it's four o'clock in the fucking morning

A little over one month had passed and you were still staying at Brendon's. Each time you attempted to look at potential apartments, he'd ask you if you wanted to go on a walk, watch a show, or do literally anything else. You certainly weren't complaining, still, you wanted to be mindful of your burgeoning romance with him. You worried what other people might think about you jumping into (and on) something with Park. Of course, he dutifully reminded you that other people's opinions didn't matter.

Still, a traitorous seed of insecurity couldn't help but be planted within you -- what if he got tired of you? What if one morning he woke up and decided that he'd had enough? It wasn't like you had a whole lot of say over when Robby ended your relationship and kicked you out.

In fact, the circumstances were eerily similar: you, a subordinate with little financial independence were relying on your professional superior for a place to stay while being romantically intertwined. Deep down you knew that the two men couldn't be any more different. Where Robby gave you empty words and forgotten promises, Brendon showed you how much he valued you.

Even if things were going well with Brendon, you still wanted your own space. One that was entirely yours, a sanctuary from work and an escape from reality. Additionally, as much as you loved hanging around Brendon, you knew that you still needed to heal from Robby. That work and reflection should be done in your space and on your terms. You promised yourself the next time you perused Zillow in the living room and he inevitably asked you to do something else, you'd politely decline. Enter one stubborn man.

Brendon was at the gym and you were sprawled out on his couch, lazily looking at places while your laptop sat in your lap. You heard the door open and in walked a very sweaty, sexy Brendon. You loved him like this; disheveled, panting, wet with sweat -- you knew it was kind of disgusting to want him post workout but god, he looked so ..... biteable, kissable, fuckable. You were doing a poor job at hiding the fact you were checking him out. He smirked and stalked towards you.

With a rough voice he asked, "how about you join me in the shower?"

Mustering up as much self-control as you could, you said, "as tempting as that is, I really need to actually look for a place. So I can you know, get out of your hair." He grumbled at that and said, "I like you in my hair." You playfully rolled your eyes in response and tore your eyes away from him, very reluctantly, to continue half-heartedly searching for a place.

At this point, Brendon could sniff out your insecurities due to your former relationship a mile away. He hated that you thought you were a burden, an inconvenience and unwanted. He had no choice; he was going to pull out the big guns.

Taking off his shirt while maintaining eye contact, he tried once again. "You sure about that sweetheart?"

Well... no, you weren't sure. Now your discipline was wearing thin, as all you could think about was how much you wanted to climb that man like a tree. And the bastard knew, of course he knew the effect he had on you. It was written all over your face, with your glassy eyes and parted lips.

Determined to stay focused, you weakly replied, "I... I...um, no. I really need to find a place."

Leaning forward over you, arms bracketing the couch, Park started kissing down your neck. Hook, line, and sinker. What little restraint you had left was gone, gone, gone. Your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned into his touch. Then, his lips found your earlobe, gently sucking on it, eliciting a soft gasp from you.

With a husky whisper, Brendon said, "You don't need to search right now baby." He'd already had you at this point; he knew it and so did you. But he wasn't the kind of man to simply stop once he won. So, he kept going and what he said next killed you.

"You're not gonna make me beg, are you?" Heat flooded to your face, your heart jumped out of your chest, and most of all, you felt yourself clench around nothing. Almost effortlessly, he had you wet, desperate, and wanting.

Taking his bait, you breathily replied, "I'd like to hear the Shark beg."

At that, he rounded the couch, stepping in front of you. Practically in a trance, you moved your legs so you were sitting in an upright position. He then stepped in between your legs. You looked up at him and were met with his darkened eyes, blown with desire.

Slowly, he kneeled in front of you and you briefly wondered if he'd be able to see your desire through your flimsy pajama shorts. Any thoughts left your brain as he put his hands on your knees and started kissing up your legs. You watched with lidded eyes and lips parted in anticipation. No matter how many times you had been intimate with him, he always managed to make you feel desired, wanted, and needed in ways you'd scarcely felt before. He looked up into your eyes and with the most affected voice, said, "baby, please join me in the shower." Your breath hitched. And he continued reverently kissing your legs.

"Please." Another kiss. "Please." Dangerously close to your center, Brendon placed another kiss high up on your upper thigh. He lifted your shirt and you pulled it off completely, leaving you topless in your pj bottoms. For a moment he just stared at you, looking as if he was seeing you bare for the first time again. In a wrecked voice, he whispered out, "beautiful," causing your heart to twinge with affection. You knew you were beautiful but right now, he made you feel it.

Park's hands trailed up your abdomen, only stopping when they cupped your breasts. His thumbs rolled over your nipples, bringing them to stiffened peaks. Your head was thrown back, chest arching into his touch when you finally acquiesced, "shit, shit, yes I'll join you in the shower." Fuck your pride, fuck your restraint, and fuck anything else right now.

Despite finally accepting his invitation, Park didn't stop his ministrations. He started kissing your chest but never giving you the attention where you so desperately needed. He was a horrible, wonderful, patient, teasing man. No stranger to staying focused for hours on end, he could quite literally do this all night. You whined impatiently, and he finally took a nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue over you. A mewl fell from your lips and your hips canted up, chasing friction -- chasing him.

When your gazes locked again, an ineffable feeling hung in the air. It was more than desire, lust, or anticipation for what was to come. For a moment, everything was still. He was looking up at you, making you feel powerful and drunk on desire, drunk off of him. You brought your hands to his short hair and tugged, pulling a shaky breath from him. He loved when you got whiny, desperate, and a little bratty. It made his pants tighten all the more because he relished the opportunity to correct that attitude.

He got to his feet and offered a hand to pull you up. Lord knew you had wobbly legs at the moment. Still holding hands, the two of you made your way to his bedroom's en suite bathroom. Just before you entered his room, he stopped you both in your tracks. He'd had that look in his eye. The one he got when he was about to say something devastatingly hot to you.

"Now it's my turn to hear you beg."

And beg you would.

Later that night, your head on his chest while you both laid in his bed, you absentmindedly traced patterns on his skin. There was something you needed to bring up to him; something that was making you nervous in a way that caused your stomach to swirl. You knew Brendon appreciated honesty and straightforwardness but it could be overwhelming and daunting to speak your mind. You knew it was now or never though, so you cut through the silence.

"Brenny?" You loved to call him that. The first time you did, you were rewarded with sight of the tips of his ears turning pink. Brenny, Sharkie, and baby were your favorite nicknames for him. One time, Whitaker thought he could call Brendon "Sharkie" and found out the hard way that only you could call him that.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I uh, need to talk to you about something. I'm kind of scared to do it." At that he fully sat up in bed, putting his phone screen-side down on the nightstand, ensuring you had his full attention. He looked to you, silently encouraging you to continue.

"So Whitaker told me that Robby came back early from his sabbatical and is working again, which means he'll be back for both of our shifts in two days. I don't know... I'm worried about his reaction to us."

Brendon exhaled out of his nose and nodded. "First of all, I completely understand where you're coming from. I know this is the first time you'll be seeing him and working with him after the breakup, which is bound to be difficult." He grabbed your hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of it. "Second of all, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Moving on is allowed. You're allowed to be happy. Whatever his reaction will be is entirely reflective on him -- not you or us."

He continued, "I know that you are more than capable of fighting your own battles but don't be afraid to page me if he gives you a hard time. Robinavitch can take out whatever angst he has on me, not you."

You don't know how you got so lucky with Brendon. Emotion swelled in your chest, gratefulness the strongest of all. But you weren't done being brave with honesty. Taking a big breath, you faced your fears head on again.

"That's not all. I wanted to be honest about the living together situation. Obviously, I am incredibly thankful to be staying with you. But I worry about you getting tired of me, or relying on another man for housing, or it being too much and too soon."

He looked down at his hands and panic rose within you, lighting your nerves on fire. Great. This was it -- the straw that broke the camel's back. Blood rushed through your body and you felt sick. Finally his gaze returned to your eyes.

"Shit, I'm sorry baby. I didn't even think about how you wouldn't want to be in the same position as you were before with relying on someone else for housing. I'm an idiot. But I want to get one thing clear. Even if, god forbid, we ended things tomorrow, I would still let you stay until you found a place that you liked."

Cue the waterworks. In a good way of course. This was the reassurance you wanted, needed from him. Your bravery and honesty paid off, as it always would with Park. Wrapping you arms around his body, you cried into his chest, just as you had in that stairwell many moons ago. He soothed you by engulfing you in his embrace and stroking your hair.

Still holding you tight, he spoke again, saying, "I'll reach out to my sisters tonight about those housing options we talked about. Something nice, affordable, safe, and near the hospital."

Your response came out muffled in his chest, "I can't thank you enough."

"You don't need to keep thanking me."

Looking up at him, you replied, "but I want you to know how grateful I am for you and everything you're doing."

"I know, trust me baby, I know. I just hope you remember that I do it for you, not for anything in return. There is no score to be settled here."

Fuck. Tears welled up in your eyes all over again. Attempting to lighten the mood, you said, "who made you so emotionally intelligent?"

"I gotta give my mom credit for that."

You smiled into him, taking another deep breath to calm down. Crying was exhausting. So you fell asleep in the Shark's arms, feeling safe and comforted.

Almost in the blink of an eye, it was time to go back to work and you found yourself getting ready for the day with a pit of dread sitting like a brick deep in your stomach. Brendon already had to go in for a scheduled surgery. He left you this morning with a kiss on your forehead and a text that read, "I'm here if you need me." Despite all of that, you were still nauseous, overthinking about what was to come. The only way out is through.

Taking a deep breath in the ambulance bay, you attempted to steel your nerves. Maybe that wouldn't work but you'd fake it until your shift was over. You walked into the E.D. without fanfare and your head held high. Dennis, Victoria, and Trinity were on shift with you and you knew they had your back. They'd cover you if you needed a moment of stillness.

With her glasses perched low on her nose, Dana called out to you, "about time you got here doctor. You're needed in triage." Thank god for Dana Evans, giving you something easy but that would keep your hands and mind busy. Of course she'd be looking out for you on a day like today. She was knowingly smiling at you as you walked up to her at the nurse's station.

"You are heaven-sent. An angel, truly. Thank you Dana."

She put her hand on your shoulder, squeezing you in support.

"You know I got you kid. And if it gets to be too much, if he so much as looks at you wrong, you let me know." With words failing as emotion caught in your throat, you simply nodded and headed to triage.

For the first three hours of your shift, things were blessedly fine. You could hear Robby but you were able to avoid him by taking any questions to Dr. Al-Hashimi. But by 10:12 A.M., your luck had run out. Your patient, a 3-year-old girl who had possibly swallowed a toy, suddenly began presenting with pulmonary distress. You jumped into action by securing her airway and screamed for assistance to administer oxygen. Robby came barreling in and his attitude caused tensions to run even higher in the room. Jesse came bounding in on Robby's heels.

Informing them what was going on, you urgently explained, "3-year-old girl who may have swallowed a foreign object began suddenly presenting with pulmonary distress." Her grandmother looked on in pure panic with guilt stretched across her face. She had told you she was her sole care-taker but it was extremely difficult at her age and energy level to watch such a young child.

"Forceps!" You requested from Jesse, which he quickly passed to you.

Aggressively cutting in, Robby spit, "no, we should get an urgent chest x-ray to see where the object is!"

Ignoring him you replied, "no, if she swallowed a plastic toy it likely wouldn't show up on the x-ray. We need to get out whatever is blocking the airway now!"

Robby looked like he was about to push you out of the way until you yelled out, "got it," as you pulled out a small toy that looked like a littlest pet shop figurine. The little girl, Julia, was coughing but thankfully breathing. Julia's grandmother sagged in relief and cried as she hugged her granddaughter.

"Oh thank you, thank you, thank you." Julia clung to her grandmother, who was giving you a teary smile that you returned. Although, with Robby's presence causing you anxiety, you feared it looked more like a grimace. He looked pretty pissed off for someone who just witnessed their resident save a 3-year-old with a medically accepted maneuver.

Breathing heavily out of his nose and a fire burning in his eyes, he seethed, "can I talk to you outside?" Your intuition told you this was about to get ugly but you couldn't refuse your boss. It was unfair and a million other things but you knew you had to follow him out.

"Julia, I have to step out but you're in great hands with Jesse." Jesse smiled at you and then Julia, trying to ease the tension in the room. With that, you followed Robby to what felt like your doom. For all you knew, it very well could be.

Robby led you to an empty stairwell with his arms crossed, anger and frustration rolling off of him. Once the door shut, he whirled around and asked, "what the fuck was that?" The thing about Robby was that it was impossible not to match his energy, stoop to his level and bite back just as hard.

Laughing without humor, you said, "that was me saving a little girl's life." Robby rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Oh-ho-ho, no, no, that was you directly defying your attending's orders."

"She could have DIED if I hadn't done what I did. You're pissed that I was right."

Robby looked at you incredulously. "I guess fucking the Shark has boosted your ego. How long did you even wait to start warming his bed? I gotta be honest with you, I thought you were better than that. But this wouldn't be the first time I was wrong about you."

What. The. Fuck. The injustice of Robby's words boiled your blood and anger seared through you, scorching and burning you in the worst way. He had no right, absolutely no right to talk to you like that. What's worse is that he thought he had any authority to speak on who you were.

"You're fucking kidding right? YOU broke up with ME and kicked me out, fully knowing I had nowhere to go! How dare you try to slut shame me at all but let alone considering the way you treated me as if I was nothing! I fucking loved you, I tried so, so, so hard to make you happy while you hurt me beyond measure. You fucking discarded me as if I was garbage." Robby's chest was heaving, still furious, maybe not even absorbing your words. But you wouldn't be stopped. You finally found your voice again and he was going to fucking hear it.

Robby stepped closer to you, crowding your space in an attempt to intimidate you. "How much could you have loved me if you started fucking the first man who looked your way?" Although he was trying to get a rise out of You weren't going to defend your actions. You didn't have to. Now, you were going to choose peace instead of matching his energy. You stood your ground, tipped your chin up and had a challenge in your eye.

As calmly as you could, you said, "I expect you to treat me with respect and professionalism at our place of work. If you don't, I'm getting HR and Gloria involved. I mean it."

His face reddened in anger. "So now you're threatening HR and Gloria on me if I give you orders which you don't listen to or I give you directions you don't agree with? That's fucking pathetic."

"No, what's pathetic is you masking this as anything besides your anger at me for moving on. You knew I made the right call with Julia or else you would have pushed me aside. You're soaking in this vindictiveness for absolutely no reason. The only person you have to blame for me being with Brendon is yourself. So go back to being the 7-week-itch Robby and terrorize some other woman in this hospital with your emotional bullshit."

You don't know what came over you; words were pouring out of you. He needed to hear it, more importantly, you needed to say it. So you continued to let him have it.

"Better yet, stay away from everyone until you get your shit figured out. You cannot just act recklessly and impulsively with me or the rest of the hospital staff just because you never unpacked your own trauma. I'm telling you that if you treat me any differently than the other residents I will go to HR and Gloria. I'm telling you if you act like an asshole to me or humiliate me, or any other ER staffer, I'm going to force so much paperwork and disciplinary meetings down your throat that you won't be able to gasp for air. This is the last time you pull this bullshit."

You turned on your heel, leaving a befuddled and disbelieving Robby in the stairwell. He'd never seen you so angry, confident, or clear in your boundaries. When you were together he'd pushed and pushed against them and normally, you'd give in. When he broke up with you and kicked you out, he hadn't expected you to move on the way you had. His heart sunk and his throat was thick with emotion. He also hadn't expected to feel regretful.

Robby's sabbatical wasn't all that healing. In fact, most of the time he was plagued by thoughts of you and the ER department. He'd wished he'd done a plethora of things differently. Over his break he never once thought he wanted to get you back but now he wasn't so sure. On his first day back he found out you were dating Park, which prompted jealousy and deep-seeded insecurity to flare within him; bright, sharp, and biting. Park was younger, stronger, a surgeon, and now he had you.

Even though Robby hadn't changed much in the brief time he was gone, it was all too clear that you had. You seemed more sure of yourself and completely unwilling to take his shit. The mutterings around the Pitt were that you were happy and so was the Shark. Robby was finding that this.... was incredibly shitty and unlikely to change.

So that's how Robby found himself, barely holding it together, kinda devastated in the very same stairwell where Brendon had found you crying on that fated day. It was almost poetic. It was mainly karmic.

It shouldn't have been a shock to you, not really. You'd just never thought that Robby would do this to you. He knew that kicking you out when you had nowhere to go was cruel but he did it anyway. As a resident, you were making crumbs while under a crushing amount of medical school debt. That’s why you were sniffling in the stairwell; overwhelmed, upset, and scared. Maybe you could pull a Whitaker and live in the hospital…. what the fuck had your life come to?

Overcome with more emotion, a new wave of tears rolled down your cheeks. You tried, unsuccessfully, to sob silently but to no avail. You wished more than anything you could cry at home but you didn't even have one of those anymore. Suddenly, a door above you opened and heavy footsteps were headed your way. You quickly wiped away your tears and prayed to every deity possible to make it look like you hadn’t just been crying. All too soon, you were peering up at Dr. Brendon Park, who had stopped moving the moment he saw you. Great. The least sympathetic person in the entire hospital walks in on this pitiful scene. He'd probably lose any respect he might have had for you just given the state you were in.

He stared down at you and slowly continued to approach. “What happened?”

You really didn't want to share the sordid details of your breakup with the Shark. Naturally, a fib fell from your lips. “Nothing.... I just, um, I have really intense allergies.”

He stared at you, silent, not even entertaining your obvious lie. Anyone could tell you’d been crying your eyes out because your eyes were watery, red, and your whole face was puffy.

Much to your surprise, he lowered himself on the stairs to take a seat next to you. This time when he spoke, he used a softer voice and asked, “are you ok?” You really weren’t expecting that. Which is how you found yourself sobbing again, but this time, into Park’s chest, wetting his scrubs with tears and snot. Park absentmindedly rubbed your back while you were calming down. It was grounding and soothing -- it felt nice.

You both sat in silence for a little longer before you finally spoke up. You figured he deserved a little explanation since his scrubs were ruined for maybe the rest of his shift. Plus, he didn't have to comfort you. He could have just as easily ignored you and went on his merry way. You wouldn't have even held it against him.

You cleared your throat and with shaky breath, you explained, “Robby, uh, robby just broke up with me and told me to get my stuff out of his place by tomorrow night. It would be fine if I had a place to crash but I’ll figure it out. I’m just… really fucking sad and mad at myself for letting this happen. I knew it was going to end soon, I just didn't think.... I'd hoped he wouldn't do something like this.”

You didn’t see it, still buried in the warmth of Brendon’s chest but his jaw clenched at your admission. What stupid asshole breaks up with their girlfriend at work and kicks her out?

“If you’re going to be mad at anyone, be mad at Robinavitch. That’s beyond fucked up.”

You weren’t sure why but that made you laugh. Maybe it was mania setting in or the ridiculousness of the situation but it was suddenly very funny to you. Your laughter bubbled up out of you, uncontrollable and bright. You still couldn't see his face, but he was smiling a bit to himself at the sound, grateful you had a momentary reprieve in sadness to laugh.

Brendon started to stroke your hair as you laughed and asked, “what’s so funny?”

Turning your head to look up at him, you said, “I just never thought the Shark would be the one to comfort me.”

He gave the slightest smile and said, “hey, I’m full of surprises.” Finally extricating yourself from him, you replied, "yeah, I guess so. Thanks by the way." Before you could start to get up, his warm hand gently wrapped around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

"You can crash at mine if you'd like. I have a guest room."

You were sure your eyes were as wide as saucers. The Shark was offering his home to you? Were you dreaming?

"Yeah, that would be--," unable to help yourself, you asked him the obvious question, "why? Why would you offer your place, you don't know me very well and you're comforting me as I'm a wreck and I ruined your shirt--"

Brendon swiftly cut you off as he heard emotion rising in your voice again, threatening to bubble over. He looked you square in the eyes and said, "because that's what you need."

You were speechless. Who knew Park the Shark could be so kind? You rushed forward and slammed into his chest, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug.

"Thank you so much!" Before he could respond or even hug you back, your pager went off and you ran out of the stairwell and back to work.

After your shift from hell, Trinity, Javadi, and Whitaker all provided moral and physical support by helping you gather your things from Robby's. Luckily (or depressingly), all you had were clothes, toiletries, books, your laptop, a few trinkets, and a couple random kitchen items, which all fit in the back of Javadi's car with room to spare. At least Robby hadn't come home while you emptied his place of the evidence you ever existed in it. Needless to say, you were choking back tears all over again.

Once the car was packed, you stared at the outside of his house for maybe the last time. Reality sunk in again and your mind swirled with aching thoughts. It was an end of an era, of a relationship, of a life with someone you loved. How could it be taken away so quickly and without remorse or concern for you? Your friends must have noticed you were on the verge of tears because you were quickly wrapped in a bear hug from all three of them. It wasn't like you guys to not bicker and tease -- you must have been in a really bad spot to garner harmony and support from the group. Once more, you allowed yourself to let go, lose yourself in your sadness, and cried into the hug, shaking and exhausted.

With a teary smile, you pulled away and said, "let's go see the Shark's lair."

Javadi laughed and said, "yeah, I still can't believe he offered to let you stay with him."

"Me either. But beggars can't be choosers."

Trinity sent a smirk your way. "Oh please, I think if you had another option you'd still chose to stay with Park, what with the fuck-me-eyes you give him during consults."

Your mouth dropped open. "I do NOT give him fuck-me-eyes!" Trinity simply kept her smirk plastered to her face and muttered under her breath, "whatever you say."

Truthfully, you did find the surgeon attractive. Come on, you clearly had a thing for older men. But he was.... something else with his imposing stature, mean stare, and big fucking muscles. But until now, you hadn't really thought about it all too much. He was eye-candy, off-limits while you were in a relationship. But now, you found yourself very much not single.

Huffing, you pushed the absurd idea out of your mind. The man was offering a place to stay -- it was against so many morals to be sexualizing the poor guy. You'd respect him and his home and absolutely wouldn't think about him that way.

Yeah fucking right.

The first hours at Brendon's was... awkward to say the least. Neither of you were sure how to interact with the other or move in the now shared space. Currently, you were sitting on the guest bed, attempting to scrounge up some courage to go back downstairs. You couldn't stay in your bedroom forever, no matter how tempting hiding away was.

Before you could stop yourself, you got to your feet and made your way downstairs. The closer you got to the kitchen, the stronger a wonderful aroma of garlic and olive oil became. Brendon was preparing something, you weren't sure what, but it smelled fucking delicious. Your stomach grumbled, effectively announcing your presence to him.

Brendon turned, and much to your mortification, said, "I'd ask if you were hungry but I think I know the answer to that." You dropped his gaze in shyness, unable to figure out how to respond. You should be grateful, and of course you were, that he was allowing you to stay and offering you dinner after what was arguably one of the worst shifts of your life. You couldn't help but feel burdensome and once that was added to your already full plate of emotions, you weren't sure what to do with yourself.

Noticing your internal distress, Brendon's brows knitted together in concern. Setting the spatula down, he completely turned to face you. "Hey, I didn't mean anything by that --"

Before he could get further into an absolutely unnecessary apology, you interrupted him, saying, "no, no, please don't apologize. I just, I feel like such a burden right now and I don't know when I'll be able to get out of your hair and I just feel bad that you're letting me stay and now you're making dinner. I feel useless and burdensome I guess." Wow. You weren't expecting this radical honesty to pour out of you, but clearly, you couldn't help it. It had been a long day and it was simply too tiring to try to jump through the hoops of deciding what to share and what not to share.

"You're not a burden. I offered to let you stay and I'm offering food because I want to -- I don't do things I don't want to do. I'm a surgeon, I'm not hurting for cash." Blunt, but true. He owned a gorgeous brownstone that would have Architecture Digest salivating at the opportunity to film. Natural light poured into the kitchen and because the sun was setting, it bathed everything in a beautiful orange hue.

Feeling a bit more comfortable, you truly took in his place. It was impeccably clean (of course) and thoughtfully decorated. Brendon watched you take in your surroundings, oblivious to his assessing gaze and clear desire to know what you thought of it etched on his face.

You smiled as you spotted some family pictures on his wall. It was sort of odd to see him smiling in the picture since it was so different to his intense no-bullshit vibe at work. "Woah, you have a huge family." You turned to look at him and he had his back to you once more, back to stirring whatever was in the saucepan.

"Yeah. I'm grateful for them, especially my sisters."

You hummed in response, continuing to browse but very much filing that piece of information away. A man with sisters tended to be such a green flag. God, you were like a dog with a damn bone. Your relationship with Robby hadn't even been truly over for more than 10 hours and here you were, noticing Brendon. But if you were honest, your relationship with Robby had been dead for a long time. He'd stopped giving affection long ago and foolishly, you stayed, clinging to the tattered remnants of what used to make you happy. There was a part of you that couldn't help it: you were a lover girl through and through, even at times to your detriment. You knew that the relationship was on life support, you'd basically been his emotional punching bag, but still. you hoped for better. Like a fucking fool.

As you mentally chastised yourself and got lost in your relationship rumination, Park's voice cut through the air again. "The two of them actually designed my place."

"No kidding. Gosh, they're talented. You'll have to tell them my compliments to the chef."

He chuckled and said, "they know it too. They actually co-own an interior design business. I'm lucky they put this place together for me." Fondness and affection seeped through his voice, obvious and unhidden. In one fell swoop, Park had completely undone the idea you had of him in your head. You'd unfairly characterized him as an unfeeling ortho bro, which he clearly was not. Maybe it was better or easier for him to be intense at work. After all, a great deal of responsibility and expectations fell to him.

Wanting to broach the subject of your stay again, you said, "so about my staying here...." Park turned around and gave you his attention, which felt heavy and set your nerves on fire.

"Yes?" Oh. He really wasn't going to make this easy. Upon seeing you floundering, he expanded on his short response, "I need you to use words and ask what you want."

His command, the sureness of his tone, made your thighs clench together. Jesus fucking CHRIST get a hold of yourself. You hoped with every cell in your body he didn't clock that reaction.

"I just mean, I'm not sure how long it will take for me to find a place I can afford that is safe and close enough to the hospital. Of course if you need me out of here by a certain time, I'll go. I just wanted to know if you had a timeline."

"No. It takes how long it takes. And you don't need to rush. You should be in a nice, safe, convenient, and affordable apartment. Don't worry about how long it takes." You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in. You felt relieved and reassured, which is honestly better than you felt even this morning, pre-breakup.

"Ok, soup's on. I made my grandma's minestrone." Brandon handed you a bowl full of steaming food and you knew it was going to hit so different just based on the smell and the family recipe of it all.

"I -- thank you." You were filled with emotion again and god, you wanted to stop crying in front of him and stop crying period, but he was just being so nice and caring. You knew you wanted to repay him somehow, eventually, but you didn't know what that would look like. No one had ever been so selfless and kind to you, especially someone who barely knew you.

You both tucked into your dinner and as expected, the minestrone was amazing. It was truly a comfort dish for you in this moment. Wanting to lighten the mood, mainly your mood, you said, "a surgeon, a cook, and a shoulder to cry on? What can't you do?"

He gave you a smile and replied, "like I said, I'm full of surprises." Now you knew that you would keep stumbling on these surprises, uncovering who he really was, transforming the way you saw Brendon Park.

After three weeks, you'd entered into a sort of routine with him, where you'd trade off chores. At first, Brendon vehemently protested, saying you were his guest and shouldn’t have to help, which you met with your own claims against being a freeloader. Reluctantly, he started to let you help prepare meals and clean. But grocery shopping... well that was a dual task. It was sickeningly domestic and even more disgustingly, you'd come to enjoy it. It was a sacred time with Brendon, where he was relaxed and sometimes teasing, which you ate up and relished. You enjoyed it so much you didn't even think about how you'd never done this with Robby until you were in the cereal aisle and Brendon put in your honey-nut Cheerios without needing to confirm you wanted them. It dawned on you how strange it felt to be... noticed. That really sucked to realize because of all the people who should pay attention and remember things about you, you'd expect it to have been your boyfriend.

After that, you couldn't help but continue to compare living with Brendon vs Robby. With Robby, everyday tasks were never shared. You'd actually preferred it that way because it felt natural with him and it seemed efficient at the very least. But with Brendon, even if it wasn't your night to cook, you were in the kitchen, keeping him company. Sometimes you two didn't talk; you simply fell into a comfortable silence and rhythm. Of course, you weren't in a relationship with Brendon but it felt so much simpler and lighter than mundane tasks with Robby. You didn't feel like you were constantly trying to please him or gauge how he was reacting to something. No. Brendon was blunt, honest, and didn’t like to play guessing games. It was incredibly refreshing.

At times, you felt guilty for how much you enjoyed staying with Brendon and seeing this unguarded, intimate version of him. The constant comparison between him and Robby didn't help either because no matter what it was, Brendon was always coming out on top. Fuck. This couldn't be healthy. You shouldn't want him, hell, you shouldn't even be thinking of him this way. Shame curled in your chest, sharp and demanding. You needed to get out of his house and fast.

As soon as you could, you opened your laptop to look at apartment listings while Brendon put away the groceries. You were spread out on the couch, pinching the bridge of your nose as you scrolled Zillow. So far, anything remotely in your price range was either in a questionable part of the city or too far from the hospital to be considered a reasonable commute. Park walked into the living room and sat next to your head, peering over you to look at the listings.

"Can't live there, that's where half the GSW victims come from."

Huffing, you complained, "I know, its hopeless to try to find a place on resident salary. I need to look into housing assistance or something."

Brendon hummed in response and you continued your efforts, in vain, to try to find an apartment. Absentmindedly, he started to play with your hair and it felt.... really fucking nice. You weren't sure when the two of you crossed the threshold to such comfortability but his casual touches and attention were more than welcome.

"I can ask my sisters if they know anything about that, they have a lot of connections with relators and landlords because of their business. And not slumlords, local landlords who are the most ideal form of landlord you can get."

You leaned your head back to look at him and said, "that would be really great, thank you so much."

Halfheartedly, you resumed your scrolling and he continued to play with your hair, which was making your heart beat out of your chest. Clearing his throat, he said, "you don't need to keep thanking me for everything."

Sitting up, you turned to face him on the couch. "I'll stop thanking you when you stop giving me reasons to be grateful."

Smirking he shot back, "is that a challenge for me to be an asshole?"

"Well, don't challenge my manners."

The air was charged with tension and now your heart was truly thumping in your chest so hard, you were convinced he could hear it. His beautiful blue eyes were sharp and alert but also two shades darker than normal. He licked his lips and your eyes hungrily tracked the movement. When you locked eyes again, you knew, god, you knew that he caught you.

"Wouldn't dream of it sweetheart."

When did you two get so close? You could practically feel his body heat radiating off of him. Your knees were touching and even that burned. You felt like a teenage girl again, like she was with her crush, alone for the first time. What's worse is that he seemed annoyingly, unfairly calm. He was relaxed into the couch, breathing completely normally. The only indication that he was affected were his eyes, which were now low and lidded.

You brought your hand to cup his jaw, feeling the stubble and savoring its friction against your skin. Your eyes traced his face, taking him in. To your delight, he had the faintest blush on his cheeks and you felt like the cat that got the cream. You felt like you were in a trance, a fog of desire that dictated what you did.

"I never thought I'd see the Shark blush."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes at your teasing. You felt pretty pleased with yourself, rendering him into a blushing mess. Little did you know, you'd only have the upper hand for about two more seconds. Brendon nuzzled his face into your hand and kissed your wrist, pulling a gasp from you. Then he leaned ever so close to your face, lips brushing along your jaw, so, so, so close yet so achingly far from where you wanted them.

"Yeah? Well lucky you." He had the self-assured tone you'd heard from him so many times but now, it was making your thighs push together. Impatiently, you moved your head to finally capture his lips in a kiss. It started off gentle and exploratory, but soon enough, he had weaved a hand into the nape of your neck, pulling your head back to deepen the kiss with better access. You couldn't help it, you fucking moaned. He devoured the sound; devoured you. He was kissing the life out of you and you fucking loved it.

When you pulled away for some air, he chased your lips. Before he could reach you, you decided to climb into his lap. He groaned as your hips met his and placed his hands on your waist, squeezing you there oh so nicely. Your hands were everywhere, on his shoulders, then his chest, messing up his hair, and then gripping his biceps.

Neither of you knew how much time passed. You were lost in the moment, lost in him -- how he felt, smelled, and touched. You were no stranger to kissing, clearly, but... it was safe to say no one had kissed you like this before. You weren't sure if you could remember your name. The only thing you were sure of was that Brendon Park was taking you apart at the seams and you were only too happy to let him do so.

"Please, please, please..." You could hardly recognize your whiny voice and you weren't even sure what you were begging for.

"What, baby, what?" God, he was so sweet.

"I need you."

"You have me."

"No I need more of you."

At that, he cupped your jaw holding you away from him to look you in the eyes. "Are you sure?"

And because he always gifted you his honesty and bluntness, you knew you needed to return the favor. "I've never been more sure of anything. Yes."

The first time Tucker saw you, you almost took out an entire row of glasses at Malone’s. Not one, not two, but an entire row.

It happened on a Friday night, which meant the bar was already packed with students pretending they didn’t have assignments due, hockey players pretending they weren’t exhausted from practice, and Della behind the counter pretending she wasn’t five seconds away from throwing someone out for ordering another round only to forget what they’d asked for immediately.

You were new, and that much was obvious. Not because you were bad at the job, exactly, but because you still had the bright, nervous energy of someone who hadn’t yet learned that Malone’s on a Friday night was less a bar and more a sticky-floored battlefield.

You came out from behind the counter with a tray balanced carefully in both hands, brows pinched in concentration as your bottom lip caught between your teeth. You were wearing black jeans and a Malone’s blue shirt, your hair pulled back messily, as if you’d done it in a rush, and Tucker found himself noticing you before he could think better of it.

He noticed the way you smiled at a customer who was definitely being too loud. He noticed the way you thanked Della twice when she moved around you. He noticed how hard you were trying to do everything right.

And then you set the tray down on the bar too quickly, caught the edge of a napkin holder, and sent three clean glasses tipping into each other with a loud, terrible clatter.

Everyone at the table flinched. Dean was the first to turn around, Garrett’s attention snapped away from whatever Hannah was saying, and Logan started laughing before he’d even fully figured out what had happened.

You froze immediately.

“Oh my god,” you said, hands flying up like you were surrendering to the glasses. “I’m so sorry. I swear I’m usually less of a disaster when no one’s watching.”

Della sighed, though there was already affection in it. “Sweetheart, nobody expects grace here. Just survival.”

Dean grinned from the booth where he sat with the boys. “Ten out of ten entrance.”

Garrett kicked him under the table without even looking at him.

You winced, cheeks burning, and immediately started gathering the glasses before any of them could fall off the bar.

Tucker was on his feet before he’d even thought about moving.

“Here,” he said, already grabbing a stack of napkins from the end of the counter and stepping closer. “I got it.”

You looked up at him, startled, like you hadn’t expected someone to help instead of laugh. Something weird shifted in Tucker’s chest.

“Oh,” you said, your voice softening. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, steadying one of the glasses before it could roll off the edge. He gave you a small smile. “First Friday?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only a little,” he said, smile tugging at his mouth.

Your mouth curved into an embarrassed but sweet smile, and Tucker noticed the way your whole face seemed to warm with it.

Dean, because of course he did, leaned over the booth and said, “Careful, Tuck. She might make you work for free.”

You glanced between them, your smile still lingering. “Tuck?”

“Tucker,” he said, handing over the glass he’d rescued. “John Tucker.”

You took it from him, your fingers brushing against his for half a second.

“I’m [Y/N],” you said. Then you looked down at the glasses, sighed, and added, “Apparently also a public safety hazard.”

Tucker laughed, not because it was that funny, though it was, but because you were smiling at him like you were happy he had.

That was the first thing Tucker noticed. Not that you were the prettiest girl in the room, though you were. Not that you were the clumsy new waitress, though the boys would absolutely bring that up later. Not even that you were the transfer student Hannah had mentioned once, the one who’d started working at Malone’s because she needed extra money, and Della liked hiring people she could boss around.

The first thing was that you looked at Tucker like he was the one you were talking to — not the guy beside Dean, not Garrett’s friend, not one of the hockey boys. Him.

It was a stupid thing to notice, so of course Tucker noticed.

Over the next few weeks, you became part of Malone’s the way some people became part of a song — slowly at first, then all at once.

You were there on Fridays and sometimes Saturdays, always with your hair tied back in a way that never lasted more than an hour before pieces started falling loose around your face. You learned the regulars’ orders faster than anyone expected. You learned Della’s moods, learned that Dean always said he wanted something different before ordering the same beer anyway, that Logan would steal fries from whoever sat too close, that Garrett was polite because Hannah elbowed him when he forgot, and that Allie always tipped too much because she knew what the job felt like.

And Tucker — you learned his drink by the third Friday. That shouldn’t have affected him. It did anyway.

“You want the usual?” you asked, already reaching for it as he and the boys slid into their booth after the game.

Dean stopped mid-sentence and turned slowly toward Tucker, wearing the most irritating smile imaginable. Logan looked absolutely delighted. Garrett looked like he was trying very hard not to seem delighted. Tucker ignored every single one of them.

“You remembered?” he asked, which was the wrong thing to say because it made him sound surprised.

You blinked at him, then smiled. “You order the same thing every time.”

“So does Dean,” Tucker said.

“Yeah, but Dean changes his mind three times before going back to the same thing. You have to prepare for that emotionally.”

Garrett laughed quietly into his drink.

Dean put a hand over his chest. “I feel attacked.”

“You should,” Allie said, appearing beside him like she’d been summoned by the opportunity to tease him. “It was accurate.”

You grinned and slid Tucker his drink first, and he hated how quickly he liked it—hated how his eyes followed you when you walked away to help another table. Hated even more that Dean noticed immediately.

“Oh, you’re so in trouble.”

Tucker glanced at him. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything specific,” Dean said.

“You didn’t need to.”

Logan leaned forward, as if this were crucial evidence. “She gave you your drink first.”

“Because I was sitting closest.”

“You weren’t,” Garrett said.

Tucker shot him a look. “Aren’t you supposed to be mature now?”

Garrett shrugged, his arm around Hannah. “I’m in a relationship, not dead.”

Across the room, you laughed at something Della said, nearly dropped a pen, caught it against your chest, and looked far too proud of yourself for saving it.

Tucker tried not to smile, and failed.

Dean pointed at Tucker’s face as he’d just found evidence. “That. Right there. That’s pathetic.”

Tucker picked up his drink, unimpressed. “You’re literally dating Allie.”

“Yes, and I became pathetic in public. It’s part of the process.”

“I’m not becoming anything,” Tucker said.

“Sure,” Dean said.

Tucker knew exactly what they thought.

He knew how it looked: new girl, pretty smile, sweet enough to make everyone in the room feel like she was happy to see them. Of course, he liked her. Everyone probably liked her. You were the kind of person people noticed because you made it easy for them. You asked questions, laughed without trying to seem cool, apologized to chairs when you bumped into them, and once gave a drunk sophomore a full pep talk because he looked sad over mozzarella sticks.

You were sunshine in a place that mostly smelled like beer and fried food.

Tucker told himself that was all it was: you were friendly, and he was interested because of it. It didn’t mean you were interested back.

Girls usually went for guys like Dean: loud, confident, easy to flirt with because he did half the work for them. Or Garrett, with the captain thing and that accidental golden-boy charm, even though Hannah would probably murder anyone who tried. Or Logan, who looked like trouble and knew exactly how to make it work.

Tucker was the nice one, the safe one, the one girls asked to hold their coats while they danced with someone else.

He’d made peace with that a long time ago — mostly. Then, on the fourth Friday, you proved you were going to be a problem.

It was later than usual, with the crowd thinning out around midnight and the booths left sticky and half-empty. Tucker had ended up at the bar while the others argued over whether to go back to the house or order food. You were wiping down the counter with your sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed from the long shift.

“You’re staring again,” you said, not even looking up.

Tucker blinked at you. “What?”

You glanced at him, eyes bright with amusement. “I said you’re staring.”

“I wasn’t,” he said.

“You were,” you said.

“I was just thinking,” he said.

“About the counter?” you asked.

“It’s a very interesting counter.”

You smiled, and Tucker felt stupidly pleased with himself for being the reason.

“You always do that,” you said, still smiling.

“Stare at counters?” he asked.

“No,” you said, leaning your hip against the bar. “Make jokes when I catch you looking at me.”

Tucker’s throat went dry.

That wasn’t fair. You couldn’t look that sweet and then say things like that.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You hummed like you didn’t believe him, which was fair, considering he sounded ridiculous.

Dean appeared at Tucker’s shoulder at the worst possible time, because of course he did. “He never does.”

Tucker closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. “Go away.”

Dean grinned at you because, apparently, subtlety had never been an option. “Has he asked you out yet?”

Tucker’s head snapped toward Dean. “Jesus Christ.”

You froze for half a second before your face went pink.

Dean looked like Christmas had just come early.

“Oh,” Dean said slowly, looking far too pleased. “Interesting.”

“Dean,” Tucker said, warning clear in his voice.

You cleared your throat and turned back to the counter, trying to hide your smile. “Does he need help with that?”

Tucker stared at you, Dean made a sound like he’d been shot, and Garrett yelled from the booth, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Tucker said, far too quickly.

Dean turned back toward the table. “Tucker’s dying.”

“I’m fine,” Tucker said.

You were still smiling down at the counter like you hadn’t just caused chaos.

Tucker didn’t recover for the rest of the night.

After that, things changed. Not dramatically, and not enough that anyone else would’ve called it obvious — except maybe Dean, who called everything obvious if it helped him be annoying. But Tucker felt it.

You started lingering near him when the bar slowed down. You leaned across the counter when you talked to him, chin propped in your hand and eyes warm with focus. You asked about his classes. His practices. His stupid sandwich preference after Logan tried to convince you Tucker had “boring taste,” which somehow turned into a ten-minute argument about whether turkey counted as a personality flaw.

You also started touching him. Not much, just enough to ruin him.

Your fingers brushed his wrist when you set down his drink. Your knee bumped his when you sat beside him for five minutes during your break. Your hand landed briefly on his shoulder when you squeezed past him behind the bar, soft and apologetic and completely unnecessary.

Tucker told himself you were probably like that with everyone, right up until he watched you tell Dean to stop leaning over the bar because he was “ruining the ecosystem,” and decided maybe you weren’t.

By the sixth Friday, Della had started looking at both of you like she knew something neither of you had admitted yet.

That was also the night everything finally clicked into place.

The boys came in late after an away game, tired and loud, their faces flushed from the cold. Hannah and Allie were with them, bundled in coats and already claiming a booth while Dean declared he was starving with the drama of a man who hadn’t eaten in years.

You were working closing again, and Tucker tried very hard not to look too happy about that. Failed, probably.

From behind the bar, you caught his eye and smiled so brightly that his chest went warm.

“The usual?” you asked.

Dean groaned, as if he were personally offended. “This is disgusting.”

You laughed, confused. “What?”

“He’s smiling like an idiot,” Dean said.

Tucker elbowed him in the side.

You looked at Tucker, smile softening as you asked, “Are you?”

“No,” Tucker said.

“He is,” Logan called from the booth.

“He absolutely is,” Garrett added from the booth.

Tucker stared at Garrett. “You too?”

Garrett lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m just observing.”

You set his drink down in front of him, fingers brushing his for a second too long. “For the record, I don’t mind.”

Tucker forgot how to speak, and you walked away before he could find a response.

Dean leaned closer, his voice low enough that only Tucker could hear. “If you don’t ask her out tonight, I’m doing it for you.”

“You are not doing anything,” Tucker said.

“Then do something,” Dean said.

Tucker looked toward the bar, where you were reaching for a stack of napkins and laughing at something Hannah had said. You nearly knocked over a bottle with your elbow, caught it just in time, and then looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

Tucker had. You saw him seeing you, and your nose scrunched with embarrassment. He smiled before he could stop himself.

Dean sighed, as if this were personally exhausting. “God, you two are unbearable.”

Tucker looked away, like that settled it. “She’s just friendly.”

Dean stared at him.

“What?”

“Are you actually stupid?”

“Wow. Very helpful.”

“I’m serious,” Dean said, glancing toward you before looking back at Tucker. “That girl has been making heart eyes at you for a month.”

“She’s nice to everyone,” Tucker said.

“She threatened to pour soda on Logan last week,” Dean said.

Logan looked up from stealing Allie’s fries. “I deserved that.”

Dean continued, with the patience of someone explaining something painfully obvious, “She likes you.”

Tucker shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of the words. “You don’t know that.”

Dean’s expression softened slightly, which was somehow worse. “Tuck.”

“Don’t,” Tucker said.

“I’m just saying,” Dean started.

“I know what you’re saying,” Tucker said, his voice coming out lower than he meant. “But she’s new. She’s nice. And she has all of you literally sitting here every week. I’m not going to assume she’s looking at me like that just because I want her to.”

For once, Dean went quiet.

Tucker regretted saying it immediately. Not because it wasn’t true, because it was, but because he’d never said it out loud before. And, of course, because timing apparently wasn’t on his side, he looked up and saw you standing a few feet away with a tray in your hands, your expression caught somewhere between surprise and something softer.

Tucker’s stomach dropped. You had heard. Maybe not all of it, but enough.

You blinked once, then gave him a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Della said last call.”

Then you turned and walked back to the bar.

Dean leaned back slowly, the teasing finally slipping from his face.

Tucker dragged a hand over his face, guilt hitting all at once. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, quieter now. “That one might be on you.”

The next twenty minutes were horrible. You weren’t rude, and somehow, that made it worse. You were still sweet when you cleared the table, still smiling when Hannah hugged you goodbye, still telling Logan he couldn’t take the basket of fries with him because it was “not a souvenir.” But you didn’t linger near Tucker, didn’t brush his hand, didn’t smile at him first.

By the time the others left, Dean gave him one very pointed look from the door. Tucker ignored it, mostly because he deserved it.

He stayed behind while you wiped down the bar, sitting at the end with his coat folded beside him like he wasn’t sure where else to put himself. Della had disappeared into the back, clearly on purpose, and without the usual noise, the bar felt strange. Softer. Too quiet.

You didn’t look at him for a while, and Tucker let you have that.

Eventually, you set the rag down with a sigh. “Are you waiting for Della or me?”

“You,” he said. You glanced up, and he swallowed. “If that’s okay.”

You looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry.” You seemed surprised by that, so Tucker kept going before he could lose his nerve. “For what I said earlier. You weren’t supposed to hear it.”

“Would it be better if I hadn’t heard it?”

“No,” he said, looking down at his hands before meeting your eyes again. “Probably not.”

You crossed your arms and leaned against the bar. “Do you really think I’m just being nice?”

Tucker hated how gentle your voice was.

“I think you are nice,” he said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. “No, it wasn’t.”

You waited, giving him time to answer.

Tucker exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what I think. I guess I’m trying not to assume.”

“Assume what?” you asked.

“That you’d choose me.”

The words settled between you, quiet and honest and too exposed.

Your expression softened when you said his name. “Tucker.”

He let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I know. It sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t,” you said.

“It kind of does,” he said.

“No,” you said, walking slowly around the bar until you were standing in front of him. “It sounds like you don’t see yourself clearly.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Your face was still flushed from work, hair coming loose around your cheeks, your eyes tired but warm. There was nothing teasing in them now.

“You keep acting like I’m looking past you,” you said, voice soft. “I’m not.”

Tucker went completely still.

You swallowed, a little nervous now, and somehow that made the words hit even harder. “I saw all of them first. I still looked at you.”

For a second, Tucker couldn’t speak. He’d imagined you saying a lot of things. Not that. Never that.

“[Y/N],” Tucker said quietly.

Your smile wobbled slightly. “Too much?”

“No,” he said, voice rough. “No, not too much.”

Della chose that moment to appear from the back, took one look at the two of you, and turned right back around. “I forgot absolutely nothing. Continue.”

You laughed, breaking the tension just enough for Tucker to breathe again.

He stood and grabbed his coat. “Let me walk you home.”

Your eyes lifted to his, softer now. “Okay.”

Outside, the cold air hit your face, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. Tucker walked beside you, close enough for your shoulders to brush every few steps, but not close enough to crowd you. The streets around Briar were quieter now, wrapped in the kind of late-night stillness that made every little sound feel louder — your shoes on the sidewalk, Tucker’s breath in the cold, the distant noise from another bar down the street.

For a minute, neither of you said anything, and then you laughed softly.

Tucker looked over at you. “What?”

“I just realized I basically confessed to you in front of a bar counter that still smelled like spilled beer.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Very romantic.”

“I’ve always been known for my elegance.”

“You did knock over four glasses the first night I met you.”

“Three,” you said, pointing at him. “It was three.”

“One almost fell off the counter,” he said. “I’m counting it.”

“You’re cruel,” you said, trying not to smile.

“I did help.”

“You did,” you said, your voice softening. “That’s why I remembered you.”

Tucker’s chest tightened at that.

You kept walking for a few more steps before adding, “Everyone else laughed. Not in a mean way, but still. You just helped.”

“It wasn’t exactly heroic.”

“It was to me,” you said quietly.

He didn’t know what to do with that, so he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and looked down at the sidewalk like it might tell him what to say.

You smiled at him, and somehow Tucker felt it even without looking.

By the time you reached your apartment building, the tension had changed shape again. It was still soft, still warm, but there was something electric underneath it now, something that had been building for weeks across bar counters, half-finished conversations, and every smile you’d given him like it wasn’t ruining his day in the best way.

You stopped when you reached the door.

“This is me,” you said.

Tucker nodded, like he knew that and still wasn’t ready to leave. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved. Then you looked up at him. “Do you want to come in?”

His eyes lifted to yours. The question was quiet, but there was nothing unclear about it.

Tucker’s voice dropped when he asked, “Do you want me to?”

You stepped closer, your eyes still on his. “Yes.”

That was all Tucker needed.

The elevator ride was silent, broken only by your uneven breathing and the small ding of each floor passing. Tucker stood beside you with his hands at his sides, not touching you yet, though the restraint in him was obvious. You could feel it — in the tight line of his jaw, in the way his eyes kept flicking to your mouth before he forced them away, in the way he seemed to be waiting until you were somewhere private before letting himself want you properly.

Somehow, it only made you want him more.

Your apartment was small and warm, a little messy in a way that made you immediately wince as you unlocked the door.

“Don’t judge,” you said as you stepped inside. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Tucker looked around at the books stacked on the coffee table, the blanket slipping off the couch, the mug in the sink, and the tiny lamp glowing in the corner before looking back at you.

“I like it,” he said softly.

You smiled at him. “You’re very easy to impress.”

“Only when it’s you,” he said.

The words were quiet and simple, and they stole the air from your chest.

You closed the door behind him, then turned the lock.

Tucker’s eyes dropped to the movement, and his expression shifted. When he looked back at you, something had changed. He was still Tucker — still warm, still steady — but the softness in him had sharpened into something more focused.

You swallowed, voice suddenly smaller. “Hi.”

His mouth curved, just barely. “Hi.”

“You’re standing very far away,” you said.

“I’m trying to be respectful,” he said.

You stepped closer, eyes on his. “You can stop.”

His eyes darkened at that. “Yeah?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Tucker moved then, closing the small space between you in two steps. His hand came up to your jaw, gentle at first, like he was giving you one last second to lean away.

You leaned into his touch.

After that, the kiss wasn’t gentle. It was warm, deep, and immediate, like weeks of almosts had finally found somewhere to land. Tucker’s hand slid into your hair, the other settling at your waist as he pulled you close enough for your chest to press against his. A soft sound slipped out against his mouth, and Tucker’s grip tightened.

“There you are,” Tucker murmured against your mouth.

Your stomach flipped at the sound of his voice.

You kissed him harder, your hands sliding up his chest and feeling the solid warmth of him beneath his jacket. Tucker walked you back until your spine met the wall near the door, his body caging yours in without ever making you feel trapped.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he said, his mouth brushing your jaw.

Your head tipped back as his lips moved to your neck. “I wanted you to.”

His hand tightened briefly at your waist.

“Yeah?” His voice dropped lower. “Wanted me to walk you home?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Wanted me to come upstairs too?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

His mouth hovered near your ear, voice low. “Wanted me to touch you?”

Your breath caught before you could answer. “Tuck—”

He kissed the spot just beneath your jaw, pulling a sound from you that was almost a whimper.

His voice went rough. “Say it.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling into his shirt. “Yes. I wanted you to touch me.”

He groaned, low and restrained, before his mouth found yours again, hungrier this time. Your hands pushed at his jacket, clumsy with urgency, and Tucker helped you pull it off before shrugging out of it and tossing it somewhere near the couch.

You laughed breathlessly as it knocked into a chair.

“Sorry,” you breathed.

“Don’t care,” Tucker murmured, already kissing you again.

Your back hit the wall hard enough to make your whole body light up, but not enough to hurt. Tucker’s thigh slid between yours, and the second you rocked down against it without thinking, his hand tightened on your hip.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “You’re going to make me forget how to be nice.”

Your lips curved against his. “Maybe I don’t want nice.”

His eyes lifted to yours, and there it was again — that quiet intensity.

“I can do both,” Tucker said, voice low.

The words went straight through you, sharp and warm all at once.

His hands slipped beneath your shirt, his palms warm against your skin. He touched you slowly at first, almost reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. Then your hips moved against his thigh again, and his control slipped just enough that his fingers pressed into your waist.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, voice rough. “I’ve been thinking that since the first night.”

“When I dropped the glasses?” you asked.

“Especially then,” he said, like it was obvious.

You laughed, only for it to break into a gasp when his mouth found your neck again, his teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothed the spot.

“Tucker,” you breathed.

“I know,” he murmured, his hand moving higher until his fingers brushed the underside of your breast through your bra. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shook your head quickly, voice barely steady. “No.”

“No?” he asked, voice low.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened at that, and then he kissed you like those words had undone something in him. The warm, steady Tucker from Malone’s was still there, but this version of him felt different — more confident, more direct. His hands knew exactly where they wanted to go, his mouth knew how to make you melt, and every quiet groan he gave you made your knees a little less reliable.

He pushed your shirt up slowly, and you lifted your arms for him. The second your shirt hit the floor, his gaze dropped to your chest, and his jaw flexed.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You almost made a joke. Almost. But the way he looked at you made it hard to hide behind one.

His hands came up to cover your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing slowly over the thin fabric. Your back arched off the wall as a soft moan slipped out before you could stop it.

Tucker’s mouth parted slightly, his voice rough. “Don’t hide that.”

“What?” you breathed.

“Those sounds,” he said, his thumb moving again just to make your breath catch. “I want to hear them.”

Your cheeks warmed, but your body answered before your mouth could, another quiet whimper slipping out when he leaned down and kissed the top of your breast.

“Like that?” Tucker asked, voice low.

“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tightening in his shirt. “Like that.”

He undid your bra carefully, sliding the straps down your arms before letting it fall between you. His eyes moved over you more slowly this time, and something about the softness in his face made your chest ache.

Then his mouth closed around your nipple, pulling a moan from you as your head knocked back against the wall.

Tucker groaned against your skin, one hand firm at your waist while the other covered your breast, fingers rolling your nipple until you started shifting against him, needy and restless.

“You’re so responsive,” Tucker murmured, kissing across your chest. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

You swallowed, surprising yourself with how steady it sounded. “Tell me.”

His eyes flicked up, and for a second, he looked surprised. Then his expression shifted, a small, almost dangerous smile tugging at his mouth.

“It makes me want to take my time,” he said, voice low. “Makes me want to find out every way to make you sound like that again.”

Your thighs pressed together, and Tucker noticed immediately. Of course he did. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers pausing at the button of your jeans.

“Can I?” he asked, voice low.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He unbuttoned your jeans slowly, eyes fixed on your face as he pushed the denim down your hips. You kicked them off awkwardly, nearly tripping in the process, and Tucker caught you with a quiet laugh, his hands steady on your waist.

“Still clumsy,” he murmured.

“You’re very distracting,” you said.

“Good,” he murmured.

You were about to answer, but then his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, and every thought disappeared.

He touched you over your panties first, two fingers pressing against the wet fabric, and his breath caught.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re wet.”

Your face burned at the way he said it. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not,” he said, fingers moving slowly over your clit through the soaked material. “Just trying to process the fact that you wanted me this badly.”

“I did,” you whispered.

The admission came out soft and honest.

Tucker’s eyes lifted to yours. You held his gaze, even though it made you feel exposed.

“I wanted you,” you said again, softer this time.

Something shifted in his face. Then he kissed you hard, fingers pushing your underwear aside and sliding through your wetness. The first touch of his skin against your cunt pulled a gasp from you, your hips bucking toward his hand before you could stop them.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. “That’s what I wanted.”

His fingers circled your clit slowly, steady and precise, and you clung to his shoulders as pleasure sparked low in your stomach.

“Tuck,” you whimpered, fingers tightening on his shoulders.

“Right here,” he murmured, his forehead touching yours. “I’ve got you.”

He slid one finger into you, eyes fixed on the way your lips parted, then added another when your hips rolled against his hand. The stretch pulled a louder moan from you, and Tucker’s jaw tightened like the sound was testing every bit of his restraint.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough. “You sound so pretty.”

His touch grew deeper and more deliberate, his thumb finding you again as you stayed pressed against the wall, nearly bare while Tucker was still fully dressed. The imbalance should have made you embarrassed.

It didn’t. Not with him looking at you like that, not with his hand between your thighs, his mouth at your jaw, and his voice low in your ear.

“Tell me what feels good,” he murmured.

Your breath shook around the answer. “Your fingers.”

“Yeah?” he murmured.

“Yes,” you breathed, gripping his shirt tighter. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

His fingers curled again, and a moan broke from you into the quiet room.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough. “Let me hear you.”

The pleasure built faster than you expected, heat tightening through your stomach and thighs, but just before it could break, Tucker pulled his fingers away.

A frustrated sound slipped out of you. “Why—”

He dropped to his knees, and your mouth went dry as Tucker looked up at you from the floor, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs.

“I’m not done with you yet.” It should not have sounded as hot as it did.

Then he pulled your underwear down, slow and deliberate, before lifting one of your legs over his shoulder.

“Tucker,” you breathed, fingers tightening in his hair.

His mouth pressed against the inside of your thigh. “Hold onto me.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, and then his mouth found your cunt.

The first stroke of his tongue made your whole body jerk, a sharp moan slipping out as his hands tightened on your thighs. He ate you like he’d been waiting weeks for it, slow and deep at first, tongue dragging through your wetness before flattening over your clit.

“Oh my god,” you gasped.

He hummed against you, the vibration making your knees buckle slightly, and Tucker held you up.

His mouth worked over you with a patience that felt almost unfair, tongue circling your clit, lips sucking softly while his fingers dug into your thigh every time you tugged his hair. You could feel how wet you were, could hear it too, and the sound made your face burn even as your hips started moving against his mouth.

“Tuck—fuck, right there,” you gasped.

He groaned like the words had gone straight through him, focusing there until the pleasure turned sharp and bright. Your head fell back against the wall, one hand still buried in his hair while the other braced beside you.

You were close, close enough that your thighs started trembling.

“Tucker,” you gasped. “I’m—”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down. He only held you tighter, mouth sealed over your clit until you came with a broken moan, hips jerking against him as pleasure rolled through you. He stayed with you through it, easing the pressure when you started to shake and pressing kisses to your inner thigh when you finally whimpered from the sensitivity.

When he stood again, his mouth was wet and his eyes were dark.

You could only stare at him.

He wiped his thumb across his lower lip before leaning in to kiss you. You tasted yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth as Tucker made a rough sound against you.

“Bedroom,” he said, voice rough.

You nodded quickly.

The walk there was not graceful. You bumped into the side table, Tucker knocked into the doorframe, and you both laughed against each other’s mouths until the laughter turned into another kiss the second you reached your room.

Tucker pulled his shirt off, and you finally got to touch him properly.

He was warm beneath your palms, solid and broad, and his stomach tightened when your fingers dragged lower toward his belt.

“You okay?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your mouth.

His eyes met yours, dark and unsteady. “I’ve been better.”

You laughed, but then your hand brushed over the hard outline of him through his jeans, and his smile vanished.

“Oh,” you whispered, your smile fading too.

Tucker caught your wrist gently, his voice rough. “Careful.”

You looked up at him, pulse jumping. “Or what?”

His expression shifted again, that quiet confidence settling over him like he knew exactly what you were doing.

“Or I’m gonna fuck you against that wall before we even make it to the bed.”

Your stomach dropped, but you held his gaze. “Maybe I’d like that.”

For a second, neither of you moved. Then Tucker kissed you hard enough that you stumbled backward.

Your back hit the bedroom wall, his body pressing close while his hands lifted you by the backs of your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, and Tucker groaned when you rolled your hips against him.

“Condom?” he asked, his voice strained.

“Nightstand,” you said, breathless.

He carried you to the nightstand just long enough to grab one before returning you to the wall, laughing low when you kissed his neck impatiently.

“Eager,” he murmured.

“You’re the one who mentioned the wall,” you said.

“I did,” he said, voice low.

“Then stop talking,” you breathed.

Tucker’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Yes, ma’am.”

He shoved his jeans down just enough to roll the condom on, then stepped between your thighs again, one hand sliding over your hip while his other arm kept you steady against the wall.

The head of his cock brushed through your wetness, and for a second, both of you went quiet.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, voice barely steady. “Tuck.”

His forehead pressed to yours. “I know.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open while holding you like you were something precious and something he wanted badly enough to ruin all at once. The angle was intense, your back against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, his body doing all the work as he filled you completely.

Your mouth fell open, breath catching in your throat.

Tucker groaned, the sound rough against your mouth. “Fuck, you feel good.”

“You too,” you breathed, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You feel so good.”

His eyes squeezed shut for a second before he started moving. Slow at first. Controlled. Deep enough that every thrust stole your breath, his hips pinning you to the wall while his hands kept you steady. You were still sensitive from his mouth, still wet and aching, and every drag of his cock pulled another moan from you.

“Tucker,” you gasped.

“I know,” he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw. “I’ve got you.”

“You keep saying that,” you breathed.

“Because I do,” he said, voice steady.

Your chest tightened, but then his hips snapped a little harder, and the feeling turned back into heat.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasped.

“There?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Yes,” you gasped.

He adjusted his grip, holding you higher before hitting the same spot again, and your head fell back against the wall with a moan.

Tucker’s eyes locked on your face. “That’s it.”

His pace built slowly, not rushed but intense, every thrust dragging sounds from you that you couldn’t hold back. The wall was cold against your back, his skin hot against yours, and your whole world narrowed to Tucker’s hands, Tucker’s mouth, Tucker’s cock moving inside you like he’d been waiting weeks to prove exactly how well he could ruin you.

“You have no idea how hard it was,” he murmured against your throat, “watching you smile at me from across that bar.”

A whimper slipped out of you before you could stop it.

“Thinking you were just being nice,” he said, hips driving into yours harder until you gasped. “Thinking I was making it up.”

“I wasn’t,” you breathed, clinging tighter to his shoulders. “I wasn’t looking at them.”

Tucker’s grip tightened, and you pulled his face to yours, kissing him messily. “I wanted you.”

He groaned against your mouth.

The next thrust nearly tore a cry out of you.

“Say that again,” he rasped.

“I wanted you.” The next thrust hit harder, stealing the rest of the sentence from you. “Tucker—”

“Again.”

“I wanted you,” you moaned, nails dragging down his shoulders. “I wanted you so badly.”

That broke something in him. His pace turned rougher, still controlled but less careful now, hips snapping into yours as he held you against the wall. You clung to him, moaning his name, letting him hear every gasp and broken sound because he seemed to need them as badly as you needed the way he moved.

“Touch yourself,” he said suddenly, and your breath hitched.

His eyes met yours, dark and intent.

“I want to feel you come around me.”

Your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the first circle made your whole body jolt. Tucker cursed, forehead dropping to yours as you clenched around him.

“Fuck, that’s it.”

Your fingers moved faster, clumsy from how badly you were shaking, but the pressure built quickly with him still fucking into you, his voice low and constant in your ear.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your ear. “You’re so pretty. Doing so good for me.”

Your breath broke.

“Come on, baby.” His grip tightened. “Let me feel it.”

The orgasm hit hard, your body tightening around him as your moan broke into something helpless. Tucker held you through it, thrusting deep and uneven as you pulsed around him, until he followed with a rough groan, hips jerking as he came.

He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard against your neck, holding you up like letting go was not an option. Then he laughed softly.

You opened your eyes, still trying to catch your breath. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, his mouth brushing your shoulder. “Just thinking Dean’s never going to shut up if he finds out.”

You laughed, still breathless and warm. “Then don’t tell him.”

“He’ll know,” Tucker said.

“Why?” you asked, smiling against his skin.

Tucker pulled back just enough to look at you, his smile softer now. “Because I’m not going to be able to stop smiling.”

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

After that, he carried you to the bed and set you down carefully before disappearing to clean up. When he came back, he had a damp cloth in his hand, cleaning you gently and murmuring an apology when your thighs twitched from sensitivity.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, still a little breathless. “Very okay.”

His mouth curved. “Good.”

He lay beside you, and for a second, a strange shyness settled between you again. Not awkward. Just new.

You turned onto your side to face him. “You can stay.”

His eyes softened at that. “Yeah?”

“If you want.”

“I want,” he said, without hesitation, and the answer came fast enough to make you smile.

Tucker pulled the blanket over both of you, and you curled into his side like it already felt familiar. His arm came around you, warm and steady, fingers tracing slow lines down your back.

For a while, neither of you said anything. Then you whispered, “I meant it, you know.”

His hand paused against your back. “What?”

“I saw all of them,” you said, tilting your head up to look at him. “I still looked at you.”

Tucker stared at you for a second, something tender and disbelieving crossing his face. Then he kissed you, soft this time, slow, like he finally believed you.

The next morning, Tucker woke with your leg thrown over his and your face tucked against his chest.

For a second, he didn’t move. He just looked at you — at the sunlight slipping through your curtains, your hair messy against his skin, the tiny crease between your brows like you were arguing with someone in your sleep.

He smiled before he could stop himself, which, as it turned out, was exactly the problem. Because when he finally left your apartment in yesterday’s clothes and walked into the hockey house just before noon, Dean was sitting on the couch with a bowl of cereal.

Dean looked up. Tucker froze. The spoon stopped halfway to Dean’s mouth as a slow, terrible smile spread across his face.

“No way.”

Tucker sighed. “Don’t.”

Logan appeared from the kitchen immediately, because he had a sixth sense for chaos. “What? What happened?”

Dean pointed his spoon at Tucker. “Our boy didn’t come home last night.”

Garrett looked over from the table, his brows lifting.

Logan’s face lit up. “[Y/N]?”

Tucker tried to walk past them. “I’m leaving.”

“You just got here,” Dean said, delighted.

“Then I’m leaving again.”

Garrett laughed under his breath. “Good for you, man.”

That was somehow worse than the teasing. Tucker shook his head, but he was smiling, and Dean noticed, because Dean noticed everything that made life unbearable.

“Oh, he likes her likes her.”

“Shut up.”

Logan grinned, leaning in like this was the best news he’d heard all week. “Did she finally get tired of waiting for you to make a move?”

Tucker paused at the stairs. Thought about your smile, your apartment, your voice saying, I still looked at you. Then he turned just enough to say, “Actually, she made the move.”

The room exploded. Dean yelled, Logan swore, and Garrett laughed properly this time.

Tucker headed upstairs before any of them could ask anything else, but he still heard Dean call after him.

“I’m proud of you, Tuck!”

He rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

💌lmk if you want to be added to my taglist

He looks at you like you’re something he’s not supposed to touch, always seconds away from getting walked in, but that's half the fun at this point. He takes his time looking you over, his hand lifting to turn his hat from the front to the back with a lazy flick.

He’s on you in a second, big hands sliding around your hips as you straighten up; his body pressing into yours.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with sleep—the kind that always gives him away when he’s stayed up too late the night before and woken up too damn early. “What are you doin’ down here, huh?”

“I made your coffee,” you murmur and he groans.

“Saw your text,” he hums, grazing his mouth over your cheek. “You’re too good to me.” His chain brushes your collarbone when he leans in, cool against your skin.

Garrett lets you go, reluctantly, and you start to walk toward the counter. His eyes trail up the length of you.

“It’s just coffee and toast, baby,” you smile, tilting your head slightly.

“Considering everything you did for me last night… I should be the one making breakfast—you don't owe me anything.”

Your cheeks burn, suddenly shy under all this attention as he walks closer. His hands rest on the counter on either side of your hips just as you lean over the counter, reaching for the butter, your ass arching back, right onto his lap. On purpose. You don’t even try to pretend it wasn’t.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes, his voice low and amused as he plays along with the accidental contact, his bag falling heavy to the floor, looking over his shoulder for his roommates. “Real sorry, baby.”

You let out a bubbly laugh as he grabs your body and turns you toward him, lifting you up to set you down on the cool counter.

“What if the boys see you down here, huh?”

His smile’s smug; the man stepping between your thighs as his hands slide up the back of his jersey. His rough thumbs slip under the band of your panties, gripping your hips in his big hands.

Garrett reaches up a little higher, squeezing your breasts before his thumbs brush softly against you. “And what if they did?”

“See you?” His grin widens. “Coach’s daughter wearin’ forty-four and not much else.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, arching into him a little more.

“Well, damn,” he murmurs, looking at you like he’s just remembered he has somewhere to be. “I’d be fucked—I mean, it's pretty risky. I could stop,” he grins against your skin.

“No, you couldn't,” you dismiss it with a teasing laugh.

“No shit. Wearin’ my jersey. No bra… Panties. Textin’ me telling me you made me coffee and breakfast. You honestly think I wasn't gonna thank you a little. Thank you, baby,” he breathes as he leans in, pulling the fabric up, his mouth finding your breast.

He circles it once with his tongue, then again before sucking down, rough enough that your breath hitches and your fingers thread through his dark hair, his curls tangling between your fingers as you hold him there.

“Wish we lived alone,” he grumbles, turning his face further into your chest as his curls tickle your skin.

“Yeah?” You ask breathily as your thighs widen on the counter.

“Whole house to ourselves?” He says, letting the words vibrate against your skin.

He tilts back in, greedy mouth following the curve of your neck as his hands clutch your thighs, holding you open as he leans in close.

“I’d lift up the back—bend you over the counter.” His fingers shift around your body, tracing down your spine, landing on your ass, kneading your flesh.

He smiles against your lips, snapping the waistband of your panties against your skin. “Couldn’t have put on some shorts, or somethin’?”

“More comfortable like this,” you whisper, turning his words back on him when you say, “I mean, it's pretty risky. I could run upstairs and put some on.”

“No, you wouldn't,” he hums. “You did this for me and I fuckin’ love it. Just walkin’ around here like you own the place. What if Tuck and Logan see you, huh? Dean?”

“Oh, Dean?” You ask, because suddenly this conversation makes a lot more sense.

“Don’t start,” he scoffs. “You know he likes you.”

“None of you are subtle,” you answer and he lets out a laugh.

“Yeah, well you got no idea how many conversations I’ve sat through, baby.”

Then his hand slips forward, grazing over the thin material between your legs, pressing soft little circles onto your clit until your hips twitch at his touch.

“They think they know what it’d be like to be with you—they got no fucking clue,” his voice breaks a little when he softens it. “How perfect you are—how much you do for me. To me.”

You hook a hand around the back of his neck, thinking about how easy it would be to have him press himself in and lay you out across the counter, but the both of you would never recover from being caught like that.

You pull him closer and his lips suck down on your neck, rough enough to leave a mark.

“Kept my mouth shut. Haven't said shit. It kills me…” He breathes over your collarbone right where the collar of the jersey meets your skin. “I've been such a good boy for you.”

“So good,” you whisper. “And yet, you stopped telling what we would do if this house was ours,” you breathe, nails tracing over the thick bulge in his shorts.

He laughs, liking the sound of that. “Got you bent over this counter. One hand on your hip, the other gripping this jersey in my fist while you cry out that name on your back.”

His fingers trail even lower, dipping just barely between your folds, right above your entrance, the barrier of fabric only adding to the ache between your thighs. So much for all that teasing he accused you of. He’s worse.

“Too bad you have a workout.” Your fingers card through his dark hair. “We could stay back.”

He grins as he chuckles warmly against the column of your neck, dragging your panties to the side. “Fuck, you wanna get me in trouble, huh? Won’t be able to play tonight if I don’t show—you know that. After the game, though. Boys’ll go to the bar,” he breathes as his fingers mimic the tempo of his words.

His breath catches in his broad chest as your finger slips under the band of his shorts, pulling him closer before you slide your hand inside.

“Christ,” he grits through a smile as your fingers wrap around his cock, finding him hard and heavy. You stroke and he hums deep against your lips about all the things he wants to do to you when you're alone.

“Trying to get me all worked up just to send me off,” he whispers. “That’s fucked, pretty.”

He works you with his long thick fingers, slow enough to tease. “How fast do you think I could get you off, huh?” He chuckles, his laugh buzzing against your lips. “Pretty close right now, huh?”

Garrett breathes those words against your jaw. Your hand slaps over your mouth, muffling the sound of his name.

Your pussy squeezes around his fingers and you lose the rhythm of your strokes, but he doesn't, leaning into the counter a little more. The wet sounds of his hand darting in and out suddenly, too loud but it's replaced by the pounding of your heart in your head.

“Come on, baby… Cum on my hand,” he mutters, teeth scraping your neck and your body releases, fluttering around his fingers.

Your thighs squeeze together as he keeps going, whining against your hand, before he slows his pace.

He brings his fingers to his mouth, cleaning them with his heavy gaze locked on yours, the watch on his wrist glinting.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mumbles as you slip off the counter and into his arms. “I love you—”

“I love you too,” you whisper as your lips find his again, hands sliding down his chest. Your hands slip lower. His shorts are already halfway down his hips, cock trapped beneath the waistband.

“What are you up to, huh?” He asks like he doesn’t already know as you back him into the counter. “Yeah?” He laughs softly. “Bet you won’t.” That challenge barely leaves his mouth before he kisses you again, eyes flicking toward the stairwell mid-kiss before dropping back to you as you sink to your knees.

“In my jersey,” he mumbles as he tilts back, hands resting on top.

He sucks in a sharp breath when the air hits him, shivering when your tongue glides up the side of his cock, tossing back his head as he bites down on his lip, holding back a moan—BANG!

“Fuck me,” he hisses, hanging his head between his shoulders when a bag drops in Logan’s room above you.

Your tongue swipes against his tip and he blows out a sharp breath through his nose, his sticky wet precum catching on it.

“Just—Just a little more,” he mutters, holding your head, following you as you take him in your mouth. You bob back and forth and his grip tightens, eyes fluttering shut—THUMP!

You draw away when you hear some more motion upstairs. He shakes his head, laughing under his breath, watching as you kiss the tip.

“That’s how we’re playin’ this, huh?” Looking back at you in playful frustration, he tugs you up fast, muttering bitterly under his breath as you tug his shorts in place.

“Sorry, baby,” you smile.

“Teasin’ me, baby. Just wait until later,” he warns with a smile, grabbing his workout bag, walking with you back up to his room.

His fingers find yours automatically as the two of you step into the hallway.

Garrett walks a half-step behind you, his thumb rubbing back and forth across your knuckles. You glance over your shoulder and catch him already looking. He drags a hand across his mouth, trying and failing to hide his smile.

You step up one stair, and by the third he already knows he’s in trouble. His number stretched across your back. His last name stamped over your shoulders. The curve of your ass peeking out each time you take a step higher.

The intrusive thoughts win without effort. His other hand reaches out for you, pulling you back and into his strong arms. “Garrett Graham!” You whisper-scream and his deep laugh echoes through the stairwell.

“You are drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” he mumbles like he's pissed—smiling like he's in love. “I’m just a man, alright? What do you want from me?” Your arms curve loosely around his neck, your legs wrapping around his waist as he holds you, carrying you the rest of the way. “Plus you were walkin’ up the stairs too slow, you needed my help.”

“My hero.”

“Good thing I'm riding by myself. I need some time alone with my thoughts.”

“You’re dramatic,” you cut in, but that only encourages him.

“You know one hand on the wheel, the other doin’ what you started and didn't finish… you're lucky you're gorgeous.”

“So are you,” you smile and he scowls.

By the time he sets you down inside his room, he’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, shutting the door before anyone can see. “I mean…” Garrett shifts his bag higher on his shoulder. “Maybe I could stay.”

You give him a look. A long look. And his shoulders slump.

“I know,” he mutters. “Goddamn, baby. You run a tight program.”

“Workout,” you whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Hockey,” you remind him.

“Mmm… Mhmm,” he hums, so dreamily you laugh. “Fuck, I love when you boss me around—”

“We’ll have all night—”

“How am I supposed to focus now? All I can think about is how pretty you looked trying not to make a sound.” His finger hooks under your chin, lifting your lips to his. “But you... you gotta be careful, baby. These boys are gonna hear you one of these days. They could have caught us down there.”

You look up at him through your lashes ever so slightly and he melts.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, blowing out a tired breath. “You own me—don’t even know why I try.”

He reaches out, grabbing the jersey on your body, pulling you closer. His nose brushes against yours—his lips doing the same, drawing back and leaving you chasing them just enough to notice before he kisses you.

“You don't have class until ten, yeah?” He murmurs between kisses.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Wishin’ you were me right now, huh?”

“Wishin’ a lot of things honestly.”

Garrett groans, dropping his forehead to yours, his voice dripping honey-sweet as he takes a different approach. “Shit, baby… what about your coffee? I should probably go get that for you, hmm?”

“Seriously—”

“Then, I don’t know…” He continues when that doesn’t work. “Maybe not get my ass beat at the gym. Sweat here instead. Do something better with my time.”

“You’re gonna be late—”

“And, I wonder why,” he cuts in. “Running out of excuses.”

“What are you gonna tell him, Captain?”

He thinks about it for a moment, stalling still. “Pretty thing. Wears my number. Torments me. Tells me I have to stay or else—”

“Or else, huh?” You giggle, and his eyes fall to your lips. “She sounds like a bitch, baby.”

“—Don’t talk about her like that. That’s my girl.”

“Such a charmer, Garrett Graham,” you hum, twirling one of his curls with your finger. “Leave—” Smack! His hand claps against your ass, the mesh barrier, just another reminder that he can't have you how he'd like.

He batts his hand against the door handle, still unwilling to let you go for another moment.

“Send me a picture or somethin’,” he mumbles against your lips. “You know, for the car ride there.”

“I don’t know, baby. You look extra pretty when you suffer,” you whisper, and he chuckles deeply, the sound going straight through you.

“Gonna ruin you later.”

“M’counting on it…” You smile and his groan breathes against your lips when he pushes open the door.

“Jersey stays on.”

Garrett shakes his head immediately, pulling you closer like you’ve said something insane. “No.”

“Garrett—”

“Need this,” he grinds out against your mouth. “Barely get you alone. Barely get to have you.” His grip tightens at your waist, his stare going heavier on yours. “I need this tonight, baby.”

“Okay,” you breathe as he lowers himself to your lips. His muscles tremble beneath your hands as they wrap around his biceps. You shift underneath him, arching just enough for him to realize something needs to change.

Garrett notices immediately. He wets the split in his lip, eyes narrowing with slow amusement. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Get on your back, Garrett.”

“What?” He laughs softly, still hovering over you like he thinks there’s no chance you’re serious.

“Back. Now.” You try to roll him but he grabs your wrist, pinning you to the mattress.

“You serious right now?” He whispers against your lips, letting out a raspy laugh before hissing when the smile tugs the cut back open.

“Now.”

Garrett lets out a rough breath like he’s too sore for this, shifting onto his back beneath you, broad chest rising and falling harder once you settle over his waist.

A dark bruise shadows the side of his ribs, already blooming beneath tan skin where he got slammed into the boards earlier.

His hands slide to your thighs automatically—big palms squeezing instinctively—but you catch his wrists before he can settle them there.

“Uh-uh.” Your voice comes out softer this time and he cocks an eyebrow at you, loving wherever the hell this is going. “Coach said you have to relax. R e l a x,” you breathe as you guide his arms over his head, fingers tracing over the thick muscle of his forearms until your hands lace together above him.

“I don't wanna relax,” he chuckles.

“I don't care.”

“You’re bossy tonight,” he says with a tilted smile, already breathless.

“Maybe,” you smile down at him like you already knew you’d win this. “But you’re a problem.” Your fingertips drag lightly down the center of his chest. “Not now that I’ve finally got you pinned down for once.”

Garrett lets out a short laugh through his nose, shaking his head against the pillow. “Control? You know how easily I could get it back, baby?” He tilts his head against the pillow to look at you better.

Then your hand reaches across the bed for your pink lace panties—discarded somewhere in the mess—and Garrett clocks what you’re doing about one second too late.

“Wait,” he breathes, eyes narrowing. “Hold on—” His head tips back into the pillow as you loop the lace around the headboard, knotting it around his wrists while he watches with parted lips and a slow swallow working down his throat. “You’re serious.”

“You keep hurting yourself,” you sigh as your thumb brushes carefully near the cut in his lip. “You don’t listen. All you do is fight.” You lean closer, softer now. “So now you don’t get to be in charge for a little while. Baby, you're stuck—”

“It’s a pair of pink panties.”

“And yet,” you murmur softly, tightening your grip around his wrists for a second, “look how good you’re behaving for me.”

He sucks his teeth and chuckles at that. “Behaving?” He scoffs. “Behaving. I've been getting chirped about you all night and I snapped once after he slashed me. He threw the first punch. Ten minute major. Now you’ve got me tied up in a thong. What more do you want from me?”

“Maybe I just wanted you to sit still long enough for me to take care of you,” you whisper, your mouth brushing over his. “Thank you like I’ve wanted to since you stepped into the penalty box. Does that sound so bad?”

He lets out a deep breath, nodding like that’s exactly what he needed to hear.

Your body dips lower, back arching as your ass lifts slightly while your lips trace his ear. “Maybe, I wanted to tie you up, and make you my bitch.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes out, a dark laugh breaking past his lips as he turns his head, burying himself in your neck. “M’not your fuckin’ bitch, alright?”

“You’re not?” You soften your voice and his whole body loosens beneath you.

“…Fine.”

“Fine what, baby?” You ask as your gaze meets his again, his eyes falling to your lips as you smile.

“I’m your bitch,” he says under his breath, intentionally quiet enough to piss you off.

Your mouth falls open dramatically, hand pressing against his abs, moving lower making his breathing catch. “Well, that wasn’t very convincing, baby.”

Garrett laughs again, deeper this time, turning his head like he’s embarrassed by how easy he is for you, a blush creeping across his cheeks.

“I’m your bitch, baby,” he repeats a little louder now, brown eyes sliding back to yours. “Happy?”

“Very.”

“God,” he huffs, smiling despite himself. “You like fuckin’ with me, don't you?”

“More like love, but yeah,” you tease, leaning down, lips pressing against his neck, shifting lower, soft lips trailing over his stomach, tongue teasing his v-line before your mouth dips lower, nuzzling between his thighs.

His stomach tightens instantly, thighs flexing as he lifts his head, getting a better look.

“Fuck,” he breathes when your tongue flicks over his balls, warm and slow. His thighs tighten when you take one into your mouth, then the other, stroking his thick cock with your hand while you suck softly. “Damn, baby,” he moans, head falling back against the pillow. “Gonna make me lose it.”

“How many times?” You ask sweetly, breath fanning over his spit-slick dick, feeling him twitch in your grip. You glance up at him through your lashes, looking way too innocent for your words.

“So what?” He murmurs. “You gonna tie me up and just—use me?”

“Mhmm,” you hum around him, the sound making his abs tighten again. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

Garrett swears softly under his breath as you crawl back up his body slowly, your fingertips skimming over the sculpted ridges of his abs, higher over his chest, nails scratching lightly, his gold chain flickering in the low light when he sucks in a breath.

His hands twitch against the lace when your wet pussy settles over his length again, grinding down slow, your breasts pressed against his broad chest.

“You’re so fucking hot, Garrett,” you murmur against his lips, but the smile slips through anyway.

“You have no clue how good you look on top of me,” he mutters, his voice already rough, even though the corner of his mouth still curls smugly. “You gotta stop teasing me.”

Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the bruise blooming dark beneath his cheekbone, the split in his lip still angry red. His dark curls fall onto his forehead, half brushed-back from running his hands through them, wet with sweat again.

“All fucked up and still the hottest guy I’ve ever seen,” you murmur, thumb brushing lightly near the cut. “You’re unbelievable.”

Garrett lets out a low sound at that, somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

“Unbelievable, huh?” His voice drops rough around the edges.

“So fucking greedy, Graham.”

His brows pinch immediately. “Graham?” He scoffs, finally lifting his head enough to look at you properly. “Garrett’s for you. The fuck are you callin’ me Graham?”

You just smile wider—a slow little smile. Underneath all the cockiness, Garrett loves this—the way you toy with him when you get bold enough to take control.

Your fingers drift lazily through his hair while you stay settled over his lap, watching him try and fail to keep that smug look on his face.

“Talk to me nice,” he mutters, low and warning, even though his hands are tied above his head and he’s already losing this fight. “Talk to me like you love me.”

You bite back a smile, grinding your hips on top. “Captain’s havin’ a hard night, huh?”

“Holy shit,” Garrett drags out the words like they physically pain him. His head falls back, wrists pulling taut against the lace.

“Just take it,” you breathe, mouth brushing close enough to his that he can feel the smile there. “Unless you want me to stop.”

“Don’t,” he grunts immediately, the word coming out stern and final even while his wrists tug uselessly against the lace above his head.

Garrett tests the restraints again anyway, muscles tightening beneath you, but you shove playfully at his chest before he can get too cocky about it.

“C’mon now,” he mutters, eyes glinting up at you while his tongue drags across the cut in his lip, soothing the sting. “You’re not my coach. You’re not one of the guys.” His gaze lifts to yours again, darker now, quieter. “You’re my girl.”

“I am,” you hum, moving a little closer to his lips.

“And…” he adds lower, lashes dipping for half a second before meeting your eyes again, “Garrett sounds better when you say it.”

“Yeah?” You tease softly, fingers sliding around his neck, through the damp curls at the back.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Love when you say my name—” His words cut off when your hand traces lower, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, stroking slowly. “‘Specially when you're proud of me.”

“I am proud of you, Garrett,” you praise and he takes the compliment like air. He moans when your thumb brushes over his thick tip of his dick, his brows furrowing while his lips part. “Easy, Garrett,” you murmur. “You’re getting a little needy for me.”

“A little?” He laughs softly, breath catching when your thumb brushes the tip again. “You’re pushin’ it—me. All of it.”

“The offer to stop was there—”

“Baby, I’m injured,” he complains softly. “Feels kinda fucked up not to let me cum.”

“I don't think you're ready,” you whisper as you reach down, thumb brushing along his chin where a little blood smudged. He parts his lips, eyes locked on yours as he sucks it clean. “I could get outta here if I wanted, you know. Lucky I’m playin’ nice.”

“So am I. You’re enjoying this, baby. Stop trying to play tough with pink panties around your wrists. I know you love it.”

He laughs softly under his breath at that, teeth catching briefly on the split in his lip. He watches you for a second like he can’t decide whether he wants to argue with you or watch.

“You done talkin’,” he asks hoarsely, voice rough and low, “or are you gonna keep torturing me for fun?”

You giggle against his skin. “So my panties around your wrists and my hand around your dick is—”

“One of my favorite things you’ve done, yes.”

“It was torture a second ago,” you counter with faux concern.

The tip of his cock drips precum, sliding in a lazy tear over your knuckles. “Fuck you.” He chuckles.

“You’d like that,” you grin as you lift your hand, licking his mess off the back. “Look at how relaxed you are.”

“You’re actually gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he laughs under his breath.

You move between his legs, smirk dying on your lips as your mouth parts, that dangerous look still burning in your eyes as you lick a slow line up the underside of his cock, following a vein, watching his biceps flex as he tests the panties holding him in place.

“Standing down by the glass,” he says, breath hitching as you swirl your tongue over the tip. “Playing against your ex.”

“Mhmm,” you whisper.

“You know how much shit I took. Three periods of reminding me all about his favorite things about my girl. And, I couldn't say shit. Couldn't even tell Coach why I went in the box in the first place.”

You run a line of spit down to his throbbing head as you stroke and he shivers, feeling it roll down the slit, gliding down the side.

“Been keeping this a secret for six months. Think I deserve something—Fuuuck.” His head slams back into the pillow when he finally gets it. “Yeah… that’s it, baby.”

Your lips stretch around his cock, eyes flicking up to watch his reaction. Garrett’s lashes flutter shut, mouth falling open, chest lifting as you sink down again. You moan around him, the sound making him shudder.

“So fuckin’ good,” he pants.

You wrap one hand around the base, slick with spit, and stroke as your mouth works the head, dragging your tongue along the ridge. He groans again—deep and filthy—his fists clenching above his head.

“Shit. Shit—fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he grits through his teeth, muscles locking under you. “Gonna cum in that pretty mouth—”

His whole body coils tight as you suck, slurping, gagging, throating his length as he fights back his pleasure.

A loud moan breaks past his lips, filling the room. He hisses out a breath as he feels the sharp sting, bottom lip trembling. “God, damn—just… You’re…” His voice cuts off, too far gone to finish, filthy-wet between your lips and the thick length of him—too much for you to take, but you’re trying anyway.

Garrett pitches his hips, meeting you stroke for stroke, eyes squeezed shut as his thigh muscles tremble.

“Fuck me,” he whines, your name whispering past his lips as he empties into your throat, cock throbbing while his voice breaks into a sobbing, pathetic laugh. “Shittt—oh my god—fuck—” He chokes on his words, hands twisting into fists above him.

You pull off him slow, kissing his swollen, pulsing tip. He throws his head to the side, pressing his mouth to his bicep, shuttering out a pathetic breath when you kitten-lick his cock; body jumping with each cruel flick.

“Pussy,” his voice comes out slurred. “Give it to me—fuckin’ need it, alright?”

You bite your lip, holding back a smile as you crawl up over him—tits brushing his chest, his face flushed, eyes glassy, chest heaving—you wrap your hand around him again, pumping slow as you guide him toward you.

He’s still recovering when you line him up, circling your hips just enough to tease the head against your slick folds.

“So good,” he groans, eyes rolling back. “Oh my fucking god, baby—” You slide down on him, hands pressing against his chest, feeling his heart bang underneath until you're fully sat.

“Fuck, Garrett,” you breathe as you drag your hips. His eyes lock on the wet place where you connect, lips parted like he's trying to think of something to say, but the thought dies there instead.

He tugs at the panties roughly, brows furrowing, lips snarling as he forgot for a second he was tied up. You lean forward over him slowly, chest brushing his as you lower yourself toward his mouth, smiling when his breath catches.

“Can’t even slap your fuckin’ ass—” CRACK! Your hand smacks against your own skin, cutting off his complaint, and he groans beneath you like he's getting some sick secondhand pleasure from it.

“Bounce for me,” he rasps, lips vibrating against yours. You push yourself upright again, hands slapping against the metal rail above his head, and his eyes snap back.

Your pussy swallows up the length of him, hands braced on the bed frame between his—like you own the room. Like you own him. “So fucking perfect for me—”

He curses loudly as he throws his hips up to meet you, making the whole damn bed creak.

Heat coils low in your stomach, your thighs starting to shake around him. “Yes, baby—cum like this. Use me, c’mon,” he pants. Your pussy pulses with your heartbeat, wild and quick, fluttering around him as you cum; Garrett thrusting up into you so deep your vision blurs.

“Don’t you fuckin’ stop,” he grits out, the tone of his voice proud like he knows you won't. His mouth falls open, his eyes rolling back, the muscles in his chest tight as his fists lock. “I’m cumming, shit.” The look on his face and the deep, fucked-out sound of his voice make you shatter above him.

Your head’s pounding so loud, ears ringing so high you can't hear the praise leaving his lips, but you know it's there.

He fights the restraints—the lace tearing slightly.

You smile as you start to grind again, nice and slow, swirling your hips, slick dripping down his big cock, making him suck his teeth.

Garrett’s still twitching underneath you when you finally slow down enough to breathe, his lungs still working hard beneath yours. The lace strains again when he flexes his wrists, biceps swelling, his whole body slick with sweat.

“That was perfect, baby,” he says, still breathless. You laugh softly, brushing damp curls off his forehead. You lean down, kissing his cheek over the bruise, soft and careful.

“You okay?” You ask, assessing the damage.

“M’fine, baby,” Garrett answers immediately, eyes half-lidded as he looks up at you. “And honestly? Worth it.”

“Garrett.”

“What?” A lazy grin tugs at his mouth before he winces at the split lip.

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“Guy spent three periods talking about you like he was gonna be the one here after all this.”

“He’s an idiot,” you whisper.

His eyes flick away for a second before landing back on yours. “Kept acting like he knew you better than me.”

“Baby—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “Just pissed me off.”

“He doesn’t know me better than you.”

Garrett stares up at you for a second. “Finish junior year. One more season,” he murmurs, “and it will be you and me.”

“You’ve really thought this through, huh?” You ask, cheeks burning with your smile, finger tracing absentmindedly on his bare chest.

“Been in love with you for months, baby. Had time,” he hums, leaning in for a kiss, pulling back just out of reach from where he's still bound, chasing it before he lets out a little growl of a breath.

“I love you too,” you coo, and he huffs, rolling his eyes away. Your hand comes up, grabbing his cheeks between them, squeezing just enough to pout his lips. “If I untie you,” you tease softly, “are you gonna behave?”

He takes a moment to think it over. “Probably not.”

“Garrett.”

“What?” He says, a chuckle catching in his throat, eyes warm now. You glance up toward the headboard, finally noticing the pink lace stretched tight between his wrists, strained enough now that you realize that Garrett Graham is only still there because he’s letting himself be. “Kinda getting used to it—”

“You know what?” You murmur, brushing your hands over his chest, fingers straightening his chain on his throat. “You’re right.” Garrett lifts an eyebrow as you speak. “This is exactly where you should be.”

Garrett’s eyes flick toward the stretched lace for half a second before landing back on yours. That cocky, hockey-boy smile spreads on his lips. “Why are you like this, huh?” He asks quietly.

“You’ve been behaving so well for me.”

“You done playin’ coach now?” He asks.

You open your mouth to answer him, but Garrett suddenly plants his feet into the mattress beneath you, muscles tightening hard underneath your hands— SNAP.

The first time you get your period at his house not only is he 

1. Prepared with anything you need (I like to think he’s got sisters who visit so he just keeps things stocked up. Big family Park the Shark my beloved) 

2. Harder than fucking diamond the moment you gently push him back and, uncharacteristically shyly, tell him you can’t do anything because of said period, and he gets to watch your pretty mouth drop open in surprise when he just shrugs and says “it’s never stopped me before.” 

Like… Bren what do you mean it’s never stopped you before???? Park blanks for a half second like “oh yeah, not everybody does that” and there’s no point in him being shy about it now so he just kisses you on the mouth, a smug little smirk on his face when he pulls away—

“I didn’t get called ‘the Shark’ in college for nothing, sweetheart” 

And holy fuck if that doesn’t stay in your brain for the next month. He’s put the thought it your mind now, he’ll assure you through this period that it really doesn’t bother him at all and maybe you don’t do anything about it at first, but he can see the interest growing as the days pass.

Maybe it takes a little bit of time, a little research on your end because hey, period sex is kinda out of your wheelhouse but it’s not like it's unheard of and you’re not entirely against it, just apprehensive, curious even. (As someone who’s done it, I was a lil nervous at first too and did a stupid amount of research to calm down about it lmao)

Eventually you broach the topic with him, maybe a little embarrassed because yeah it’s a natural bodily function but it’s still a lil taboo and even if Park has said he doesn’t gaf about a little blood you still need a little reassurance that he’s actually ok with it. And so you do, and he assures you that it’s fine, he’s ok with it— more than ok with it really, ever since the first time he’d mentioned it it’s all he can think about. He doesn’t tell you he’s been craving it since then, but you can see he’s eager, he’s practically vibrating with want. So maybe he drops a few “hints” here and there. It’ll help alleviate cramps, it’ll feel good because of the heightened sensitivity, it could help increase libido (not that the two of you need that), it's incredibly intimate, etc.

I think Park is a little bit of a boundary pusher in the bedroom, like things he can see you’re teetering on trying he’s gonna try and nudge you. He's not pushy, never bullying you into things, he's just…suggestive.

“We can try it, and if you hate it we won’t do it again.”

If you give him a firm no he’ll respect it, sure he’s a little bummed but it’s not gonna ruin his entire day. Brendon Park loves you and respects you, so he’d never force you into anything that is a hard no even if it’s something he likes.

However, if you say yes? Sweet love, say less because he’s already set aside everything you’d need for it just in case.

It’s a common headcanon that Brendon Park fucks, but this? This takes it to a whole new level. He’s got you spread out on his bed, a towel under your hips— oh did you think it’d be a dark towel? Not a chance. Park’s set out the bright white towels so that he can see the mess he’s gonna make with you. Ambient lighting, but not so dark he can't see anything because he wants to see everything.

He’ll get you nice and relaxed, Park’s a lover boy after all and at the end of the day he never wants you to be uncomfortable, especially with something he’s doing. He takes his time laid on top of you, letting you control how long your make out lasts, taking his time undressing you and only parting to pull your shirt over your head with his quickly following suit. You stop his hands from taking off your underwear just yet, still a little apprehensive, a little nervous, but that’s fine with him so he just kisses you again and lets you wrap your arms around his neck. He loves the feeling of your hands on his body but especially on his back, the way you trail them up the back of his neck to run your nails through the hair at the base of his scalp makes him shiver and lean more into you, a groan bubbling up from deep in his chest.

When you give him the ok to move elsewhere, his lips and teeth are everywhere. Trailing down your neck and chest leaving bites and newly forming bruises in his wake, some you can’t even see but you know you’ll feel for a while after he's done. 

He relishes in the noises you make when he gets his mouth on your already sensitive nipples, now more so that he’s given them a little attention. He sucks a bruise into your hip, leaves a bite on the inside of your thigh that makes you yelp, and just chuckles when your heel connects with his back as if to reprimand him.

We’ve established that I think Park’s got a scent kink and boy does this play into it. He looks up at you, raising his eyebrows as if to ask “this ok?”,  and only moves when you give him an affirmative for him to slide your underwear down your legs. 

It takes everything in him not to shove your soiled underwear against his nose and inhale like it’s a fucking drug— it is, in a way, because the moment the metallic scent of blood hits his nose he’s shaking, salivating, nearly panting like a dog when he throws your legs over his shoulders and— just once more looks back up at you to make sure you’re serious about this— and buries his face into your cunt the moment you give him the go ahead.

If you thought Brendon Park was a munch before, this was nothing in comparison.

He’s ravenous, eyes rolling back at the copper tang on his tongue as he eats you out like he’s been starving for it. And maybe he has been. It’s been years since someone’s let him do this to them.

Park’s bound to leave bruises from just how tightly he’s holding your thighs— now clamped around his ears like a vice with your nails digging into his scalp as you wail.

He’s groaning at the sounds you’re making, the sounds your sticky, wet cunt was making, and he gets a little lightheaded from how quickly all of the blood in his body makes a beeline south. He's still in his briefs and they're growing wetter by the second from the precum steadily leaking out with how desperately he's grinding against the bed, hips involuntarily searching for friction before he bullies a broad shoulder between your thighs forcing you to make room for him, gasping in a breath and sliding two fingers into your slick, messy heat curling them almost viciously just to hear that sound from before and you give it to him. 

Your body arches off the bed so suddenly it was as if you’d been struck by lightning, his one arm pressing down against your hips the only thing tethering you to the bed as you let out another high, pitchy wail.

Park can’t take his eyes off of you, fuck you’re stunning. You’ve got a hand latched onto his arm, digging your nails into his skin hard enough to draw blood, and your other covering your eyes as you pant and moan and chant his name like a fucking prayer, unable to squirm away with his strong arm over your hips.

Mentally Park is patting his younger self on the back for finding a place with above average sound proofing because had you been doing this at your apartment, your nosy neighbor would’ve called the cops the moment he got his mouth on you.

God he feels fucking drunk. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen or maybe he really is drunk on your blood, either way he’s doing everything he knows you like to get you across the finish line.

Your hands find his hair again when you’re about to come, your breath quickening as you beg him not to stop, to keep going, to keep- keep- oh god Bren— Brendon!

He doesn’t stop, just eats you through it until your second orgasm is crashing into the aftershocks of the first making you shriek. You finally pull him away from you just as the third is ebbing into painful overstimulation territory, and make eye contact, his eyes half lidded but you can see his pupils are blown wide, the faintest hint of blue haloing them as he stares up at you from where he's still positioned between your legs and fuck if it isn’t erotic.

Half his face is covered in blood, it's smeared across his mouth and cheeks and a little ways up his nose, his sharp teeth glinting where the saliva on them catches the light as he heaves in ragged breaths, the parts of his face not covered by blood are still flushed red, his blush extending to his ears and down his neck where you know it's spread across his chest and shoulders— he looks as fucked out as you feel, and it’s so, so hot watching him fall apart from just how badly he wants you. He’s already tugging against your grip on his hair, eager to get his mouth back on you as if he can’t help but search out blood.

The sound Park makes when you pull him up by his hair to plant your lips on his is pathetic. It’s wanton and needy and he nearly comes on the spot when you lick into his mouth with a filthy moan at the taste of not only your wetness, but your own blood. Your faces slide against each other from the sheer amount of wetness on your skin. He moves over you, body nearly crushing you under his weight as his hips grind against the apex of your thighs but it's not quite the right spot— he's still got his briefs on and they're in his fucking way—

He didn't even notice your hands in his scramble to get his briefs off until you've got a hand around his shaft and he’s choking, gasping against your open mouth when you guide his cock to your folds. He bumps your clit making you jolt and mumbles out a quick “sorry, angel” before pushing in all the way.

God you’re slick and wet and so hot that the last of his self control snaps. Any other time he’d give you a second to adjust, a moment to breathe and get used to his size even after getting four fingers in you, but there’s blood in the water and he’s frenzied.

He holds you down by the backs of your thighs setting a relentless, punishing pace as he snaps his hips against yours, jackhammering like a virgin hellbent on sating his own selfish pleasure.

It’s electrifying and bordering on painful but it’s so so good— 

You can’t even manage moans anymore, just broken little whimpers as you grip the pillow underneath your head, your face wet with tears, the blood already drying around your mouth— you look so fucking filthy and he loves it. He loves you.

Park plants a hand next to your waist and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder to change the angle, grinding his cock into you at a slower pace to yank himself from the edge he'd been hurtling towards. Sure, you've come 3 times, but he can feel one more creeping up on you by the way your walls flutter around his length. You throw your head back in a wordless scream when his thumb rubs circles around your clit, aborted, broken little sounds escaping your exposed throat as you tremble violently, Park speeding up his thrusts just as you topple over the edge so he's right behind you.

His vision darkens at the edges, a high pitched ringing in his ears as his orgasm crashes into him like a freight train nearly knocking the wind out of him. For a man who's spent a good majority of his life in the gym, and spends a current majority of his time outside of work fucking you in just about every place you'll let him, it's a rare sight to see him genuinely out of breath.

The first sound to come back to him is your pitiful sniffles and your attempts to calm your own racing heart by taking in deep, shaky breaths. He moves the two of you onto your sides, his arms wrapped securely around your waist with yours around his shoulders, not an inch of space between the two of you. A shiver runs down his spine when he feels the faintest brush of your nails at the back of his head, he rubs a hand up and down your back as he presses his lips against your exposed shoulder. Park slowly makes his way up your neck and over your jaw, kissing the spot under your left eye where he always does before he kisses your lips. You're too tired to anything more and he's not about to start anything, just needing you close as you both come down from your highs.

Exhaustion weighs him down and he knows that the two of you should get up and in the shower because if you don't he'll hear it from the moment you wake up that you're still covered in dried blood, spit, and cum, and you'll make it his problem. (He's right where he wants to be)

Try as he may, Park still dozes off for just a moment, only coming to because you're kissing his face gently and slowly, your hand scratching over the back of his head and for a second he thinks you're crying again. He gets it, Park wasn't lying when he said it was intimate and he moves your head back to wipe your tears except you're not really crying anymore, instead you're chuckling quietly to yourself.

"What are you laughing at?" Brendon mumurs, his curious gaze sweeping over your face as you chuckled while tears dripped down your face. The headboard had been hitting the wall pretty hard but he was still sure that you hadn't bumped your head somehow, even if you bumped it against the headboard it was tufted leather on the side facing the bed so you shouldn't have gotten a head injury—

"So," you pause, your voice pulling him out of his slight spiral about a possible head injury, your pretty eyes roaming over his face and down to his chest where dried blood is smudged on the side of his neck and collarbone, your fingers gently brushing against some of it making it flake away before your eyes trail back up to meet his through your thick lashes, a teasing grin spreading across your lips as you lean your head onto the pillow he's half on. "Same time next month?"

He blinks, not fully registering what you've said until your teeth are digging into your lower lip in an attempt to hold back your giggles, a grin stretching across his face as he leans in to kiss you, swallowing down your giggles before pulling back and gently nudging your nose with his own.

"Yeah sweetheart, same time next month."

note: i may or may not do a part two, my motivation fluctuates! hope you enjoy because this was super sad to write.

He’s looking at her.

His arm rests along the back of the couch, the sensation of it familiar enough that you barely notice it anymore. Every few minutes, when someone says something particularly funny, his hand shifts and his fingers brush against the exposed skin of your shoulder blade. It’s casual, absent-minded contact. It means nothing to him and everything to you.

Around you, the boys’ house is lively. Tucker is arguing with Birdie about the game they’ve been at for hours on the TV. Every once in a while, someone tells them to shut up. They do that for a total of five minutes before someone inevitably raises their voice, leading the other to do the same.

You should be finishing up your story. It was a stupid tale, one about falling asleep during a lecture.

Instead, you’re watching him.

Or rather, you’re watching where he’s looking.

His gaze drifts across the room so often that you’ve begun anticipating it, finding yourself following the path before he’s even finished turning his head. It happens during conversations. During periods of silence. During moments when he’s supposed to be paying attention you.

His eyes always find the same person.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Maybe they don’t. Maybe they haven’t spent nearly ten years studying every version of John Logan.

Ten years.

Long enough to remember the cracked sidewalks of your hometown and the suffocating certainty that neither of you belonged there. Long enough to remember sitting on the roof of his garage at thirteen years old, passing back and forth what was always bag of Hot Cheetos while making promises far too big for kids your age.

You had been determined to leave.

And somehow, against every odd stacked against two middle-schoolers with seemingly unattainable dreams and no real plan, you did.

You earned your place through a STEM scholarship that had consumed countless nights and enough caffeine to raise alerts towards your cardiovascular system. He earned his through hockey, through early mornings and bruises and a relentless dedication that you supported him all throughout.

Different roads, same destination.

For nearly a decade, the two of you had existed side by side.

And for six of those years, you’ve loved him.

You weren’t sure when you realized it, but once you did, it felt as though things finally clicked into place. There had always been that speculation from others that you two were something beyond a mere friendship—but there was no weight to it. Not while it wasn’t true, anyway.

You thought it may have been the puberty. John was no longer a scrawny kid who you hovered over. He’d grown into himself as the years passed—taller, stronger, more confident. It was a simple crush that came as a result of change, you told yourself.

But you had began to think it was more than that, that it always had been. Once the feeling arrived, it made no effort to fade—settling into the empty spaces between inside jokes and late-night phone calls, between shared victories and devastating failures. It lodged itself so deeply within your bond that you stopped looking for where friendship ended and something else began.

Maybe that was your mistake.

Across the room, Hannah laughs.

The sound is soft enough that most people would miss it beneath the chatter, but John hears it.

Of course he does.

Hannah Wells has a way of drawing attention effortlessly. Her smile comes easily, brightening her entire face like a Christmas tree. Honey-brown hair spills over one shoulder as she speaks. Her deep cerulean eyes crinkle when she laughs. Hearing her sing for the first time made it no better.

And she is so kind.

She remembers your birthday, she asks you questions on a subject you think had long been over. She makes you feel seen.

It’s impossible to blame him for looking.

The problem is that lately, he hasn’t seemed capable of looking anywhere else.

His fingers brush your shoulder again, mindlessly.

Across the room, Hannah says something to Allie that you can’t quite make out.

Logan smiles.

And suddenly, despite his arm around you and his knee pressed lightly against yours and nearly ten years of friendship sitting comfortably between the two of you, you’ve never felt further away from him.

Tucker notices your shift in mood before Logan does. You like Tuck the most out of all of Logan’s friends. He’s a year below the rest of you, though you like to say he’s the most mature out of all of them. He’s observant, you learned.

He tilts his head at you, silently asking if you’re okay. You send him a half-hearted thumbs up. Something clicks for him and he accepts your answer, redirecting his attention to the game.

You think Tucker knows about your crush on John. A part of you hopes he doesn’t, but another part of you knows that he does.

At some point, Logan notices you’ve stopped talking. By the time he has, you’re fiddling with your bracelet. He frowns, glancing at his own matching one on his left wrist. You were both surprised they had never broken. Logan enjoyed referring to it as a testament to your long-standing friendship. The blue and purple embroidery of both your bracelets have become a halo of fuzz, but they remain intact nonetheless.

Logan glances back at you, studying you once again—knit eyebrows, lip tucked between your teeth. You’re upset.

“What’s wrong?”

You meet his doe eyed gaze and hate yourself for thinking about drowning in them. He knows you as well as you know him. So much so that you can’t lie and pretend you’re okay. He’s read you and he’s decided that you’re not.

So you do the next best thing.

“It’s just stuffy in here,” you reply passively, maintaining a poker face when you push off the couch and his fingertips leave your shoulder blades. “I’m gonna get some air.”

The cool evening air hits you the second the front door clicks shut, but it does nothing to clear the sudden suffocating weight in your chest. You walk over to the edge of the porch, gripping the wooden railing just to have something solid to hold onto.

Behind you, the front door opens and shuts. Familiar footsteps thud against the wood. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him, you’d know the specific cadence of his stride anywhere.

"Hey," Logan says softly, stepping up beside you, jacket in his hand. He leans his forearms against the railing, his large frame blocking out the slight breeze. "You left your jacket inside. It’s freezing out here."

You make no effort to retrieve the coat from his grasp. You don’t look even at him. Instead, your eyes fixate on a tiny, industrious spider crawling across the top of a plastic patio chair a few feet away. It is small, frantic, and entirely unaware of the shifting plates of your universe, completely consumed by the monumental task of weaving a web between two cheap slats of faux-wicker. You envy it. You want to be anything else—a spider, a piece of dust, a thread on your frayed bracelet—anything but the girl standing under the porch light, slowly unraveling.

"I'm fine," you tell him, the words slipping out easily, rehearsed from a decade of practice.

"You're not fine," he insists softly. It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement of fact.

"I am fine," you repeat, but your voice is uneven.

You always are, somehow. It’s a reflex by now. Burn the midnight oil until your vision blurs, crash through exams on three hours of sleep, watch the boy you’ve loved for six years slip through your fingers like water—the answer is always the same: I’m fine.

"Don't do that," Logan mutters, turning his head to look at you. His eyes are swimming with an earnest yet frustrating concern that always makes you want to spill your guts. "We don't do that. Talk to me. Did someone say something inside? Did I do something?"

You let out a breath that cuts like a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. You look out at the dark front yard, at the dead leaves scattering across the pavement.

You finally turn your head to look at him. You note the exact way the yellow porch light catches the bridge of his nose, the slight shadow of stubble along his jawline. You know every iteration of this face. You know the childhood version, the teenage version, and this current, devastatingly handsome collegiate version.

And yet, looking at him right now, he feels like a stranger wearing your best friend's skin.

"That's just it, Logan. You haven't done anything." Your voice drops, stripped of its usual warmth. "You haven't been doing anything. Not with me, anyway."

He blinks, a small, defensive crease forming between his eyebrows. "I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t,” you murmur.

“Then explain it to me.”

"It means you’re pulling away," you say directly, the words tasting like copper in your mouth, but you force them out anyway. You don't mention Hannah. You don't have to bring up the way his eyes track her, or the way his laugh sounds higher when she’s in the room. This isn't about her. This is about him. This is about the space where your best friend used to be. "You’re always somewhere else. I talk to you, and it’s like I’m throwing words into an empty room. You look right through me lately. You’re right here, and it feels like there’s a thousand miles between us."

Logan stiffens. For a second, his mouth opens to deny it, the knee-jerk reaction of a guy who prides himself on being loyal. But as he looks at you—at the tight line of your jaw, at the way you're holding onto your own arm like you’re trying to keep yourself from falling apart—you can see the fight slowly leave him.

The silence stretches, punctuated only by the joyous yells of your friends inside.

"I didn't. . .” Logan starts, his voice dropping an octave. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his shoes. "I didn't realize I was making you feel like that. I swear to God, I didn't."

"Well, you are." Your voice trembles just a fraction, and you hate yourself for it, pulling your shoulders back to overcompensate. "I know that friends drift. But I don’t wanna be background noise in your life.”

Logan steps closer, closing the small physical gap between you. He reaches out, his large hand wrapping around your forearm—right over the frayed threads of your bracelet. You pray he doesn’t notice the hitching of your breath.

"You're not background noise," he says sincerely, his desperate eyes searching yours. "You could never be. I'm sorry. Seriously. I've had. . . I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately, and I’ve been distracted. I’ve been a shitty best friend, and there’s no excuse for it. I’m so sorry."

You look at his hand on your arm. You look at the genuine regret pulling at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't know that the distraction is killing you for an entirely different reason. He just knows he hurt his person, and he wants to fix it.

You swallow the ache in your throat, nodding slowly. You let the anger go, because holding onto it hurts worse than forgiving him does.

"It’s okay," you assure him. "Just don’t forget about me, dork.”

"Never," he promises, squeezing your arm before letting go. A small, relieved smile tugs at his lips, the tension leaving his shoulders. He makes no effort to back away from you. It’s all the more suffocating. "I promise. Hey, you still have that big winter showcase coming up in two weeks, right? For your department?"

"Yeah," you say, a genuine spark of nervousness lighting up your stomach. "It’s the Friday after this upcoming one."

"I'll be there," Logan says instantly, his voice full of the certainty that usually makes you feel safe. "Front row. I'll even wear a stupid button-down shirt so your professors think I'm respectable. Deal?"

You look at him, wanting so badly to trust the boy who used to share bags of Hot Cheetos on a garage roof.

"Deal," you agree.

The fluorescent lights of the auditorium are blinding. It is 5:30PM. The STEM showcase had officially kicked off at five, the culmination of sleepless semesters, data sheets that blurred into meaningless code by three in the morning, and enough stress to permanently alter your brain chemistry.

Your phone sits completely dark and powered down in the bottom of your tote bag. You hadn't sent Logan a reminder text today. You hadn’t wanted to seem needy, and besides, you figured he’d remember.

He knew what this meant to you. He’d been the one to hold you on the floor of your bedroom a week ago ago when the overthinking caught up to you, his large hands rubbing slow circles into your back while you sobbed into his chest, terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. He’d promised then, just like he’d promised on the porch, that he’d be here.

Last night, you had even swung by the hockey house, your presentation slides printed out and shaking in your hands, just looking for a final bit of reassurance to quiet the jitters. But Logan wasn't there. He’d been at Malone’s, helping Hannah setup tables and banners for the upcoming weekend showcase she offered to host for music majors.

It was fine, you told yourself. It really was. He was trying to be better, and you could see the effort. The crush was still a persistent ache in your ribs, but he hadn't let it bleed into your friendship the way he had before. You understood what it was like to be at someone’s beck and call—hell, you’d been at his for six years. You couldn't blame him for falling under Hannah’s gravitational pull.

Logan hadn't been there last night, but Tucker had.

Tucker had stopped chopping vegetables, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and sat you down at the kitchen island. He listened to you stumble through your abstract, giving you a supportive nod when you finished. When you told Tucker he didn't have to worry about coming tomorrow since it was so last minute and Logan would be there anyway, Tucker had just given you an easy smile.

“Then you’ll have two of us cheering you on," he’d promised.

Now, standing by your trifold and your laptop, the nerves are a sickening weight in your stomach. You’ve just finished presenting to the final round of judges. Your mouth is dry, your throat tight, but you’d gotten through it just fine.

Tucker had slipped into the back of the room right before your time slot, his broad shoulders cutting a reassuring silhouette against the crowded aisle. Seeing his familiar face had kept your knees from buckling.

But Logan’s seat in the front row—the one he’d promised to occupy in a stupid button-down shirt—remained completely empty.

It hurts. A sharp, localized sting right beneath your breastbone. You hadn't told anyone else in your life about the showcase because public speaking made you feel entirely naked, meaning Logan and Tucker were your only safety nets.

Everyone else would most likely be at Malone’s. You didn’t want them to choose between you and Hannah, because you knew they’d try to compromise, complicating things. You didn’t want a whole crowd, you were okay with just one person being there.

But you swallow the lump in your throat and smooth down the fabric of your slacks. It’s fine. Logan probably just got caught in campus traffic, or he had a handyman gig that kept him late. He missed the actual presentation, yeah, but there’s still time. The showcase goes until eight.

As long as he shows up before the winners are announced, it’ll be fine. He’ll still be there to celebrate with you. He has to be.

Two hours later, the auditorium is a blur of echoing applause and bright flashing cameras.

When the department head speaks your name into the microphone, announcing you as the first-place recipient of the showcase, the room erupts. Your peers are cheering, clapping you on the back as you walk up the stage, but the sound feels like it’s happening underwater.

Even the heavy glass they hang around your neck and the oversized novelty check—grant money that will entirely fund your next semester of research—do nothing to lift the leaden weight in your chest.

Tucker maneuvers through the crowd as soon as you’ve left the stage, a massive, proud smile lighting up his face as he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. He hoists you slightly off your feet, laughing, telling you he always knew you had it in the bag.

But when he pulls back, his smile falters. He looks at your eyes, watery and strained, and the pride in his expression softens into a deep concern. He knows. He can tell exactly how badly you're hurting.

But even now, with a first-place medal heavy against your sternum, you find yourself building a fortress of excuses for John Logan.

You give him the benefit of the doubt, because the alternative is unendurable. He’d never do this intentionally. Not after last week. Not to you. Something had to have happened. A family emergency with his mom. Something with Jules. Maybe he’d taken a brutal hit at practice and was sitting in the training room with a concussion, his phone locked away. He had to be hurt. He had to be incapacitated.

"Let's get you out of here," Tucker says softly, his hand settling on the small of your back, shielding you from the lingering crowds as you pack up your laptop. "I can walk you back to your dorm."

"Actually," you say, your voice tight as you zip your tote bag, "can you take me back to the house? Honestly, after the day I’ve had, I’m dying for a home-cooked Tucker special. I need some real comfort food."

You try to make it sound like a casual request, but Tucker’s hand goes entirely still against your back. He doesn't laugh it off. Instead, an uncomfortable hesitation washes over his features. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he stares out at the emptying auditorium.

In that single beat of silence, a cold and sickening realization dawns on you.

Perhaps Logan isn't sick. Perhaps he isn't hurt. He isn't in a hospital or dealing with a family crisis. Tucker knows exactly where he is.

He forgot.

The thought devastates you, a physical blow that leaves you in theoretical agony, but right on the heels of the sadness comes a sharp, blistering wave of fury. You’re a winner. You just secured your future for the next semester. This should be one of the greatest nights of your life, and yet Logan has latched himself so deeply into the fabric of your existence that he can still ruin it without even being in the room. You hate yourself for letting him have that much power over you.

"You sure you want to go to the house right now?" Tucker asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, laced with a warning he isn't entirely voicing.

You stop, staring at him. Your chest heaves. "Why? Is he there?"

Tucker looks at you, his brown eyes full of a grim, reluctant pity. He stays silent. He doesn't say a word, but his silence tells you everything you need to know. He's there. He's perfectly fine, at the hockey house while you were standing on a stage alone.

A hot, dangerous spark ignites in your blood.

"Take me there," you say, your voice dropping all the compliance, hard as flint. He begins to say your name, but you don’t allow him to. "Tucker. Take me to the house."

The ride to the hockey house is quick, though you believe that’s a product of the heavy thrum of your own pulse. Tuck keeps one hand on the steering wheel, your grim mood proving itself to be contagious.

Every few minutes, his voice breaks through the quiet of the truck, telling you to take a breath, telling you to try to calm down. But you can hear the sharp undercurrent of his own anger fueling the engine. He’s pissed on your behalf, but you don't have the capacity to appreciate it right now. You just stare straight ahead.

When the truck comes to a stop in the driveway, you don't wait for Tucker to kill the ignition. You throw the door open and march up the steps, completely ignoring him as he calls your name.

You push the door open, not so much that it was disruptive, but it was noticeable nonetheless.

The warmth of the house hits you first, along with the loud, easy cacophony of a Friday night wind-down. The TV is on, and everyone is scattered across the living room. Allie, Garrett, Dean, and Hannah.

And Logan.

The sheer normalcy of the scene feels like a slap to the face. You stand in the entryway, the first-place medal swinging slightly against your chest, dressed in the gray slacks and blouse you’d picked out so carefully. For a fraction of a second, looking at their relaxed posture and happy faces, you feel entirely microscopic. Like an ant on the back of someone’s boot, completely insignificant to the world revolving around them.

Then, the room goes quiet.

Dean is the first one to look up from the couch. His eyes take in your sharp posture, the formal attire, and finally, the heavy piece hung around your neck catching the ambient light. A grin breaks across his face, completely ignorant of the storm cloud rolling off your shoulders.

"Look at that," Dean announces, raising his cup in a mock toast. "The prodigal daughter returns!"

He’s trying to be supportive. Under any other circumstance, you’d smile, you’d thank him through narrowed eyes. You know he doesn't know. He has no idea what Logan promised, or what it cost you to stand on that stage alone.

But you don't look at Dean. You don't look at Garrett or Allie or Hannah.

Your eyes lock onto Logan.

He’s sitting on the edge of the cushions, and the exact moment your gaze finds his, the color drains completely from his face. It’s like watching a man realize he’s stepped off a cliff. His eyes drop to the medal on your chest, then snap back up to your face, wide and absolutely crushed. The realization of what he’s done hits him in a ton of bricks.

Usually, that look on his face would undo you. Usually, seeing John Logan look that miserable would trigger every protective instinct you’ve harbored for him, making you want to soften the blow, to tell him it’s fine, to smooth it over.

But tonight, you feel absolutely nothing.

The reservoir of sympathy has completely dried up, replaced by a fury that has been bubbling beneath the surface for months.

He hadn't just missed a presentation. He had broken a promise. He had lied to your face on the porch, sworn he was back, and then willfully chose to be somewhere else.

You stare at him, the silence in the room turning suffocatingly loud as the others finally catch onto the tension, and the only thought roaring through your mind is how completely invisible you’ve been to him.

That look of shame is enough gratification for you. If he can feel only a fraction of the pain you’d allowed yourself to endure these past few years, that was good for you. You couldn’t stand staring into the eyes of the man you once thought you knew anymore.

You turn your heel against the floorboards, every instinct screaming at you to walk out that door, to erase John Logan from your life, and to leave him standing in the wreckage of a ten-year friendship.

"Wait," his voice cracks through the silence of the room as he calls your name. "Please wait. I’m sorry. Just—please, just wait!”

You halt entirely. Your flats glue themselves to the floor, the medallion thudding against your chest like a pendulum swinging into a dead stop.

Sorry?

The word tastes rancid just hearing it bounce off the walls of the hockey house. You hadn't known what you wanted him to say when you walked through that door.

You hadn't known if there was a combination of vowels and consonants in the English language that could possibly fix this. But hearing his apology serves as nothing other than gasoline thrown directly onto a grease fire.

Slowly, you turn back around.

Your friends look horrified. You almost feel bad that they’re forced to witness this. You almost want to turn around and leave, leaving this argument for when you’re less heated, less hurt.

But you can’t. He needs to hear you. If not last week or the week before that, now.

Logan takes a step toward you, his hands raised slightly as if approaching a wild animal. "I lost track of time. The showcase at Malone’s—"

"Shut up," you say quietly.

The words aren't screamed. They are quiet, sharp, and dripping with an edge that makes Logan freeze in his tracks.

"Just. . . shut the hell up, Logan." You take a step forward, your shoes clicking against the hardwood. "Don't you dare use that as an excuse for being a pathetic, spineless coward."

He glances at the group that has gone dead silent. You don’t know if what he says next is for your sake or his, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Let’s go outside,” he offers, his tone resembling something of a plea. “We can—“

“No!” you spat harshly. “You’re gonna listen to me.”

You’d never spoken to him this way. Not in such a venomous tone, stripped from all warmth. For once, Logan does exactly what you’ve asked of him—to listen. His lips part but no words escape them.

"You sat on the porch two weeks ago," you continue, your voice rising now, the heat finally breaking through the ice. "You held my arm, and you looked me in the eyes and promised me you’d change. Do you have any idea what today was?"

Logan swallows hard, his brown hues welling with a desperate, pathetic panic. "It was the department showcase."

"It was the biggest night of my academic career!" you explode, the anger tearing out of your throat. "I have spent months working on this! I broke down sobbing over this because of how tired I was, and you were the one who held me! You knew exactly how terrified I was. You knew I didn't invite anyone else! What would’ve happened if Tuck wasn’t there?"

You gesture wildly to the medal around your neck.

"I stood on that stage alone, John. I scanned that auditorium for two hours, giving you the benefit of the doubt. I thought something had happened. I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere or bleeding out in a hospital, because that is the only reason the John Logan I grew up with would ever miss this!"

A tear escapes his eye, rolling down his tanned cheek. "I messed up. Fuck, I know I messed up. Let me make it up to you, please—"

"You didn't mess up, you chose!" you hiss, stepping right into his space, forcing him to look down at the fury burning in your eyes. "You’ve made it perfectly clear where I rank on your list of priorities."

"I am wearing a first-place medal," you continue, your voice trembling with a devastating mix of triumph and agony. "I just won enough grant money to pay for my entire next semester of research. This should be the happiest night of my life. But all I can think about is how my best friend couldn’t show up when I needed him.”

"Please," Logan chokes out, reaching a trembling hand toward your shoulder, his fingers twitching to make that familiar, absent-minded contact. "Just—“

You snap your shoulder back, avoiding his touch as if his hand were coated in acid.

But as you jerk away, the zipper of his jacket catches on the frayed, fuzzy threads of your embroidered bracelet. There is a sudden rip. The threads give out all at once, unraveling in a split second as the broken token of your childhood slips from your wrist and flutters uselessly to the floor.

Logan freezes, his eyes dropping to the colorful, ruined heap of strings resting on the hardwood between you two.

It’s symbolic, you think.

"Don't touch me," you say, your voice dropping into a flat, dead register. You stare at him, washing away every ounce of the six years of love, every ounce of the ten years of friendship, until there is absolutely nothing left between you but a void.

"Don't talk to me. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. You’re dead to me, John."

You turn on your heel and march straight out the front door into the freezing night air.

Logan doesn’t even think before stepping forward to follow after you, but Tucker shuts the door, preventing him from doing so.

He doesn't yell. Instead, he steps into Logan’s space, grabs a fistful of his shirt right at the collar, and shoves him backward into the hallway leading toward the bedrooms. Logan doesn't even try to fight it—he stumbles back, his eyes wide and vacant, completely numb from the fallout.

Tucker slams the door of his room shut, but he doesn't bother locking it. He doesn't need to.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Tucker demands, his voice a growl that vibrates through the walls. He isn’t screaming, but he’s not exactly whispering. “Because right now, I’m having a hard time recognizing one of my best friends.”

“Tuck, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—”

“You made her a promise, man!” Tucker cuts in sharply. “You told her you’d be there. You looked her dead in the eye and gave her your word. Do you have any idea what today was like for her?”

“I lost track of time. Hannah—”

“Don’t do that,” Tucker says, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t make this about Hannah. This is about you. You screwed up. You’ve been taking that girl for granted for long enough, and she’s been in your corner through every stupid decision you’ve made. Last night, I was the one sitting with her while she practiced that presentation because you were too busy being handyman.”

“She stood on that stage tonight. Every time those judges walked up to her, she checked those doors. Every damn time. She thought something happened to you, because that’s the only reason she could come up with for why you’d break your word to her. And the whole time, you’re moving tables at Malone’s? That’s your excuse?”

“I know I messed up,” Logan chokes out. “I know. I’ll fix it. I’ll talk to her—”

“No, you won’t,” Tucker says immediately. “Not today. Not anytime soon.”

He takes a step back, folding his arms across his chest.

“She told you to stay away. So for once, stop thinking about what you want and listen to what she asked for. You made this mess. If you actually want a shot at fixing it, give her some space and hope she decides you’re worth talking to when she’s ready.”

“Tuck—”

“I’m serious, Logan. Leave her alone. The last thing she needs right now is you showing up trying to make yourself feel better.“

You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the knife. You wanted to bury your face in them. You wanted them gripping your waist. You wanted—

"Uh, darlin'?"

Tucker’s sweet voice shattered your trance.

You blinked, snapping your eyes up. He was looking at you, a half-bun of messy dark curls sitting on top of his head, holding a block of aged asiago cheese. He was frowning slightly, but his eyes were warm and amused.

"You've been hacking at that same clove of garlic for five minutes, and I think you're about to slice your thumb off," he laughed, stepping away from the counter.

"Oh. Right. Sorry," you muttered, looking down at the mangled garlic.

"Everything alright?" He walked over, stopping right beside your stool. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bulky frame. "You've been quiet all evening. Not like you."

"I'm fine, Tuck. Just... distracted."

"By the cooking?" He smiled, entirely missing the mark. "I can take over the chopping if you need a break."

Amused, Tucker leaned closer, resting one hand on the edge of the counter to look down at your messy chopping board. The movement brought him directly into your space. Because you were sitting and he was standing, his broad chest was right at your eye level, and his solid leg was practically brushing against your knee.

The kitchen went dead silent, save for the low sizzle of the butter and garlic simmering on the stove.

You froze, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Up close, the sheer size of him was completely overwhelming, and your eyes helplessly darted right back to the thick muscle of his leg, just inches away from you. The weight of your own dirty thoughts made you dizzy, and a wave of mortification washed over you. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and you definitely couldn't handle him being this close while your brain was doing that.

"Tuck," you choked out, your voice tight as you gently pressed a hand against his chest to keep him from getting any closer. "Can you... can you back away just a little bit? Please?"

Tucker blinked, completely caught off guard. He froze, looking down at your hand, and then up at your face. The easy, golden-retriever warmth in his eyes instantly shifted into pure, panicked concern. He immediately took a large step back, his shoulders tensing.

"Did... did I do something wrong?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. He looked entirely heartbroken at the idea that he’d made you uncomfortable. "I swear I didn't mean to overstep, darlin'. If I said something insensitive, or if I'm being a bad teacher—"

"No! No, Tuck, it's really not you," you interrupted quickly, your face burning a violent, hot shade of red as you looked away shyly. You wrung your hands in your lap, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow you. "It’s... it’s a really silly thing. Honestly. I'm just being ridiculous, but I... I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all evening, and having you right there was just too much."

Tucker frowned slightly, his concern melting into soft, focused curiosity. He leaned forward just a fraction, throwing the dishtowel he was holding over his shoulder, trying to catch your eye, his tone incredibly sweet. "What is it? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."

You swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. You tried to find the words to explain the last three months of unrequited pining, but your brain entirely short-circuited. Instead of speaking, your gaze helplessly dropped again.

You just stared.

Tucker followed your line of sight. He looked down at his own lower half, at the thin, gray athletic shorts stretched taut over his quads.

He looked back up at you, his brows arching high in utter disbelief. He slowly raised a hand, pointing a thick index finger directly at his own leg.

You gave a tiny, incredibly embarrassed nod.

"You're... you're thinking about my legs?" he breathed, his voice dropping into a register that was completely new. The confusion on his face melted away, replaced by a sudden, breathless warmth.

He didn't back away this time. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, re entering your space again until your bodies almost touched. Up close, he was so bulky and warm, and as his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze softened into something... different. Heavier. His eyes dropped down, noting the deep flush spreading down your neck, the way your breathing had turned shallow, and the distinct, telling tension in your posture.

Tucker’s breath hitched. A slow realization hit him.

"Oh," he murmured, his voice deep and velvety.

A faint, endearing pink crept up his own neck, but he didn't back down. Instead, a sweet, slightly stunned smile touched his lips. He reached out, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they settled on your cheeks. He leaned in, leaving barely any space between your faces.

"Well, little darlin'," he whispered, his voice low and teasingly soft near your ear. "If it's bothering you that much... do you think you'd let me help you with it?"

You gave a tiny, helpless tremble. You couldn't even breathe, completely undone by the sudden, heavy hunger in his eyes.

"Yes," you whimpered.

The sweet, patient boy didn't hesitate. With one easy, seamless movement, Tucker took a step back, pulling up the barstool right next to yours. He sank onto it heavily, rotating his frame so his back was resting flush against the edge of the countertop.

He looked up at you through his long lashes, his chest heaving as he let out a low exhale. The golden-retriever innocence was far gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. Without a word, Tucker raised his hand and firmly patted the top of his rock-hard thigh.

"Come here."

Your breath hitched, a sudden wave of nerves making you freeze. You stared at his leg, then up at his eyes, faltering on the edge of your seat.

Seeing your hesitation, Tucker's expression softened into a look of pure, reassuring patience. He reached out, sliding his hand over yours. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and steady, and he slowly guided you off your stool. He pulled you into the narrow space between his knees, lifting you just enough to guide your legs apart until you were straddling his right thigh.

The contact was electric. Before you could pull away, he took both of your hands in his. He brought them down, pressing your open palms flat against the bare, burning skin at the hem of his shorts. He forced your fingers to curve around the thick, dense sweep of his quad.

"Touch it," he hummed, his voice a sweet command against your ear.

Even now, with the air thick and heavy between you, his true nature didn't change. Tucker was, at his core, a caretaker. He was the boy who always quietly made sure you were looked after, and this moment was another extension of that—him easing the ache you’d been carrying all evening, giving you exactly what you needed. But as your palms settled fully against his skin, his chest rose in a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing as he let out a shaky exhale. His thigh flexed under your hands—not to pull away, but leaning up into your touch, completely yielding to it. Because Tucker wasn't just doing this for you; he was sinking into it just as deeply, needing the closeness just as much.

The sheer sensation of his muscle flexing under your fingertips sent a jolt straight to your core. Your hips twitched instinctively, a helpless, desperate movement that ground your center right against the hard ridge of his leg.

Tucker let out a low, ragged growl, his hands instantly locking onto your waist to hold you right where he wanted you. "Do that again. Ride it, darlin'. Let me feel you."

All your built-up frustration broke. You shifted your weight, and slid your hips down against his leg in a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The friction through your clothes was devastating. Tucker leaned his head back, a choked sound escaping his throat as you rode him, his fingers digging possessively into your hips. He braced his foot against the bottom rung of the stool, angling his thigh up to give you more leverage, matching your frantic pace with steady, torturous upward thrusts.

The friction alone was sending him over the edge. Up close, you could feel the sheer, radiating heat rolling off him; he was burning up, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beneath the thin gray fabric of his shorts, his length had grown shockingly hard, straining painfully against his waistband as he watched you work yourself against him.

The pleasure built too fast, coiling tight and sharp in your stomach. You whimpered, your movements turning wild and uncoordinated as the edge rushed up to meet you.

As your body began to tighten and tremble, Tuck reached up. He brought his large hand to your face, cupping your jaw with a fierce devotion. His thumb brushed over your lips, parting them, and he pushed it ever so slightly into your mouth.

You didn't even think. Your eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you instantly wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking on it desperately while your hips shuddered through a hard, breathless climax.

He leaned in close, pulling you up until your foreheads pressed flush together, his hot, heavy breath mingling with yours. As the waves of heat crashed through you, Tucker watched you shake, his attention entirely locked on you as he guided you through it.

"Good girl," he husked, the warm pad of his thumb moving gently inside your mouth. "Look at how perfect you fit against my thighs."

You cried out around his finger, your core pulsing helplessly against his solid quad as the release completely emptied you out. The intense, tight contractions of your climax clamped down on his leg, and the sheer sight and feel of you completely unraveling in his lap shattered whatever remaining restraint Tucker had left.

His jaw went rigid, his eyes rolling back as a harsh, violent shudder tore right through his bulky frame. He choked on a breath, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your waist as his hips gave one last, desperate, involuntary jerk upward into you. He came hard right there in his pants, the thick heat of his release soaking through the front of his gray athletic shorts, matching the wetness you had left on his thigh.

For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ragged asymmetry of your shared breathing. Tucker’s forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest heaving as the tremors finally subsided, leaving him thoroughly spent and slumped against the counter.

Gradually, a slow, familiar warmth returned to his eyes. He slipped his wet thumb from your mouth and used it to gently tap the tip of your nose, that devastating dimple finally cutting through his dazed expression.

"You know," he chuckled breathlessly, looking up at you through his messy curls. "Next time you want to skip the lesson, all you have to do is ask."

He gave your waist an affectionate squeeze, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at the dark wetness soaking through his shorts.

"You spent all that time on this one," he teased, his gaze dropping to where your hands were still molded around his right quad. A slow, playful grin touched his lips as he nudged his left leg slightly against yours, drawing your attention to it. "But I promise the other one is just as good."

He raised an amused brow, “Chocolate?”

You nodded, sipping your beer. “Chocolate.” You confirmed, then pointed across the room to where Kendall was busy making out with one of the hockey players. “She’s vanilla. We’re chocolate and vanilla swirl.”

The football player nodded in understanding. “Ah. I see,” he said before looking over at Kendall. “Though vanilla isn’t very vanilla.”

You laughed at his witty joke, both of you watching Kendall as she did a body shot off of the hockey player she was kissing two seconds ago. She was dressed in the same tube top and bubble skirt set you were wearing, complete with the knee-high boots and matching headpiece; hers a whipped white color, yours a cocoa brown.

From the other side of the room, Tucker and Logan were talking when the former spotted you chatting with the tall football player.

Tucker nudged Logan, “Yo, is that your girl?”

Logan followed his line of sight and it landed on you, leaning against the kitchen counter and speaking to the good-looking stranger with an easy smile on your lips.

Logan looked away and gulped down his beverage. “She’s a big girl.”

Logan wasn’t one of those insecure, pompous boyfriends. He didn’t do jealousy. He’s convinced jealousy was invented by a short dick man with an easily bruised ego. Logan was secure enough in his relationship with you to never have any reason to feel jealous.

You turned to the jock and gave his costume a once-over. Knitting your brows together, you racked your brain’s storage full of pop culture references and iconic fictional characters.

“Timothée Chalamet in Call Me by Your Name?” You tried.

He let out a huff of laughter, “Close. I’m Luca from the Disney-Pixar movie.”

“Ahh,” you nodded. “Practically the same.”

He flashed a charming smile, dragging a sip from his bottle. He extended his hand to you, “James.”

You shook his hand and told him your name.

“Pretty name,” he responded. “Though…” he leaned in closer, “…cupcake fits better, don’t you think?”

Ah. At that, you picked up that he was attempting to flirt with you. Forever loyal to your boyfriend, you opened your mouth to turn his advances down. But before you could, you felt an arm wrap around your waist from behind and find purchase on your hipbone. You knew who it was without even looking.

“Hey, got you a refill,” Logan said, taking the half empty can from your hands and replacing it with a new one.

“Thanks,” you said. As your hand moved to pop the can open, Logan’s deft fingers beat you to it and he cracked the tab for you.

The football player, James, eyed the two of you, biting his lip whilst reconfiguring his whole plan. “You’re both…?”

“Air signs,” Logan teasingly remarked with a straight face, casually drinking from his red solo cup. You elbowed him with a small smirk.

“No,” James shook his head. “I mean—”

“Together,” Logan told him, putting his now empty plastic cup down on the counter. His newly freed hand joined the other by holding onto your other hip and giving it a squeeze.

James nodded to himself. “Got it.” And away he went. Probably off to find his Alberto.

Logan’s eyes followed his retreating figure, not easing up until he was out of sight. Only then did he drop his hands off your body.

You turned around and looked up at your boyfriend with a wide smile. “What was that?”

“What was what?” He returned, pouring himself a new drink.

“That whole thing,” you responded.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” You repeated.

Logan shrugged. “A normal interaction, no?”

“He was flirting with me before that.”

“Oh so you’re aware.”

Your expression dropped. Oh, is that why—

“Logan.”

“Hm.”

“Logan.”

“Hm?”

You tilted his face down to look at him. “I wasn’t going to entertain it.”

“I know,” he replied.

“I was going to shut it down right before you showed up.”

“I know.”

“I want to make sure you know that.”

“And I know that.”

You squinted your eyes. This was suspiciously too easy. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You stared at one another for a beat longer than necessary.

“You’re still upset,” you observed.

“I’m not upset,” he answered.

“So what are you feeling?” You asked.

“I don’t like how he called you cupcake,” Logan told you.

“Me neither. Not when I’m so clearly chocolate.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“Y/n.”

You sighed softly, “Okay, sorry. I thought humor would make it better.”

Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping to relieve some of his tension. It worked. A little.

“It was a shitty pickup line,” you said. “Wouldn’t work on me even if I was single.”

“I hope so.”

“Oh, please, Logan. Take me out the back and shoot me if you ever see me falling for that,” you commented. He let out a small laugh. That’s progress

His hands returned to your hips and he pulled you closer. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck. His large hands rested just above your ass.

“What if I called you that?” Logan said lowly.

“Wanna give it a try?” You offered.

He leaned in, his lips hovering right by your ear. You could feel his warm breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. “Would you be into that, cupcake?” He whispered, ending it with a gentle nibble on your earlobe.

You shivered, feeling goosebumps crawl over your skin. “Fuck, I guess you have to take me out back with a gun, Logan.”

He pulled back with a hearty chuckle. You gave a matching smile and he held your face, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.

As he looked at you, his face turned thoughtful for a moment. You squeezed his hand reassuringly.

He leaned in again. “I didn’t like how he looked at you.”

“How’d he look at me?” You wondered.

“Like how I look at you.”

You stared up at him, biting your lip. “And how do you look at me?” You whispered.

He brought his forehead against yours, gazing deep into your eyes. “Like I want you.”

Oh screw your sexy boyfriend and his even sexier responses. And that’s exactly what you wanted to do now—if only you weren’t in the middle of Beau and Dean’s birthday bash.

You had enough of this game. You raised yourself up and pressed your lips to his. Logan was hungry; he seemed to devour your kiss, swallowing every soft sound you made. His hand strayed down to grip your ass, the other held your waist comfortably. His tongue was already begging to enter your mouth, and you obliged without hesitation.

When you pulled away several moments later, Logan chased your lips with eagerness, gently biting your bottom lip as you separated.

“Mine,” he breathed out under his breath.

You bared a dazed smile, “I only want you.” You mouthed silently.

Logan let out a soft sound of amusement, nodding more to himself than to you. Satisfied and high off your impromptu makeout session, he pressed one last kiss to your forehead before rejoining his friends, this time with a protective hand on the small of your back.

He raised an amused brow, “Chocolate?”

You nodded, sipping your beer. “Chocolate.” You confirmed, then pointed across the room to where Kendall was busy making out with one of the hockey players. “She’s vanilla. We’re chocolate and vanilla swirl.”

The football player nodded in understanding. “Ah. I see,” he said before looking over at Kendall. “Though vanilla isn’t very vanilla.”

You laughed at his witty joke, both of you watching Kendall as she did a body shot off of the hockey player she was kissing two seconds ago. She was dressed in the same tube top and bubble skirt set you were wearing, complete with the knee-high boots and matching headpiece; hers a whipped white color, yours a cocoa brown.

From the other side of the room, Tucker and Logan were talking when the former spotted you chatting with the tall football player.

Tucker nudged Logan, “Yo, is that your girl?”

Logan followed his line of sight and it landed on you, leaning against the kitchen counter and speaking to the good-looking stranger with an easy smile on your lips.

Logan looked away and gulped down his beverage. “She’s a big girl.”

Logan wasn’t one of those insecure, pompous boyfriends. He didn’t do jealousy. He’s convinced jealousy was invented by a short dick man with an easily bruised ego. Logan was secure enough in his relationship with you to never have any reason to feel jealous.

You turned to the jock and gave his costume a once-over. Knitting your brows together, you racked your brain’s storage full of pop culture references and iconic fictional characters.

“Timothée Chalamet in Call Me by Your Name?” You tried.

He let out a huff of laughter, “Close. I’m Luca from the Disney-Pixar movie.”

“Ahh,” you nodded. “Practically the same.”

He flashed a charming smile, dragging a sip from his bottle. He extended his hand to you, “James.”

You shook his hand and told him your name.

“Pretty name,” he responded. “Though…” he leaned in closer, “…cupcake fits better, don’t you think?”

Ah. At that, you picked up that he was attempting to flirt with you. Forever loyal to your boyfriend, you opened your mouth to turn his advances down. But before you could, you felt an arm wrap around your waist from behind and find purchase on your hipbone. You knew who it was without even looking.

“Hey, got you a refill,” Logan said, taking the half empty can from your hands and replacing it with a new one.

“Thanks,” you said. As your hand moved to pop the can open, Logan’s deft fingers beat you to it and he cracked the tab for you.

The football player, James, eyed the two of you, biting his lip whilst reconfiguring his whole plan. “You’re both…?”

“Air signs,” Logan teasingly remarked with a straight face, casually drinking from his red solo cup. You elbowed him with a small smirk.

“No,” James shook his head. “I mean—”

“Together,” Logan told him, putting his now empty plastic cup down on the counter. His newly freed hand joined the other by holding onto your other hip and giving it a squeeze.

James nodded to himself. “Got it.” And away he went. Probably off to find his Alberto.

Logan’s eyes followed his retreating figure, not easing up until he was out of sight. Only then did he drop his hands off your body.

You turned around and looked up at your boyfriend with a wide smile. “What was that?”

“What was what?” He returned, pouring himself a new drink.

“That whole thing,” you responded.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” You repeated.

Logan shrugged. “A normal interaction, no?”

“He was flirting with me before that.”

“Oh so you’re aware.”

Your expression dropped. Oh, is that why—

“Logan.”

“Hm.”

“Logan.”

“Hm?”

You tilted his face down to look at him. “I wasn’t going to entertain it.”

“I know,” he replied.

“I was going to shut it down right before you showed up.”

“I know.”

“I want to make sure you know that.”

“And I know that.”

You squinted your eyes. This was suspiciously too easy. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You stared at one another for a beat longer than necessary.

“You’re still upset,” you observed.

“I’m not upset,” he answered.

“So what are you feeling?” You asked.

“I don’t like how he called you cupcake,” Logan told you.

“Me neither. Not when I’m so clearly chocolate.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“Y/n.”

You sighed softly, “Okay, sorry. I thought humor would make it better.”

Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping to relieve some of his tension. It worked. A little.

“It was a shitty pickup line,” you said. “Wouldn’t work on me even if I was single.”

“I hope so.”

“Oh, please, Logan. Take me out the back and shoot me if you ever see me falling for that,” you commented. He let out a small laugh. That’s progress

His hands returned to your hips and he pulled you closer. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck. His large hands rested just above your ass.

“What if I called you that?” Logan said lowly.

“Wanna give it a try?” You offered.

He leaned in, his lips hovering right by your ear. You could feel his warm breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. “Would you be into that, cupcake?” He whispered, ending it with a gentle nibble on your earlobe.

You shivered, feeling goosebumps crawl over your skin. “Fuck, I guess you have to take me out back with a gun, Logan.”

He pulled back with a hearty chuckle. You gave a matching smile and he held your face, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.

As he looked at you, his face turned thoughtful for a moment. You squeezed his hand reassuringly.

He leaned in again. “I didn’t like how he looked at you.”

“How’d he look at me?” You wondered.

“Like how I look at you.”

You stared up at him, biting your lip. “And how do you look at me?” You whispered.

He brought his forehead against yours, gazing deep into your eyes. “Like I want you.”

Oh screw your sexy boyfriend and his even sexier responses. And that’s exactly what you wanted to do now—if only you weren’t in the middle of Beau and Dean’s birthday bash.

You had enough of this game. You raised yourself up and pressed your lips to his. Logan was hungry; he seemed to devour your kiss, swallowing every soft sound you made. His hand strayed down to grip your ass, the other held your waist comfortably. His tongue was already begging to enter your mouth, and you obliged without hesitation.

When you pulled away several moments later, Logan chased your lips with eagerness, gently biting your bottom lip as you separated.

“Mine,” he breathed out under his breath.

You bared a dazed smile, “I only want you.” You mouthed silently.

Logan let out a soft sound of amusement, nodding more to himself than to you. Satisfied and high off your impromptu makeout session, he pressed one last kiss to your forehead before rejoining his friends, this time with a protective hand on the small of your back.

He raised an amused brow, “Chocolate?”

You nodded, sipping your beer. “Chocolate.” You confirmed, then pointed across the room to where Kendall was busy making out with one of the hockey players. “She’s vanilla. We’re chocolate and vanilla swirl.”

The football player nodded in understanding. “Ah. I see,” he said before looking over at Kendall. “Though vanilla isn’t very vanilla.”

You laughed at his witty joke, both of you watching Kendall as she did a body shot off of the hockey player she was kissing two seconds ago. She was dressed in the same tube top and bubble skirt set you were wearing, complete with the knee-high boots and matching headpiece; hers a whipped white color, yours a cocoa brown.

From the other side of the room, Tucker and Logan were talking when the former spotted you chatting with the tall football player.

Tucker nudged Logan, “Yo, is that your girl?”

Logan followed his line of sight and it landed on you, leaning against the kitchen counter and speaking to the good-looking stranger with an easy smile on your lips.

Logan looked away and gulped down his beverage. “She’s a big girl.”

Logan wasn’t one of those insecure, pompous boyfriends. He didn’t do jealousy. He’s convinced jealousy was invented by a short dick man with an easily bruised ego. Logan was secure enough in his relationship with you to never have any reason to feel jealous.

You turned to the jock and gave his costume a once-over. Knitting your brows together, you racked your brain’s storage full of pop culture references and iconic fictional characters.

“Timothée Chalamet in Call Me by Your Name?” You tried.

He let out a huff of laughter, “Close. I’m Luca from the Disney-Pixar movie.”

“Ahh,” you nodded. “Practically the same.”

He flashed a charming smile, dragging a sip from his bottle. He extended his hand to you, “James.”

You shook his hand and told him your name.

“Pretty name,” he responded. “Though…” he leaned in closer, “…cupcake fits better, don’t you think?”

Ah. At that, you picked up that he was attempting to flirt with you. Forever loyal to your boyfriend, you opened your mouth to turn his advances down. But before you could, you felt an arm wrap around your waist from behind and find purchase on your hipbone. You knew who it was without even looking.

“Hey, got you a refill,” Logan said, taking the half empty can from your hands and replacing it with a new one.

“Thanks,” you said. As your hand moved to pop the can open, Logan’s deft fingers beat you to it and he cracked the tab for you.

The football player, James, eyed the two of you, biting his lip whilst reconfiguring his whole plan. “You’re both…?”

“Air signs,” Logan teasingly remarked with a straight face, casually drinking from his red solo cup. You elbowed him with a small smirk.

“No,” James shook his head. “I mean—”

“Together,” Logan told him, putting his now empty plastic cup down on the counter. His newly freed hand joined the other by holding onto your other hip and giving it a squeeze.

James nodded to himself. “Got it.” And away he went. Probably off to find his Alberto.

Logan’s eyes followed his retreating figure, not easing up until he was out of sight. Only then did he drop his hands off your body.

You turned around and looked up at your boyfriend with a wide smile. “What was that?”

“What was what?” He returned, pouring himself a new drink.

“That whole thing,” you responded.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” You repeated.

Logan shrugged. “A normal interaction, no?”

“He was flirting with me before that.”

“Oh so you’re aware.”

Your expression dropped. Oh, is that why—

“Logan.”

“Hm.”

“Logan.”

“Hm?”

You tilted his face down to look at him. “I wasn’t going to entertain it.”

“I know,” he replied.

“I was going to shut it down right before you showed up.”

“I know.”

“I want to make sure you know that.”

“And I know that.”

You squinted your eyes. This was suspiciously too easy. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You stared at one another for a beat longer than necessary.

“You’re still upset,” you observed.

“I’m not upset,” he answered.

“So what are you feeling?” You asked.

“I don’t like how he called you cupcake,” Logan told you.

“Me neither. Not when I’m so clearly chocolate.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“Y/n.”

You sighed softly, “Okay, sorry. I thought humor would make it better.”

Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping to relieve some of his tension. It worked. A little.

“It was a shitty pickup line,” you said. “Wouldn’t work on me even if I was single.”

“I hope so.”

“Oh, please, Logan. Take me out the back and shoot me if you ever see me falling for that,” you commented. He let out a small laugh. That’s progress

His hands returned to your hips and he pulled you closer. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck. His large hands rested just above your ass.

“What if I called you that?” Logan said lowly.

“Wanna give it a try?” You offered.

He leaned in, his lips hovering right by your ear. You could feel his warm breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. “Would you be into that, cupcake?” He whispered, ending it with a gentle nibble on your earlobe.

You shivered, feeling goosebumps crawl over your skin. “Fuck, I guess you have to take me out back with a gun, Logan.”

He pulled back with a hearty chuckle. You gave a matching smile and he held your face, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.

As he looked at you, his face turned thoughtful for a moment. You squeezed his hand reassuringly.

He leaned in again. “I didn’t like how he looked at you.”

“How’d he look at me?” You wondered.

“Like how I look at you.”

You stared up at him, biting your lip. “And how do you look at me?” You whispered.

He brought his forehead against yours, gazing deep into your eyes. “Like I want you.”

Oh screw your sexy boyfriend and his even sexier responses. And that’s exactly what you wanted to do now—if only you weren’t in the middle of Beau and Dean’s birthday bash.

You had enough of this game. You raised yourself up and pressed your lips to his. Logan was hungry; he seemed to devour your kiss, swallowing every soft sound you made. His hand strayed down to grip your ass, the other held your waist comfortably. His tongue was already begging to enter your mouth, and you obliged without hesitation.

When you pulled away several moments later, Logan chased your lips with eagerness, gently biting your bottom lip as you separated.

“Mine,” he breathed out under his breath.

You bared a dazed smile, “I only want you.” You mouthed silently.

Logan let out a soft sound of amusement, nodding more to himself than to you. Satisfied and high off your impromptu makeout session, he pressed one last kiss to your forehead before rejoining his friends, this time with a protective hand on the small of your back.

"Oh, that's cool." You clasp your hands together after you push his daughter's report card towards him.

"Okay, so let's start....."

The whole time you talk about his daughter his face doesn't move. He listens closely, nodding every once in a while, but it's like his expression is set in stone. Almost brooding type of thing.

You are so happy when it's finally over. Because his intense, never wavering gaze almost made it hard to breath.

And don't even get me started on how attractive you find him. Like even though his face was bordering on annoyed, you could tell he was genuinely interested to see how his daughter was doing. Not like many of the other dads that were forced to come there by their wives.

You scold yourself for thinking about him when you think about the fact that the man has a wife and a child. You have no business thinking about a married man.

You are walking towards the bus stop, exhausted from the long day and annoyed that it's in fact already dark outside, when a black porsche stops next to you.

"Need a ride?" His deep voice almost startles you.

"Oh, that's really nice of you, but my bus stop is just there." You point towards the end of the street. God, is it possible that the guy could get any hotter?

"Where to after?" He asks, still not moving.

Stupidly enough, you tell this random dad where you live. "Oh, that's on my way. I don't mind taking you. It's the least I can do for making you wait so long."

And It's the most you've heard him speak during the whole time so gingerly you nod. You don't expect him to get out of the car and open your door for you.

That is very much evident as you sit in the passenger seat, blushing the whole way home. You don't attempt a small talk because a guy like him definitely doesn't do that. Guy like him looks like he could break your heart and smile about it after.

So you just sit there in awkward silence, getting a ride home from one of the hottest dads you've ever seen.

Finally, he parks in front of your apartment and you get out of the car eagerly. Squeaking a quiet, little thank you before you run off home.

You hear him drive away only when the lights in your apartment turn on.

And you see him turn the car around, definitely not heading in the direction of the house he mentioned.

-

The next time you see Park is when you are softly weeping in the ER waiting room. You were trying to do a little DIY (trying to build your new bed alone) when you like absolutely missed with the nail gun and the nail went flying straight into your thigh.

You somehow managed to get yourself to the hospital (yeah that uber drive was interesting), but like many other people you are still waiting. The kitchen towel is slowly soaking through with the blood as you sniffle. It hurts so fucking much and no painkillers are working.

But even though you are in so much pain, you still brought work with you. You promised the kids you'd have their tests graded by tomorrow so you try to correct the papers and not get the tears on them while you wait.

Somebody clears their throat in front of you, and you feel like dying from the embarrassment when you see him standing and frowning in front of you.

"Hello, Mr- Dr. Park." You hastily wipe away your wet cheeks even though it's not use as another tears fall down.

"What are you doing here?" He frowns even more at you and at the papers in your hands.

"Ughh, I just had a little accident." You whisper, averting your eyes from his.

He crouches down in front of you and carefully removes the clothing from the wound. You hiss in pain as he shakes his head at the sight.

"They have you waiting with a wound like this? Jesus, what a bunch of idiots." And then he's moving before you can stop him. You hear him speak to the nurse at the window before he stalks back.

"They'll take you now. Can you walk?" He asks, invading your space once more. His expensive cologne overwhelms your senses in a good way, making you forget the pain just for a few seconds.

You nod and then you try to get up. You wince even as you try not to put weight on the injured leg. And it doesn't take long before Dr. Park scoops you up bridal style and carries you inside without breaking a sweat.

He barks orders as he goes and everyone just listens to the man. They scurry away to do what they are told while you try not to die of embarrassment.

And don't even get me started on the way your naked thighs burn as he holds you in his big hands. You have just pyjamas shorts on and an old t-shirt.

Getting carried in the arms of the dad you think is hot while looking like s hot mess was not on your to-do list, but neither was getting shot by the nail gun.

"You didn't have to do that." You whisper as he gently puts you down on an empty bed.

"More quick this way." He shrugs. He takes one look at you and then leaves without another word, leaving you a flustered mess.

Jesus, you really should pull yourself together. You can't let him have this kind of an affect on you.

A soft-spoken doctor King replaces him and somebody even brings your bag to you.

They asses the wound and somehow the nail missed anything important. No bone, no veins, just went through the meat of your thigh.

So it's a quick route from there. They numb the wound, pull the nail out, clean it and stitch it up. And even though everyone is just so nice, your mind keeps wandering to that stony faced doctor.

"So how do you know, dr. Shark -I mean Park?" One of the nurses finally asks as Dr. King stitches up your thigh.  Shark? Yeah, that definitely suits him.

"Umm, his daughter, she's in my class. I mean, I'm her teacher." You ramble nervously.

"Oh. That's very cool. Tell me, is he a helicopter parent?" The nurse asks, wiggling her eyebrows. Whst you don't know is that the gossip in this hospital is hotter the the centre of the Earth. And everyone will be eager to hear a lil something about Park's private life.

"Uh, no, I don't know. I've only met him and his wife a couple of times." You whisper, cheeks burning. You are afraid that he'd suddenly appear from around the corner and hear you talk. Even if you aren't saying anything bad.

"Ex-wife." The nurse giggles like a schoolgirl, exchanging cheeky glances with the other nurse. "I heard that he was a real gentleman during the divorce. Let her keep the house and all."

You can't believe that these ER nurses are so chatty and gossipy. You would giggle with them but your attention gets snagged by the fact that Dr. Park isn't married. It makes you feel a little bit better about your stupid crush.

"All done. "Dr. King says, clearly just as flustered by the conversation as you.

"Thank you so much. I'm really sorry for this." You say apologetically. You hate that you created more work for these exhausted medical workers by being an idiot.

"Oh, please. Nothing to be sorry about. Just next time, please don't try to put the bed frame together alone."

"No more stuff like that. I promise." You sign the discharge papers and thank them profusely for the great work, you didn't feel any pain or discomfort.

Just as you are about to leave the nurse, Princess, whispers into your ear. "You should go for it, girl. I hear he likes to bite."

You chuckle because she's being ridiculous and because you're obviously doing a poor job of hiding how flustered the man makes you.

"It's not like that." You deny it but she just wiggles her eyebrows at you. You shake your head at her, giving her one last smile before you start to walk away.

Or more like limp away because your thigh really fucking hurts. You pass by the nurses station and that's when you notice that Dr. Park is still there.

He's still there, towering over everybody and still frowning.

You try to get away without him noticing, but that doesn't happen.

He pops up at your side immediately. "Hey, everything okay now?" When you look in confusion at him, you realise he in fact is asking you about your wellbeing.

"Yes, yes. All good, got couple of stitches but I'm okay now." You say sheepishly averting your gaze from him.

You don't know how you will be able to look at him next time he comes to the teacher-parent meeting. This is truly one of the most embarrassing things that's ever happened to you.

"Good." He nods and you expect him to leave again, but he doesn't. He walks next to you slowly, and you catch him a few times looking at you like he's itching to scoop you up again just so you don't have to limp so slowly next to him.

"Did you drive here?" He suddenly asks as you finally get out of the hospital.

"No, I don't have a car, saving money, the planet and all of that you know. I took an uber." You chuckle nervously, it's like your only responce when you are embarrassed. "I'm taking the bus home."

"I'll take you home." He offers with no hesitation.

"I couldn't possibly ask you to do that again."

"You didn't ask me, I offered. Now c'mon, I'm not letting you limp and wince all the way home. Doctor's orders." There's a hint of smirk on his face as he says it and somehow it's the thing that convinces you to say yes.

"Thank you, Dr. Park."

"Brendon." He tells you in return, eyes almost glinting as he takes you in.

"Thank you, Brendon." And that's all it takes for him to scoop you up again. You squeal in surprise and chuckle because what the fuck is happening.

He carries you towards his car and puts you down only so you can sit down. And you try so so hard to get the heat to dissappear from your face the whole ride.

But it's useless because he keeps smirking at you, finally letting the stony expression fall.

Just as you are about to get out of the car, he hands you a card with his personal number written on the back.

"Next time something like this happens, just give me a call, yeah?" And you both know that the way he's looking at you isn't saying that you should call him only then. He wants you to text, call him whenever. Preferably soon.

-

The third time you meet Brendon is just as embarrassing as those 2 times before.

You don't call him. You save his number in your phone, but you are too nervous to actually call or text him. You don't know what you would even text.

So you just try to ignore it for a week. That is until you bump into him. It's a sunny Saturday so you decide to go for a walk. You put on a pretty summer dress and head to your favourite café.

And just as you wait in line for the coffee, you hear one of your kids greet you. You turn around dramatically slow, but put on your smile as soon as you see her.

She's not alone. Her handsome, brooding father stands behind her.

"Hi, Lizzy. " You greet her sweetly and then your eyes flick towards him. "Hello, Dr. Park."

"Hey." He says smoothly. His eyes sweep over your figure, and you see him clench his jaw. Suddenly, it's not the weather making you all hot and bothered.

His daughter runs towards the cakes and cookies selection, completely dismissing you, which makes you smile. There's not much that beats sweets for the kids.

"You didn't call, doll." He is suddenly leaning down to whisper next to your ear. You didn't even notice him move towards you.

"I-I..." You don't know how to explain that you wanted to but didn't know how to actually take that leap.

"It's okay, you don't need to explain." He hums, once again his face doesn't let you see any hint of emotion, well besides the pure love he has in his eyes for his daughter.

"I-I wanted to." You quickly reassure him. 

"Oh, yeah?" He averts his gaze from his daughter to you for a few seconds. Soaking in the sight of you in that dress some more.

You nod, giving him a shy smile. God, why is it so hard to talk to him like a normal functioning human. "I just didn't know what to say."

Brendon gives you a small smile and says. "It's okay."

Lizzy calls him over to her and he goes immediately. Leaving you to stare after him like a fool. The barista calls your name with the coffee order and maybe it's the one sip of the drink or maybe it's the way your tummy is full of butterflies as you see him, but you text him.

Just a simple 'Hi'. His phone vibrates in his pocket and when he notices the new text, he just smirks your way before he buys every single cake his daughter sets her eyes on.

-

The fourth, the fifth and the n-th time you meet Brendon is on your dates.

You get pleasantly surprised of how easy-going and talkative he really is when you get to know him.

You saw a few glimpses of that even before, but once you start dating, it's a complete 360. No more brooding, stony face around you.

There's a relaxed, easy smile on his face most of the time. Or the stupid smirk whenever he leaves you all flustered. He's like a brand new person when you get to know him.

And right now, he's snoring softly in your bed. (The bed he helped you build after your first date). In your light purple sheets in all of his glory.

Your bed is smaller so it's not as easy to fit you and broad-shouldered, heavily muscled Brendon on it. But you make it work.

He's still sleeping as you decide that you could make breakfast for the two of you. You start softly peeling yourself away from him but it's like he has a sixth sense of something. He always knows whenever you try to leave the bed without him.

His arms tighten around you. "Where you going, doll?" He mumbles sleepily, voice all groggy.

"Want breakfast?" You reply, giggling quietly as his hands practically trap you. God, Brendon could stay forever like this. Just with you in his arms.

"Later." He murmurs before he buries his face into you, breathing you in.

The walk back to your dorm was brutal. You sent Cassie a text to let her know you left and told her to stay and have fun. She let you know she was spending the night with Beau.

When you got back to your dorm, you changed into your pajamas and scrubbed off the makeup you’d barely wanted to wear In the first place. Then, you crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling.

Your phone buzzed once. Logan. You ignored it.

Then, it buzzed again, and again.

Logan: please talk to me

Logan: y/n

Logan: I’m outside

Your stomach dropped. You sat up too fast, nearly tangling yourself in blankets. You crossed the room and pulled the curtain aside, which showed the front walkway.

There he was.

He was standing outside of your dorm in his thin gray long-sleeved shirt, with his phone in one hand and another shoved in his pocket.

You stared at him for a second. Then, your phone buzzed again.

Logan: please

You hated him a little for how impossible it was not to care. A few minutes later, you had changed and you were slipping quietly out of the entrance of the dorm building.

He looked up immediately when the door opened. Relief hit his face so fast and so honestly that your chest clenched again.

Neither of you spoke for a second. It was late, and it was cold.

You crossed your arms tightly over yourself.

“You’re gonna get sick standing out here.”

He looked at you.

“I deserve worse than getting sick.”

You looked away immediately because that almost made you smile. Almost. Logan stepped closer carefully.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

You swallowed hard. “I know.”

“No, I really need you to understand this,” he said. “I wasn’t embarrassed of you.”

You looked at him. “That’s what it felt like.”

Logan nodded immediately. “I know, and I hate that.”

Silence stretched for a second.

“I saw you walk into the party and I completely panicked.”

You blinked slowly.

“Why?”

Logan laughed softly once, frustrated at himself.

“Because I didn't want to share that part of myself with anyone else yet, share you with anyone else yet.”

Your mouth twitched slightly, and he noticed immediately.

“Okay, there. That’s progress.”

“Don’t get too excited.”

Some tension eased visibly from his shoulders anyway.

“What I mean is,” he looked at her carefully, “When it’s just us, I don’t think. I just kiss you, touch you, want you around all of the time,” a quiet breath left him. “It feels easy.”

Your heart thudded painfully.

“And tonight, you were standing in the middle of my house looking…” he stopped.

“Looking what?”

Logan’s eyes held yours.

“Fucking incredible. Important.”

You forgot how to breath for a second.

“I realized everyone else could see you too,” he admitted quietly, “and it scared the hell out of me how much I cared about that.”

You stared at him.

“You cared about what people thought?”

“No,” he said immediately. “I cared because suddenly this thing with you stopped feeling casual.”

Your chest tightened. He stepped closer to you, carefully.

“So instead of acting normal, I acted like an idiot.”

You laughed softly. “Little bit.”

“Massive bit.”

That pulled a real laugh from you this time. The relief on Logan’s face nearly destroyed you.

“There you are,” he murmured.

You shook your head slightly. “You really hurt my feelings tonight.”

The honesty in your voice wiped the smile from his face immediately. “I know.”

“No, like…” you looked away briefly, “I already feel weird there sometimes, Like I don’t fit with your world or the girls you usually—”

“Stop.”

You blinked. Logan had fully stepped into your space now, enough that you could feel the warmth rolling off of him in the cold night air.

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“That thing where you act like those girls are somehow better than you.”

You let out a quiet disbelieving laugh. “John.”

“I’m serious.”

His hand lifted carefully to your jaw then, thumb brushing softly beneath your cheekbone.

“You walk into a room and I forget how to act,” he said. “Do you understand how insane that is for me?”

Your heart fluttered, and he looked almost frustrated by his own honesty. “I couldn’t focus on anything after you started talking to that guy.”

“He was just talking to me.”

“I know,” Logan’s jaw immediately tightened, “Still hated it.”

You stared at him, and suddenly, all of the hurt from earlier mixed dangerously with hope. Logan’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.

“I really like you,” he admitted quietly.

Your breath caught, and neither of you moved.

“Can I kiss you now, or are you still mad at me?” he asked softly.

You tried to stay offended, really. But Logan standing outside of your dorm looking wrecked over hurting your feelings was making it extremely difficult.

“A little mad,” she admitted.

He nodded, “Fair.”

Your eyes dropped to his mouth before you could stop yourself. That was all the permission he needed as his hand slid gently into your hair and kissed you. It was like he knew exactly how close he’d come to breaking something fragile between them tonight.

You melted against him anyway, because this, this version of John Logan, the honest one, was impossible not to love.

He kissed like he was trying to fix something. Slow at first, careful. His hand was warm against the side of your neck as the cold night air curled around you both.

You hated how quickly your anger unraveled when he kissed you like this. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

You shivered, answering for him.

“You wanna go inside?” he asked.

You hesitated because letting him into your dorm room right now felt dangerous in a completely different way.

Logan must have seen the hesitation on your face because his expression softened immediately.

“I can leave if you want.”

The fact that he sounded sincere about it made something inside of her melt. You shook your head once.

“No, come upstairs.”

The relief on his face was almost embarrassing. He followed you inside quietly. You became hyperaware of everything suddenly. Like the closeness of him being you, the fact that you’d never actually brought him here before, and the way this felt more vulnerable than being in his bed ever had.

Your dorm room was small. There were string lights, books stacked absolutely everywhere, and a knitted blanket tossed across your desk chair.

Logan stepped inside and immediately looked around with open curiosity. You suddenly felt very self-conscious about it.

“It’s completely you,” he said.

That should have not affected you as much as it did. You shut the door quietly behind you as he stood in the middle of the room, looking around.

His gaze shifted back toward you, and something changed in his expression suddenly. The room felt smaller. Your pulse kicked hard when Logan crossed toward you slowly.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve spent weeks convincing myself this was casual.”

You swallowed hard.

“And?”

He stopped directly in front of you.

“Pretty sure casual doesn’t involve standing outside of someone’s dorm feeling like your chest got ripped open.”

His hand slid slowly along your waist.

“I really am sorry,” he said quietly.

You looked down briefly. “I know.”

“You looked at me tonight in a way that I've never seen before. Like I really hurt you,” his jaw tightened slightly, “I hated that.”

You leaned against your desk slightly, fingers twisting nervously in your sleeve.

“You really don’t realize what it’s like standing in that house watching girls who actually fit there flirt with you.”

Logan stared at you like the sentence itself offended him.

“You fit with me.”

The words came instantly.

“You fit next to me, you fit in my life.”

You felt heat flood your face. Logan’s fingers caught your chin gently.

“Hey.”

Your eyes lifted slowly.

“You know what I really thought when I saw you tonight?”

You shook your head.

“That outfit is gonna kill me.”

A startled laugh escaped her as he grinned.

“I’m serious. You walked in looking all nervous and pretty and I swear my brain stopped functioning.”

You groaned quietly, covering your face with both hands. “Please stop talking.”

“Nope.”

“This is humiliating.”

“You’re blushing.”

“That’s your fault.”

He laughed softly and then pulled your hands away from your face.

“You really thought I didn’t mean it?” he asked quietly. You hesitated too long.

“Oh, baby.”

The nickname nearly killed you on impact. Before you could recover, Logan pulled you gently into him, arms wrapping warm and solid around you.

“I meant every kiss. Every time I asked you to stay, every time I couldn’t stop touching you.” He murmured.

This. This is what you’d wanted. Just reassurance that you hadn’t imagined how real this felt between you. Logan tilted your face up gently before kissing you again, and this time, you kissed him back without holding anything careful anymore.

--

Rain tapped lightly against your dorm window as you woke slowly. Logan was asleep beside you, like he belonged there.

You stayed still for a moment, just looking at him. He had one arm wrapped securely around your waist, his face half-buried into your shoulder, and one of your pillows beneath his arm.

As if sensing you were awake, he shifted closer automatically before even opening his eyes. Then, he opened one eye.

“Hi,” he said sleepily.

“Good morning to you, too.”

He groaned quietly and buried his face deeper into your neck.

“What time is it?”

“Just past seven.”

“Ugh,” he groaned.

“You have practice, right?”

“Don’t remind me.”

His grip tightened on you.

“You’re clingy,” you said.

“Mhmm,” he murmured.

He finally lifted his head enough to look at you properly. His hair was all over the place, sleep marks faint against his cheek, but still unfairly hot somehow.

Your fingers slid automatically into his hair, and he immediately closed his eyes again.

“Oh, that’s nice,” he moaned.

“You know,” he murmured, “I really like it here.”

“In my dorm?”

“In your space,” his thumb brushed softly against your hip, “feels like you.”

You hid your face briefly against his shoulder as he laughed quietly.

“Baby, you’re blushing again.”

A few minutes later, after much complaining from Logan about leaving the bed, you both got dressed.

You pulled on leggings and one of your sweaters while Logan sat half-awake on the edge of your bed. You leaned down to kiss him.

“I’m going to go to the library this morning,” you informed him.

“Can I walk you there?” You were surprised.

“Your practice is in the complete opposite direction.”

“I want to walk you there,” he insisted again.

“Okay,” you agreed.

The morning air was cold and crisp, and being a Saturday, the campus was quiet. Students around you moved in sleepy little groups while he walked beside you with one hand shoved into his pocket while the other was brushing lazily against yours every few steps.

You noticed it immediately. Yesterday, he would’ve hesitated. Today, he kept touching you without thinking about it.

“You’re smiling again,” Logan said.

You looked away quickly. “No I’m not.”

Before either of you could answer, a familiar voice called from across the quad.

“Well, well.”

Garrett Graham.

Your stomach tightened automatically. Garrett jogged toward you both with Dean beside him, carrying water bottles and looking far too awake.

Dean’s eyes flickered between you and Logan once, before immediately narrowing. “Oh my God,” he said slowly.

You felt Logan glance at you briefly. A tiny beat of tension.

Yesterday, this would’ve been the moment he pulled away. The moment he got careful.

You braced for it instinctively.

Instead, Logan reached for your hand. It was natural, like he didn’t even think about it before intertwining your fingers. Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt.

Garrett immediately started grinning. “There it is,” Garrett said smugly.

“Shut up,” Logan muttered.

Dean looked delighted, “I KNEW IT.”

You stared down at your joined hands for half a second longer than necessary. Logan squeezed your hands once gently before looking back at Garrett.

Garrett snorted, “Brother, you’re not as sly as you think. We know that you’ve had something going on with Y/N.”

You nearly choked.

Dean laughed loudly. “You think we didn’t notice you staring at her all night at the party last night? We tried to talk to you about the game coming up, and you barely said anything because you were too busy staring at her.”

A faint flush crept up the back of Logan’s neck.

“Okay,” he muttered, “everyone relax.”

Garrett and Dean both laughed. Logan squeezed your hand again.

Dean pointed between them, “So are you guys, like, official now? Or…”

You laughed softly before you could stop yourself. Logan looked over at you immediately at the sound.

“How this for an answer?”

Then, without even thinking about it, he leaned down and kissed you right there, in the middle of campus.

Your heart turned over as Garrett and Dean whistled.