, accidentally and earnestly, into some corner of your life that made no sense until he saw you inside it.

He wanted the whole ridiculous ecosystem.

And it was a lot to realise before lunch.

But then, Logan thought, watching you turn back to smile at him before pushing open the barn door, in the short time he had known you- he liked your ‘a lot. 

Winston’s cousin bleated somewhere inside.

You winced, recognising the short scream, “sounds emotional.”

Logan stepped in beside you, holding the door with a hand pressed above your head, “Does it?”

You looked up at him, eyes bright.

“I speak fluent goat. I can’t wrangle them easily though”

He nodded once, “Good thing I have helpful hands.”

Your mouth fell open.

Logan walked past you into the barn, smiling to himself as you spluttered behind him.

“John Logan!”

He sits on the worn leather sofa in the fraternity common room, a lukewarm coffee in hand, watching a pair of freshmen argue over a video game. Last year, this room was a minefield of budget crises, noise complaints from the dean, and brotherhood disputes that required the diplomacy of a UN peacekeeper.

Now? His biggest administrative headache is convincing a nineteen-year-old sophomore that failing Intro to Macroeconomics will directly result in a ban on the upcoming Halloween celebrations.

It’s a glorious, low-stakes existence, and Jack intends to ride this wave of absolute mediocrity straight through to May.

His only other role in the frat this year is party-planning, and Jack has no problem dedicating time to that.

Tonight's festivities - their annual Hippies vs. Cowboys party. A legendary night that requires him to dust off his old presidential authority to keep the drinks flowing and spirits high.

Planning it is always an exercise in absurdity. Jack spends the week leading up to the party negotiating borders in the backyard, dividing the lawn into a "Saloon" and a "Commune." He has to veto the freshmen's increasingly dangerous ideas for a homemade mechanical bull, while simultaneously confiscating suspicious bundles of sage that the "hippies" want to burn inside a house with centuries-old wooden beams.

Everything is set up. Now, his only concern is trying to salvage the guestlist when Robby decides he’s not coming out of the blue.

"Come on, man, it’s Hippies and Cowboys," Jack argues, propping his phone against the mirror. "You can literally just wear some denim. I have an extra hat. It takes zero effort."

On the screen, Robby looks thoroughly exhausted, surrounded by thick textbooks and empty coffee cups. "I'm in med school, Jack. My brain is leaking out of my ears. You’ll understand next year."

As one of the only academically-inclined members of the team, he and Robby had become fast-friends in Jack’s first year, when Robby was a senior. Now an MS3, he’s been a life-saver when it comes to applying to med school.

"Which is exactly why you need to get drunk in a basement. Savour this before you’re pulling fourteen hour shifts every day.”

"I am not traveling all the way up from the medical campus just to watch a bunch of freshmen pass out on a mechanical bull," Robby groans, rubbing his temples. "The commute alone will kill me, and I start my Psych rotation at dawn. Go have a beer for me.”

“Loser,” Jack hollers.

“Whatever. Try not to torment the female population of Cornell tonight, and I’ll see you at the first game.”

*****

The bass from the speakers downstairs is already vibrating through the floorboards when the front door officially opens. Within an hour, the house is packed to capacity, a sweaty, high-energy blur of denim, suede, flower crowns, and flannel.

Jack takes his role as host seriously. He moves through the crowded living room with easy, senior-year confidence, high-fiving guys from the lacrosse team, directing people toward the kegs, and making sure the hired DJ actually keeps the crowd moving. He plays the part perfectly, laughing at jokes, keeping the peace, and flirting where necessary.

He may also be looking for someone to hook up with.

He argues that it’s only natural. First week of the semester, you’ve got to start how you intend to go on. And Jack intends to have fun. Unattached, zero strings fun.

When Chloe walks in, it feels a little like a sign.

A Communications major, they’ve been hooking up on-and-off since sophomore year. She catches his eye, gives him a slow, familiar smile, and begins to make her way through the crowds.

Normally, Jack would meet her halfway. Tonight, though, he just isn't feeling it.

The thought of going through the usual routine - the standard small talk, the familiar rhythm - suddenly feels entirely unappealing. He gives her a friendly, casual wave instead of a come-hither look, deliberately stepping into a conversation with a group of hockey freshmen to break her line of sight. He needs something different tonight. He just doesn't know what it is yet.

He’s lamenting his lack of options, when one literally falls into his lap. There’s a slight commotion that he’s not paying attention to, before you’re pushed, stumbling slightly before hitting the side of his legs and losing your balance entirely.

If Jack is expecting some kind of slowing of time, prolonged eye contact and shy smiles, he doesn’t get any of it. Instead, you toss him a brief apology, before you’re back on your feet to yell at the guy who pushed you. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Normally, Jack makes it a rule to not get involved with fraternity drama. One of the more sober brothers can deal with it. But something about you has him getting to his feet, arms crossed as he situates himself between you and your assailant. He glances at the guy, vaguely recognises him as someone who’s caused trouble before.

Doesn’t tend to understand the word no.

“Is there a problem here?”

“I told him I wasn’t interested, and he fucking shoved me!”

That’s all Jack needs to hear. For all the issues that Sigma Chi may have, they certainly don’t allow creeps on their premises. All it takes is one rumour of the frat not shutting it down properly, and they can kiss their squeaky-clean reputation goodbye. “Right, you’re done,” He starts, a hand on the guy’s chest as he waves for security by the front door.

“What?” When the guy speaks, his voice is slurred, his cheeks flushed. He’s totally wasted, to the point where it’s a miracle he’s even standing upright. “S-She came on t’me.”

“I’m positive that’s not true,” Jack replies, taking one look at him. Unkempt hair, noticeable body odour, and a shitty attitude. You could definitely do better. “What’s your name?”

“Why d’ya w-want t’know?”

“We’re offering you an award,” Jack replies dryly. “Because I’m banning you from the house, dumbass.”

The guy goes to reply, tries to make a half-hearted swing at Jack, when security take an arm each, and begin to haul him out backwards.

“Check his ID, and give me his name at the end of the night!” Jack calls after him, before turning his attention back to you.

You don’t look scared, or distressed, or even annoyed. Instead, you look almost amused by the entire situation.

“Jack,” He offers you his hand, and you tell him your own name. He tries it out, likes the way it sounds on his tongue. “You want a drink?”

You’re nodding, and he’s leading you through to the kitchen to grab a beer. Your nose scrunches a little as you take it. “What - you don’t like beer?”

Which is how, for the first time in his college career, Jack finds himself mixing up a margarita in the middle of a frat party. You’d insisted you’d be fine with some vodka and coke, but he finds himself wanting to impress you.

“So… was your inspiration Manson-Family-Chic?” He asks, raising an eyebrow while you snort, into your cup. He doesn’t know why he’s ragging on you, given you’re one of the only people here who looks like they could’ve fallen out of the sixties. The neckline of your dress is high, leaving everything to the imagination, but the hem falls high on your thighs, to the point where one wrong move would have everything on display.

Most other guests took the hippie theme to mean lingerie with some over-sized glasses and a peace-sign necklace.

He likes that you took it seriously.

The way he checks you out is far from subtle, hazel eyes trailing down your form, all the way down to your white go-go boots.

“Do you know what the Manson Family were wearing on a day-to-day basis? Because it certainly wasn’t vintage Biba.”

Somebody bumps into you from behind, and Jack takes the opportunity to hook an arm around your waist and pull you into him for the second time that night. Now chest-to-chest, you’re looking up at him through darkly-lined eyes, and he suddenly doesn’t know what to say.

“Does the white knight thing normally work for you?”

He lets out a laugh, low and genuine. “It’s never hurt.”

Over the next few minutes, Jack learns more about you than he knows about some of his own teammates. You’re on the pre-law track, but because you were such an ‘annoying overachiever’ in high school, your plan is to chill for the rest of college. You also play bass and sing back-up in a band, but were supremely embarrassed by any kind of suggestion that you might sing for him sometime.

“So… you’re what - some kind of rockstar?” He asks, obviously out to charm, and you snort.

“Definitely not as sexy as that. Bassists don’t normally get that much love.”

“I don’t know, sounds pretty sexy to me,” His head is dipped, his nose almost touching yours. “Hot girl, guitar… pretty sure I had wet dreams exactly like that in high school.”

You laugh before you can help it, the sound getting swallowed by the music and the noise of the party around you.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Too much?”

You glance up at him, trying to decide your answer, when the music shifts, and the opening chords of Layla waft through the frat house. He watches your face visibly light up, and bites back a smile.

“Clapton fan?” he asks.

“Let me guess - you’re in charge of the music tonight.”

“Unfortunately, the rest of the team think that the nineties counts as retro. Do you dance?”

“You asking?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs.

You narrow your eyes playfully. “You any good?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Perfect.”

Before he can react, you grab his wrist and tug him toward the centre of the room.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. He uses your grip on his wrist to pull you flush against him, completely eliminating the space between you. His large, calloused palm settles firmly against the small of your back, guiding you into a breathless rhythm.

You look up, completely caught in his orbit as he spins you out and pulls you right back against his chest. At this distance, the rest of the frat house completely blurs out. Jack dips his head, lips brushing your neck in the briefest kiss.

Layla, you've got me on my knees.

The lyrics echo in his head, and for the first time in his life, they don't feel like hyperbole. If Clapton hadn't written it fifty years ago, Jack is pretty sure someone would have to write it about you tonight.

Begging darling please, Layla

He catches Chloe’s eye as his hands drop to your waist, and he immediately glances away.

They're not dating. They have zero obligations to one another.

So why does she look so pissed?

Darling, won't you ease my worried mind?

The guitar solo is screaming through the speakers, matching the frantic, heavy rhythm in Jack's chest. He looks down at your mouth, then back up to your eyes, and realises he is completely text-book losing his mind. A freshman bumps hard into his shoulder, but he barely registers it. He is entirely done with this crowded room, done sharing the way you move and the sweet smell of your perfume with a hundred drunk strangers.

Pulling you into him, he lowers his head until his lips brush the warm skin just below your ear. “Come upstairs with me,” he murmurs, his voice tight with an impatience he doesn't even bother trying to hide.

He doesn't offer a lame excuse. He just pulls back to look down at you, waiting.

Instead of answering, you slide your hand up his neck, tilt your chin, and press your lips directly to his.

Jack lets out a quiet, defeated breath against you, his hands instantly sliding up your back to anchor you against him. The kiss is intoxicating, tasting like the drink on your breath and the heat of the room, completely shattering his usual composure.

When you finally break apart, both of you breathing a little harder, you finally slide your hand down into his open palm and squeeze it gently. “Lead the way, hockey boy.”

*****

You catch the back of his neck and pull him into you, allowing him to walk you backwards until the back of your legs hit the bed.

Jack's been known to rip some clothing in his time, but he takes surprising care with your dress. As soon as it’s draped over the back of his chair, the rest of your clothes go in a frenzied rush. The dancing was the foreplay, and neither of you can stand a single second more of not being as close as possible.

There's a layer of sweat covering Jack's skin, glittering under the light from the lamp on his bedside, and you allow yourself a second to admire his abs.

He catches you looking, and a familiar, cocky smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He follows you down onto the mattress, his weight a warm, welcome pressure that drives every remaining thought of the noisy fraternity house right out of your head. His hands are surprisingly gentle as they frame your face, fingers tangling in your hair while his mouth finds yours again.

“You up for this?” He breathes, and you find yourself oddly charmed. He checked on you twice on the way up here - and while, sure, it’s the bare minimum, it’s not something you’re hugely used to.

“I wouldn’t have let you bring me up here if I wasn’t,” You mumble back, between kisses, anticipation in your chest tripling as he reaches for a condom.

You're not usually one to be bossed around, but there's something intoxicating about the way Jack manhandles you. A few small giggles escape as he flips you onto your front, pulling your ass back to meet his hips.

“Something funny?”

“I guess that depends on your performance.”

“You’re a tough critic. Noted.”

With that, he’s sinking in, and your fingers grip helplessly at his sheets as you try and ground yourself. “Shit.”

You’d rather die than tell him, but he’s big. Thicker and longer than your ex.

“Doing okay down there?” You can hear the smirk in his voice, and realise he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“Just fine.”

He starts to move, movements slow at first as his hands settle at your hips, gripping tightly. The stretch soon gives way to pleasure, and you’re more than a little embarrassed when you whimper.

You don’t whimper.

Not at all.

Except tonight, it seems.

Must be the alcohol.

“J-Jack, oh my god-”

An arm loops around your front, pulling you upwards until your back is pressed to his chest. With it, the angle changes, and you can feel your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“Good girl,” is groaned right into your ear, and you think you might be seeing stars.

Maybe hockey players do know what they're doing.

You're suddenly very glad for the blaring music downstairs drowning out the sound of skin slapping, and the way Jack is moaning behind you. If you weren't close before, his hand dropping between your legs to circle at your clit throws you over the edge.

You tilt your head upwards, catching his lips in a sloppy kiss as he works you through the orgasm.

Normally, this would be it. A brief kiss pressed to your shoulder, before your ex curled up in bed and left you hanging.

Jack, however, appears to have exactly the stamina you'd expect from a varsity jock, and you’re on your back before you can even orient yourself. His face is buried in the crook of your neck as his thrusts resume.

Nails digging in to the meat of his back, your mind is totally cleared of anything that isn’t Jack’s name. You don’t even know his surname.

You wouldn't have pegged him for an eye contact guy, but as his movements become more erratic, he’s pulling back to hold your jaw, keeping your gaze fixed on him.

“F-Fuck, I think I’m gonna-” With a final groan, he climaxes, dropping his head to rest against yours while his hips start to slow. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” You breathe. “Holy shit.”

“You okay?”

You nod quickly, lip between your teeth. The last thing you want to do is give him an even bigger head than he already has, but it slips out before you can stop it. “I’ve never cum that quickly before.”

“What can I say? I’m a pro,” He replies, a lazy grin on his face as he presses one last kiss to your temple before he pulls out, and gets to his feet to reach for the trash can.

Condom discarded, he pads back over to the bed, his shoulders so broad that he takes up half the space.

“Are you one of those guys that can't have girls stay over?” You ask, chest still heaving a little as you try and regain your senses.

“M'not gonna kick you out at-” He checks his phone. “3am. What kind of a monster do you think I am?”

“Well, you are on the hockey team,” You start, trailing off in a fit of giggles when Jack digs his fingers into your side, tickling mercilessly. “Hey!”

“I've got practice in the morning, though. So I'll be out at like six.”

You understand what he's getting at. Jack is not in the relationship business.

You don't have a problem with that. You wanted some variety in your life, and you got it. “S'okay. It was good sex. No point in trying to make it something it isn't.”

“You're my kind of girl, princess. You ever thought about coming to the hockey games?”

You snort, shooting him a glance. “Are you trying to recruit me to the Puck Bunny leagues? Yeah, I think I'll pass on that one, thanks.”

“Oh, come on,” Jack groans, throwing a heavy arm over his eyes, though a smug little smirk still tugs at his lips. “It’s peak entertainment.”

“And you’ll have CTE by the time you’re twenty-five.”

“Technically, I’m more likely to lose teeth. If we’re talking statistics.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Gross.”

“Besides,” He continues. “This is my last year playing. I’m going to med school next year.”

“Really?” You gape, turning onto your side to get a better look at him. He’d told you earlier he was a biology major, but you hadn’t given it much thought. You’d figured he was probably just trying to avoid as many essays as possible.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” He grumbles.

“I’m just keeping your feet on the ground, hockey boy. Someone’s gotta do it. Good for you, though - I thought hockey players lost all their braincells from the fights.”

“Going to sleep now,” Jack singsongs, shoving lightly at your shoulder, and you laugh again.

You slide down into the mattress, turning your back to him and pulling the blanket tight around your shoulders. You expect him to stay on his side, but after a minute, the mattress shifts. Jack moves closer, his chest pressing against your back, his large frame bracketing yours to block out the chill of the room. He doesn't say anything, and neither do you. His arm slides carefully around your waist, holding you still, and despite the biting comments, you let yourself sink backward into his warmth as you both drift off.