CALL ME HOT, NOT PRETTY!

"That glare," Hannah clarified, bumping her shoulder against yours. "The one where you look at this party like it's something worth writing a thesis on. Relax, babe. It's Friday. Your debate briefs are done, just have fun."

"I am having fun," you said midly. "I just watched a guy try to open a beer bottle with his teeth and fail."

Hannah sighed, shaking her head, though a fond smile played on her lips. At the age of twenty, Hannah Wells was one of the few people at Briar you genuinely liked.

She was grounded, observant, and possessed the patience of a saint—which she needed, considering she was dating Garrett Graham, a man who took up entire too much oxygen in any given room.

Speaking of, your eyes tracked Garrett as he navigated through the sea of drunk undergraduates, making a beeline straight for Hannah.

"Hey, beautiful," Garrett said, sliding an arm around Hannah's waist and pressing a kiss to her temple that was too domestic for a frat party.

He looked over her head at you. "Thrilled as always to see you radiating sunshine."

"I try to keep the moral high, Graham," you replied dryly.

"Where's the rest of your circus?" Hannah asked, leaning comfortably against Garrett's chest.

"Dean is currently trying to convince two freshmen that he's investigating the economics of the campus weed supply for school purposes," Garrett said, sounding entirely unbothered.

"Tucker's in the kitchen making a charcuterie board out of Ritz crackers. And Logan's somewhere. Probably flirting his way into a girl's pants."

Logan.

That name alone felt like a minor inconvenience. He was perpetually restless, hiding an objective sharp mind beneath layers of obnoxious frat-boy humor.

He was the kind of guy who couldn't stop moving—tapping cups, spinning cups, drumming his fingers against tables. His main flaw, as far as you could tell, was his absolute refusal to be genuine for more than three seconds.

"Don't tell me he's right behind me," you said, detecting a sudden shift in the air behind your back.

"He's right behind you," a voice drawled near your ear.

The heat radiating off his chest was immediate, creeping through the thin fabric of your top. You turn slowly, tilting your head back to meet Logan's eyes.

He was tall, his broad shoulders practically blocking the strobe lights from the makeshift dance floor.

"Sweetheart," Logan said, a lazy, infuriating smirk curving his mouth. "You're at my house. Drinking my cheap beer. Looking aggressively judgmental. It's like my birthday came early."

"If it were your birthday, I would've brought a gift," you shot back. "Like a dictionary. Or perhaps a book on basic social etiquette."

Garrett snorted loudly, burrying his face in Hannah's neck to muffle his laughter.

Logan didn't flinch. Instead, he took half a step closer. He did this all the time—invaded personal space, trying to rattle people with his presence. He smelled like beer and an underlying male musk that was very distracting.

"A dictionary?" Logan feigned hurt, placing a hand over his heart. "I passed my comms paper last week. Got a B-plus. Care to issue an apology for implying I'm illiterate?"

"A B-plus?" You arched an eyebrow. "Let me guess. The prompt was a three-page analysis of team dynamics, and you just described the plot of The Mighty Ducks."

Logan's eyes darkened, a flash of genuine amusement sparking in the dim light. "First of all, it was Miracle. Have some respect for the classics. Second of all, my work was flawless. You're just mad because you actually study for that class and I can bullshit my way into the same bracket."

"You don't bullshit, Logan, you distract," you corrected, your voice dropping an octave as you leaned in just a fraction. Two could play this game.

"Your arguments have zero structural integrity. You win debates by being loud and charming, forcing the opposition to give up out of sheer exhaustion. It's a cheap tactic."

"If it works, it's not cheap," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a split second before returning to your eyes. "It's effective. You'd know that if you didn't argue like a politician who hates people."

"I don't hate people," you replied smoothly. "I just set high standards."

"Oh, snap!" A new voice interjected cheerfully.

You glanced sideways to see Dean materializing out of nowhere, dragging a very tired-looking Tucker behind him.

"Look who it is," Dean grinned, tossing an arm around Logan's shoulders and gesturing wildly at you with a solo cup. "Briar's premier academic terror."

"Hello, Dean. Did you solve the economic crisis of the campus weed supply?"

Dean blinked, genuinely taken aback, before pointing a finger at Garrett. "You told her? That was supposed to be a covert op, Graham!"

"You were shouting it at two freshmen in the kitchen!" Tucker sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked at you apologetically. "Good to see you. Sorry about... all of this."

Logan let out a low huff of laughter, stepping closer again. His arms brushed yours, sending an unbidden, sharp thrill of heat straight up your spine.

"So what are we aggressively debating tonight?" Dean asked eagerly, looking back and forth between Logan and you like you were a tennis match.

"Last week it was the geopolitical implications of Batman. Which for the record, you won. Logan sounded like an idiot."

"I was making a valid point about vigilante infrastructure," Logan protested loudly. "And I'm not doing this again. I was just pointing out that she hates fun. She thinks sports superstitions are dumb."

"I didn't say they were dumb," you corrected, turning your body fully toward Logan. "I said they were pathetic. Tapping a hockey stick against the post does not appease the 'hockey gods.' It's just you, a grown man, relying on magic because you can't shoulder the burden of a random outcome."

The entire circle went dead silent.

Even the thumping bass of the track seemed to fade into the background as Garrett, Dean, and Tucker all stared at you in horror. Superstitions in a hockey house were effectively a religion.

You had basically just walked into the Vatican and insulted the Pope.

Hannah covered her face with her hands. "Oh, God."

Logan didn't look mad. If anything, the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth grew sharper.

"Say that again," he dared you, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a flush of heat creeping up your neck.

"I don't repeat myself for the stubbornly ignorant," you whispered back, holding his gaze fiercely.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Logan was overwhelming up close, the scent of his cologne curling into your lungs. He was staring at you like you were a puzzle he firmly intended to break apart.

The physical awareness between you was suddenly deafening. The rise and fall of his chest, the slight flex of his jaw, the way his thumb rubbed absently against the seam of his jeans.

It was heavy, heated, and entirely inappropriate considering you were fundamentally incompatible.

"You guys flirt like divorced parents," Dean announced loudly, shattering the tension.

You stepped back instantly. "I'd rather die, Di Laurentis."

"Seriously," Garrett chimed in, leaning against the wall with a delighted grin. "The sexual tension is ruining my high. Just make out already so Logan stops acting like a rabid dog every time you walk into a room."

"I do not act like a rabid dog," Logan snapped. He glanced at Garrett before shooting a defensive look at you. "And for the record, I don't flirt with her. Having a civil conversation with her is like trying to pet a cactus."

"A cactus?" You crossed your arms. "Your metaphors are weak as shit."

Logan stepped into your space again. "My metaphors are elite. You couldn't handle dating me anyway. I'm exhausting."

"Please," you scoffed. "I'd win."

Logan blinked, momentarily thrown off-balance. "You'd... win dating me? That doesn't even make sense."

"It means," you said, stepping right up into his space. "That if we dated, I would be completely unbothered. You, on the other hand, would crack in a week. You need vaildation too much. The moment I didn't laugh at your stupid jokes, your ego would implode."

"Is that right?" he asked, his voice dropping into a dangerously smooth register.

"That's a hypothesis," you whispered, holding his stare. "Backed by evidence."

"Alright, that's it," Garrett shouted, clapping his hands together like a referee ending a play. "Bet."

You tore your eyes away from Logan to look at Garrett. "What?"

"I'm calling the bluff," Garrett announced, stepping into the center of the circle. "Two months."

"Garrett, no," Hannah warned, grabbing his arm. "This is such a bad idea. They'll kill each other."

"No, let him speak," Logan interrupted, his eyes never leaving your face. There was a reckless, arrogant light in his gaze now. "What are you proposing, G?"

"A fake relationship," Garrett declared grandly. "Two months. Exclusive. Here are the terms: You two have to publicly pretended to be wildly, obnoxiously in love. You go to parties together. You sit in the cafeteria. You do all the gross couple shit."

"Absolutely not. You're the one to talk about fake relationships, Graham," you said immediately.

"Let him finish," Dean rubbed his hands together like a villain. "This is getting good."

"If you quit early, you lose," Garrett continued, counting on his fingers. "If you make it obvious to anyone outside this circle that it's fake, you lose. And the most important rule: whoever catches feelings first, loses."

Logan let out a bark of laughter. "Catch feelings? For her? I'd rather drink bleach."

"The feeling is mutual," you shot back smoothly.

"Excellent," Tucker said mildly, folding his arms. "Then this should be effortless for the both of you."

"If you both survive two months without losing," Dean added hastily, clearly inventing the stakes on the spot, "the three of us will cover Logan's share of the rent for the semester. And for the lady... we'll pay for your prep courses for the LSAT."

You froze. LSAT prep courses were expensive. You had been working extra shifts at the campus library just to save up for the basic packages.

Your secret, the one you closely guarded beneath your tailored clothes and sharp remarks, was that you constantly, exhaustingly stressed about money. Your parents weren't footing your tuition like the rest of the kids in this house.

You glanced at Logan.

He looked entirely unbothered, practically vibrating with the arrogant certainty that he could beat you. He probably thought it would be easy money. He probably thought he could charm his way through two months of fake dates, annoy you into quitting, and walk away victorious.

"Two months," you verified. "Exclusive public dating. Must appear convincing. Catching feelings results to an automatic forfeit."

"Those are the terms," Garrett confirmed, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Babe," Hannah whispered, leaning into your ear. "Do not do this. Logan is an idiot, but he's a very aggressively charming idiot. You're voluntarily putting yourself in the line of fire."

"Hannah," you murmured back, eyes fixed on Logan. "I'm going to ruin his life."

You stepped forward, extending your hand toward Logan.

"Deal."

Logan looked at your outstretched hand for a moment. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then, slowly, he reached out and wrapped his calloused hand around yours. His palm was warm, rough from years of handling a hockey stick, and the sheer size of his grip swallowed your hand completely.

The moment your skin made contact, a violent, unexpected jolt of heat shot straight up your arm, setting low and heavy in your stomach. Logan's eyes snapped up to yours, widening just a fraction as if he had felt the same shock.

"Two months," Logan murmured, his voice suddenly sounding lower, rougher than it had a moment ago. "Try not to fall in love with me."

"Don't worry, Logan," you said, stepping back, desperately ignoring the tingling warmth still radiating across your skin. "I prefer men with actual reading comprehension skills."

As you turned away, dragging Hannah toward the kitchen to refill your beer, your mind was racing. You had a 3.9 GPA. You had destroyed professors in debates. You were composed, rational, and immune to college boy bullshit.

What are you doing with your life?

What happens after you agree to a fake-dating bet with John Logan is not a smooth, cinematic transition into romance. It is a controlled massacre of your entire existence.

By Monday morning, Briar University had done what Briar always did with total campus chaos: it weaponized it into gossip.

The exact moment you knew your carefully, ordered, highly academic life had collapsed was when you walked into your first class. Three people you had never seen before in your life turned in perfect, horrifying unision said, "Hey, Logan's girlfriend."

You didn't correct them. Not because it was true, but because correcting them would imply that you cared enough to use your vocal cords. And you absolutely refused to give the entire hockey house the satisfaction of knowing they've got you riled up.

Logan was waiting outside the lecture hall. As soon as he saw you, he pushed the wall with a lazy smirk. "Morning, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that in daylight. I feel like I'm being slaughtered."

"That's the whole point," he replied easily, not missing a beat.

Before you could step past him, he moved directly into your personal space. Logan didn't understand the concept of a normal human boundary.

Or, more accurately, he understood it perfectly and just liked seeing you try to calculate the physics of how much trouble you'd get into for shoving him into the nearest trash can.

He held out a coffee cup. You paused. "...Is that for me?"

"No, it's an experiment. I'm conducting a study on what happens when your cold, robotic, cynical heart accepts a basic act of human kindess. Do you melt? Do you hiss? I need to know."

You snatched it from his hand with a glare. You took a sip, fully prepared to criticize his taste, but stopped mid-swallow. It was exactly how you liked it.

You hated that he knew that. You hated that he had apparently paid attention to your order exactly once three weeks ago and cataloged it away.

By noon, your little arrangement has entered phase two.

When you sat down in the crowded dining hall with your laptop open, ready to get some actual work done, Logan didn't take the empty seat across from you.

He slid right onto the bench next to you. His thigh pressed casually against yours, the heat of his body radiating through his jacket. He acted like it was completely accidental, totally ignoring the fact that your entire nervous system was actively trying to exit your body through your ears.

Dean slid into the seat across from you a second later, immediately grinning like a hyena. "Oh, this absolute disgusting. Look at you two. You're doing the couple lean already. My stomach is turning, I love it."

"We're not leaning," you said, stiffening your posture until you were straight as an ironing board.

Logan immediately leaned his entire upper body weight into your shoulder, resting his chin almost directly on your collarbone to look at your laptop screen.

"What are we studying, baby?"

You shifted away, your face burning.

He followed.

You shifted back toward the edge of the bench.

He followed again, nudging his shoulder against yours with a quiet chuckle that vibrated right against your side.

"If you don't move three inches to the left," you whispered to Logan, "I'm going to stick this fork in your knee."

"Threatening me with bodily harm?" Logan beamed, completely unbothered. "Write that down, G. It's out one-week anniversary."

By the second week, the cracks in your defense strategy started small. Annoyingly, frustratingly small.

The real issue was Logan remembering things. Not grand, cinematic, romantic things. That would've been easy to ignore. It was worse. It was the mundane, everyday things.

On Tuesday, a freak afternoon thunderstorm hit right as your statistics seminar let out. You stood in the lobby of the building, staring gloomily at the pouring rain, fully prepared to ruin your favorite shoes and your mood.

Then the heavy glass doors swung open, bringing in a gust of cold air, and there was Logan. He was soaking wet, his hair blasted blasted by the wind, holding out a massive umbrella.

"What are you doing here?" you asked. "Don't you have practice?"

"Canceled," he lied smoothly, though you knew for a fact hockey practice was never canceled unless the arena literally froze over from the outside.

"C'mon, I'm not letting your stuff get damaged. I'd never hear the end of it."

On Thursday, after you spent six straight hours in the computer lab and forgot that human beings require food to stay alive, he casually walked past your desk.

Without saying a word, he dropped a bag of chips, a sandwich, and a protein bar right on top of your keyboard. He didn't even linger for a thank you; he just flashed you a smile and kept walking.

Then he started walking you home from the campus library. Every single night.

"You don't have to do this, you know," you told him one chilly night. "I'm perfectly capable of walking without security."

"I know," he replied simply, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

That was it. No cocky comeback. No punchline to ease the tension. Just complete, unbothered certainty. And that was the exact problem. John Logan didn't do anything without intent.

Later that weekend, the hockey house threw a massive party that you were forced to attend to 'keep up the act.' You were standing with Logan by the crowded kitchen island when Dean loudly announced to a group of girls.

"Just so you all know, Logan hasn't even looked at anyone's way ever since she came. The man is practically a monk."

The girls laughed, looking at Logan expectantly, waiting for him to play along or make a joke.

Logan didn't deny it. He didn't even laugh. He just took a slow sip of his cup and said, "No time. I've been busy."

And he looked directly, intensely at you when he said it.

The heat in his gaze made your face feel like it was on fire. You came very, very close to throwing your cup of beer straight at his beautiful, stupid forehead. Almost.

By week three, the rest of the house began to notice that something was seriously off with the atmosphere.

It wasn't that you were acting like a couple in public (That was the literal objective of the bet). The actual problem was much worse: it was starting to look real when absolutely no one was watching.

Hannah cornered you in the kitchen on a Sunday afternoon while you were trying to make tea.

"You're aware you're softening, right?" she asked, leaning her hip against the counter and eyeing you.

"I am not softening," you said keeping your voice entirely flat and monotone.

Hannah gave you a long, knowing look that made you want to crawl under the floor. "You're not losing the bet," she said quietly, her tone softening. "But something's happening."

She patted your shoulder in a way that felt entirely too sympathetic and walked away before you could come up with a brilliant counterargument to save face.

The following week was the week everything completely shifted, because Logan stopped performing.

The flirting didn't disappear, but it changed into something unrecognizable. There was less showmanship, less playing to the crowd. He stopped making the rest of the campus his audience.

Instead, he started making you his sole focus.

One chilly Friday night, he walked you back to your dorm after a grueling study session that had left you wishing for a quick death.

"You don't have to come up to the door," you said. "I have my keys anyway."

"I know."

But he didn't move. He just stood there, his breath turning to white mist in the cold night air. His dark hair was slightly messy from the wind, and he looked incredibly human.

The silence stretched between you, growing longer and heavier by the second. Usually, this was the part where he'd make a sarcastic comment, flash his signature grin, or try to steal a fake kiss to get a reaction out of you so he could tease you about it.

But he just looked at you.

Then quieter than you'd ever heard him speak, Logan said, "You ever think about what happens after this?"

You frowned, "We win. Obviously. You and I get the satisfaction of annoying the boys and not pay for anything. Life continues exactly as it did before we started this."

"That's not what I meant."

You studied his face. The streetlights threw sharp shadows across his jawline. He wasn't smirking, or teasing, he looked incredibly still. It made your stomach tighten in a way that you really, really did not appreciate.

"I don't think about the after," you said carefully, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan nodded once. Like that was a completely acceptable answer. Like it was for now.

"Goodnight," he said softly, turning to walk down the path toward his car.

Naturally, the first real breakdown happened during a completely stupid, unromantic moment.

It was a Thursday night in the absolute deepest basement of the campus library. It was past 2:00 AM. Your notes looked like ancient hieroglyphics, your brain felt like wet cement, and your very last remaining nerve was hanging on by a single, fraying thread of caffeine.

Out of nowhere, a familiar shadow fell over your messy desk. Logan slid into the wooden chair directly across from you. He looked entirely too awake for two in the morning.

“You look like you’re about to commit a felony,” he said, eye-level with your massive stack of textbooks.

“I am studying.”

“That’s worse.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling a massive headache blooming behind your eyes. “Why are you even here, Logan? Don't you sleep?”

He reached out and lightly tapped the edge of your open laptop. “Because Hannah told me you haven’t eaten anything since lunch. And because you’re stubborn.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

“I’m just highly focused. It’s an adrenaline rush.”

“You’re going to pass out on a public desk and some freshman is going to steal your notes.”

“I said I’m—”

The words caught in your throat. Logan reached across the table, his large hand wrapping around the top edge of your laptop, and gently but firmly closed it shut.

“Come on,” he said.

It wasn't a command. He wasn't teasing your or trying to be funny. His voice was just filled with a quiet, undeniable certainty that completely disarmed me.

You stared at him, your stubbornness trying to flare up one last time. “I’m not done.”

“You are for tonight,” he said. He paused, looking at you with an expression that was so soft, so genuinely sweet, it scared me more than any test ever could. Quieter, he added, “I’m not asking.”

And for some horrific reason, that was what broke you. It wasn't him trying to control the situation; it was the fact that he was disguising genuine, protective care as control. My throat felt tight.

Once you got outside into the cool, crisp night air, he pulled a warm, wrapped breakfast sandwich out of his jacket pocket—he must have gone to the 24-hour diner down the street—and handed it to you.

“You’re really not supposed to be good at this,” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly.

“At what?”

“Whatever this is. Being nice. Taking care of me. It’s messing with everything”

Logan leaned his back against the brick wall of the library, looking down at you with a soft, steady expression. “I’m not trying.”

And that, right there, was the ultimate problem. He wasn't trying to act like a good boyfriend for the bet. He just was.

By week six, Garrett called an emergency house meeting. In the hockey house, a formal house meeting meant disaster was not just imminent—it had already arrived, unpacked its bags, and moved into the guest room.

“You guys are failing,” Garrett announced, pointing a finger at you and Logan from across the living room coffee table like a disappointed coach.

“We are literally not failing,” you shot back instantly, crossing your arms defensively. “Everyone on campus thinks we’ve been dating for a month and a half. The dean literally asked me how Logan was doing yesterday.”

“You’re not winning, though,” Dean corrected, leaning over the back of the couch with a piece of leftover pizza in his hand.

Tucker nodded from the armchair, not looking up from his phone. “There is a distinct difference between surviving and winning.”

Logan leaned back in his seat, looking completely unbothered as he stretched his long legs out across the rug. “We’re fine. The bet is intact. No one doubts us.”

Hannah didn’t speak at all. She just sat in the corner armchair, watching the two of you with a look that made you incredibly nervous.

Garrett stood up and started pacing, pointing between the two of you. “You’re supposed to be acting. That was the deal. Fake dating. But right now, Logan looks like he’s thinking way too much about what he's doing, and she looks like she’s actively trying not to look at him. It’s weird. The vibe is off.”

“I don’t think,” Logan scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s against my brand.”

Without thinking, your brain completely bypassing your filters, you blurted out, “He absolutely thinks. He thinks more than all of you combined. He’s incredibly observant, and just because he doesn't shout his thoughts doesn't mean he's empty-headed.”

The entire room went dead silent. Garrett stopped mid-pace. Dean froze with the pizza halfway to his mouth.

They all stared at you. Then you realized what you had just done: you had just fiercely, reflexively, passionately defended Logan John’s honor in front of his best friends.

That was entirely new. That was not in the script. You hated myself a little bit in that moment, your cheeks burning a bright, undeniable crimson.

It was exactly eleven forty-five on a Friday night, which meant there were fifteen minutes left on the clock.

Fifteen minutes until the wager expired. Sixty days of holding hands in public corridors, sixty days of leaning close enough to share breath but never a kiss, and sixty days of you telling yourself you were fundamentally immune to John Logan.

The bass of the off-campus house party rattled through the worn wooden floorboards, vibrating against the soles of your boots. Red and purple strobe lights sliced through the humid, crowded room, illuminating the exact moment Logan broke through the throng of sweaty bodies.

He moved with that infuriating, effortless grace he always possessed—broad shoulders easily parting the crowd, his dark leather jacket slipping past red plastic cups and uninhibited dancers.

His eyes were locked on you from across the room. There was no trademark smirk tonight. No lazy, arrogant tilt to his jaw. He looked deadly serious.

Your heart did a violent, terrifying stutter against your ribs. Don't lose your nerve. 

The bet had been simple: fake date for two months to get your respective meddling friends off your backs, and whoever caught feelings—whoever tapped out first—lost. It was an exercise in ego. A test of pure, stubborn willpower.

He knew exactly where to touch your lower back to make your breath hitch. You knew exactly how to angle your neck when he whispered in your ear so that he would lose his train of thought. It was mutually assured destruction disguised as a joke.

But as he stopped right in front of you, the joke was violently dead.

He took your hand, wrapping his large, warm fingers around your wrist, and pulled you out of the kitchen. You followed blindly, letting him navigate you down a narrow, shadowed hallway away from the crush of the party. The noise muffled slightly, swallowed by the heavy coats piled on a nearby bench.

Logan turned to face you. The shadows carved sharp angles into his cheekbones. His chest was rising and falling a little too fast, his dark eyes entirely devoid of their usual playful challenge. He took a single step into your space, trapping the air between you.

"Time's almost up," he murmured, his voice a low, rough scrape against the thrumming music from the other room.

"I know," you breathed. Your throat felt incredibly dry. You fought the urge to step back, but the wall was already pressing against my shoulder blades. "You ready to concede?"

"No," he said flatly. Then, his gaze dragged down to your mouth, heavy and dark and starving. "I'm ready to change the rules."

Your logical brain told you that you should find a flaw in this plan. Your old survival instinct told you to run away before you got hurt.

But instead, you looked up into his eyes and said, “This is probably going to ruin our entire reputation for being sensible.”

Logan smiled, that beautiful, real smile that didn't have a hint of a smirk in it, his eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Probably.”

He squeezed your hand tightly, pulling you just an inch closer until your chest was pressed against his jacket. “Worth it?”

You looked at him. Really, truly looked at him—the boy who brought you umbrellas in the rain and remembered how you took your coffee.

You ignored the loud music behind him, the crazy bet behind you, and all the overthinking in your own head. For the first time in two solid months of calculating every move, you didn’t care about the outcome.

“…Yeah,” you whispered, reaching your free hand up to grip the lapel of his jacket. “Definitely worth it.”

Logan exhaled a massive breath, like he’d been holding it underwater for weeks, a look of pure relief washing over his face. “Good,” he said.

And this time, when he stepped closer and leaned his head down, you didn’t move away at all—you reached up to meet him halfway.

The second your lips touched, a violent, desperate shockwave tore through you. It wasn’t a soft, exploratory first kiss. It was an absolute collision.

Logan groaned, a deep, helpless sound in the back of his throat, and immediately dropped his hands to your hips, hauling you flush against his hard body.

He kissed you like he was starving. Like the last two months had been a physical torture he was finally allowed to end. His tongue swept into your mouth, possessive and hot, tasting every corner while his hands gripped your waist tight enough to bruise.

"Baby," he breathed raggedly against your lips, peppering hot, frantic kisses down the corner of your mouth to your jaw. "Christ, I've wanted to do this since week one."

"Then why didn't you?" you gasped, letting your head fall back against the wall as his lips dragged down your neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin.

"Because you're stubborn as hell," he growled, biting lightly at your collarbone. "And I needed you to be sure. Let's get out of here. Now."

There was no conversation. No goodbye to your friends. You practically sprinted out the back door, stumbling into the sharp chill of the autumn night. His hand was locked in yours, pulling you toward his car parked down the block.

The entire drive to your apartment was a blur of thick, agonizing tension. Logan kept one hand on the steering wheel, his knuckles white, while his right hand rested heavily on your thigh.

His thumb dragged slow, torturous circles against the denim of your jeans, sending jolts of heat pooling directly between your legs.

By the time you shoved your way through your front door, the final remnants of restraint shattered.

The heavy wooden door hadn't even clicked shut before Logan pinned you against it. His mouth crashed down on yours again, deeper and dirtier this time.

He tasted like desperation. Your hands scrambled at the zipper of his jacket, shoving the cool leather off his broad shoulders so it dropped uselessly to the floor.

"Fuck, baby," he mumbled roughly, his hands already sliding up under the hem of your sweater. His large, warm palms met the bare skin of your stomach, and you threw your head back with a sharp gasp. "Tell me to stop if this is just the adrenaline."

"Logan," you said, your voice shaking with pure need. "If you stop right now, I'll never forgive you."

He let out a low, feral sound that sent a shiver straight down your spine. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the hem of your sweater and pulled it over your head, tossing it aside.

You stood before him in a bra, chest heaving, entirely exposed to the searing heat of his gaze. Every muscle in his jaw feathered as his eyes took you in.

"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice thick, his hands trailing down your sides. "You have no fucking idea what it's been like. Pretending I wasn't obsessing over you. Holding your hand and having to let it go."

"Show me, then," you challenged softly, your fingers reaching for the buttons of his shirt.

He didn't need to be told twice. He stripped off his shirt with brutal efficiency, revealing a broad chest and a torso cut with hard lines of muscle.

You barely had a second to appreciate the view before he was backing you down the short hallway into yout bedroom. The mattress hit the backs of your knees, and you tumbled down into the comforter, Logan following you down instantly.

His weight settled over you, caging you in, heavily masculine and exquisitely overwhelming. He kissed you again, his thigh parting your legs as his hips pressed flush against you.

Even through the layers of denim between you, you could feel exactly how hard and thick he was for.

A desperate, wet heat flooded your panties. You arched blindly against him, seeking friction, and he groaned into your mouth.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he rasped, his warm breath fanning over your collarbone.

His hands moved with practiced, urgent purpose. He unclasped your bra in a single deft motion, sweeping the lace aside to expose you.

The cool air hit your flushed skin for only a second before Logan lowered his head. His mouth closed over one hard peak, hot and wet, his tongue laving the sensitive center while his teeth scraped lightly.

A loud, embarrassing whimper tore out of your throat. Your hands dove into his hair, gripping tightly as a heavy, twisting coil of pleasure tightened deep in your belly.

He suckled you unapologetically, drawing hard enough to make stars burst behind your eyes, while his hand moved lower, fumbling with the button of your jeans.

You tore at each other’s remaining clothes. It wasn't graceful; it was chaotic, driven by two solid months of pent-up starvation.

"You're perfect," he breathed, tracing a path down your stomach with one long finger. He followed the trail with a string of open-mouthed kisses, lower and lower, until he reached the juncture of your thighs.

Before you could brace yourself, he settled between your legs, hooking your knees over his shoulders.

"Logan—" you gasped, reaching for him, but he just smirked—a dark, wicked version of his usual smile.

"I have two months of making up to do," he murmured against you. "Keep your hands in the sheets, baby.”

And then his mouth was on you. He found my clit instantly, his tongue sweeping over the sensitive bundle of nerves in a long, relentless drag.

Your back arched completely off the mattress. You screamed his name, your fingers twisting violently into the heavy fabric of the sheets as he devoured you.

He knew exactly what he was doing. He was thorough, patient, and ruinously skilled. He alternated between deep, rhythmic laps and tight, focused flicks of his tongue, teasing you right to the edge and then backing off just enough to make you beg.

"Please," you sobbed out, thrashing helplessly against his mouth. "Logan, please baby, I need—"

"I know," he soothed, sliding two thick fingers deep inside you while his mouth continued its assault.

you were completely dripping for him, embarrassingly slick, but he only seemed emboldened by how wrecked you were.

The orgasm hit you like a freight train. It ripped through your body in violent, shivering waves. You cried out, legs clamped tightly over his shoulders as you broke apart under his mouth.

You were still gasping for breath, chest heaving, when Logan rose over you. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, his dark eyes dilated with pure, predatory need.

He settled his weight back between your thighs, propping himself up on his forearms. He nudged the blunt, hot head of his length against your heat, stopping right on the verge.

He looked down at you, his expression softening into an aching vulnerability that made your heart hammer in your throat.

"I need you to know," he said, his voice entirely wrecked in the quiet room. "Before I do this. You have to know it wasn't a game to me. Not for a single goddamn second."

Tears stung the corners of your eyes at the raw sincerity in his tone. "I know. It wasn't a game to me either."

He let out a broken breath, leaning down to press a deep, bruising kiss to your mouth. As your lips locked, he drove his hips forward, burying himself fully inside you.

You both cried out. He was massive, thick and blazingly hot, stretching you open and filling every empty ache you hadn't let yourself acknowledge.

"Okay?" he whispered, his hips instinctively trembling against yours.

"Don't wait," you begged him, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist to lock his hips to you. “Don't hold back anymore."

That was the only permission he needed. Logan began to move, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in to the hilt with a heavy, wet slap of skin on skin.

He established a deep, punishing rhythm. Every thrust was accompanied by a harsh grunt, his hips snapping forward to hit the deepest, sweetest spot inside you over and over.

Your nails dug half-moons into his back, your hips rising off the mattress to meet him halfway, desperate for deeper friction.

"Fuck," he ground out, the pace accelerating. The bed frame let out a heavy rhythmic squeak, echoing the wet sounds of your bodies colliding. "You feel—god, you feel better than I imagined."

"John… baby…” you whimpered, the syllables falling from your lips entirely broken.

He shifted his grip, sliding one hand under your hips to angle you perfectly against him, while his other hand reached between your bodies. His thick thumb found your swollen clit, pressing down right as he drove deep inside.

The pleasure was too dense, too sudden. You let out a sharp cry, your head thrashing on the pillows as the second orgasm rushed up your spine.

"That's it," he praised hoarsely, his grip tightening violently on your hips. "Come for me. Let go."

You shattered around him, your walls clenching tightly over his cock. The sensation tipped him right over his own edge.

Logan let out a deep, guttural shout, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he drove completely to the hilt. His entire body went rigid, cording with strain as he pulsed deep inside you.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the ragged tear of your breathing. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel the vibration echoing in his chest, pressed completely flush against yours.

Slowly, the adrenaline ebbed, leaving a sprawling warmth in its wake. Logan pressed a soft, damp kiss to the side of your neck before gently rolling to the side, pulling me flush against his side.

He wrapped a thick arm around your waist, tucking your head securely under his chin. His hand smoothed down the messy tangle of your hair, his thumb beginning a slow, possessive stroke along your spine.

"So," he murmured, his voice rumbling pleasantly beneath your ear. The tension was gone from his shoulders, replaced by a profound, immovable contentment. "I tap out. You win."

You tilted your head up, resting your chin on his bare chest to look at him. His dark hair was a ruined mess, his lips were swollen, and his eyes were soft and incredibly bright in the dim light of the bedroom.

The smug arrogance of his fake dating persona was completely burned away, leaving only the real boy underneath. The one you were hopelessly, irrevocably in love with.

"I don't think either of us actually lost, Logan," you said softly, tracing the line of his jaw.

A lazy, brilliant smile finally spread across his face, lighting up the corners of his eyes. "Yeah," he whispered, pressing his lips firmly against your forehead. "I think you're right."

You lay there in the quiet aftermath of the storm, the neon digits on his nightstand clock finally flipping past midnight.

Day sixty was officially over. The wager was dead and buried. And as his fingers gently laced with yours in the dark, tying your hand to his, you realized the terrifying truth.

The fake romance was easy. Now you had to wake up tomorrow, walk out into the real world, and start playing for keeps.

You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.

​Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.

​You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.

​​Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."

​The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."

​"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.

​You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."

​You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.

Two — "Fuck you"

A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.

​The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.

​The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. ​"You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."

​Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"

​"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.

​Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"

​"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."

​Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.

​"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."

​"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."

​Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."

​"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.

​"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."

​"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."

​"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."

​"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."

​"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."

​"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."

​The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. ​He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.

"Fuck you," he whispered.

​The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. ​Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."

​But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.

​"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.

Three — "Fuck off"

​For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.

Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.

​There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door,  silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.

​Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.

​The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.

​Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.

A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.

​Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.

​A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.

​"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."

​The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.

​Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.

​"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.

​The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.

​The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces. 

Four — "What the fuck"

The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.

​A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.

​You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.

​He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.

​Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.

​You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."

​Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.

​"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.

​You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."

​The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.

You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

​He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.

​"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."

​"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"

​"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

​Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

​"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.

Five — "Well, fuck"

​The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.

​You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.

Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.

​Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.

​You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

​"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."

​Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."

​You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."

​You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.

A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.

​"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.

​"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.

Six — "Fuck"

Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.

​But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.

​Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.

​Logan stepped out.

You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.

​Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.

​Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.

​Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.

​It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.

​"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.

​With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.

​You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.

​"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."

​"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."

With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.

Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.

The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.

"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.

The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.

The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.

You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.

He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.

That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.

Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.

Seven — "Fuck it"

Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.

​The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.

Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.

​"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."

Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"

But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.

Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.

"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.

Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.

Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"

When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.

You open the door expecting him to ask you to make coffee the way he likes or stand there with that sad little grocery bag he sometimes brings when he pretends he is not lonely.

The hallway throws you a Bucky, leather jacket clad, nose slightly red and one cheekbone carrying the dark, ugly promise of swelling.

For one full second, the fondness comes before the worry. Which is unfair. You should be above noticing that a scuffed-up Bucky Barnes looks like someone dragged a wet cat home by its collar and left it on your welcome mat. You should be above the stupid, soft warmth that rises in you when his eyes find yours and his shoulders loosen by a fraction, because he came here.

He didn't go to some all-night clinic or even Sam. He came here.

Your place.

As if your apartment has somehow become the place he goes when the world gets too sharp.

"Before you start, it looks worse than it is."

You keep one hand on the doorframe. Mostly because if you don't, you might reach for his face. "That's such a comforting thing to hear from a man who has been legally dead more than once."

A twitch in his mouth, that might a smile if you looked hard enough. It pulls at the split in his lip, and then the twitch disappears, punished by pain. 

"Can I come in?" he asks, even when he already knows the answer. He has eaten noodles standing barefoot in your kitchen, once sat on your floor for forty-five minutes fixing a wobbly table leg. Brought Yori here once for tea. But still, Bucky asks.

He had been in your apartment, in your life for months.

So yes, he can come in. Obviously.

"Unfortunately," you say, stepping back, "I have already seen your face, so now you're my problem."

"Was trying to avoid that."

"You failed. Sit down."

He listens, which should not be as satisfying as it is. He rarely listens without making a fuss, but now he listens, sits on your couch because you point at it. There is power in that. Terrible power.

He lowers himself onto the couch with a controlled stiffness that immediately makes your temper spike. Domestic temper, which basically means you're going to fuss over him for the next one hour. His right hand lifts toward his cheek, then drops like he already knows touching it will get him scolded.

"What happened?" you ask.

"Nothing."

You stare at him.

He stares back without missing a beat.

Bucky does this thing where he tries to out-silence people. You don't know who it works on, but it does not work on you. "James."

His eyes narrow a little. You do not use it often. Mostly because 'Bucky' suits him better in your mouth. Bucky is the man who leans in your doorway with takeout. Bucky is the man who grunts at your jokes and secretly remembers all of them. James feels heavier.

"Some guy got mouthy with Yori," he says.

That changes things. Of course it was Yori. Of course Bucky stepped in, because Bucky would rather let the whole city spit on him than watch Yori get pushed around.

"Got mouthy how?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

Bucky sighs like he's lost a fight with you. He has. "He was drunk. Didn't like being told to move out of the way. Yori said something back, because you know."

You do know, that is Yori. Unstoppable old man. Danger to himself and everyone trying to keep him alive.

"And then?"

Bucky looks down at his hands. His metal one rests open on his knee, fingers still, the flesh hand has raw marks along the knuckles. 

"I stepped between them. Guy swung. Landed one before I moved him back."

"Moved him back," you repeat. "Is he in the hospital?"

A beginning of a laugh is pulled from Bucky, buried under exhaustion and the tightness in his mouth. "No."

"Shame."

"Not trying to put people in hospitals anymore, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

That one should come with a warning label. He says it like he does not understand what it does. Or like he understands too well and has chosen to leave you alone with the consequences. You don't know which, you don't want to.

You turn toward the kitchen before your expression can betray you. "Hold that guilt complex. I'm getting ice."

"I don't need ice."

"You need something cold."

"Super serum."

You ignore that. Your freezer, a traitor, contains no ice. There is a frozen pizza, half a packet of parathas, and one bag of peas you bought during a period where you were health conscious enough to want to add peas to things.

You come back with the peas wrapped in a dish towel, you are not a monster. Bucky eyes them suspiciously. "Peas?"

"Yep."

"You said ice." But he takes the bag from you anyway.

"We're making do."

Bucky grunts, and presses it to his cheek with all the precision of someone trying to disappoint you on purpose.

You give him a moment to correct himself. He does not.

"Nope." The peas still aren't making proper contact with his face and it's genuinely offensive to watch. You're either a perfectionist or a control freak, probably both, and this half-assed attempt at icing is making your eye twitch. "You're doing that wrong."

His brows lift. "What?"

"You have to actually press them against the swelling, Barnes. Did they not teach you basic first aid in the forties?"

Amusement tries to sneak out, but it gets dragged back by pain. You hate that you want to kiss the side of his mouth just to see if the softness there would stay.

Shaking your head to physically push those thoughts away, you step between his knees and reach for the peas. "Move your hand."

Bucky answers in yet another one of his signature grunts, but obeys.

A normal man would grunt all the same, but Bucky's grunts have different meanings. What's worse is that you know what they say. "Injured men lose the right to complain," you respond.

"I'm not injured."

"Your cheek is changing colors while we speak."

"It's fine."

"Bucky, I swear, if you say super serum again, I'm putting the peas directly inside your shirt."

His gaze drops for one treacherous second. Just one. His eyes dip, catch somewhere around your chest, and return to your face immediately, like whatever he saw just burned him.

You should not do anything with that information. A wiser person would tuck it away, continue administering frozen peas, and perhaps reflect later while you're in your bed with your hands between your thighs.

You are not that woman. Well, you've been that woman. But right now, you want to be someone else, someone brave.

You take his wrist and guide the peas higher, pressing the wrapped cold properly against the darkened swell under his cheekbone. His skin is warm where your fingers brush him. "There. Full contact. Maximum efficiency."

"Didn't know there was a technique."

"That's why you come to me."

The joke, harmless a second ago, becomes something else in the narrow space between your bodies. Because he does come to you. Bruised, bored, lonely, hungry, irritated, restless. He comes over and pretends there is a reason. You let him pretend because you have been pretending too, in your own pathetic little way, acting like it is normal to know how he takes his tea, normal to hear his footsteps in the hall and know it is him before he knocks.

His metal hand lifts to find your hip. A natural next step done with caution, vibranium fingers curving over the soft fabric, cold through your clothes and intimate enough to make your whole body pay attention. He holds you like his hand needed somewhere to go and chose you. "You're cold," he says.

"That's because I'm holding frozen peas to your face."

His thumb shifts. One small glide which your body takes very personally.

"I meant your hip." It is funny because his arm is the cold one.

"Well, some of us are not walking space heaters."

His lips part around an answer, but nothing comes out. His eyes have dropped again, though this time they do not make it all the way down. They catch on your mouth.

Needing something to do with your hands, you adjust the peas. The angle is awkward from where you are standing, your arm starting to ache, and Bucky keeps turning his head by tiny increments like he cannot help tracking you. "Stay still," you say.

"I am still."

"No, you're being uncooperative when I'm just trying to ice your bruised ego."

"My ego isn't bruised."

It isn't. It's somewhere on the sidewalk where he got punched.

He exhales through his nose, that almost-laugh touching the side of your wrist. You should not feel it anywhere except your wrist, but bodies are stupid and yours is the stupidest one in the room.

You shift closer to get a better angle. His knees part a little to make space for you, automatic, the movement tugging your attention downward before you can stop it.

Big mistake.

Bucky's thighs are unfair. That's the only reasonable word for them. Unfair in dark jeans, spread just enough to fit you between them, muscle held under denim like a threat specially against you. The left one shifts, the fabric tightening, and you are suddenly forced to remember that this man can jump from buildings, bend steel, break guns apart with one hand. Also apparently sit on your cheap couch looking like sin.

Sin. The same thing you want to commit now.

The peas are slipping, or trying to. "Here," you mutter, mostly to yourself, and brace one knee on the couch.

Bucky is a statue most of the time, but it's different this time. Before, he'd breathe, now he doesn't.

You settle onto his thigh before you can think better of it, one leg bunched awkwardly beside his, your weight finding the hard line of muscle under you. You're lying to yourself that it's not his lap, just his thigh, and that makes it better. It is safer, only in theory. Because the second you sit, there's pressure exactly where it shouldn't be, your entire body registering the shape of him beneath you.

There's a debate about this situation in your head, whether it's a mistake or an excellent idea, you're still not sure. "Better angle."

While Bucky's metal hand is still on your hip, his other hand has dropped to the couch cushion, fingers digging in. Where he's looking at is the place that's currently ruining you. "Sweetheart."

Your hand keeps the peas to his cheek because if you stop doing the one medical-adjacent task available, you might have to admit you are sitting on Bucky Barnes' thigh and trying to grind down like some kind of teenager discorvering that shower heads could be used for one other thing than its intended purpose.

"What?" The innocence in your voice is so fake even the peas probably know.

The bruise moves under the towel, when he tightens his jaw. "Nothing."

"Bucky."

His hand flexes on your hip, the first real crack in the careful wall he keeps between his want and the world. Just fingers tightening and releasing. Heat crawls up your neck. Worse, lower. Between your thighs, where the seam of your shorts presses against you, where his thigh is so solid beneath you that even the smallest adjustment drags sensation through your body.

Barely anything, a tiny movement, you shift before you mean to. If he asks about it, you could say you were just getting comfortable.

He knows better than to ask about it. Bucky inhales through his teeth. The sound is quiet, gone almost as soon as it arrives, but it pulls your own version from you, coming out before you can stop it. "Oh," you breathe.

His eyes close for half a second. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't make that sound like you don't know what you're doing."

The peas have now become irrelevant. You still hold them there to maintain the dumb facade, even though you know he wouldn't mind if you'd dropped it. "Just helping you ice your bruise."

"You're sitting on my thigh."

"Yeah, for better angle."

"That's not what I'd call it."

What would you call it then? The question is at the tip of your tongue, but you body makes a decision, sliding just an inch forward, the pleasure moving straight to your clit. Bucky's hand clamps down on your hip with a restraint so thin it might as well be transparent. 

For half a moment, you expect him to do something, to lean back, stare into your eyes, but he does nothing. The momentary silence feels big, frozen peas still pressed to his cheek, sharing breaths.

It ends with a flex of muscle under denim, lifting pressure against you right where you are already to sensitive. "Bucky," you breathe.

His mouth parts. The split at the corner looks worse now, a thin red shine where the movement has tugged it open again, and your eyes go straight to it. Asking him if it hurts would be a good idea, so is getting him antiseptics.

But some ugly part of you wonders what his blood would taste like if you put your mouth there.

That is horrible. That is deranged. That is exactly the kind of thing a person should carry privately to the grave. But Bucky is watching your eyes track his mouth, a flex in his jaw tells you that he can see right through you and read your thoughts. "What?" he asks.

"Your lip. It's bleeding again."

His hand should leave you to maybe his lips, at least out of curiosity. But, his thumb moves at your hip again, enough to make your cunt throb against his thigh. He must know what he is doing. He absolutely knows what he is doing. The man has spent half your friendship acting like he is incapable of casual flirtation. But now, he is suddenly fluent in ruining you with his thumb. "Does that bother you?" he asks.

The answer should be yes. Normal people are bothered by bleeding mouths. Normal people do helpful things with tissues and cotton pads.

Your hand tightens around the towel-wrapped peas. "A little."

"A little," he repeats. There is an amusement in it, almost tender, also mean. "That why you keep looking at it?"

You want to blame the super serum for making him too observant, but the truth is uglier and funnier. Bucky has always been observant when it comes to you. He notices when you run out of sugar and pretends he bought too much, he knows when you have had a bad day just from the sound of your keys hitting the bowl.

And that is why he notices this too.

Traitorous and needy, your hips shift again, and his thigh flexes under you a second time.

That one is intentional.

"Bucky, can you please stop moving?" A hypocritical comment, rich coming from you, considering your body is the one that has been trying to climb him like a tree.

Bucky sees as much, his gaze dropping to where you sit on him, then back to your eyes with a raised eyebrow, asking multitudes. "Sweetheart." The word usually is unfair, right now is probably illegal, you nearly lose your grip on the peas entirely. "I can't if you're sitting on me like that."

The last thread of pretending snaps so cleanly you almost hear it. The peas slide from his cheek, hit his shoulder, then roll onto the couch between him and the armrest. Neither of you reach for it, don't even acknowledg it. The cold, damp towel leaves a mark on his shirt, which becomes refuge for your hand now.

Your other hand cups the uninjured side of his jaw and you kiss him before either of your mouths can ruin this with another half-smart comment.

The first press of your mouth to his is careful because of the split lip. Careful lasts about as long as a second, much less if you count it in milliseconds. His breath catches against you, flesh hand leaving the couch to fit itself around the back of your neck. He does it gently enough that you could pull away. He does it desperately enough that you have no intention of ever moving again.

His mouth opens under yours. Bucky kisses like he has been denied this for years. Maybe he has, maybe every quiet night in your apartment has been building toward this moment. His lips are warm, the hurt corner tender under your attention. When your tongue brushes the taste of blood there, the sound he makes is so raw you feel it between your legs.

You lick it again. A small pass over the split, more apology than bite, out of pure want and nothing else.

His hips jerk under you. "Fuck," he breathes against your mouth. There is nothing pretty about the way the word leaves his teeth. Pretty would have made this feel distant. This is all heat and breath and the heavy drag of his hands as they find your waist, your ribs, the lower curve of your back. He touches you like he is still trying to be decent and already failing.

You grind down before he can ask for permission he already has. A direct pressure to your clit makes make your thighs tense around his, and Bucky's hands clamp at your waist, guiding without taking over. The denim under you is rough, the muscle beneath it unforgiving, making your fingers dig into his shoulder. "Again," he says, more breath than voice.

A laugh from your lips goes straight into his, because of course he says again like hes asking for a demonstration, a redo.

Your mouth does the only thing your mouth is good at when it comes to Bucky Barnes, it talks. "You're very demanding for a man who came here for medical attention."

"Medical attention ended when you sat on me."

"You put your hand on my hip first." A feeble attempt at what, you don't know, another hypocritical comment maybe.

His grip tightens, mouth drifting to your jaw, rough stubble scraping in a line. "Yeah," he murmurs, lips moving against your skin, "that was my mistake."

"Was it?"

He answers by flexing his thigh again. Your body folds forward into him, the moan breaking out before you can swallow it. There is no dignity in the way you ride that pressure now, only the greedy search for the angle that makes your breath catch hardest. Bucky lets you find it. Worse, he studies you finding it. His eyes are half-lidded when you pull back enough to look at him, mouth red from kissing, cheek bruised, hair messy from your fingers.

You have seen Bucky Barnes irritated. Exhausted. Amused against his will. Soft in your kitchen at one in the morning, pretending tea is the reason he stayed.

You have never seen him look hungry like this.

Maybe, it should scare you, but it doesn't. It makes something in you preen, which is terrible. Truly terrible. The man has been through government experiments, wars, therapy, and one mutually beneficial friendship with you, and all you did was soak through your shorts while wondering if he would groan again if you bit his lip a little.

"You look at me like that a lot?" you ask, unable to keep your mouth shut, begging for humiliation, because he could easily say no.

His thumb slips under the hem of your shirt, finding bare skin. Possessive in the quietest way. "Yeah."

He makes you feel stupid for doubting him, for thinking he wouldn't be honest, it makes your hips falter.

Bucky would notice a bullet coming a mile away, you losing your rhythm on his thigh is hardly a thing, so of course he notices, and for a second the want in him softens. His hand moves up your back, palm spreading there, holding you close enough that your chest brushes his with every breath. "That scare you?"

Speaking would give away too much, you end up shaking your head.

"Use your words," he murmurs. You'd think he is teasing, but his own breathing is too ragged for smugness. "Need to hear you."

"No," you whisper. "It doesn't scare me."

His forehead tips forward until it nearly touches your clavicle, almost burying his face above it, breath warming your skin like relief escaped him without permission, like he has been holding that fear for months.

The softness you'd both acquired turns right back when you move again, his hands guiding you harder this time. Each roll of your hips drags wet heat through your cunt, the fabric growing slick enough that the friction turns smoother, dirtier, easier to chase. You can feel yourself making a mess. Worse, you can tell he knows. The faintest flare of his nostrils, the ruined sound in his throat, the way his fingers dig in like he is trying to keep from dragging you fully into his lap.

"You smell so sweet," he says before he can stop himself. He freezes for half a beat, like the words surprised him too.

Your own body freezes too. Which is worse? Bucky Barnes saying that or him looking almost devastated by his own mouth?

"Sorry —"

"Don't." You cut him off easily. "Say it again."

Bucky doesn't bless you by saying it again, but he does pull you in for another kiss. The apology is gone, the careful distance gone, his metal hand slides down to your ass, gripping you through your shorts. The cold makes you gasp against his tongue, and his flesh hand moves to your breast, palming you over your shirt with a rough sound of appreciation that makes you clench around nothing.

"Been trying to be normal about you," he mutters against your mouth. The words come out broken, like every grind of your hips knocks another confession loose. "Didn't work."

You drag yourself over his thigh again, slower now, meaner to yourself, letting the pressure build until your legs start to tremble. "You mean we could've been doing this since day one?"

"Well —"

"If you say something else, I'm getting off."

The laugh that leaves him is barely a laugh at all, more of a rough breath against your mouth. It warms his face for one stolen second, makes him look almost boyish, fond. "You are getting off."

"I'm getting off of you."

His flesh hand shifts higher, palm closing over your breast again, more certain now, more greedy, pointer finger and thumb finding your nipple, tugging, then soothing it with a slow circle. "We don't want that do we?"

Your mouth finds the side of his neck before sense can catch up. You bite him because he flexes his thigh at the same time, hand on your breast. The ruined sound he makes when your teeth sink is worth everything. His whole body goes rigid beneath you, then hotter somehow, his breath breaking at your ear. "That's it, take what you need."

Your hips roll harder, chasing the friction with a desperation that would be embarrassing if his eyes weren't so dark. The wet spot on his jeans is growing, undeniable evidence of how soaked you are, and when he glances down at it his breath punches out. "Fuck, sweetheart. She's dripping on me."

"Bucky —" your body stops moving, planting itself right over the wetness.

"No. Don't hide. I want to feel you ruin my jeans." His metal hand guides you into a new angle, pleasure spiking so sharp you gasp into his mouth. "There?" he asks, doing it again when you whimper. "That the spot?"

Your forehead drops to his shoulder, fingers clawing at his jacket while you ride his thigh like your life depends on it, the slick drag of fabric audible in the quiet room.

You woukd feel embarrassed if you could, but you just don't care. That's when you feel him, the hard length of him pressed against your knee, thick and straining against his zipper. Bucky Barnes is rock hard from watching you get yourself off on his thigh. From the sounds you're making, from the mess you're leaving on him. "You're — You're so hard."

His laugh is more of a groan. "Yeah. Happens when a pretty girl humps my leg."

The words go straight to your cunt. Your rhythm stutters, then picks up faster, chasing the edge that's suddenly right there. "Bucky, I'm —"

"I know." His hand moves from your ass to between your legs, thumb pressing against your clit through your soaked shorts. "Let me feel it."

White hot pleasure hits you, your face buried on his neck, unable to come up, to feel anything else but your wrung out body.

When you finally come back to yourself, you're trembling. Bucky's hand is stroking your back, gentling you down like you're not a depraved mess. "There you go," he murmurs. "That's my girl."

His girl.

You're too wrecked to think about what that means. 

"Bucky," you breathe.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Your turn."

MY MASTERLIST!

EXTRAS. It was supposed to be quick smut, but this is my first time writing tfatws Bucky, and you can obviously tell I got a bit too intense 😭 also let’s be honest, this was in no way a first aid…

The med student and two residents share subtle looks, watching the interaction. 

“Is my husband around?” You asked Dana, glancing around to see if he was nearby. It was never predictable where he might be. It’s not uncommon for him to not answer his phone when he works and you don’t blame him. It’s understandable. But it’s rare for you to show up at the department, that usually means it’s important.

The three watching noticed your eyes wandering, quickly busying themselves. Santos and Javadi looked at the same computer, as if they were reading results together. While Whitaker fumbled with the chart he’d picked up. The two women look at him in disbelief and annoyance. Smooth. 

“Trauma one. He’s in a mood.” Dana pre warned you, giving you a knowing look. You weren’t surprised by the fact, very aware how moody Robby can be when he’s stressed. 

“Not surprising.” You huffed out a dry laugh. “When isn’t he?”

“True that.” The charge nurse hiffs, knowing you'd understand more than anyone. But you’re able to diffuse him unlike anyone else. 

“Alright if I hang around?” You asked, knowing the answer but much preferring to be sure instead of assuming. 

“Of course.” Dana assured you, well aware you don’t like to presume but instead hear directly. Everyday is different in the ED. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just Levi.” You explained, not details but enough for her to understand that something had happened. Your son could get into his own mess these days, he’s 22 and at college, figuring out his life. Didn’t mean he didn’t avoid doing dumb shit. 

Before Dana could respond, her mouth hanging open before shutting as a painstakingly familiar voice rang out. 

“What’re you doing here?” You heard your husband’s gruff voice, head turning as he wandered up beside you. He pressed a kiss to your head before his eyes returned to your face. Concern was etched across his features, worried that something was wrong. You didn’t show up here without a reason. 

Javadi tried to not look invested but she was, Robby was married? Santos and Whitaker thinking the same thing. And this woman is his wife? No way. That can’t be right. 

“Your son decided that getting drunk and running around campus was a good idea.” You informed him dryly. This is the second time you've talked about this. Not that you were angry but more annoyed. You had to leave work, because Robby couldn’t, to go and get him from the police station by his campus. “Naked.”

“Why is he always my son when he does something stupid?” Robby inquired in disbelief before shaking his head immediately. It was too early for this, barely 8:30am.  “Actually, don’t answer that.”

He knew that if either of you had passed the doing something dumb gene, it was him. He had never done something quite like that but he was the more reckless between the two of you. He didn’t need to have his workplace hear about some of the dumb things he’s done in his 20s. 

Levi isn't a bad kid. Just tends to do dumb things.

Javadi, Whitaker and Santos all shared glances in utter shock. This man has a son? A kid? No way. They don't believe they’d heard this correctly. 

“Anyways. He’s alright. But he called Jack who called me.”

“Fuck.” Your husband signed, hanging his head low before looking back at you. “You going to get him?”

He gave you a look that said you gonna go or… not to rush you out but instead to figure out why you were hanging around with your shared son behind local station bars. 

“Yeah.” You nodded, pausing before you explained absentmindedly. “Letting him sweat a bit.”

“You’re evil.” He commented dryly. 

“It’s why you married me.” You grinned. 

He huffed a soft yet dry laugh. He won’t even deny it. Your nature was one of the many reasons he’d fallen inlove with you in the first place. He knows how incredible of a mother you are. He’s cherished raising children with you. He’d never seen you so soft and loving. He sometimes still found it hard to believe you had married and had kids with him. 

But he was aware that you weren’t going to let this stint slide. 

“That’s why you’re here?” He quizzed, almost a little amused, though pissed that his son had done something so stupid. This would be something you two would discuss with him later. 

“Partially. But thought I'd tell you before Jack blabs at shiftchange.” You answered, not going to have spoken to him later about this. It was too important. And you knew Jack would’ve let him know this evening. Better if it comes from you. 

Jack has been a staple in your kids' lives since he’d met Robby years ago. When Robby had started working at PTMC as an attending, you’d been pregnant with your second child. When Jack had joined a few years later, your kids were 8 and 6 at the time. He’d immediately grown attached, loving them like they were his own. They adored him, not having a day without him since (minus when he’d been in the army and deployed). 

As much as he loves them, he made it clear he wouldn’t keep things from you and Robby. Especially when it’s important. He loved them. But he loves you both too. All of you are like his family. He wasn’t going to lie. 

“Good thinking.” He nodded, appreciative you’d told him instead of letting him be blindsited later. 

“I’ll head out.” You said, wanting to get this whole thing sorted and just get back home. Not like you’d go back to the office. Thankfully your appointments were all via zoom today, it helped. “Hopefully won’t take too long but i’ll let you know.”

“Alright, thanks.” Robby replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It was something he always did when you’d separate for the day. “See you after work.”

“I love you.” You said softly, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips.

“I love you, honey.”

You waved goodbye to him and Dana, turning back around and heading back to your car. 

“You’re married?” Santos blurted in disbelief, unable to keep it in. Whitaker nudged her with his elbow in panic, she should not have said that. 

He looks over at her, pulling the chain out from under his undershirt. The chain dangled with a gold band hanging from it. His wedding ring. “26 years.” 

He doesn’t hide he’s married. He just doesn’t find himself needing to share that information unwarranted. He loves his wife and kids but he prefers to keep his family outside of the workplace. So if he’s not prompted, he doesn't talk about them. 

“How… when … what?” Santos stammered, in disbelief he’s been married. To you. For 26 years. 

“You didn’t know?” Langdon quizzed the three as he wandered to the desk, amused at their shocked expressions.

“Don’t act like you didn’t react the same way when you found out.” Dana mused, shooting Langdon a knowing look. 

He can’t even deny it. When he discovered his attending’s long-lasting marriage, he was shocked. The man didn’t seem emotionally capable. But must've been wrong. He’s grown to know that over the last few years when he’d seen you two interact. 

Robby is a man inlove. 

“How’d you meet?” Javadi mustered up the courage to ask, curious to hear how you’d met. Especially since you’d been married for so long. 

Robby huffed a laugh at the memory, recalling the evening you’d met. It was forever seared into his memory.

1995.

Robby was out with a couple of his med school classmates for a rare night out between rotations. Being a MS3 was intense, going from classroom to real direct-contact work with patients. 

The four of them were mostly sharing how their recent rotation had been. They’d all been put into different specialties. Paediatrics, orthopaedics, cardiology and gastroenterology. 

He was mid laugh when his eyes glanced over the room, eyes locking on you. It felt like his breath had been pulled from his lungs. 

You were out with friends for a monthly catch up. Since you’d both graduated and begun your career’s, you rarely get to spend time together. The two of you made it a point to organise a once a month where you’re both free to catch up in person. Talking on the phone can only do so much for a friendship sometimes. 

The two of you were chatting, discussing recent events in your lives. She was halfway through telling you about an incident at her new job. 

“God, can you believe it?” She said in disbelieving scoff. “I mean, who in their right mind thinks that it’s okay to show up drunk and deny the whole thing, it's just dumb to try and gaslight your boss.”

“That’s so fucked. Please tell me he was fired. Or at least suspended.” You said in disgust, already hating whoever this guy was.

“I wish.” Your friend shook her head in annoyance. She went to take a sip of her drink, to realise it was empty. “But I will say that I need another drink.”

“I’ll get some.” You said as you stood up with a chuckle, grabbing your wallet. Though you gave her a playfully pointed look. “Don’t venture anywhere.”

“No promises.” she teased, though not really planning to go anywhere. She was the type to just wander away without prompt. But honestly, so are you. She’s just worse than you, especially when intoxicated. 

You chuckled and rolled your eyes at the tease, but accepted it. It's normal for the two of you, the teasing. But you do hope she won’t venture far if she decides to. 

You made your way to the bar, sliding up between a tall man and a woman, there being a gap. They weren’t interacting so you took it as a safe spot to choose. It didn’t take long for the bartender to make it to you, barely 30 seconds.

“What can I get for ya?” He asked, leaning forward slightly to make sure he could hear you. It wasn’t too loud but to be safe. 

“Vodka lemonade and a vodka coke please.” You asked kindly, always making sure to be nice to staff. He nodded and got to making the drinks.

Robby glanced down at you when he heard the honeyed voice. Oh shit. It’s you. He made an effort not to stare at you from a distance when he’d noticed you earlier. He’s not shy but he respects you’d been with a friend and he’d been with his. He barely noticed the bartender he’s spoken to before, placing the beers he’d asked for in front of him. 

“Thanks.” He said to the guy but he made no effort to move. He glanced down at you again, at the same time your eyes had flickered up to him. You gave him a smile before looking back ahead of you, eyes seemingly glancing around behind the bar. 

Robby’s attention went back to the bartender as he dug out a few bills and handed them over. He gestured with his head towards you besides him. “Her’s too.”

The bartender nodded, not really having much of a thought as he put the money through, conversing with the other bartender for what you’d asked for to figure out the total cost. 

Your head had snapped up towards him, eyebrows slightly furrowed. You’ve had guys offer to buy you drinks, your friend too. Though never had been quite as forward as this. 

“That’s awfully nice of you.” You commented dryly, looking up at him. You were a little suspicious. But you can't help but think of how gorgeous he is. It’s not actually fair. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He said honestly, offering you a grin that made your heart skip a beat. Fuck this guy. 

“But it got you talking to me.” He added a beat later, that breathtaking grin widening a smidge. 

“Ah, so that was your plan, huh?”

“No, kinda just happened in the moment.” He said with a shrug, grin not faltering. It wasn't a total lie. He had been thinking about ways he could start a conversation with you. He normally can do without ease. But you’d made him throw away the idea of using shitty pickup lines. 

“In the moment.” You chuckled, a grin of your own forming. Somehow you could tell it wasn’t a complete lie, but he wasn’t telling the whole truth. For not, you wouldn’t question it. As gorgeous as he is, you didn’t plan on hanging around long. You had your friend to get back to. 

“That hard to believe?” He teased, having noted you seemed to be somewhat amused. 

“Nope, but you can’t tell me you don’t already have a list of pick-up lines ready to go.” You joked, but half-meaning it. He was unfairly attractive and you’re sure he knew it. No doubt he could easily get a girl’s attention. 

The bartender placed your drinks in front of you. Thanking him, you turned back to the man you’d been interacting with. 

“You got me.” He chuckled, not going to deny it. “But they don’t seem like something you’d be interested in”

“Now that's a line.” You laughed, grin turning into a genuine smile. 

That smile? That nearly stopped his heart. 

“Maybe it is.” He said with a light laugh, not denying but not having intended on it being that way. But really, anything to make sure you kept smiling like that. He leant his head slightly forward towards you, speaking in a conspiratorial murmur. “Did it work?”

“I’m not at liberty to answer that.” You chuckled, unwilling to admit that maybe it was. It might just be his pretty face. But you weren’t immune. 

“Besides, I have my friend to get back to.” You added, gesturing over to your friend. When your eyes landed on her, she seemed to be occupied with a guy. The two close together as they seemed in deep conversation. Good for her.

“Ah, that's one of mine.” he chuckled, eyes having followed where you’d directed and seeing it was one of his friends with your friend. He hadn’t quite anticipated his friend chatting with yours. But it certainly seemed to work in his favour here so he won’t complain. 

“Yeah?” You quizzed but weren’t completely convinced he hadn’t coordinated that. 

“Not my doing. Promise." He chuckled, raising his hands in faux-defence, sensing you thought it may have been. He meant it, genuinely not having a single thing to do with the situation. But he thought of it as good luck. 

Your eyes drifted back to him, eyebrows raised. You looked at him for a few beats before grabbing your friend's drink and one of his beers. “Don’t move.”

He didn’t say anything as you left him, and your own drink. Not a smart move but it hadn’t even occurred to you in the moment. You made your way back to the table your friend was at, placing the drinks down in front of her and her guest. You subtly winked at her before you turned back and headed towards the drink and man you’d left.

As you slid back besides him, he felt elated. He hadn’t felt this excited to just talk to a woman in well … ever. 

“Gonna tell me your name or am i gonna have to guess?”

“Michael. But you can call me Robby.”

“I don’t see how that correlates.” You mused, raising an eyebrow at him. You don't exactly see how those names worked together. Robby? You think Robert. 

“Robinavitch.” he explained with a chuckle, eyes dazzling. 

“Ah, gotcha.” You nodded with another light chuckle. Last name. You told him your name in return. 

He repeated your name, letting it roll off of his tongue. He liked it. It was your name after all. 

The two of you converesed. You discussed your lives, work, study, friends, hobbies. You discovered he was a third year med student, just completing a rotation in cardiology. He mentioned he liked the idea of emergency, wanting to help people at the hardest point of their lives. You respected it, understood it even. You were hanging onto every word he spoke, enjoying the words rolling off his lips and interested in what he was saying. That hasn’t happened in a long time.

He discovered you had graduated with a bachelor of psychology last year, now practising as such as you worked on completing your masters of clinical psychology. You explained how you want to conduct cognitive clinical assessments for patients who think they might have ADHD, autism and anything else that might support patients understand what is going on inside their brains. You didn’t go into details but you had admitted you’d had your own struggles with mental health. That being a huge part of wanting to support others with theirs. You wanted to work in a few areas of psychology, he had gathered. 

You two spoke for hours. Literally hours. About everything and nothing at the same time. You joked, had serious topics at hand and discussed absolutely anything either of you could think of. 

You checked the time on the wall with a glance, realising it was nearing 12am. God, you’d been talking to him since about 9, knowing you’d been here since at least 8 when you and your friend had arrived. Neither of you even touched your drinks, both just sitting there useless. 

“Not to cut this short…” You said with a light huff as you got up from the seat you’d been on. Eventually the two of you had drifted to an empty table, finding it more comfortable to be seated as you chatted. But he would’ve happily stood there in discomfort if he got to hear your voice. Not that he’d admit that. “...but I should go, it's nearly 12.”

He looked at the clock as you spoke, eyes widening in surprise. It had been 3 hours? That’s how long he’d been talking to you. It felt like it had been 30 minutes. His eyes drifted back to you, not going to argue. He should probably find out if his friends are still here or not. You’d both noticed yours and his friend leaving earlier, so you didn’t need to worry about her being alone. 

“Yeah, it was great talking to you.” He said with a soft smile. He was disappointed you were leaving but he understood. And he wasn’t going to make assumptions. Not with you. Other women he may have made some sort of line, getting them to go home with him or vice versa to never see them again the next day. But he didn’t want to do that with you. 

“You too.” You replied with a smile of your own. “Bye, Michael.”

“Bye.” He smiled, his lips tugging wider at the use of his first name. Not his nickname. But his name. He watched as you waved and made your exit, eyes trailing you as you walking out the front door. He let out a small sigh, disappointed you were gone. He realised a moment later that he hadn’t even asked for your number. The thought slipped. Likely to avoid the anxiety. He;d never been anxious to ask a girl for her number before. 

Meanwhile, the cold air was a welcomed slap to the face from the heat of inside the bar. It was soothing. But you couldn’t help the disappointment you felt. You had really begun to like him. You’d spoken for hours. Not like you’d spilled your entire life story. But still, you thought something was there. Something you hadn’t felt before. Not with your exes. 

You became annoyed. Had he not felt that? Or did he? Either way, he didn’t ask for any form of contact details for you. 

With a huff, you turned back inside and marched towards him. 

Robby was shocked when he saw your figure storming towards him. He had just stood up to go in search for his friends. 

“Okay. We have something. There’s this … this… I don't know … spark. It's there.” You ranted, eyes wide as you looked up at him. You wished you could blame it on the alcohol because this was not something you did. But you couldn’t help but blurt this at him. You can be embarrassed later. “We’ve been talking for hours. Literal hours. And you don’t ask for my number? Seriously? What the fuck?!”

His eyes were wide in shock as you spoke before softening. He hadn't exactly anticipated you running back to tell him off. It was hot. A soft grin tugged at his lips at each word you said. 

“What?” You asked him in annoyance, arms now crossed over your chest. 

“Is it too late to ask for your number?” He questioned, a hint of tease mixed in the hope in his voice. He had wanted to ask but had been caught off guard by you leaving. He was nervous at the prospect. What if you’d said no? That’d have just about broken his heart. 

“You’re asking now?” You asked dryly. “Because I yelled at you?”

“First, you didn't yell. You firmly stated your annoyance.” He corrected genuinely but firmly  “second, i wanted to but i got nervous.”

“Nervous?” you quizzed, not quite believing that. He hadn’t been nervous the entire time you’d spoken to him. Not openly anyways. 

“Yeah. Nervous.” He admitted without shame. “Beautiful girl I've been talking to all night rejects me? That's nerve-wrecking.”

“Enough with the lines.” You responded dryly. He hadn’t really given you lines but that didn’t automatically exclude him from going to use them. 

“Not a line. I'm serious.” Robby said, sincerity seeping through his voice. His eyes didn’t leave yours. He wanted you to know he wasn’t trying to be smooth. Just honest. 

You stared at him for a few moments, debating if you could trust it. He sounded painfully sincere. You don’t think you can fake this kind of honestly. 

“Still want my number?”

Present. 

“I love her.” Javadi rushed out immediately, then flushing with embarrassment as she realised she said that outloud. Her hand covered her mouth in shock at her own words. 

Robby just chuckled, which surprised her and the two residents. 

“She’s incredible.” He commented fondly. His mind reeled with thoughts of you. Both from recent years and the early times of your relationship. 

“Careful, you’re sounding human.” Dana joked, though she had grown fond of the dynamic between you and the attending. He was practically a different person with you. Your kids too. 

“Don’t let my daughter hear that, she’ll use it against me.” He joked back, having broken out of his thoughts and preferring the humour based dynamic in the workplace. He didn’t need to be vulnerable here. Not about his family.

Before anyone could respond, he headed off. Intending to see a patient, check in to see how his residents are doing. But he’d instead slowed his moments and pulled out his phone, pulling up your text chain.  

Husband <3: if he claims he was dared, you’re going to let me eat you out Wife: if he says that he’s made a mistake and won’t do it again, you’ll eat me out Husband <3: deal

“I’m sorry … DAUGHTER?!” 

He heard the disbelief of his resident, ignoring the question and instead pocketing his phone continuing on his day. He’s the chief attending here. At home? He’s just a man who’s obsessed with his wife.