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Garrett always said thank you like he meant it. Tucker stacked empty baskets at the end of the table without being asked. Dean tipped well enough to make you forgive almost anything, even when he flirted with half the bar out of boredom. And Logan—

Logan noticed things.

Not a problem, necessarily. Just an inconvenient one when you were trying to get through a shift without thinking too hard about the way his attention felt when it landed on you.

He was sitting near the middle of the long table tonight, shoulders relaxed, one arm hooked over the back of his chair while he listened to Garrett say something over the noise. The team was out celebrating the newest freshmen, which meant the table had the strange energy of older guys trying to be welcoming and younger guys trying way too hard to prove they belonged there.

You had already been warned by one of the bartenders.

“Rookies,” Maya had muttered as she slid a tray of draft beers toward you. “God gives them varsity jackets and suddenly they think they invented testosterone.”

You snorted, lifting the tray. “If I don’t come back, tell my mother I died doing what I hated.”

“Serving men?”

“Pretending not to hear them.”

Maya laughed, and you carried the drinks toward the back.

The table erupted when you arrived, not at you specifically, but in that loud, pack-like way guys did when someone put alcohol within reach. Garrett reached automatically to help pass the glasses down, and Tucker shifted a basket of fries away from the edge before you could knock into it. Dean was mid-story, grinning at someone across from him, but he still glanced up long enough to say, “You’re a saint.”

“I know,” you said, setting down the last beer. “Tell your friends. Saints get tipped twenty percent.”

A couple of the older guys laughed. Logan’s mouth curved around the rim of his glass, his eyes flicking up to yours before he took a sip.

You had known Logan as a Malone’s regular before anything else. He came in with the team, sometimes with Garrett and Dean, sometimes alone after a game with damp hair and tired eyes. He was never difficult. He never waved you over with two fingers or called you sweetheart in that way that made your skin crawl. He looked at you when you spoke, remembered when you said you hated carrying hot plates without warning, and once, when a man at the bar had snapped his fingers at you, Logan had gone completely still.

He had not even said anything that time. He had just stared until the guy lowered his hand.

Tonight, though, his attention kept drifting.

You told yourself it was because you were his waitress, and he was probably waiting on wings.

That was easier than admitting you liked it.

The first hour was normal. Loud, messy, manageable. The freshmen drank too quickly and laughed too hard at jokes that were not funny enough to deserve it. You refilled waters they were not going to touch, brought out a mountain of baskets, and dodged elbows while people made room for plates.

Then one of the freshmen at the far end knocked a basket of fries off the table.

Not bumped. Not clipped with his sleeve by accident.

Knocked.

You saw his hand move too deliberately for it to be anything else, saw the way his eyes flicked to the guy beside him before the basket hit the floor and fries scattered under the chairs.

“Oh, shit,” he said, far too loud. “My bad.”

The other freshman laughed under his breath.

You stared at the fries for half a second, then at him. He gave you a look full of fake innocence.

It was not the first time someone had treated you like the job made you part of the furniture. It would not be the last. Malone’s had taught you a lot of things, but mostly it had taught you how to swallow irritation in public, how to smile with your teeth, and how to decide which battles were worth your manager pulling you aside later.

This one, you decided, was not.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, voice flat enough that Garrett glanced over.

You went to get the broom.

By the time you came back, the freshmen had moved on, already laughing about something else. You swept the fries into a pile, trying not to focus on the heat creeping up your neck. Your uniform skirt suddenly felt shorter than it had ten minutes ago. Every bend of your knees, every shift of your weight, felt watched.

Most of the table had gone quieter.

Not silent, but aware.

Garrett’s expression had tightened, his eyes moving from you to the freshmen. Tucker had stopped eating. Dean’s grin was gone, replaced by a look that made him seem sharper around the edges.

And Logan was looking right at the freshman who had dropped the basket.

Not with anger, exactly.

With restraint.

You finished cleaning, dumped the fries, and told yourself that was the end of it.

Twenty minutes later, you returned with another round of drinks. The table had loosened again, but the freshmen were still buzzing with too much confidence and not enough sense. You set a beer in front of Logan, then moved toward the far end with two sodas and a basket of onion rings.

“Thanks,” Tucker said quietly as you passed him.

You gave him a small smile.

The freshman who had spilled the fries watched you set down the basket. His friend, sitting beside him, shifted in his chair and let his phone slide off his thigh. It landed near your shoe, face-down on the floor.

The timing was too perfect.

So was the grin he tried to hide.

“Oops,” he said. “Could you grab that?”

For one second, nobody moved.

You looked down at the phone, then back at him. He was waiting for you to bend. He wanted you to bend. He wanted his friends to laugh, wanted the moment to turn into a story he could tell later like you were not a person standing in front of him with aching feet and a tray burn on your wrist.

Your hand tightened around the empty tray.

Before you could decide whether losing your job would be worth it, Logan’s chair scraped back.

“Pick it up yourself.”

The freshman blinked, his smile faltering. “What?”

Logan did not raise his voice, which somehow made everyone listen harder. “Your phone. Pick it up yourself.”

The guy let out a nervous laugh and looked around, probably searching for backup from someone older, someone cooler, someone willing to turn this into a joke. He did not find it. Garrett had leaned forward with his forearms on the table, eyes cold. Tucker was staring down the other freshman like he was memorizing him for later. Dean sat back slowly, all traces of amusement gone from his face.

“It’s not a big deal,” the freshman said, but his voice had thinned.

Logan stepped out from behind his chair. “Then you should have no problem doing it.”

The freshman’s ears went red.

You could feel half the bar watching now, the conversation closest to the table fading as people caught the shift in the air. You hated scenes. You hated being in the middle of them more. But Logan was not looking at you like you were a problem to fix. He was looking at the freshmen like they had embarrassed themselves, and for some reason, that made it easier to breathe.

The freshman grabbed his phone with an awkward dip, then sat up too quickly.

Logan waited until he was seated before speaking again.

“You’re here because the guys wanted to welcome you to the team,” he said, still calm, still controlled. “That does not mean you get to treat the staff like they’re props in whatever little performance you’re putting on. She’s working. You’re sitting here eating food she brought you. Try being less pathetic about it.”

One of the freshmen opened his mouth.

Garrett cut him a look. “Don’t.”

Dean reached for his beer, eyes never leaving the far end of the table. “Bold choice, making enemies with the woman who controls whether we get fed.”

The comment eased the pressure just enough for a couple of guys to shift, but nobody laughed at the freshmen.

Tucker glanced at you, his expression apologetic in a way that made your chest pinch. He moved his chair a few inches, giving you space to get out from between the tables without having to squeeze past anyone.

You took it.

Your heartbeat was still too fast. Your face felt too warm. You wanted to say something clever, something that made it seem like you were fine and unaffected, but the words would not come. So you looked at Logan instead.

He was already looking at you.

His jaw was tense. His hand flexed once by his side, like he had more to say and was forcing himself not to make the moment bigger than it already was. The anger was still there, contained but obvious. Because he was genuinely furious on your behalf.

You swallowed, then mouthed, thank you.

Something in his face shifted.

Softened.

You turned before it could undo you completely and headed back toward the bar.

Maya caught your eye as soon as you rounded the corner. “I was two seconds from coming over with the soda gun.”

“You would’ve sprayed me by accident.”

“Collateral damage.” She looked past you toward the hockey table, then back again. “Logan?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “I hate when people notice.”

“I know,” she said, a little gentler. “But sometimes it’s nice when the right person does.”

You did not answer that, mostly because you were afraid your face would say too much.

The rest of the night went easier, at least on the surface. The freshmen behaved like someone had stapled manners to their foreheads. They said please. They said thank you. One of them even tried to stack plates before Garrett looked at him like he was not allowed to earn redemption that quickly.

Logan did not make another scene.

He did not hover, either.

He watched you in small, quiet ways. When you passed the table with a heavy tray, he shifted his chair before you had to ask. When someone from another table tried to flag you down while you were already carrying six drinks, he told them you had seen them and would get there when you could. When the freshmen left with the rest of the group, he stayed near the back, pulling on his jacket slower than everyone else.

You were wiping down the bar when the team finally cleared out. Garrett clapped Logan on the shoulder on his way out, saying something low enough that you could not hear. Dean tossed cash onto the table and added more when Garrett gave him a look, which made you roll your eyes despite yourself. Tucker was the last of the others to leave, carrying two empty baskets to the bar.

“Sorry about earlier,” he said, not making it a production. “They were being assholes.”

You took the baskets from him. “Appreciate it.”

His gaze flicked toward the door, where Logan stood with one hand on the frame, pretending not to wait. “He means it, you know.”

You looked at Tucker. “Means what?”

Tucker’s mouth twitched like he knew better than to answer fully. “All of it.”

Then he left.

By last call, Malone’s had emptied into a quieter version of itself. The kind with chairs flipped onto tables, damp floors, and the lingering smell of fried food that clung to your hair no matter how many times you washed it. Maya counted the drawer while the last bartender hauled trash out back. You were sweeping under the hockey table, finding fries in places fries had no right to be, when the front door opened again.

You looked up, ready to tell whoever it was that you were closed.

Logan stepped in, hands half-raised like he knew he was trespassing on sacred post-shift territory.

“Before you throw something at me,” he said, “I come in peace.”

Your grip eased on the broom. “That depends. Are you ordering food?”

“No.”

“Then your survival odds are better.”

He smiled a little, but it did not quite reach his eyes. He let the door fall shut behind him and glanced around the bar. “You still closing?”

“Usually what happens after closing.”

“Right.” He nodded once, looking down at his shoes before looking back at you. “That was a dumb question.”

“A little.”

He took it without flinching, which you liked more than you wanted to.

The room felt different with Logan in it now. Earlier, he had been part of the noise, one guy at a table full of them. Here, with the lights half-dimmed and the music low behind the bar, he was impossible to ignore, his hair messy from the cold and his jacket unzipped over his Briar hoodie.

“I wanted to apologize again,” he said.

You leaned the broom against the table. “You already did more than you had to.”

“That’s not the point.” His gaze flicked toward the spot where the fries had scattered earlier. “You shouldn’t have had to stand there and decide whether saying something was worth risking your shift. They were being gross. I should’ve shut it down the first time.”

You picked at the towel tucked into your apron. “I’m used to it.”

His expression shifted. “That makes me want to go back outside and yell better.”

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it, small but real.

Logan’s shoulders eased a little, and somehow that made you look away faster.

“You don’t have to hang around out of guilt,” you said, reaching for the broom again. “I’m okay.”

“I know you are.” His voice softened. “That’s not why I came back.”

You swept beneath the table, waiting, but he did not rush to fill the silence. He just stood there, close enough for you to notice the crease between his brows.

“I came back because I hated leaving you here thinking that was the only reason I noticed you tonight.”

Your hand stilled.

The bar hummed around you, all old refrigerators and low music and Maya pretending very hard not to look over from behind the counter.

“You noticed me tonight?” you asked.

His mouth curved, more nervous than teasing. “Yeah. Terrible habit. Been happening for a while.”

That landed low in your stomach.

You glanced toward the bar, where Maya suddenly became fascinated by clean glasses. Subtlety was apparently dead.

You looked back at Logan. “Is this the part where you tell me you’re secretly here all the time for the burgers?”

“The burgers are good.”

“Logan.”

“I’m here for the waitress who judges my wing orders,” he admitted, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. “And because she remembers I hate celery but still brings it to me because she thinks it’s funny.”

“It is funny.”

“It’s bullying.”

He smiled, and some of the heaviness from earlier loosened between you.

“Mostly,” he said, “I’m here because of you.”

You hated how much you liked that. After a night of being looked at in a way that made your skin feel too tight, Logan’s attention felt completely different. It did not make you feel small. It made you feel seen.

You swallowed. “That was a really good apology.”

“I had time to work on it outside.”

“You waited outside?”

“For a bit.”

“In the cold?”

He winced. “Sounds worse when you say it like that.”

“That’s because it’s weird.”

“Probably,” he said. “I was trying not to make your night harder.”

“And then you came back into my closed bar.”

“Yeah, the plan had flaws.”

This time, your laugh came easier.

You still had closing to finish, so Logan helped without making a big deal out of it. He flipped chairs while you swept, quiet and steady, like making your night shorter mattered because it mattered to you. By the time Maya disappeared into the back with a look you chose to ignore, the bar was nearly done.

You untied your apron and set it behind the counter. “You really didn’t have to help.”

“I know.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” he repeated, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I guess I’m trying to make a good impression.”

You looked over at him. “By doing unpaid labor?”

“By making your night a little less awful.”

That quieted you more than it should have.

Logan’s smile faded, but he didn’t look away. “I’ve wanted to ask you out for weeks,” he admitted. “Tonight just made me realize I was running out of excuses not to.”

You stared at him, your chest doing something soft.

“I don’t owe you anything,” you said.

“I know.”

“And you’re not getting a date because you yelled at a freshman.”

“Good,” he said immediately. “He doesn’t deserve that kind of power.”

A smile tugged at your mouth. “But I might give you one because you waited in the cold and admitted the wing thing was about me.”

“It was fully about you.”

You laughed, and the way he looked at you afterward was what got you. Not the protective part. Not even the apology. It was the quiet relief on his face, like making you laugh after the night you had was enough.

You grabbed your coat. “I’m done here.”

Logan walked you to your car, matching your pace through the cold. When you stopped beside the driver’s door, the silence stretched between you in a way that felt awkward only because it mattered.

“Can I take you out?” he asked. “Somewhere you don’t have to carry anyone’s food or pretend rude people are funny.”

Your throat went a little tight. “Yeah. You can.”

His smile came slowly, warm enough to make the cold feel less sharp.

Logan did not move in right away. He waited, giving you every chance to tell him goodnight. Instead, you reached for the front of his jacket and tugged lightly.

He stepped in, one hand settling against the car beside your shoulder while the other brushed your waist. His mouth met yours softly at first, almost asking, and when you kissed him back, the hesitation disappeared.

When he pulled away, he stayed close, his breath visible in the cold.

“I’m trying really hard not to say something stupid right now,” he murmured.

You smiled. “Save it for the date.”

When you finally got into your car, Logan waited until your headlights came on before stepping back.

“Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you said, this time out loud.

His expression softened under the parking lot light. “Anytime.”

“Aw, you wanna win me over once again, gorgeous?” Logan had teased you.

You had rolled your eyes and nudged him, “It’s for a good cause.”

“You’re paying to go out on a date with your boyfriend.”

“I’m paying to fund a little cane’s hockey endeavors.”

Except you can’t do either of those things because your trusted friend turned out to not be so trustworthy.

“I’m sorry, babe! I really am,” Allie’s eyes shone with guilt. “Della had me working a table during Logan’s segment, and I lost the stupid auction paddle—”

You raised your hand up to cut her off. With a resigned sigh, you let any hard feelings flee from your system. Allie had been having a rough couple of days—with the Sean breakup, and her recent streak of suspicious disappearances that you still hadn’t confronted her about, you knew this was a genuine mistake.

“Did he at least sell for a good price?” You asked.

“$750, baby!”

The voice came from behind you, along with a strong arm draping over your shoulders. You turned your head and met your boyfriend’s handsome face. Logan wore a gleeful smile, probably elated that the fundraiser had gone so well despite the last minute arrangements.

“Wow, that’s a lot,” you noted in surprise.

Logan’s expression shifted to a subtle pout. “You don’t think I’m worth that much?”

You kissed his stubble placatingly. “I think you’re priceless, babe.”

That got him to grin again.

Tucker came up behind and clapped him on the back, “Your boy here got the second highest bid.”

You shared an unimpressed look with Allie, “Let me guess, the top bid was on—”

“Well, well, well, Mrs. Logan. You finally showed up,” Dean joined the circle with a smug smile.

“Speak of the devil,” Allie said spitefully.

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed, “You wound me, theatre kid.”

“I know you mean that as an insult, but I take it as a compliment.”

“You tell him, Al,” Beau popped up right behind Dean. He shot Allie a wink.

“How much did they get on you?” You redirected the conversation back into place.

The blond shrugged casually, peering down at his drink. “Nothing grand. A humble amount, really.”

Beau rolled his eyes and answered, “$1800.”

Your eyes widened, “You’re kidding.”

Dean’s mouth hung open, “Don’t stoop to their level, Mrs. Logan.” He pointed an accusing finger your way.

“I’m just shocked that somebody has that much money laying around,” you replied.

“We could’ve renovated the theatre department’s stage,” Allie noted bitterly.

“I could’ve gotten new car rims,” Logan added.

“Or that new gaming console,” Tucker said.

“Or my housing payment,” you continued.

“Or better toner for his hair,” Beau teased Dean.

“OKAY! WE GET IT!” Dean exclaimed, holding his hands up to stop the discussion.

Hannah and Garrett walked by, holding hands. The former shared a bright smile, “Hey, you made it!”

“How much was your boyfriend?” You asked her.

“5 bucks.”

“How.” You deadpanned. Garrett was a good looking guy, a very popular one at that. You’ve seen the herds of puck bunnies that worshipped him. A five dollar bid was ridiculous to even consider.

“Garrett stopped the auction once Wellsy placed her bid,” Tucker responded.

Smooth move, Graham.

And he knew it. Garrett had a shit-eating grin on his face like he knew he just won a million boyfriend points.

“That’s so cute,” you said before turning your head to eye your boyfriend. “Why didn’t you do that?”

The boys stifled their laughs at that.

Logan paused for a beat before he replied with: “I…wanted to make sure we raised enough money for the children.”

Smooth move, Logan.

Garrett dapped him up like his answer was ingenious. You hmphed and looked away. Logan squeezed your waist in an appeasing gesture.

“Well, when’s your date?” You asked.

Logan looked at his watch, which was on the wrist of the arm he had around you, so he charmingly pulled you closer to him to check the time. “In half an hour.”

You blinked. “What? Why so soon?”

Dean answered, “She requested it.”

“And is anyone gonna tell me who she is?”

“HIPAA,” Dean mimed zipping his lips closed.

“That’s for medical stuff, dingus,” Hannah told him.

“Is someone a sore loser?” Dean taunted.

Your gaze flew to Allie, “You placed a bid?”

“No,” she defended rather quickly. “Dean’s just…being stupid.” She muttered before rushing back into the staff kitchen.

You would’ve questioned their exchange more, but Logan’s arm returned to his side. “I should go too. You know, freshen up for my date.”

You flashed a faux smile, “Keep talking like that and you’ll have to go looking for a real date after this.”

The group dispersed—Garrett tugging Hannah along for their ‘fairly’-earned date, Dean and Tucker off to count up all the money they collected, Logan away to prepare for his mystery girl, and Beau gave your shoulder a reassuring rub and said, “If you give me $20 right now, I’ll go on a date with you” before you glared at him enough for him to bolt out.

You decided to stick around and help the group clean up the place once the festivities ended. Surely it wasn’t because you wanted to see the girl who spent hundreds of dollars to hang out with your boyfriend.

“Pop a fucking button, Logan. What is this, Sunday school?” Tucker was playing with Logan’s outfit to ensure he looked presentable for his date.

Logan’s eyebrows knitted together, “Relax, Law Roach. Are you forgetting she’s not actually my girlfriend?”

“For $750, you better start acting like she is.”

You cleared your throat loudly.

Tucker shot you an apologetic look.

“…John?”

The pair of them turned their attentions to the voice.

There stood a tall, stunning girl with beautiful deep tanned skin, hair down in luscious locs adorned in gold hair cuffs, and smooth legs peeking out from under her skirt. She looked like a model.

She looked between the two hockey players.

“You’re Amala,” Logan voiced.

She nodded with relief, “Yes. John, right?”

“We’re both John,” Tucker chimed in.

“Ohh,” Amala nodded.

“You can call me Logan,” your boyfriend said, stretching out a hand towards her.

“Logan,” she repeated the name, shaking his hand.

Tucker pushed Logan a step forward, “Have fun, you two.”

Logan looked over his shoulder to share one last look with you. He gave a reassuring smile, his eyes soft. Amala noticed and waved at you shyly. You waved back slowly.

Logan turned back to Amala, “Where would you like to go? You’re the boss.” He told her with a charming grin.

She shrugged with a smile, “Here is fine.”

“Here?” Logan raised a brow, surveying the post-function bar. “We could, though I thought of taking you out for ice cream—”

“Ice cream sounds great!”

“Yeah?” He smiled. “Perfect.”

Your eye twitched as you picked up discarded confetti off the floor.

Logan guided Amala out Malone’s with a hand hovering—not touching—over her lower back. The bell hanging over the door rang in a soft tune as they exited, marking their departure.

“Remind me again why I agreed to letting my boyfriend sell himself?” you queried as you picked up a broom.

Tucker raised a brow, “For charity?”

“Right,” you sighed.

Tucker looked around, “Hey, have you seen Dean? He was supposed to drive all this stuff back to the hockey house.”

You shook your head, “No. But he’s not the only unhelpful friend. Allie was supposed to clean up with me. She literally works here!”

“Huh.” Tucker licked his lips in thought.

He picked up a stack of boxes, “Well, I have to get these home myself. Do you need a ride?”

“I promised Della I’d clean up,” you replied.

“You sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

You shrugged, “I’ll be fine, Tuck. Drive safe.”

Tucker nodded and bid goodbye before leaving the diner.

By the time you finished fixing up the place, flipping chairs over tables, and mopping the floor clean, the bell chimed again.

“We’re closed,” you called out as you tied a garbage bag shut.

A pair of familiar arms wrapped around your torso from behind you. “No late night service?” Logan’s voice tickled your ear.

You stood up straight and leaned back into him before remembering you were supposed to be mad at him.

You pulled back and turned to him, “How was your date?”

Logan let out a wistful sigh, “Amazing. You know, I might need to ask her out again.”

You pinched his arm. He winced.

Logan leaned in and held your hips, “I’m kidding. You’re the only girl I want.” He murmured as he pressed a kiss against your forehead.

That soothed your jealousy a bit. “What did you two do?”

He hummed. “Took her to Spoons, got ice cream, sat at a table and talked about you, drove back—”

“Wait, wait,” you stopped him. “Talked about me?”

Logan’s lips tugged upwards, “Yeah, we talked about you. Like the whole time.”

“Why?” You were so perplexed.

He pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and responded, “Amala’s an exchange student. She shares a class with you. She’s been wanting to befriend you since the semester started but she didn’t know how to talk to you. So…she enlisted my help.”

You blinked a few times. “She went out with you…to ask you how she could be my friend?”

“Yeah. Sweet, right?”

“Oh my god, I feel like an asshole,” you breathed out.

Logan pulled you closer, “You’re not an asshole, baby.”

“I was cussing her out in my head for the past 2 hours!”

He chuckled, “I think that’s valid.”

“It’s not! I shouldn’t have judged so soon. Fuck, I feel so bad.” You started to spiral.

Before Logan could calm you down and reassure you, the bell rang again. You both turned to the door and saw Amala stepping in.

“Hey,” she shared a polite smile. “Logan, you left your wallet.” She handed it back to him.

“Oh, I didn’t even notice.” He took it from her hands. “Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”

She smiled with a small nod. Her eyes flicked to me. Amala mustered up some courage and said, “Logan said so many nice things about you. No wonder he loves you so much.”

Your guilt boiled over and settled into soft mush at that. “He’s…too kind.”

Logan rolled his eyes fondly and pulled you closer to him.

Amala smiled again then spoke, “We…we share an econ class together. The 10 am with Prof. Singh?”

You nodded, “Yeah, I’m in that class.” You didn’t want to tell her that you hadn’t noticed her before.

Amala nodded back, “Yeah…I think you’re pretty cool. And smart. Do you maybe wanna study together for the final exam this weekend?”

Your lips eased into a soft, genuine smile. “I’d love that, yeah.”

Amala’s eyes gleamed with excitement and relief. “Yeah? Great, that’s…” she cleared her throat to control herself and appear nonchalant. “Cool. Logan has my number, he can share that with you.”

“Will do,” Logan swore solemnly.

She waved goodbye and started heading towards the door, “Alright, text me! It was lovely meeting you both!”

And then she was gone.

You turned back to Logan. He had a smug, ‘I told you so’ smirk on his face. You rolled your eyes and shoved him. “Shut it.”

He buried his face in your hair, “Looks like you have an admirer.”

“Why, jealous?” You teased.

Logan’s brows lifted. “Me? Look who’s talking. You wanted to skin me alive a few hours ago.”

He wasn’t exactly wrong.

“God forbid a girl doesn’t want to see her boyfriend go out with someone else.”

Logan kissed your temple, “It was for a good cause,” he said softly.

“I know,” you squeezed his hand. You knew how much the hurricanes meant to Logan ever since he was a kid himself.

“So…” He brought you closer to him until your foreheads rested against one another. “How much for me to take you out on a date?”

Your eyes looked deep into his, “Hmm, how much have you got?”

Logan pretended to think about it. “If Amala didn’t rob me before returning my wallet, I should have 60 bucks and a punch card for free cheesy fries.”

You faked a delighted gasp, “How romantic!”

He chuckled at your comment before kissing you. His lips moved smoothly over yours, his kiss felt like a breath of relief after the long and busy evening. He held your chin in one hand, using the other to pull you even closer.

You separated for a moment to murmur, “Next year we’re sticking to signed hockey merch.”

Logan grinned, “Good luck trying to convince Dean of that.”

“He needs a girlfriend.”

He hummed, “And for $1800 and an hour, he might already have one.”

You laughed, taking his hand and tugging him out of Malone’s. “Come on, time for my own date with you.”

“You’re the boss,” he murmured with a kiss on your cheek.

And maybe it was best if you didn’t know that Logan purposely ‘forgot’ his wallet at the ice cream shop.

“It’s Block Party! You have to go!” Allie insisted, dragging you to your closet. You huffed an argument but she pretended not to hear it. “If Hannah’s coming, so are you.”

“Hannah doesn’t want to go either!” You reasoned, to which Hannah tried to offer an agreement.

“Hannah does want to go because it’s a chance to talk to Justin.” Allie cut in. “You are going because you never go out with us anymore. It’s one night, Y/N/N. It won’t kill you.”

“It might.” You mumbled but sighed in defeat. “Alright, fine. Go on then. Pick my outfit.”

Allie clapped in triumph and focused back on your clothes, flipping through hangers and voicing her internal monologue regarding the selection.

“You definitely need more going out tops.” Allie shook her head. “Remind me to take you shopping this weekend.”

“I don’t need going out tops if I don’t go out.” You countered.

“Or you don’t go out because you don’t have going out tops.”

“Whatever works, Al.”

After a few more minutes of her rummaging in your closet and drawers, she finally found an outfit she approved of. You changed and she insisted on doing your hair and makeup as well. You knew better than to fight her at that point.

When you and your friends got to the block party, it was in full swing. You had pre-gamed at your apartment so there was a light buzz in your head. You still didn’t want to be out but it wasn’t as bad as you were anticipating.

After a while of dancing with your friends, you needed to sit for a bit. You loved Allie and her sense of style, but she managed to pick the most uncomfortable shoes in your closet. They were definitely meant for sitting events, but you had to agree when Allie said they made your legs look nice and long.

“Any man would be lucky to be wrapped up in those legs.” She had commented when she saw your whole look put together.

You were looking around for an open table when your caught sight of the one person at Briar that you didn’t want to see.

“Fuck.” You whispered, quickly turning so your back was to him.

“What is it?” Hannah asked quickly.

“Remember that guy I’ve been complaining about?” You answered, trying to mask the instant annoyance that came from seeing him. “Behind me.”

You watched as Hannah looked over your shoulder, searching for a moment, then nodded in understanding.

“We can go if you want.” She offered.

“No.” You shook your head a little. “We came for you to finally make a move, so we’re not leaving until you do… I’m gonna get something else to drink cause I’m too sober to deal with this. If I get in trouble, I’ll call you.”

“Don’t hesitate, okay?” Hannah urged.

“Never do.” You flashed a smile before separating from your group.

You snuck through the crowd, keeping your eyes forward. You doubted he would recognize you just from the back of your head so you could at least make it to the drinks. Getting back to your friends would be a separate issue, but at least you’d have some more liquor in your system.

Once you got your drink, you swallowed a mouthful. It burned slightly and you sucked a breath in through your teeth.

“I thought that was you.” A grossly familiar voice came from behind you and you jumped.

“Hello, Eli.” You said tightly, eyes scanning the crowd for an out.

You didn’t care who it was. Allie, Hannah, you’d even settle for Justin.

“I thought you said in class that you weren’t going to come.” He continued.

“I didn’t talk to you about tonight in class.”

“I know. I heard you talking to-”

“You were eavesdropping.”

“A little, yeah.” He laughed, trying to appear embarrassed about it. You looked over at him, a slight curl in your lip. “You look great. Beautiful, even.”

You rolled your eyes and looked back to the crowd.

“Yeah…” You mumbled, not really paying attention.

Where were your friends?

“I uh, assume this outfit is courtesy of one, Miss Allie Hayes.” He continued. Without looking, you could feel he had taken a step closer.

“No, they’re my clothes.”

“I’ve never seen you wear anything like this.”

“Yeah, cause I don’t need a mini skirt for class. T-shirt and jeans work just fine…”

“And your ‘boyfriend’. He doesn’t mind you dressing like this?”

Your head snapped his way and he feigned innocence.

“You did say you were seeing someone. Didn’t you? Why are you here and not with him? Why isn’t he getting your drink?”

You shook your head and turned away again. Something about that man made your skin crawl.

Across the party, you saw a different group of familiar faces. Dean Di Laurentis, Garrett Graham, John Tucker, and John Logan. You stood a little straighter at the realization. You had the same class with Eli as you did with Logan. You had talked to him a few times, worked on projects and assignments before. He had even invited you to parties before. Not that you ever went.

You smiled slightly to yourself, mumbled a polite goodbye, then ducked away. You slipped through the crowd, narrowing avoiding spilling your drink as you ducked and dodged couples dancing.

Finally, you popped out on the other side and made it to the guys.

“Logan!” You called for his attention. He looked your way and smiled.

“Hey! I thought you weren’t coming.” He greeted.

“The girls dragged me out.” You nodded. “I hate to do this but I actually came over here for a favor.”

“Pause.” Dean cut in, pointing to you as his eyes raked up and down. Lingering on your legs. “Logan. Who is this?”

“Right, sorry. Guys, this is Y/N. We have Consumer Behavior together.” Logan introduced. “Her work has saved my ass on more than one occasion.”

“Dean Di Laurentis.” Dean bowed slightly and you had to laugh a little. “Nice to meet you.”

“I know who you are.” You shook your head with a laugh. “Everyone knows who you are, all four of you guys.”

“Which also means she knows what you’re up to.” Garrett told Dean, who was offering you a freshly poured shot.

“I’m not up to anything.”

Your eyes flicked to Logan in question and he gave a small shrug. Dean poured another and Logan took both small cups, holding the other one out to you. You accepted it, nodded in thanks, and tapped the two together in a toast before downing the liquor. You winced slightly and coughed, which earned a laugh from Logan beside you.

“Dude.” Tucker added. “You’re always up to something.”

“I resent that. Just because she-”

“I’m sorry but can this-” You gestured vaguely to Dean, handing the now empty cup back to him. “-wait? I need to borrow Logan.”

“Shit, yeah, my bad.” Logan laughed and gestured for you to go with him. You two walked a few feet away and then he faced you again. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his original drink. “What’s going on?”

“You know Eli from class?” You began, inching a bit closer as if you were telling a secret. You were a little convinced that Eli would pop up as soon as you said his name like some freaky version of Beetlejuice. Well, freakier version.

“Uh, yeah, a little. The guy’s a little…”

“Weird.” You filled in. “He’s fucking weird, Logan.”

“He bothering you?”

“I’ve tried being nice about it. He DMs my Instagram every other day. He likes my old posts. He comments on old posts. I’ve had to delete his comments and restrict his account. He won’t leave me alone. It’s like he thinks I’m playing hard to get or something.”

“You didn’t just block him?”

“I don’t trust that I can block him and he’ll let it go, not when we have a class together.” You confessed. “I’ve even tried telling him I’m seeing someone.”

“And he doesn’t care?”

“He doesn’t believe me! He said that I don’t have anyone posted, that I don’t go out, I’m never walking with a guy, and that none of my friends have posted anything either.”

“That is a bit much.” Logan nodded, looking over your head for a moment.

“He found me when I was getting a drink a few minutes ago. I don’t know what else to do so I just thought…”

“That I could get him to back off?”

“Yeah, maybe.” You shrugged a little. “Sounds a little pathetic now that you say it.”

“So what do you need? Just to hang out and put on a show?”

“Maybe?” You laughed nervously. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead, and I wasn’t even sure you would say yes.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s not like we talk much outside of class.”

“Yeah, but that’s cause you never come to anything I invite you to.”

“Oh, come on. You guys invite everyone.”

“I don’t.”

“So I’m special?”

“Yeah, maybe…” He flashed a smile but nodded. “Okay, yeah. I’ll help you.”

“Really?” You brightened. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”

“But you owe me.” He pointed at you.

“The times I saved your grade isn’t enough?”

“No, not at all.”

“Alright, fine, I’ll do your next Consumers assignment.” You waved him off. “I appreciate you talking to him.”

“Oh, I’m not talking to him. Not unless he comes to us.” He laughed, taking his empty hand out of his pocket. He gestured for your cup and you offered it to him in confusion. “And you’re not drinking that.”

Without explanation, he dropped it in the nearest trashcan. He came back, offering you his now empty hand.

“My drink.” You frowned.

“I’ll get you a new one.” He offered with an amused smile.

“That one was fine.”

“You ever look away from it?”

You nodded slightly.

“You don’t trust to block the guy. You trust to not see your drink?”

“Fair point.”

You took the hand he offered and he gave you a slight tug to follow him. You did, looking back to try and find your friends. They were still lost in the crowd.

They wouldn’t miss you for a little while, right?

“Shit, Logan.” Garrett laughed as the two of you made it back to his friends. “I think Dean owes you an apology.”

“For what?” Dean spun around. “Oh, shit.”

“It’s not-” You tried.

Logan freed his hand from yours and put his arm over your shoulders instead.

“You two sneak off for a chat and come back… What? Dating?” Tucker asked and you just looked up at Logan.

You felt your phone buzzing in your pocket so you checked it.

Hannah was calling.

Maybe they would miss you.

“Shit.” You whispered and answered, turning slightly away from the boys’ conversation and blocking your other ear. “Hey, Han.”

“Y/N/N! What happened to you? We couldn’t find you.” Hannah answered. Even though she was likely yelling, the music was fighting to drown out her voice.

“Yeah, well. Long story short, Eli.”

“Shit.” She breathed. “Where are you? Allie and I will come help.”

“Another long story short, Logan.”

“Lo- Like John Logan from the hockey team?!”

“Yeah… I’ll explain later.”

“Alright… Call if you need a rescue, okay?”

“Absolutely. Thanks, lovey.”

You ended the call and turned back, shifting closer to Logan and unintentionally leaning some of your weight onto him.

“Everything okay?” Logan asked, looking over at you.

“I let Allie pick my shoes and they are not meant for standing.” You laughed.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Logan laughed. 

“Because Allie was so proud of the outfit she put together despite her hating my closet.” You gestured to yourself and you didn’t miss the way his eyes followed the path of your hand. “She said…”

Logan met your eyes with a silent question.

Any man would be lucky to be wrapped up in those legs.

“She said the shoes make my legs look longer.” You filled in.

“She was right.” Logan nodded.

“She also said the skirt distracts from my boring shirt.”

“I see what she means.” Logan laughed and you found yourself smiling in response.

“You’re wearing a plain shirt and a Carhartt.” You tugged on his jacket slightly. “But you’re telling me that my outfit is boring?”

“Not the whole outfit.”

“Oh, so just half of it?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“I am regretting coming over here already. Remind me why I thought this was a good idea.”

He laughed as he guided you to the nearby picnic table his friends had claimed. He sat on the table and left a gap between his legs. Again, he reached for your hand.

You accepted, though the questioning look in your eyes didn’t falter. He just winked and smiled, and that was enough for you to go along with whatever plan he had. You took your seat, crossing one leg under yourself and adjusting your skirt accordingly. You leaned back against Logan’s leg and looked over at the stage, watching the band perform. Logan was laughing and joking with his friends. Whatever was so funny, you didn’t know or didn’t really care.

You did realize you liked hearing him laugh.

“Oh, wait. You know her.” Garrett said suddenly, then he showed you his phone screen. “The waitress from Malone’s.”

“Hannah.” You corrected, glancing at the photo of her on his screen. “What about her?”

“What’s her deal?”

You leaned forward, crossing your arms over Logan’s leg. His hand found its way to your back, fingers tracing slight patterns between your shoulder blades that almost made you shiver.

“What do you mean?”

“Like… Okay, I have a class with her and she was the only one to ace a paper.”

“Not surprising.” You shook your head. “She knows her stuff.”

“So I try to get her to help me out so I don’t fail again and she said no.” Garrett lifted his hands for a dramatic shrug.

“Well it could have something to do with you not knowing her name.” You offered. “Or she just doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“No? You sure? Can’t blame her if it is.”

“Couldn’t possibly be that.” Logan joked.

“If it’s not personal, she is usually pretty busy.” You explained. “I think she has three jobs, and then her classes and her music.”

You felt a hand tap your arm and you turned to face Logan.

“I think he’s coming over here.” Logan warned and you frowned, deflating a little.

Logan chuckled, tapping his fingers under your chin. “Trust me, okay?”

“What other choice do I have?” You gave a small shrug.

“Yo, Dean!” Logan called and the blond came over, a slight wobble in his step from too much to drink too fast. “You see that guy coming over?” Logan shamelessly pointed at Eli. That seemed to make him hesitate and change course. “Would you think he has a shot with Y/N?”

“Fuck no.” Dean answered with a laugh and no hesitation. “Logan, you barely have a shot with her. No offense.”

You scoffed in offense and whacked at Dean’s arm, earning a laugh from him and Logan.

“Does he seriously try?” Dean asked you.

“Relentlessly.” You nodded. “I can show you the DMs. It’s at least twice a week.”

“Please do.” Dean laughed and sat near you on the bench.

“Once, he commented ‘be my waifu’ on an Instagram post from two years ago.”

You pulled your phone, seeing a series of texts from Allie.

WTF!?!?!

LOOK UP!!!!

YOURE KIDDING ME

!!?!?!??!?!

You swiped the messages away before opening the one sided thread in your Instagram DMs. You passed Dean your phone before looking towards the last place you saw your friends. Allie had found something to stand on and was waving frantically towards you. You smiled and offered an awkward wave. She looked down for a moment, head moving as she was likely typing an aggressive message, then she looked back up. Her eyes were wide and her hands were swinging wildly still when you felt Dean tap you with your phone.

“That’s sad, actually.” Dean said, fake empathy in his voice. “Oh, also Allie is very confused.”

“You read my text!?” You snatched your phone and saw it was open to yours and Allie’s messages.

IS THAT JOHN FUCKING LOGAN!?

YOURE DATING JOHN LOGAN?????

WHEN DID THIS START!?!?

Y/N Y/L/N STOP IGNORING ME

“She’s gonna kill me.” You sighed.

“She’ll get over it.” Logan answered.

“No.” You shook your head as you thumbed your response.

don’t make this a thing. i’ll explain later… call if hannah goes to make a move tho and i will come RUNNING

“This is gonna be her go-to for quite literally anything. ‘Remember when you didn’t tell me about you and John Logan?’ Allie will definitely hold a grudge over this.”

“Yeah, but is it something?”

You shifted to look up at him. His head was cocked slightly, his cup abandoned beside him and both hands bracing the way he leaned back on the table.

“Just a favor...” You answered after a hesitation. That was the truth, but it still felt suddenly wrong.

Before either of you could say anything else, there was a new presence beside you. You expected to turn and see Allie had stomped her way over to demand answers or Hannah had come with some excuse to whisk you away. Instead, you turned and saw Eli standing there.

Immediately, you tugged the hem of your skirt down and shifted to be facing straight. Logan leaned forward, an arm coming across your chest and pulling you slightly closer. You reached up and put one hand on his arm, the other going for his hand. His thumb ran gently back and forth over your knuckles. A heat raced up your neck as your cheeks burned but you tried not to acknowledge it. Prior to the last few minutes, you hadn’t considered anything with Logan but now that the thought had been planted…

Now that you knew how easy it was to be around him…

“This’ll be good.” Dean mumbled.

“Hey, man.” Logan said casually. “You’re in our Consumers class, right? Elliot.”

“Eli.” Eli corrected sharply. “I just wanted to talk to Y/N about something.”

“Up to her.”

“Can’t we talk here?” You asked politely, offering an easy and comfortable smile. “It’s not like we’re telling secrets or anything.” You laughed a little.

“I was hoping to save some embarrassment.”

“For who?”

“Fine… I just wanted to see why you lied to me.” He said sharply, as if you had offended him.

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you said you weren’t looking for anything.”

“Wasn’t.” You shrugged. “But I did also say I was already seeing someone.”

“Why are you here, Y/N?” He asked, nearly desperate. You tried to keep your face neutral. “You talk and you tempt me but then you leave.”

“I’ve never given you that idea.” You had to laugh.

“You expect me to believe you, a beautiful and innocent and sweet and kind and smart woman, would date him?”

“Have you been bothering her outside of class?” Logan cut in, a new edge to his voice.

“No.” Eli said quickly.

“No, I've seen the way you try to corner her.”

“Yeah and I’ve seen the messages.” Dean added with a small, almost pitiful laugh. “You bother the fuck outta her. She’s just too nice to tell you to fuck off. We, on the other hand, aren’t. So fuck off.”

“Who was talking to you, blondie?” Eli turned on Dean. 

“Wrong fucking answer, buddy.”

“Don’t you have some other girl to make question her morals?”

Dean went to stand but Logan grabbed his friend’s arm.

“Blondie here can still kick your ass. I wouldn’t pick a fight with hockey players.” You commented, squeezing Logan’s hand slightly. “You won’t win.”

“I like her.” Dean smiled to Logan, who gave a small chuckle in return.

Garrett and Tucker had now come closer, as if recognizing the tension. Eli took a step back.

“Just leave her alone, alright?” Logan said calmly. “She doesn’t want shit to do with you.”

“But she suddenly wants you?” Eli snapped.

You didn’t bother trying to keep your expression neutral. Your brows raised and you let out a quiet “wow”.

“Why are you here, Eli?” You asked plainly. “You don’t respect anything I tell you. You don’t believe I’m seeing someone. You literally see me with him. But you come over here and… What? Think I’ll run off into the sunset with you? I see your DMs. I see the comments. You ever think that maybe there’s a reason I ignore all of them?”

“You’re better than this, my darling.”

“Alright.” Logan announced. You felt him lean forward, his chest against your back. “You heard her. It’s time for you to go.”

“Or what?” Eli lifted his chin, almost trying to challenge Logan.

Part of you wondered if Logan would’ve moved differently had you not been sitting in front of him, tucked under his arm. Would he have been more like Dean, ready to fight? Would he have been like Garrett and Tucker, a quiet but strong presence? Or would he be the same he was, tense but in control?

“What more proof do you need that I don’t want anything to do with you?” You said sharply. You moved Logan’s arm and stood, coming nearly eye to eye with Eli thanks to the lift of your heels.

“It won’t last. He will break your precious heart and toss you aside like you’re worthless.” Eli nearly pleaded. “I will treat you like a princess. Like a queen. You deserve so much better.”

You looked over at Logan, at Dean, then Tucker. Garrett had disappeared.

“I like where I am.” You gave a small, nonchalant shrug. “Take a fucking hint and-”

You were cut off by your phone buzzing. You looked down at it, ignoring the pleas from Eli.

It was Allie.

“No fucking way.” You said when you answered. “Is she really?!”

“Yes, get your cute ass down here now!”

“Okay, yes, coming!”

“You’re not off the hook for whatever that is with Logan.”

You laughed and hung up the phone. Still ignoring Eli, you turned and grabbed Logan’s hand. You didn’t need to bring Logan with you. Surely, if Eli still tried to follow and talk to you, the boys would block him, but you just wanted to bring him along.

“Come with me!” You said in excitement and gave a slight tug.

He laughed, said something you weren’t listening to, but gave in to your efforts. He stood, waved to his friends, and followed you back towards the main party. As you reached the crowd, you had to slow down.

Logan was close behind you, one hand still in yours and the other was now on your hip. You glanced down at it and felt the heat on your cheeks again. With the people around you, there was no way Eli could see much. He didn’t have to put on a show for anyone, yet he still went out of his way to keep hold of you.

You liked it.

When you finally got through the crowds, you found Allie and Dexter already watching Hannah.

“Girl. I thought you were kidding.” Dexter told Allie, offering a double take as you approached with Logan in tow.

“John Logan, this is Allie and Dexter. Allie and Dexter, John Logan.” You introduced quickly, though it was likely they knew who he was. “We have Consumer Behavior together and he is my savior tonight.”

“Okay.” Dexter gave a nod of approval.

“Shut up! We can talk about that later.” Allie insisted, smacking yours and Dexter’s arms. “She’s doing it.”

You turned and saw Hannah making her way to Justin. Her attempt was cut short by someone knocking into her and spilling their drink. You turned and dropped your head against Logan’s arm, huffing in defeat. He laughed a little and patted your back.

“Oh, hell no!” Allie said firmly and you looked back up. Dexter pulled her back and when you followed their focus, you saw Garrett Graham offering Hannah his jacket.

You turned back to Logan.

“What the hell is he doing?” You asked in shock.

“I have no idea.” He laughed a little, though his expression was just as confused. “Guess that’s why he was asking about her.”

“Huh…” You nodded slowly. “I guess rejection is the way to Graham’s heart.”

“Or he just really wants help with that next paper.” Logan joked.

You smacked his chest slightly but laughed a little bit.

“The things we do for our grades, huh?” You teased.

“Hey, I’m doing this for more than a grade.” He put his hands up in surrender.

“Are you?” You cocked your head.

The sun had fully set by now and there was a slight chill in the air. A chill ran down your spine, making you regret agreeing to the skirt. As cute as it was, it was not weather appropriate.

“Oh, shit. Here.” Logan noticed, quickly taking off his jacket. He offered it to you, but you tried to push his hands away.

“I’ll be fine. I don’t think I’ll stick around much longer anyway.” You tried.

“Shut up and take it.” He urged gently, pushing the jacket back at you.

With a sigh, you did. It was already warm and you could smell his cologne on it.

“Thank you.” You said, shoving your hands in the pockets. “For all of it, tonight.”

You felt a tap on your shoulder and looked over to see Dexter pointing between him and Allie. He took her wrist and began to pull her away, despite Allie’s protests. Dexter gave you a pointed look, to which you rolled your eyes, then they blended into the crowd.

“They are gonna have a field day with this.” You laughed.

Logan took hold of the front of his jacket and pulled you closer, flush against his chest. You let out a small noise of surprise at the action and he just smiled at you.

He had a very pretty smile. How had you not noticed it earlier?

“Can I tell you something?” Logan asked, his voice low as if he was telling you a secret.

“Sure.” You nodded.

“I’m glad you came up to me tonight.”

“I’m glad you agreed. Otherwise, I would’ve had to sick Allie on him and that would not have been pretty.”

“You still can, I mean…” He shrugged and you laughed. You drew your hands out of the pockets and rested one on his arm while the other fiddled with the chain around his neck. “Y/N…”

“John.” You titled your head back to meet his eyes.

“Let me take you to dinner tomorrow.” He nodded slightly.

“Seriously?” Your brows raised. “Shit, not- Not that I don’t want to, just… It’s kinda out of nowhere.”

“Yeah, a little, but…” He smiled but he almost seemed nervous.

“John Logan, am I making you nervous?” You laughed.

“Do you want to go or not?” He laughed, ignoring your question.

The dashboard lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then the sound of the starter fading into nothing but a tired click.

Silence.

‘’Fuck.’’  

Giving up, you leaned your head back against the seat, staring at the fog creeping up the windshield. It wasn’t supposed to snow until next week. But with all the climatic changes, mother nature was very unpredictable. 

Your phone buzzed in the cup holder. 

Mom: I hope John likes the apple crisp. Bring him over next time xx Mom

A defeated sign left your lips as you thought of your boyfriend. You didn’t want to call him for help, but it seemed like the only option. Unless you wanted to walk back to campus. 

He answered at the first ring. 

‘’Hey, babe,’’ Logan's voice came through the phone, warm and slightly muffled by the sound of the boys in the background. 

‘’Hey,’’ you said, the guilt of bothering him on a Sunday night making you bite your lip. ‘’Are you busy? I’m sort of stuck outside campus… My car won’t start.’’

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then a laugh, light and distracted.

‘’Where are you?’’ 

More background noise accompanied by someone yelling something you couldn’t make out.

‘’Right on Route 12,’’ you said, rubbing your cold hands together. ‘’Near the old gas station.’’

The line crackled slightly as another burst of noise erupted in the background —Dean’s loud cackle followed by Tucker yelling about plates.

‘’I’m on my way. Stay in the car and lock the doors, okay?’’ 

Fifteen minutes later, Logan pulled up behind you. The truck’s headlights cut through the dark like twin beacons, illuminating your car in sharp relief. Logan jumped out fast, wearing a lumberjack style jacket with his hockey sweatpants peeking beneath. 

He knocked on your window gently, not trying to scare you, and you opened your door. ‘’I’m sorry for calling you. I didn’t—’’

Logan stole a kiss and tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear. ‘’I’d rather you call me than some pervert mechanic you don’t know. Especially at night.’’ He went in for another kiss, then moved to the hood of your car. ‘’Pop the hood and start the car for me, will you?’’ 

‘’Can I drop something in your car first? It’s still warm from the heater and I don’t want him to freeze off.’’ You reached for your beanie in the passenger seat, leaving a confused Logan staring at you. 

Before he could ask any questions, there was a small meow as you cradled the knitted headwear against you. 

‘’What was that?’’ Logan asked, playing the denial car as he recognized the meowing sound.

A smile curled on your lips, presenting the orange little kitten with green eyes that was hiding inside your beanie. ‘’Meet your new daddy.’’ 

Logan choked. ‘’Dadd— Where did you get that?’’ 

‘’On the side of the road. I saved him, Logan. Poor little thing would never have survived the night.’’ 

The kitten meowed again, this time looking at Logan. He wasn’t older than a few weeks. His chin was white and his fur was fluffy from the static of the knit he was buried in for the last forty minutes. 

Logan stared at him for a long second, then at you. ‘’You’re insane,’’ he said, but there was no real bite to it.

‘’Compassionate,’’ you corrected, adjusting the kitten so it wouldn’t slip. ‘’There’s a difference.’’

The kitten meowed again, as if backing you up. Logan exhaled through his nose, defeated, and reached out to gently tap the kitten’s head with his finger. ‘’You can’t just pick up every strays you see. You know animals are not permitted at the dorms, right?’’ 

At the beginning of the school year, a reminder had been sent to everyone after some idiot brought a fucking tarantula to their dorm and it escaped. A girl woke up with it crawling on her leg and the whole building had to be evacuated.

But this was not a tarantula. It was a kitten. 

You tilted your head, watching him the way you always did when you knew you were about to win. ‘’About that… Can you keep it at the hockey house? Until Tuesday. I only have a morning class so I’ll take him to my parents after.’’

 Logan let out a long sigh, but his hand was still lightly stroking the kitten’s head like he didn’t even realize he’d started. ‘’I don’t know…’’

You pouted, giving him your best sad eyes. ‘’Please, baby.’’

His eyes flicked to yours, and the resistance cracked just enough to show what he already decided. ‘’Fine. But only until Tuesday.’’ He carefully took the kitten from your hands like it was something fragile, taking a closer look. The kitten immediately curled against his hoodie, like it belonged there.

You smiled, leaning in a little closer to him. ‘’That’s your daddy, little kitten’’ 

Logan shot you a look. ‘’Don’t start.’’

══════════════════

The past three months have been the happiest of your life.

It’s an embarrassing thought. Not because it isn’t true, or because of some stupid reason, but because 3 months is too little time to fall head over heels for John Logan. It’s too soon to get this attached, too soon to be smiling every time you see a notification from him on your phone, too soon to be unconsciously making space for him in your future plans.

And yet, every small thing reminds you of him. You smile when you see his favourite cologne on the shelves of a shop. You laugh as you make toast in the morning, remembering that one time he tried (and miserably failed) to make you breakfast in bed. You send him reels on instagram with the message “saw this and thought of u”.

And he makes it so easy.

You don’t have to second guess yourself around him. He listens when you speak, remembers the little things, and never makes you feel unsafe or uncomfortable. He always makes sure that you know that being with you is exactly where he wants to be.

So maybe that’s why it hurt more than it should have, that Friday night.

You were at the hockey house for yet another party, not that you minded. This was your zone. The music, the dancing, you were in your element, and you really loved it. You were currently dancing with Allie, having the time of your life. She left to go get more drinks, so you turned around to find your boyfriend. You spotted him sitting on the couch beside a head of blond hair that could only belong to Dean. Grinning to yourself, you crept up behind the couch, planning to scare him, when you caught your name in their conversation.

“So, what’s the deal with you and her?” Dean asked Logan seriously. “I’ve never seen you stick around with one person for so long. Are you guys serious?”

The air stills as you wait for Logan’s answer, still hidden. For a brief second, you smile to yourself. You don’t know why you’re nervous, you already know the answer. You know what you and him are. Atleast, you thought you did.

He laughs.

That sound is sharp enough to drive itself into your chest, sharp enough to stab straight through your heart.

“She’s just a puck bunny, man.” Logan says dismissively. “You know the routine. It’s nothing serious.”

The party suddenly seemed too overwhelming. The blinding lights. The suffocating crowd pressing in from every direction.

You don’t hear what Dean says next. You can’t hear anything, your ears ringing and your head pounding.

Just a puck bunny.

That’s all that you were to him.

Nothing serious.

That’s all the past three months, some of the happiest of your life, were to him.

You feel sick. Your stomach churns, your chest aches, your head reeling and overwhelmed. Your feet are rooted to the spot for one endless moment before you find the smallest shred of strength to turn around and move, rushing to the front door.

You hear someone calling out after you. Allie. She catches up to you outside, concern evident on her face, the drinks abandoned on some nearby table. She says your name so softly, her laced with the utmost concern, and just that’s all it takes for the dam to break.

Your vision blurs as tears spill down your face.

“What happened?” Allie asks gently. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

You shake your head, unable to form coherent words.

“John, he-”, the words catch in your throat as another wave of tears crashes over you.

Allie’s expression hardens. She knows all about you and Logan; it’s not exactly a secret.

“What did he do?” she asks, her voice tight.

“He- he said that I’m just another puck bunny.” You sniff, trying to steady your breath. “We’re not serious, apparently.”

“This is the same John Logan that got you soup last week when you were sick?”, she asks incredulously. “Not serious, my ass.”

At that, the flow of tears starts again. Allie winces as she realises that might not have been the best thing to say.

“Okay” She says even more softly. “Let’s get you home first.”

She guides you down the porch steps and to her car, helping you in first before seating herself in the driver’s seat.

“Luckily I haven’t had much to drink.” she mutters as she puts her keys in the ignition.

An idea pops up into your brain, and you act on it before doubt can creep in. With shaky hands, you pull out your phone from your pocket and unlock it. Your thumb hovers over the screen before you open your chat with Logan. The empty text box stares at you. You look at the last message he sent in reply to a mirror selfie of your fit for the party.

You look absolutely gorgeous, love.

You sit there for a few seconds before you begin typing. Then delete. You write another word, before scrapping that as well.

Eventually, you settle on a small, concise message. Simple. Nothing overly emotional, but it says everything that needs to be said.

Hey. I think we’re both looking for different things, and maybe it’s not the best idea to continue… whatever this is. It was fun while it lasted. Goodbye, Logan.

You read it over once. Twice. And then press send before you second guess yourself.

For a long moment, you do nothing but look at the small ‘delivered’ under your text. You lock your phone and let it fall onto your lap.

You see Allie glancing at you from the driver’s seat. To her credit, she waits a minute before your tears have calmed down and your breathing is steady before asking you questions.

“You wanna tell me exactly what happened?” she asks quietly.

Your chest tightened for a second before you spoke.

“I heard him talking to Dean.” You say quietly, throat hurting with every word you push out. “He said that I’m just a puck bunny with whom he has nothing serious going on.”

There’s silence for a minute in the car before Allie curses under her breath.

Logan feels his phone buzz with a notification from you. For a split second, warmth blooms in his chest. He opens the message and the warmth disappears.

It feels like a bucket of ice cold water has been poured over him.

His heart starts racing, and panic fills every inch of his being as he reads the message again.

“No…” he whispers, more to himself, but Dean hears.

He turns to Logan in concern, a frown replacing that easy going smile for the first time that night.

“All good, man?” he asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Logan tries to say something but the words catch in his throat.

“She-” he tries again, voice cracking. “She broke up with me.”

Silence hangs between them for a second before Dean speaks up, clearly confused.

“Who?” he asks, brows furrowed. “The puck bunny? Didn’t you just say that you guys were like, a casual fling?”

Logan lets out a hollow laugh that sounds more like a choke.

“No… I mean, yes, I did just say that, but-” Logan stumbles over his words. He runs a hand in his hair before speaking again. “Fuck. I think-”

His everything hurts. His chest hurts so sharply that it hurts even to breathe.

“I have to talk to her.”

He presses the call button in your chat, not surprised when, against all hopes, it goes to voicemail.

He calls again.

Voicemail. Again.

Nothing.

“She’s not answering.” he says, panic rising with every call directed to voicemail. “Fuck, Dean, she’s not answering!”

He shoots a few quick texts to you, all left on delivered.

‘Please pick up, baby.’

‘Let’s talk this through, what happened??’

‘Are you okay?’

“What did I do, sweetheart?’

‘Please tell me’

He frantically looks for you everywhere in the house, pushing through the suffocating crowds of people as Dean follows. He checks the kitchen, the backyard, the bathrooms, and his room upstairs. You’re nowhere to be found, and nor is Allie. He goes out onto the road outside and notices that Allie’s car is gone, which confirms that you both have left.

“She’s gone.” he says to Dean, swallowing painfully. “She’s not here, nor is your girlfriend. Can you call Allie?" Logan pleads him.

As Allie pulls into the parking lot outside your dorm building, your phone starts buzzing. You glance at the screen and huff when you see that the incoming caller is none other than Logan, before silencing your phone and shoving it in your pocket. A few moments later, it buzzes again. And again. You can feel the constant vibrations from more missed calls and texts, but you ignore them as both of you climb out of the car and head up to your room.

The room is dark, only the light of the tv illuminating Hannah and Garrett’s faces. They hadn’t gone to the party because Hannah wasn’t feeling well, and Garrett had stayed behind to take care of her.

The moment you step inside, both of them look up.

You know you aren’t exactly at your best right now. Your eyes are rimmed red and dried tear tracks over your face. It’s clear from one look that something is horribly wrong.

Garrett’s the first one to speak. “What happened?”

You open your mouth, but instead of words coming out, your bottom lip trembles and before you know it, the tears you’ve been trying very hard to keep at bay start falling again.

Hannah is on her feet in an instant.

“Oh, honey…”

She crosses the room and envelopes you in a warm hug. A quiet sob escapes you before you can stop it.

Behind Hannah, Garrett looks at Allie, who’s still standing at the door behind you. His expression becomes more concerned by the second.

“Logan.” Allie says like that explains everything.

You pull away from Hannah, and explain the entire thing for the umpteenth time.

For a moment, the room is silent. Then Garrett speaks.

“He wouldn’t do that…” He says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of that fact.

“Well, he did.” You say, voice stoic. “And I ended things with him. He’s been blowing up my phone ever since.”

As if on queue, you feel your phone buzz again repeatedly. It finally stops, before there’s a different buzz.

Allie pulls out her phone. “It’s Dean.” She says.

You groan as you slug your feet to the kitchen, desperate for a glass of water. Your throat feels painfully dry from all the crying. Behind you, you hear Allie answer the call.

“What, Dean?”

A pause.

“No, Dean!”

Another pause.

“Well, I don’t care if he wants to talk to her!”

You fill a glass with water and take a long drink, the cool liquid soothing your parched throat.

“Well, maybe Logan should’ve thought about that before he opened that big mouth of his!”

When you walk back into the living room, Hannah’s already waiting ready for you with a huge, fluffy blanket, and Garrett ordering your favourite ice cream.

You sit down and stare blankly at the wall as Allie continues yelling.

“No, I’m not putting her on the line! She clearly doesn’t want to talk to him right now!”

She suddenly scoffs

“What do you mean he doesn’t know what he did? He’s- is that him in the background?” Her voice rises by an octave. “Give him the phone, I wanna give him a piece of my mind!”

You hear muffled voices on the other side before Dean apparently gives in.

Meanwhile, Hannah is making sure you’re comfortable on the couch, before sending Garrett to the kitchen to get ‘supplies’.

“You’re devastated? Why?” Allie asks the phone. “The thing between you and her isn’t anything serious, is it?”

She waits for a reply from Logan, who is now speechless. He realised what this entire thing is about.

Another muffled sentence before she continues, exasperated.

“No, I’m not going to give her the phone!”

You grip your glass a little tighter.

“I’m not going to make her talk to you.” Allie continues. “She decides whether she wants to talk to you or not, and currently, her answer is…” she trails off with a questioning look to you.

“No.” You speak without hesitation.

She nods before lifting the phone back to her ear. “You heard her.”

It was a rough week going forward for you. Of course you had your entire support system around you, Hannah and Allie skipping class with you to watch chick flicks, eating buckets of ice cream and other junk food that they sent their boyfriends to get, and completely inhaling your favourite pasta that Tucker made for you.

“Logan’s an idiot. Hope you feel better soon.” the note on the box said.

You let out a wet chuckle at that and ate.

These weren’t the only packages you received at your door, though.

The night of the breakup, Logan wanted to come to your dorm until Dean helped him realize that not respecting your boundaries won’t win him any points. Day 1 post breakup, he sent your favourite coffee along with Dean. Day 2, texts Garrett to get an oil change for your car, simply because you’d complained about the warning light a while back. He also constantly badgered everyone asking if you’re okay, and also continued texting you.

Sometimes it was an apology, sometimes he was wishing her luck on the day she has an important submission. But he never stepped over the boundaries, he always respected them.

You got updates about him as well.

Garrett told you how he was playing like shit on the ice, how he’s always moping around their house like a sad dog. That his eyes are filled with anguish whenever he sees any of them leaving for your house.

You finally meet him in person on the Wednesday after your breakup. You’re walking towards your physics class when you spot him through the park you usually cut through. Your heart softens a bit. Of course he remembers this route, even though you mentioned it off-handedly only once.

You didn’t even expect him to remember. But of course he did, and that’s a problem. It’s a problem because you wanted to jump into his arms right now. You want to melt into his warm embrace and forget anything bad ever happened.

But you don’t. Instead, you stop six feet short of him.

“Well?” you ask him, raising an eyebrow. “I’m on my way to class, do you need anything?” you ask him coolly.

Logan swallows, his eyes flickering over your face before he speaks.

“Uh…” he looks down at his feet for a second before completing his question. “Can I carry your bag?”

The question catches you off guard. It’s not an apology you don’t want, or him trying to get you to listen to what he has to say.

His voice is as deliciously smooth as you remember, and that sincere look in his eyes makes you really want to forgive him. But, baby steps.

“Sure.” you slip your bag off your shoulder and hand it to him. His fingers brush yours for the briefest moment, and you hate how familiar and comfortable that feels.

Without a word, you march forward to your class, hearing his footfalls a second later as he falls into step behind you.

For a few minutes, neither of you says anything. The silence isn’t as uncomfortable as it is… unusual. Normally, your walks with him were filled with jokes, laughter, or just the comfort of each other’s presence.

Now every quiet moment feels like something fragile.

“I, uh…” Logan interrupts the silence. You turn your head to look at him, and he looks like he wants to say 10 different things at once.

“I bet you’re wondering why I haven’t apologized yet?” he asks with a small, nervous smile.

You just give a small nod in reply.

“Well, I figured, an apology just won’t cut it.” He explains. “If I did what I wanted right now, I'd just beg for you to hear me out and take me back. Which would probably not be the best for me..." he scratches the back of his head. "I'd beg you to let me make amends, and let me show you exactly how much you mean to me.”

He looks at you before talking again.

“I have a million different things to say, but I know that’s not what you want to hear right now.” he continues again. “I will say this though…”

He waits for you to stop him, and when you don’t, he resumes talking.

“I was an ass. When Dean asked what we were… I- I said we weren’t anything serious. It’s not because I believed that we were casual, but- but because I was afraid confirming it would make it real.”

You give him a look over your shoulder, and he realizes his mistake, because he quickly backtracks.

“No, it already was real-  It was real to me the second something good happened to me, and you were the first person I wanted to tell. It was real to me when I was sick, and you were the only person I wanted to talk to.”

You look behind again, but he looks straight ahead, not meeting your eyes, and continues speaking.

“It’s just- things were good between us. Really good. Honestly, it felt like a dream I’d wake up from soon.” He lets out a shaky breath. “But, if I admitted it out loud, actually said those words to another person… there was no pretending that I wasn’t all in anymore.”

He laughs bitterly. “And that scared the hell out of me. If something happened after that, if I screwed things up, or we fell apart…” he takes a deep breath before continuing. “I couldn’t tell myself that I didn’t care. It would hurt more. All my life, in all situations, I’ve always kept one foot out the door. Telling myself ‘its casual, its temporary, don’t get attached’.”

A humourless smile tugged at his lips. “And when I met you, you… you were like this light, and you were one of the happiest things in my life. Something I convinced myself I don’t deserve. I felt like I was soaring high, and that I was bound to fall at some point.”

As you reach the building of your physics class, he finished his little monologue.

“I realized that, if something went wrong between us, it would hurt more… because I wouldn’t just be losing something that makes me happy, but… someone I love.”

Your eyes widen a bit at that, and he lets out a small chuckle as he gives you back your bag, and points to your class.

“You should probably get going.”

Before you could process your shock to get any words out, he turned around and walked away, leaving you rooted to that spot outside the door, people rushing in for class as you stared at his retreating figure.

The next day was Thursday. When you got home from your last lecture, you saw Hannah, Allie, Dean, and Garrett sprawled in your living room. You smile. Over the past few days, you’ve gotten used to this. Coming home to your friends waiting for you, making sure you’re not alone.

As you dropped your keys on the side table, a cardboard box caught your eye. Your name was written on top. You peeled off the tape and opened up the box to see your polar bear plushie. Puck. (Guess who named it that)

Your chest tightened. You’d completely forgotten that you’d left him at the hockey house.

A small smile graced your lips as you walked fully into the living room with Puck in your hands.

Dean noticed first. “Now where’d you get that from?”

Everyone’s attention diverted to Puck.

Hannah blinked. “Didn’t Logan win that for you at the carnival last month?”

“Yes.” You admitted, trying to sound indifferent.

“Oh my god, I remember that!” Garrett lets out an incredulous laugh. “That basketball game was rigged, and everyone knew that. But Logan saw you staring at that stupid bear and… just kept playing.”

“He lost for what, an hour?” Dean snorted.

“At least.” Garrett agreed. “The stall attendant eventually got so fed up of Logan’s miserable playing that he gave him the bear just to get rid of him.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “That was a good day.”

Dean suddenly sat up straighter.

“No, you know what’s worse? Remember when you thought you’d failed that math test, so he skipped practice just to sit and watch trash tv with you?”

“It wasn’t that bad.” you mutter under your breath.

“It was 5 hours straight of love island.” Dean deadpanned.

Allie laughed before speaking. “No, his most down bad moment was when she mentioned she’d never been stargazing.”

You think back to that moment. “Right! He drove me like, two hours out of the city at midnight just because the forecast said that the stars would be more visible there.”

Allie’s eyes widened. “Two hours??”

Everyone looked deep in thought before Hannah spoke.

“My favourite was when you convinced yourself you lost your grandma’s necklace. You were hysterical.”

“And then”, Garrett grins. “After dragging the poor guy to three different places, you found it in your nightstand drawer.”

“And he didn’t even get pissed that you wasted his time”, Allie chimes in. “He was just relieved that you found it.”

You looked down at Puck, absent mindedly tracing his stitched smile with your thumb. You’d spent the past week replaying his words in your head, but now that these memories were going through your brain… you couldn’t stop remembering his actions instead.

Friday. game day. You’d opted not to go, but somehow managed to convince your friends that they should still go and support their boyfriends.

So instead, you were draped across your bed, doomscrolling through tiktok when your phone suddenly rang. The caller ID read ‘HanHan’. You frowned, glancing at the time. The game had barely started 10 minutes ago.

You answered immediately. “Everything alright, Han?” you ask her.

The roar of the crowd nearly drowned her out, but you still heard her practically shriek your name. “You have got to come here!”

Your stomach dropped. “What happened?”

 Its nothing bad, just… come quickly!” she urged.

Confused, you slip on your shoes, grab your purse, and head to the rink. Walking in, you see a few people outside give you knowing looks. Your brows knitted together. ‘What the hell?’, you thought.

The moment you enter, your eyes instinctively look for number 22 on the ice. You find him immediately, then freeze. Something wasn’t right.

Your gaze drifted upwards. Realization makes you freeze at the top of the steps. Instead of the usual ‘Logan’ stamped across the jersey above his number… it was your last name.

Your breath caught.

The noise of the arena faded to the background.

Just last week, he was scared to call you his girlfriend in front of dean. He was scared to admit that the relationship was real. And now… he was skating in front of his teammates, coaches, the entire university, hell, even live tv, with your name on his back.

And just like that, the last bit of anger that was stuck in your chest slowly began to fade away.

You find Allie and Hannah, both of them grinning ear to ear as they move to create space for you to sit. Neither of them say a word. They don’t need to.

You don’t take your eyes off of Logan. A couple minutes later, he slams the puck into the net.

The stadium cheers like crazy.

Logan’s eyes flit across the stands with a lazy grin, doing a double take when he sees you.

He smirks, and, while raising his leg, he extends one arm forward while simultaneously drawing the other back, snapping his fingers like he’s releasing an arrow in your direction.

Your cheeks heat up, and you can’t help but laugh as he skates around before joining the game again. “Idiot”, you mutter to yourself with a grin.

After the game ends, you linger near the tunnel, waiting for Logan to come out. Dean exits first, whistling as he makes a beeline for Allie. Tucker followed, offering you a knowing look before he heads to Sabrina and Jamie. Then Garrett emerged. He caught your eyes, winked, and continued walking forward towards Hannah before you see Logan near the exit. You move to head towards him before some other guy in a suit strikes up a conversation.

You wait patiently by the side, surprised when Logan gestures towards you, saying “I hate to cut this conversation in half, but I have someone waiting for me.”

The guy in the suit looks at you, nodding. “And this is?”

You look at Logan, thinking this may become awkward. But he doesn't falter.

“She was my girlfriend.” His voice is steady. “I was lucky to have her. Then I fucked up, and now…” He looks at you.

“And now his girlfriend again.” you finish smoothly.

Logan’s eyes widened. The guy laughs, claps him on the back, and gives him a congratulations before excusing himself.

“Girlfriend again?” he asks, his voice breathy around the edges.

“Well, if you don’t want to, I suppose-” you start, but get cut off.

“No, of course I want to.” He answered so quickly you almost laughed. “It’s just… I thought I was going to have to spend the next few months begging for you back.”

Your eyes narrow and you raise a finger. “Don’t think this lets you off the hook. I am still very pissed at you, but… I miss you. So I’m going to give you another shot.”

“Another shot?” Logan smiles like Christmas came early.

“One.” you repeat. “Not because you put my name on your jersey. Not because you told me you love me…”

Your voice softens at the end.

“But because my problem was the fact that you were hiding. You couldn’t admit, even to your best friend, that you were in a committed relationship with me. But now…” you trace your fingers across the back of his jersey. “I don’t think that problem really exists anymore, do you?”

Logan lets out a sigh of relief. You shake your head, smiling again.

“Logan. If we’re doing this again…”

His face immediately sobers.

“Talk to me. No keeping one foot out of the door. I need to know what’s going on in your head, okay?”

He nods quickly. “Yes ma’am”

You study his face for a second before you reach for his hand. “Now, are you going to ask me properly?” you tease him.

His head snapped up. He took a slow breath, ran his hand through his hair, and asked.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

You pretended to hesitate for a moment.

Logan groaned. “Don’t do this to me!”

“Well, I don’t know, I’m actually not looking for anything serious right now…” you bite your lower lip, acting all innocent and sincere.

With a pained expression on his face, he speaks quickly. “Honey, please. If you tell me to get on my knees right now, I will. I’m ready to prove that I’m 100% committed to you. I-”

“John…” you interrupt him softly. “Shut up and kiss me.” With a relieved grin, he leans down and his lips hover near yours, unsure, before you surge up and meet him halfway.

You hear Allie’s excited cheer from somewhere to your side, while Dean whistles again, really loudly this time.

Laughing, you pull away and look at your group of friends, feeling Logan’s gaze burning a hole through the side of your face.

You look back at him, fisting your hand in his jersey and pulling him down so you can whisper in his ear.

“Now, why don’t you take me back home… and maybe keep the jersey on for a bit longer?” you murmur. “I really like seeing my name on you.”

You let out a squeal as Logan picks you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you out of the stadium.

“You’re not taking this off tonight.”, you say with a suggestive tone, making Logan nearly stumble.

His voice drops an octave. “Well, that wasn’t the plan.”

“Too bad.” you tell him. “You have a new plan now.”

He laughs, his arms tightening around you as he heads towards his jeep.

The first thing Logan said when he caught you staring was not even a word.

It was a laugh.

Low. Breathless. Almost mean.

He was on the floor by the foot of the bed, shirt off, sweat running down the centre of his chest, fists planted against the hardwood because apparently regular push-ups were too gentle for whatever stupid hockey-boy conditioning routine he’d decided to put himself through at eleven at night.

Knuckle push-ups.

Because of course.

Because John Logan couldn’t just be hot in a normal, manageable way. No, he had to drop low with his back flexing, shoulders wide, forearms corded, biceps tightening every time he lowered himself until his nose nearly brushed the floor. He had to breathe through it, slow and controlled, jaw set like it didn’t cost him anything.

And you, idiot that you were, had forgotten to pretend you were reading.

Your book was open in your lap. Upside down because nuance and subtlety were flung out the window around the time when his shirt also was tugged off.

Logan noticed on rep thirty-two.

His eyes flicked up first, then his mouth curved, “really?”

You blinked, “what?”

He pushed up again, arms locking, knuckles white against the floor, “book’s upside down.”

You looked down, “shit.”

He laughed, dropped once more, then held himself there, body hovering inches above the floor, biceps full and tense and completely unfair, “You staring at me?”

“No.”

He pushed back up, his breath barely affected- only slightly deeper, more controlled in sharp puffs. His smirk when he returned to his starting position could only be described as horribly cocky, “liar.”

“I was thinking.”

“About my arms?”

You shut the book.

Logan’s grin got worse.

That was twenty minutes ago.

Now your back was on the mattress, your thighs over his shoulders, and Logan’s arms were locked around your legs like he was proving a point with his entire body, “You wanted to stare?” he murmured against your inner thigh, “Stare.”

You could not. That was the problem. Your head was tipped back, one hand twisted in the sheets, the other locked in his hair while his mouth moved over you like he had all night and no intention of letting you survive it. His biceps pressed hard against the backs of your thighs, flexing every time you squirmed, every time his grip tightened to drag you back down to him.

“Logan,” you breathed.

He hummed. The vibration hit your clit and made your hips jerk.

His hand slid up, palm flattening low on your stomach, “stay.”

“Can’t.”

“Mhm,” another slow lick, “you can.”

Your thighs shook around his head.

He loved it. You could tell he loved it by the way he smiled against you, by the way his fingers dug into your skin, by the way he kept making these low, pleased sounds that blurred into you more than words, “Mmm. There?” he asked, mouth still wet against you.

You nodded too fast.

His hand smacked lightly against your hip, “words.”

“Yes.”

He kissed your clit, soft enough to be cruel, “yes, what?”

You tried to glare down at him, but his mouth opened over you again before you could form anything coherent, tongue dragging slow and flat, and the glare dissolved somewhere pathetic, “yes, there.”

His eyes flicked up, “Good girl.”

Your whole body clenched.

He felt it, “yeah?” his voice was rough now, a little wrecked around the edges, "you like that?”

“Shut up.”

He laughed against you.

You nearly came from that alone.

“Mean,” he murmured, “for someone who was looking at my arms like she wanted to bite me.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” He shifted one arm higher, bicep bunching beside your thigh as he pressed you open with his shoulder, “you were sitting there all quiet, squeezing your legs together.”

Your face went hot, “logan.”

“What?” He kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, “you think I don’t notice?”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, “please.”

That did something to him.

His mouth stopped teasing. The next lick was firmer, slower, right where you needed him, and your breath broke into a soft, useless sound.

“There she is,” he said.

“Lo.”

“Mhm?”

“More.”

He groaned like the word hurt him. Then his arm shifted from your thigh, hand dragging down, two fingers pressing against you, slicking through the mess his mouth had made. He circled once, twice, watching your face the entire time.

“You’re soaked.”

You whimpered. His fingers pressed in slow, your back arched.

“Fuck.”

He smiled, but it was not smug anymore. It was hungry. Blown out. Like he had started this to tease you and ended up ruining himself with it too.

“That’s it,” he murmured, “take ’em.”

Your hand flew from his hair to his bicep, nails digging into the hard muscle there as his fingers curled inside you, “oh-”

He made another sound, almost a growl, and buried his mouth against you again.

It was filthy.

Wet.

Loud.

His tongue worked your clit while his fingers fucked into you, steady and deep, and you clung to his arm like it was the only thing keeping you anchored. The muscle flexed under your hand with every movement, hot and solid and so absurdly strong that your brain, already useless, managed only one thought.

Bite.

You did, mouth against the thick curve of his bicep, teeth sinking in lightly because you could not help yourself.

Logan froze.

For half a second, everything stopped. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.

His mouth was wet. Chin shiny. Eyes dark enough to be dangerous, “did you just bite me?”

You released him slowly, “maybe.”

He stared. Then he laughed, low and disbelieving, and the sound made your stomach drop, “you’re fucking unbelievable.”

“You said I wanted to.”

“I was joking.”

“I wasn’t.”

Something snapped in his face.

Pure, awful heat.

His fingers curled harder inside you, and your mouth fell open, “you wanna bite?” he said, voice low, “fine. Bite.”

“Logan-”

He pushed his arm closer to your mouth and lowered his head again, “go on.”

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

His mouth touched you, “bite me while I make you come.”

The sound that left you was embarrassing. He hummed like he liked it and went back down, you bit him again when he did, harder this time.

His groan vibrated straight through your clit.

“Oh my God.”

“Mm?” he hummed, still working you open on his fingers, “that good?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, yes, f- Logan.”

Your hand locked around his arm, mouth pressed to his skin, teeth scraping every time his fingers hit that place inside you that made the room tilt. He kept his pace brutal and perfect, tongue circling, sucking, flicking, then flattening again when your hips started to buck.

You were babbling now.

Not words, not properly.

Just little sounds and broken pieces.

“Lo- yes- there, there, please-”

He pulled his mouth away for one breath, “for me?”

You nodded frantically.

His fingers stopped.

You nearly sobbed.

“Say it.”

Your eyes opened, wet and furious, “for you.”

His face softened for one second.

Just one.

Then his mouth was back on you, and he curled his fingers again, and you were gone.

Your orgasm hit hard, messy, thighs clamping around his head, teeth pressing into his bicep as you came with a muffled cry against his skin. Logan held you through it, arm flexed under your mouth, fingers still moving in slow, dragging strokes while his tongue worked you until you were shaking too hard to keep biting.

“Lo,” you gasped,” too much.”

He stopped instantly. Pulled back.

Pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh, then another, softer, right beside the first.

Your chest heaved. He crawled up your body like he had all the time in the world, mouth wet, hair wrecked from your fingers, a faint red mark blooming on his bicep where your teeth had been.

You stared at it.

He caught you, “seriously?” he said, breathless.

You reached for his arm again.

He caught your wrist and pinned it gently to the pillow beside your head, “no.”

You blinked up at him, “no?”

“You’re cut off.”

“But-”

“You bit me while I was eating you out.”

“You told me to.”

“I know,” His mouth brushed yours, and you tasted yourself on him, “that’s why I’m hard enough to die.”

Your gaze dropped.

He laughed into your mouth, “yeah,” he muttered, “now you notice.”

You lifted your hips against him, and his laugh broke into a groan.

“Baby.”

“Mhm?”

“Don’t start unless you want me to finish.”

You smiled, still dazed, still clinging to his wrist. Then you turned your face and kissed the inside of his bicep.

Logan closed his eyes, “fuck me,” he breathed.

He only shakes his head, some of his hair falling into his eyes as he follows behind you. You swear you hear him mutter, “Not a shy thing at all,” but you don’t say anything because your nerve has worn off and you actually can’t believe you really kissed his cheek.

Bucky hadn’t spared an expense on your picnic. He had gotten peaches, plums, two different cheeses, apples, grapes (black ones; your favourite) and even a bottle of sparkling wine.

You had brought sandwiches and salt and vinegar potato chips (those became Bucky’s new favourites), a sketchbook and your camera.

“Were picnics something you did a lot?” you ask Bucky as he makes you a plate - crackers, cheese, some of the fruit and half the sandwich you packets.

Bucky squints at you as he slices a wedge of the plum free from the stone. “If it was, would you be jealous, doll?”

You shake your head, some of the peach juice dribbling down your wrist. Bucky’s quick but gentle as he thumbs it away and presses his thumb to his lips. You’re so grateful that his hands aren’t on you to feel how fast your pulse hammers.

“I’m just curious what the dating customs of the 40’s looked like.” It’s a miracle your voice remains even.

Bucky nods like he doesn’t really believe you. “I think I went on one, but there was never really a good time for more.”

You wince, you had forgotten that he’d gotten drafted.

Your reaction makes Bucky laugh, “I’m glad I get to find out if I really like them now though. There’s a lot more to enjoy about picnics now without all the smog.”

His teeth snap through the wedge of the plum before he continues, “I can see my date better, which feels like an incredible plus.”

Damn Bucky’s flirting.

You spend all evening at the park, and it’s so fun because Bucky poses for some of your pictures and then takes some of you and when you pose for a few together and Bucky stares at you there’s a sort of stillness that overcomes you.

His eyes bore into yours, the blue of them stopping you where your finger is poised over the button to snap the photo.

“Take the photo doll,” he whispers, his lips hovering near yours as he reaches up and presses your finger down just before leaning all the way in, pressing your lips together.

Bucky’s quick to take the camera from your hand after, setting it on the blanket and cupping your cheek to deepen the kiss.

It’s not too long, but it’s more than a peck and when he pulls away you can barely open your eyes.

“Was that okay?” Bucky whispers, the hand still cupping your face warm where it rests.

“Where did you learn to kiss like that?” his laugh rocks you as you press your forehead into his shoulder. “I don’t think you were really frozen in ice all that time, James Barnes.”

Bucky cups the back of your head as his laughs die down. “Whatever you want to believe, honey.”

Bucky gets to your house just after sunset, and you let him walk you to your front door. You don’t really want the date to end, but you’re tired and you have to imagine so is he.

“I had a really nice evening, Bucky.”

He smiles, a hand on your lower back as he stands in front of you. “So did I,” you turn to open the door but he stops you.

“I’ve gotta go out of town for a little bit, so we’re gonna have to rain check next Friday’s date.”

You hold onto the sleeve of his Henley before he can step back, “Is everything alright?”

Bucky nods, “Yeah just some stuff I have to deal with.”

“Winter soldier stuff?” You nearly whisper the words, not wanting to upset Bucky. He only nods with a soft smile. “Be careful okay?”

“You don’t want to be my nurse if I get hurt, doll? That’s harsh.”

You laugh, shaking your head at him. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Bucky’s chest aches at your care for him. It’s been a long while since he’s been given that kind of affection.

“I’ll be careful, doll.”

“Good.”

Bucky leans in and presses a kiss just at the corner of your mouth, “Goodnight doll, lock your doors.” He reminds you like you’re not a woman in New York City, but it still makes you smile and your chest goes a little gooey.

Bucky doesn’t move from your doorstep till he hears your locks click into place.

-

Bucky’s been gone for a week and a half already and you can’t help but miss him.

You’ve been chatting back and forth and you’ve even started sending him songs to listen to. He’s got a very limited list of favourites that you’ve made it your mission to resolve.

You find another note in your handbag when you decided against texting Bucky and cleaned your cupboards instead.

It was in your bag from the picnic date, and you smiled when you noticed his handwriting on another receipt from the grocery where he got the cheese.

I hope you find this when I’m gone and you’re missing me; I know you are, doll, it’s okay.

I miss you too and I haven’t left yet.

When I get back I’ll make it up to you, I swear. Maybe we’ll go somewhere quiet again? Or I saw they’re reopening one of those antique places with all those retro trinkets; I could show what I used to have at home. Show you what I prefer now.

Keep locking your doors, honey. I should send you new flowers, the old ones will be dead soon.

Yours,

James.

Bucky’s very good at these, these little notes that leave you smiling and giddy like a fool.

You pull out your phone, you have to text him now.

I got your note. What was your favourite ‘trinket’?

Bucky answers only three minutes later.

My sister used to have a silver jewellery box that I had the pleasure of filling every month.

You smile at that, he’s always been a provider it seems.

Another chime comes from your phone.

We also had a gramophone that played the clearest music I’ve ever heard.

You roll your eyes.

You’re such an old man.

I’m not offended, doll. A pretty girl I’m seeing told me recently I’m not old at all.

Even miles away he’s got you grinning like an idiot with a racing pulse.

You can’t say anything to that and your thoughts take you to what a perfect gentleman he’s been to you. Bucky opens your doors, drives you home and waits till you get into your house before driving off. You think you might be falling for him, and rapidly.

He’s still gone by Monday and you’re missing him hard, only for the girls you work with to giggle before coming to find you.

“These were dropped for you,” they hand you a huge bouquet of red and white tube roses and a card.

It’s not Bucky’s handwriting but it’s from him,

Sorry I’m still not back, doll. I should just be gone for another day. Don’t miss me too much, yeah? I need a few kisses when I get back to make up for all this time away. I listened to that song you recommended, it was good. How do I make a playlist?

Yours,

James.

The note had you blushing and extremely flustered. Your coworkers noticed it immediately.

“Are you two going steady?”

You regret telling them who you’d been going out with. When they leave, you’re stuck with the realisation of how different Bucky is to the men you’ve dated before.

It’s a small thing, but you hardly think any of them got you flowers as consistently as he does, and you don’t think you’ve ever received such thoughtful bouquets.

You called Bucky when you got home, happy to hear his voice.

“Thank you for the flowers, Bucky.”

“You’re welcome, doll.”

You have the bouquet from today on your bedside table and smile when you spot it after changing into your pajamas.

“You caused quite a scene when they got delivered.”

You can hear the amusement in his words. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, the girls I work with brought them to me. They were very impressed by the size of the bouquet, Barnes.”

“I’m just concerned about what you think of me.” Was his answer and after that you couldn’t get a full sentence out of you.

He’s so open with his feelings towards you it’s scary, it makes your heart race but you also know he’s not just saying it. He means it and that makes you fall just a little more for Bucky.

“You’re sweet.” Is all you can manage, your face heated with a blush.

“Sam and I are finishing this up tonight, so I should be able to see you when we get back.”

You don’t know if you’re reading into his words, but Bucky sounds relieved at the prospect of seeing you soon.

“Isn’t it going to be a day’s long flight?”

“And I can see you right after I land, honey. So long as it’s not midnight or while you’re gonna be sleeping.”

Bucky Barnes isn’t good for your heart with the way he just wholly shows you how much he wants to spend time with you.

“Do you still need help with your playlist?”

He huffs, “Sam showed me. He’s not a good teacher though, was snippy the whole time; you’d think he’d remember I was in ice.”

You laugh, “I’ll show you when you get back, babe.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything about the pet name, but for the rest of the phone call he doesn’t respond unless you use it.

It’s two days before he’s back and Bucky drives straight over to see you.

He’s at your door a few hours after you get home from work, and when you open the door to see him, he’s there with a single rose in his hand and a tired smile on his face.

“Is it possible you got prettier while I was gone?” He leans against your doorway.

“You look dead on your feet, Bucky. Come inside.” you lead him to your sofa, watching him move with heavy but careful steps all the way through your living room.

Bucky’s movements are measured, not a single action wasted as he takes off his boots and socks and detaches his metal arm.

“I really missed you,” he sighs as he lays on your sofa, eyes shut as he takes a long breath.

“I really missed you too,” you brush back some hair from his face. “You could’ve gone home to sleep first, you know?”

Bucky opens his eyes and it takes great effort to do so, the whites of his eyes shot through with streaks of intense red.

“I wanted to see you,” he yawns. “But you’ve trapped me into laying on your sofa.”

You laugh, your fingers still knotted in his hair. “You can take a nap Bucky, or you can sleep the night here. I’m not really excited by the idea of you driving back tired.”

“I won’t doll,” he shuts his eyes again, the feel of your fingers on his scalp lulling him into a peacefulness he’s missed. “Tell me what you got up to while I was gone. I know you weren’t just counting down the days till I got back.”

You roll your eyes as you recount the last two weeks of your life, Bucky’s not even awake to hear what you did on the second day of him being gone.

You cover him up with your throw blanket and dim the lights of your living room. You make the playlist for him while he sleeps, putting all the songs you’ve sent him on the memory stick so he can leave with it.

Bucky doesn’t spend the night, but as he’s leaving he holds your cheek, “I didn’t come with an ulterior motive, just to see you. If you want, we can go have dinner tomorrow. I have something I want to ask you, doll.”

“That’s ominous,” you’re a little nervous by that phrase. No one likes being told that someone has ‘something to ask them’ in a day. There’s anxiety crawling up your chest before Bucky kisses your lips.

“It’s a good question baby, don’t overthink it. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

You grab the memory stick off the table before you could forget, “Here, I put all the songs I’ve sent on here.” Bucky kisses you again.

“You’re an angel,” you steal a kiss before he pulls away. “Lock your doors.”

“Sir yes sir.”

You hear him laugh all the way to his car.

Despite Bucky’s well meaning, ‘Don’t overthink it.’ That’s all you did when you woke up and started sifting through dresses to wear.

You’re ready at six and that makes you even more anxious. There’s too much time to do nothing but sit and overthink it.

You’re working yourself up to outright calling Bucky when there’s a knock at your door.

A quick peek at the clock on your stove let’s you know you’ve been overthinking it for forty five minutes.

When you open the door, Bucky’s standing in front of you in a pretty blue shirt that makes his eyes pop, and black dress pants.

He’s not got flowers this time, but he is holding a box of what you think are chocolates.

“Oh my god,” he breathes as he takes you in. You’re in a pretty pale purple dress, white heels and your hair is down in loose curls. You hadn’t gone for heavy makeup but just enough where there’s purple glitter on your eyelids and your lips are a deep red.

“You look handsome.” You say as you fight the blush creeping up your chest at the way Bucky’ stares at you.

“You look,” he trails off like he really can’t find the right words. “Breathtaking.”

You feel as though the blush explodes in your chest and heats your entire face.

Bucky hands you the box of chocolates, “They’re all dark chocolate.” You smile as you take it; that’s another thing Bucky’s remembered you like.

“Do I get to know where we’re going?”

You ask as you slip the chocolates into your purse and shut your door.

Bucky smiles as he watches you lock your door before turning to him. Immediately he links his hand with yours.

“We’re going for dinner somewhere nice,” the entire ride to the car Bucky has you talking. About the last book you read, work, if you think about him every night before bed (the last one was just to make you laugh, but the truth is you do.)

“What about you Bucky? Do you think about me before bed?”

You ask as he parks and he turns to you.

“Oh yeah,” that’s all he says before coming out of the car to open your door. “Think about you more than I think about anything else, doll.”

You manage to hold back your question just before dessert, “Can you please ask me? I’m freaking out and I think my heart might explode from the anxiety.”

There’s a laugh that bubbles from you and Bucky tuts.

“Honey,” you press a hand to your chest. Your anxiety really is at an all time high. You have so many questions rattling around your head that Bucky could want to ask you and you may throw up the lovely pasta you just had if he doesn’t ask you soon.

He leans across the table and holds onto your wrist, feeling the erratic beat of your pulse.

“I’ve been torturing you, haven’t I doll?”

You nod as you try to calm your racing heart.

“I didn’t mean to,” Bucky’s thumb strokes short lines across your wrist. “I had it all set up to come with dessert but I’ll put you out of your misery.”

“Thanks,” you mutter and he smiles.

“I know we’re only going steady,” that gets a smile out of you. He really is an old man, “but I wanted to ask you if I could be yours? Saying boyfriend makes me feel older so I won’t say it.”

You laugh, letting your head fall on his hand where it holds yours.

“Not the other way around?” You ask and Bucky huffs.

“You’re not property, honey.”

You look up with a smile and Bucky’s smile gets a little brighter. “Yeah you can be mine.”

“C’mere,” he tilts your chin a little higher and kisses you; slow and just long enough for it not to be a full make out. “You really missed out on the whole cheesecake with chocolate drizzle writing.”

He says as he pulls away and you laugh.

“Oh, are they not bringing it anymore?”

Bucky shakes his head, mischief in his eyes. “After you just latched onto me in the middle of their establishment? I don’t know, doll.”

“You’re ridiculous.” They still bring the cheesecake and Bucky feeds you the first bite, and like the flirt and menace he is, he gets a little just to the corner of your mouth.

“Let me get it for you,” and steals another kiss, ‘cleaning it off.’

It had been two weeks.

Maybe more.

You weren’t entirely sure by this point. Things had been a blur since you were tied up in that abandoned bar at the hands of a possessed Sam Winchester.

Knife to your face and thigh, gunshot to your upper shoulder. And the repeated image in your mind of the way Sam looked at you, the way he liked it, the way he enjoyed seeing you hurt like that.

It was traumatising and you weren’t quite sure how to fix it.

Sam was recovered. At least, going by what Dean had told you. He’d recuperated, made sure the demon was definitely gone, rested up. Now he’s back to normal. Going around the bunker like it was his home again.

He’d gone on two hunts with Dean since everything went down. Without you, of course. You weren’t healed up enough to help, nor had you been in the right mental state to either.

You’d been sleeping in your usual room, Sam’s room. He either bunked with Dean, or found elsewhere to sleep. Allowing you to take time to heal, take time to process what happened.

The head injuries Sam caused you had been taking time to heal. You’d been getting headaches when you were tired, if the light was too bright, if you had to concentrate too hard. It’s nothing you’d dealt with before.

It was slowly going away, the pain starting to subside fully. Dean checked up on you every day, most likely reporting back to Sam.

There had been a few times where you’d been in the kitchen, Sam walking in… and immediately walking out after seeing you. Not wanting to scare you, wanting to make sure he gave you the space you needed.

One time he was in the library, siting at the table closest to the bookshelf you wanted to go to. You couldn’t bring yourself to walk past him, to see him, so you changed your mind. Going back to your room.

You missed Sam. How could you not? He was the person you loved most in this world. He cared about you, checked up on you, held you if you were down, talked you through things. You missed him more than anything.

Sam was beginning to struggle too. A few times he’d stood outside of the bedroom, wanting to come in and talk to you. Sometimes when it was late, after you’d gone to sleep, he couldn’t help but take a peek inside. Making sure you were getting at least some rest.

He hated this.

Today, it was quiet in the bunker. Dean hadn’t come to check on you, you couldn’t hear any noise from any direction. It was a bad morning, you wanted nothing more than for Sam to hug you, tell you everything would be okay. So much conflict in your own mind was taking its toll.

You got up, changed into one of Sam’s sweaters. Giving yourself slight comfort. You left your room, didn’t bother to go and get anything to eat or drink. All you needed, was to find Sam. At least see what he was doing.

A usual occurrence, he was in the library, sipping on coffee while reading something on his laptop. Most likely some research for a new case.

You peaked around the corner, far enough hidden so that Sam wouldn’t see. Hugging your arms around yourself, you went to walk away, went to leave. Something was stopping you though, maybe a turning point in your healing process, or the need to talk to the guy you loved endlessly again.

Looking down at the ground, your feet carried you into the library, over to the table Sam was sitting at. He assumed you were going to get a book, so he didn’t look up.

It took him by surprise when you pulled out the chair opposite him, sitting down slowly and quietly. Sam glanced at you, eyes slightly wide as you sat there silently, looking down into your lap.

He didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t miss the way you flinched as he reached for his coffee cup. He didn’t pick it up, retracted his hand, placed both on the table where you could see them.

Almost to let you know he wouldn’t hurt you. Letting you monitor what he did with them, showing you there was nothing to be scared of. He stayed still.

Finally, after what felt like way too long, you looked at him. Really looked at him. Full eye contact, unblinking, holding your breath in the meantime.

Until he spoke, “hi,” Sam’s voice quiet, soft.

You could breathe again. Heart thumping against your chest, hands slightly sweaty. It’s the first time he’d said anything to you since he was possessed, since the demon inside of him hurt you.

“Hi,” you responded hesitantly.

Your voice was like a breath of fresh air to him. A small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was happy to have you here, see that you could look at him again, talk to him again. Even if it was just a small hello.

However, Sam could clearly see the exhaustion on your face. Dark circles under your eyes, rosey cheeks from crying, lip quivering as if you’d break down again any second.

You were making yourself do this, he could tell.

“You don’t have to be here,” Sam felt like he had to say. “I understand why you’ve been avoiding me, and that’s okay, however long it takes.”

After he finished speaking, you were silent. Fiddling with the sleeves of his sweatshirt that you were wearing, bouncing your leg up and down as you figured out if you could really do this.

You looked away from him, chewing on your lip as you felt tears welling up. He was so accepting of this whole situation it almost hurt more. It wasn’t him who hurt you, so why on earth is he so okay with the way you’ve been distancing yourself.

“I miss you,” your voice came out in a whisper.

Sam didn’t quite hear, “do you wanna say that again?” He asked just as quiet.

Now, you turned to him. He saw the tears running down your face. The heartbroken expression there, the internal struggle you were dealing with.

“I miss you,” you repeated, voice breaking.

He always hated when you cried. Hated it when you were just friends and he hated it even more now. He loved you, wished he’d never done anything to hurt you, to make you feel like this.

“I don’t know what to do, Sam,” your breath hitched. “I need you, more than ever, right now. But I just— I can’t— I can’t do anything to make this all okay.”

He felt the tears welling up in his own eyes, wanting to reach over and comfort you. He didn’t want to overstep, do anything too early on. This was so much harder than he ever wanted it to be.

“I know this is my fault,” he pushed his laptop to the side. “I know what I did to you, and I can’t change that, but I’ll do anything, anything, to fix this.”

You wiped your eyes, seeing he was getting upset too, “it’s not your fault,” you took a breath. “I know it wasn’t you, you’d never hurt me, but—“

Pausing, you leaned your elbows on the table, head in your hands as you thought back to it. Back to the pain you felt, the fear that he was going to kill you, the look in his eye every time he hurt you.

“When I close my eyes, all I see is the love of my life hurting me,” your shoulders slump. “And I hate it, over everything else we’ve hunted, this is the worst thing that’s ever happened.”

Sam sat with that for a moment. You’d gone quiet again, sitting back in your seat. He went over it in his head, looked at your wounds that were still visible. The cut on your cheek, the fading bruise on your forehead. That was all him.

“How’s um— how’s your head?”

For some reason, him asking that took you by surprise. Of course he’d ask though, he cared, wanted to know that you were recovering okay. Especially since he caused you to hit your head pretty hard.

“Oh, this?” You motion to the purple mark. “Getting better, headaches here and there but that’s all.”

He nodded, “that’s good,” he leaned to the side, trying to get a better look. “Was worried when your dizzy spells took a while to go away.”

Then, quiet. Again. You saw the way he was moving his arm around, almost stiff, a slight pained look on his face every time he twisted a certain way.

“Did… you get shot?” You gingerly ask.

“Yea, Bobby told me he had to,” Sam shrugged it off. “Said I would’ve—“

He cleared his throat, eyes drifting away from you as he remembered that conversation. Finding out he’d had you tied up, hurt and almost killed was a difficult thing to hear. He almost didn’t believe it at first.

“They didn’t tell me,” you admit.

“You’ve had enough to worry about,” Sam shook his head. “Dean thought it was best not to tell you.”

You nodded, understanding. Again, you looked away, glancing around the library, going to his laptop that was sat on the table. He’d been doing research, you knew that.

It was like neither of you knew how to proceed. Unsure of what to say, Sam not wanting to scare you, you not wanting to make him feel worse than he likely already did for what happened.

Surprisingly, you talked first again, “I’m sorry,” you folded your arms, leaning on the table. “I’m just— I can’t imagine what it was like, having someone else controlling you, especially to hurt me.”

You took a breath, it came out shaky, “I’ve been avoiding you, and I’m so sorry if I made you feel like it’s your fault,” you closed your eyes. “Im not the only one who went through something, so I just—“

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Sam interrupted softly. “You have nothing to be sorry for, honey.”

If only he hadn’t called you that.

You couldn’t help the reaction you had, practically breaking down. The tears started to flow properly this time, hands covering your face as you turned away from Sam.

He felt helpless, couldn’t reach out to wipe your tears away, couldn’t hold you, couldn’t tell you everything would be okay. Because he didn’t know if it would be.

His eyes stayed on you, watched as you cried, making it worse for him. He felt the tears there, but he wouldn’t let them fall, not yet. He let out a long breath, sniffling quietly after.

“You know, I saw some of it,” he ran a hand over his face. “I was in and out, saw what I did to you until the demon blocked it out again.”

He didn’t expect you to say anything to that. Why would you? But you felt pathetic, you’d dealt with having bad injuries from hunts before, so you hated being like this. It felt like you had no control over your own emotions.

“Do you— do you know about it all?” You asked, gasping in between from your crying.

“I know I um, I tied you up,” he started quietly, almost in a whisper. “And I remember—“

He stopped talking, shaking his head as the tears finally fell. You looked at him seeing how upset he was. The same as you. Instead of continuing talking, he pointed to your cheek, and your head. That’s what he remembered doing.

“Dean told me about the rest,” he regained composure. “About your leg and shoulder.”

You didn’t say anything, he wouldn’t force you to. What was there to say? Sam knew you well though, well enough you were starting to react how you sometimes did when you were upset, too overwhelmed with things.

It seemed like you were cold. Shivering. He’d comforted you on endless nights after hunts where you did this, after you’d gotten hurt, or if you had been crying and ended up like this. He knew you liked being held when you had this reaction, but what could he do now?

“Hey, hey,” he reached across the table slowly. He saw you glance quickly. “Can you breathe for me? Just breathe, honey, it’s okay.”

Thankfully enough, you listened to him. You sucked in a deep breath, holding it as you usually do to calm down, then you let it out slowly. Repeating that a few times, crying slowing down, only leaving a tear to drop every few minutes instead of constantly.

“Here,” now both of Sam’s hands were palm up in front of you. “I’m not gonna hurt you, that’s the last thing I’d ever wanna do, I promise.”

You visibly gulped, looking down at Sam’s hands. Another tear dropped and you quickly tugged the sleeves of your jumper down to wipe them away.

Another deep breath is taken before your hands hover. They’re close to his, resting on the wooden table. It took you a few minutes, Sam not rushing you or pushing you to move faster. This is your decision, your own time.

“You want me to?” He wondered if he could assist just a little bit.

Your answer was simple, “no,” you rubbed at your forehead. “Please don’t.”

“Okay, that’s okay, honey.”

He did that on purpose. The continuation of telling you it was all okay. That how you felt was okay, how you were reacting to this whole ordeal was perfectly okay. He needed you to know that. Because it was.

Ever so slowly, with shaking hands, you lifted them. Your fingertips touched his lightly, feeling the softness that you’d been missing so much, that warmth that used to bring you endless comfort.

But you pulled back, looking at him for just a moment. Sam smiled, only small, encouraging you to do more. His hands stayed still, letting you work through this on your own.

The second time you go further, placing your fingers fully over his, slightly linking them together. That’s when your hands start to shake, feeling too much all at once, you sit back again.

“I’m sorry,” you cry again. “I’m sorry— I don’t mean to keep doing this— I don’t mean to keep— keep crying.”

“No, no, sweetie,” Sam couldn’t help the tears that surface in his own eyes. “You don’t have to apologise for normal emotions, okay? You’re doing just fine.”

You nod, sitting with your head in your hands for just a moment while you calmed yourself down. You had to get yourself together. This was the worst, you hated it, hated not being able to do something simple like hold your own boyfriend’s hands.

With all the built up emotion, you couldn’t help what left your mouth next.

“I love you,” you sniffled, fiddling with your hair. Sam hadn’t expected it. “I just— I love you so much, Sammy, and— and I miss you, I miss us.”

He almost couldn’t respond, the words getting caught in his throat. He had to take a breath, a shaky one, having to look away for a second to compose himself.

“I miss you too, my sweet girl,” he said after knowing the upset wouldn’t sound in his voice. “If I could change things, go back and stop it all from happening, I would in a heartbeat.”

The pet name took you back right then. Back to before he was possessed, when things were normal. When you’d hunt together, do research together, care for each other. You wanted that back.

“I wanna—“ you paused. “Can I try again? Please?”

“Course you can,” Sam reached out his hands. “Take your time.”

He stayed quiet for you, keeping his hands facing up. You took it slow, taking a few deep breaths before deciding to proceed with anything.

You looked down at his hands, the way they were still, unmoving. Your eyes met his next, only seeing the concerned and sweet Sam you’ve always known.

Keeping your eyes on his, you place one of your hands over his, a shaky breath leaving you. Sam went to curl his fingers around yours, more on instinct, he didn’t mean to.

“Don’t—“ you snap slightly. “Sorry, I didn’t—“

He let go, going back to how his hand was originally, “no, no, that was me,” he sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Even with that, you didn’t pull away, forced yourself to stay like this. You looked down to his hands, placing your other in his, both touching now.

“Okay,” you nodded. “You can— you can hold them.”

Sam hesitated, but you gave him the permission that he needed. His fingers curving around your palms, thumbs soothing back and forth against the backs. You weren’t retreating, weren’t freaking out.

Well, he thought you weren’t. Until he looked at your face, eyes tearing up again, holding it in as much as you could. He could see you were starting to struggle, leg bouncing up and down to try and control your emotions.

He went to let go, to remove his hands, but you held onto him. He was surprised, confused on what you were trying to do.

“Honey,” he got you to look at him. “You can let go, it’s okay if you’re not ready.”

You shook your head, “I need to be,” you heaved slightly. “I don’t wanna keep being apart from you.”

“I know, I know,” he whispered. “But pushing yourself like this isn’t gonna help.”

Sighing, you knew he was right. You didn’t want this. Hated being away from him, hated that you didn’t want to talk to him, hated that all you felt was fear when looking at him.

“It doesn’t matter how long it takes,” Sam reassured, letting you decide what to do. “I’m not going anywhere, alright?”

You nodded, letting go of his hands to wipe away your tears. He did the same, an unexpected tear falling down his cheek.

“Tell me about the case,” you glanced to his laptop.

He took a moment, grabbing his laptop to open up one of the tabs he’d been reading over before you sat down here.

“Uh, we think it might be vampires,” he explained. “It’s early on though, not set on that yet.”

“Can I help with anything?”

Sam blinked a couple times, “you’re still healing,” he gave a once over. “Don’t wanna put too much strain on you too soon.”

“It’s just my shoulder—“

“It’s not just that,” he interrupted. “You just started squinting, it’s not bright in here.”

You leaned back, knew he was right again. Head injuries take time to heal, even if it was like torture not knowing when you’d be able to help again.

Sam stood up, “come on,” he nodded in the direction of the doorway. “I’ll get you some painkillers.”

With no protest, you stood, Sam already started to walk ahead. What you didn’t anticipate, was the room spinning, that woozy feeling seeping back into your head.

“Sam—“ you called, hand braced against the table.

He turned, seeing what was happening. Protective instincts kicking in, he rushed over, grasped your arms, keeping you upright. The closest he’d been to you since everything happened.

“Take a breath,” he kept his eyes on you. Watching as you took a few deep breaths, holding yourself up better now. “That’s it, there you go, good.”

You should’ve pushed him away by now. But maybe, deep down, this had been what you’d needed. No other choice but for Sam to be holding you like this, keeping you from getting yourself hurt again.

The warmth of his body could be felt against yours, his hands squeezing your arms softly, his breath fanning your hair from where he was standing above you.

You looked up. Right at him. As if you were judging the look in his eyes, his intentions. If this really was your Sam again. All he wanted was to care for you, and you could see that quite clearly.

There was some question in there, he saw that, stepping back just slightly to give you space if you needed it. He kept one hand on your back, making sure you weren’t going to topple over.

“All good now?” He asked. You nodded. “Just take it slow, baby, tell me if you get light headed again.”

Once he knew you would be okay, he lead the way to the kitchen, you following behind with a short gap between. Sure, it was a little quiet, but a good quiet for now.

In the kitchen, Sam ushered you to sit down while he found you a pack of painkillers, filling up a glass of water right after.

He sat down opposite you, placing everything down that you needed. He watched as you took the pills, sipping on a little more water too. You felt his eyes on you, it’s as if he suddenly couldn’t look away.

Especially not now he had you so close again. You were letting him sit here with you, not asking him to leave, or to let you be alone. This was all you. It gave him hope, some encouragement.

“You know, uh, ever since that day,” he paused, deciding on whether to continue or not. “I’ve been checking on you.”

“Checking on me?”

He tapped his foot, slight worry, “yea, most nights, just to make sure you were sleeping okay,” he admitted. “Sometimes I’d ask Dean to ask you about different things, and he’d come back and tell me.”

You let yourself smile, just a little. Sam had always cared about you, a lot more than you thought anyone ever could. That didn’t change. Even after he got possessed, he’s still more worried about you than his own recovery.

“I just needed to make sure you were alright,” his voice broke at the end. “It’s been so hard, not being able to take care of you myself.”

You saw the first tear drop, followed by another. Please don’t cry. You thought to yourself. You hated seeing Sam cry, it often set you off even when you didn’t feel the need to cry.

“I know it’s been hard for you, I know I’m the reason for that, but it’s been so fucking difficult.”

He turned away, wiping his eyes. He didn’t mean to start sounding like he was ranting, but this was the first time he’d been able to see you, talk to you, since that day.

You waited for him to look back to you, but he didn’t, still wiping his eyes. Maybe he’d hit his breaking point with this whole situation. Knowing what he did, seeing you hurt and still recovering.

There was still some fear. The memories of what happened. But nothing was worse to you than Sam crying. So, there was only one thing you could do.

You got up, moved to the other side of the table. Sam glanced to you, not knowing what you were doing. You sat down on the bench, right in front of him, a soft look on your face.

“I’m not going anywhere, Sammy,” you promised just as he had.

Lifting one hand to cup his cheek, getting a feel for it again. He was warm, soft, comforting. You let out a sigh, not a nervous or scared one, but one of relief. Sam, still unsure, rested his hand against yours, leaning into it.

“Are you okay?” He asked, leaning to kiss your palm just slightly.

You took a moment, “I think I am.”

“If it took you seeing me cry to bring you back I would’ve done it a while ago.”

He was serious for a moment, until you broke into a quiet laugh. He smiled, hearing that oh so sweet laugh again. He’d missed it, missed you.

Things couldn’t get better right away though, body flinching as Sam moved his other hand towards you. You closed your eyes in response, taking a sharp breath in.

“Sorry,” Sam retracted his hand. Thinking of what your options were. “How comfortable do you feel?”

“Um,” you tried looking at him again. “Better than before.”

Sam nodded, “okay, that’s good,” he reached forwards again, placing one hand on your knee, rubbing his thumb back and forth soothingly. “What if we try something?”

You listened.

“Setting some boundaries, just letting me know how you feel when I do certain things around you.”

It wasn’t a bad idea at all. If it would help you two to work through this, for you to feel okay with Sam again, you’d do anything. Today was progress, and maybe that can help with more.

“Okay,” you agreed. “Just one thing.”

You hesitated, unsure if you could push yourself to do this. You wanted it bad, wanted to be closer to him again. The small touches today showing how much you’d missed him.

“Anything, baby, what is it?”

Chewing on your lip, you placed your hand over his, “can I hug you?”

He almost didn’t know what to say. You were asking. He hadn’t expected it, thought you were going to mention some kind of boundary you want to start with. Never did he think, after all of today, you’d want a hug.

“Yea, yes, of course you can, honey.”

He stood first, letting you get yourself up, he held his arms open, giving you time. You slowly stepped forwards, placing your hands against his sides first to see how you’d feel.

Next, you wrapped one arm around him, gently pressing yourself against him, the other arm following shortly after.

And… you relaxed. Cheek against his chest, his arms going around your shoulders, hands rubbing soothing circles on your back. Sam leaned his chin against your head, closing his eyes as a smile grew on his face.

It was silent. No talking, there was no need for it. Just you and Sam feeling this, a little more healing being done together.

There were a few tears, wetting his shirt. Sam felt it, didn’t say anything, knowing you needed this. He needed this. It was perfect.

You stayed like that for a while, ending up with Sam rocking back and forth, getting you to relax that bit more. So much, that neither of you heard Dean walk in.

He opened his mouth to say something, deciding upon it after thinking about how much you’d both been through to get to this point. Sam opened his eyes at that moment, seeing Dean furrowing his brow in question.

Sam cautiously shook his head, hoping you wouldn’t notice, giving Dean the answer he needed. He left the same way he came in, but Sam knew he’d probably want to talk about it later.

When you eventually pulled away from Sam, you looked relieved, tired eyes after all of the trauma and upset the past few weeks. Sam offered a smile, one that you reciprocated.

“I love you,” you whispered gently.

“I love you,” Sam echoed back. “So much, honey.”

He brushed your hair behind your ears, moving to take your hands in his again.

“Why don’t you take a nap, you’ve put yourself through a lot today, hm?” He suggested. “I’ll go back to my research—“

“Or, you can finish your research in bed, with me?” You asked. “While I nap.”

He was happy, hearing you ask for his company agin, “if that’s what you want.”

“Please,” you nodded. “Just wanna know you’re there with me.”

Without another word, he linked your fingers with his, starting to walk you to your shared bedroom. The one you hadn’t both been in since the whole ordeal.

Sam gave you space while you got settled into bed, watching as you pulled the blankets over your shoulders, head comfortable on the soft pillows.

“Get some rest, sweet girl,” he kneeled down beside the bed. “I’ll be right here after I grab my laptop.”

“Okay,” you mumbled, closing your eyes.

Just as Sam expected, you fell asleep quickly. The tiredness of many emotions making that easy. But he never left the room, never left to go and get his laptop to continue researching.

He stayed right there, sitting on the bed beside your sleeping form. Combing his fingers through your hair every now and then, reaching for your hand lightly just so he could feel the softness of your skin again.

The image of what he did to you still stayed with him, as he knew it would stay with you. But this would be a process, things would take time to fully go back to normal.

Right now, he had you again. As much as he could, and that would be enough for both of you.

It had been a week since you woke up alone in your motel room. A week since not knowing what happened to Sam, where he went, what he was doing.

You’d rushed to Dean’s room that morning after not being able to reach Sam by text or call as you usually would. It wasn’t like him to leave no message to let you know what was going on either.

The initial thing to do, was search for leads. Figure out if he’d been taken, if he’d suddenly found a lead that just couldn’t wait, if something worse had happened to him.

But there was nothing. No sign of him. No trace of where he’d run off to. It was extremely out of character for Sam.

You wanted to keep searching, keep trying to find your Sam. But Dean wouldn’t have it. He didn’t want you in any more danger than was necessary. So he practically benched you. Told you to get somewhere safe, to go back to the bunker.

For once, you listened. You trusted Dean. He was practically family, and you knew he’d find Sam one way or another.

You stayed home, doing some research of your own from your bed that had been empty all week. No Sam keeping the other side warm, his arms not around you, him not up before you to cook you breakfast.

It felt lonely. Way too lonely.

One night, you were in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. One of Sam’s sweaters covering your top half, your thin pyjama pants on the bottom, exhausted from not a lot of sleep. You heard a noise from the hall.

You froze. Standing at the mirror, hunter instincts kicking in. You had no weapon in here, everything was in your bedroom or kitchen.

Slowly, you opened the bathroom door just slightly. Enough for you to see into the hallway. There was a shadow, a large, tall shadow, someone way too big for you to take by yourself.

You grabbed the best thing you could find, a full shampoo bottle. Not your greatest moment, but you walked out, bottle in hand ready to strike…

When you saw Sam.

He was standing there, blood on his button up shirt, hair a mess, but otherwise, it was the Sam you knew oh so well. Your boyfriend Sam. It looked like him.

“Sam..?” You took a few steps forwards, dropping the bottle of shampoo next to you. “What the hell happened to you?”

He looked at you, fear written all over his face. He didn’t say a word, not until you got close enough for him to touch.

His hands went to your arms as yours reached for his shirt, finding that the blood there was dried and definitely not his. Then you looked up, cupping his face in your hands.

“I was worried sick,” you quickly stood on tip toes, wrapping your arms around him to hold him close.

“I know, I know,” he took a deep breath, leaning back after a moment.

You glanced back to the bathroom, seeing your phone on the counter, notifications going crazy. You couldn’t see exactly who the messages were from, or why they were blowing up your phone, but you needed to check.

“I should tell Dean you’re here,” you took a step back.

Sam gripped your waist, tighter than you’re used to, “he knows I’m here,” he started walking you backwards. “Don’t worry about him.”

As you carefully stepped backwards, your eyes were still trained on your phone screen, at least what you could see of it. A call showing up. No one else would be calling apart from Dean or Bobby. So you knew something wasn’t right.

“Hey,” Sam’s hand met your jaw, his fingers tugging you to look up at him. “Eyes on me.”

You tried to move, tried to see who was calling, but his fingers were pressing hard into the sides of your face. You winced quietly, not used to Sam being so rough with you.

“Sam— please—“ you felt your back hit the wall. “You’re hurting me.”

He was so close now that his breath was practically mixing with yours, “yea? That sucks.” A smirk clear in his voice.

This was Sam. You knew it was him, it felt like him, his hands on you. Not some shapeshifter, not something that you’d dealt with personally before. But, this wasn’t your Sam.

“What’s going on with you?” You grunted, trying to get out of his grip.

In response, he let go of your face, just to trace his fingertips across your neck and back towards your hair. He gripped hard, yanking your head backwards. You reached up, hand grasping at his wrist.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he leaned closer, cheek pressed against yours as he whispered in your ear. “You’ll find out.”

With a forceful pull of your hair, he was slamming your head back against the wall in seconds. You went limp in his arms instantly, leaving him to be the only reason you were still standing.

You didn’t feel anything after that while unconscious. Didn’t know Sam had picked you up and walked you straight out of your shared apartment, didn’t know he’d put you in the back of a stolen car to take you to his desired location, didn’t know that he’d sat you down and was busy tying your wrists around a post behind you.

When you started to wake, all you felt was cold air, the chilly autumn breeze brushing against your ankles, your hands sure to be cold to the touch. But there was something else… something rough against your wrists, it was uncomfortable, tight.

Your head was pounding, a dull ache at the back of your skull, almost hurting too much for you to open your eyes. Whatever was around your wrists, tightened once more, the sound of shuffling after.

Blinking slowly, you didn’t recognise your surroundings. It was dull, a broken window far away to your left, door still intact. Wooden flooring below your feet, a half destroyed bar counter to your right. It seemed like it was abandoned, a few smashed bottles left to show.

“There she is,” it was his voice. Sam’s. Or at least it sounded like him. “Thought I’d hit your head a little too hard back there.”

He appeared from behind you, a look in his eye that you didn’t recognise. His features weren’t as soft as they usually were around you, his brow slightly furrowed.

You caught reflection of the light bouncing off of the object in his hand, your eyes casting down to see it. A knife. It wasn’t small, big enough to cause some damage. Whatever he was planning to do with it.

“Who are you?” You gritted out through clenched teeth.

Sam tutted, “now, I might be wrong,” he chuckled darkly. “But I don’t think you’re in any position to be asking questions here.”

You try to keep your composure. Not wanting to show you were too scared, too worried about what Sam— whoever this was, was going to do to you. The most you knew, is that wherever Sam disappeared off to, this must’ve been why.

Seeing you quieten down, he made his way over to the bar, seemingly looking for where he put something.

“What’s your play here?” You called out. “You can’t keep me here forever, Dean will come for me—“

He laughed, cocking his head to the side as he held another object in his hand. He sauntered back over to you, kneeling down in front of you.

“And here I was thinking you were the smart one.”

“Excuse me?” You snapped.

“Isn’t it obvious,” he reached up, cupping your cheek roughly. “You’re bait.”

You couldn’t hide that frightened look in your eyes. The way you rapidly blinked a few times, lip twitching just slightly. He was getting what he wanted.

“Why do you want Dean?” You asked, he rolled his eyes as he stood. “What’re you gonna do to him? I swear if you—“

“Alright, you talk too much,” he cut off your talking. Holding what looked like a bandana in his hands. “Open up.”

Your brow furrowed, he didn’t have any patience, “open your mouth,” he gripped your jaw. “Or I’ll open it for you.”

Not that you had much choice, he shoved the bandana in your mouth, rendering you unable to speak. You grumbled a little, feeling how uncomfortable this was going to be. He tied it around the back of your head, happy once you calmed down.

“Good girl,” he tightened it, making sure it wouldn’t slip out. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Sam saw the look in your eye as he said that. A term of endearment he’d call it. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“You like when he calls you that, don’t you?” He pulled up a chair, sitting in front of you. “Shame it’s normally in a different setting.”

This was the first time you’d felt entirely useless. Hands tied, unable to speak. You can’t call Dean for help, can’t get Sam to free you, reassure you things would be okay. Because he’s right in front of you, not as himself.

All you wanted was for your Sam to be back. A whole week worried about him, just for him to kidnap you and put you in fear. You couldn’t stop the tears that began welling up in your eyes.

“See, you could’ve avoided this,” he fiddled with the knife in his hands, twisting it back and forth. “Didn’t have to follow in daddy’s footsteps.”

You wouldn’t look at him. Wouldn’t give him that benefit of getting to make eye contact. Sam folded his arms, knowing he was getting in your head, getting what he wanted going by your reaction.

“Could’ve stayed away, kept working— where was it?” He leaned forwards, clicking his tongue. “Oh that’s right, the bar Sam and Dean always went to.”

A muffled noise left your mouth, incoherent from the fabric keeping your quiet. He didn’t care, he liked seeing you suffer. Knew Sam would hate to know you were being treated like this.

“He knew you didn’t want this life, he left you alone, understood when you refused a date,” he pointed the knife at you, too close for comfort. “You just couldn’t stay away from poor ol’ Sammy, could you?”

By now, a tear had escaped your eye, running down your cheek… until he stopped it with the knife. Pressing the tip against your skin. You tried to back up, tried to lean away, but you couldn’t. There was no way out.

“What is it you see in him?”

You frown. He was doing this on purpose, knowing you couldn’t answer him. He let out another mischievous laugh, looking right at you this time. The knife dug into you and you let out a whine.

“Does that hurt?” His head tilted. “I know Sam would be so mad if I ruined this pretty face.”

He seemed to be going around with ideas in head. Deciding what way would be best to hurt you. If he should wait to do it in front of Dean, or just get to it now.

“I get why he likes you,” he drags the knife tip down without leaving a cut. “Easy to shut up, easy to control, feisty in the bedroom.”

Before you could decide upon it, you kicked one of your feet forwards, knocking him down onto one leg. Although, when he looked at you, he still had that disgustingly smug expression on his face.

“Point proven.”

He stood easily, as if you didn’t even hurt him. You watched as he moved his chair away, kneeling down in front of you instead, knife firm in his hand.

Without speaking, he pressed the knife down against your thigh, causing your breath to hitch. He didn’t hurt you just yet, instead using the knife to tear open a hole in your pyjama pants.

“You’re shaking,” he stated. “No one here to save you yet.”

Before another second could pass, a loud shout ripped from your throat as he slid the sharp edge of the knife down the length of your thigh. Tears pricked at your eyes as the pain only seemed to get worse.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he had this gross, fake, sympathetic look on his face.

You started coughing around the bandana in your mouth, your throat hurting from the scream. He had no choice put to pull it down, letting it hang around your neck instead.

“Why are you doing this?” You glanced down at your leg, seeing the blood running.

He chuckled, “why not?”

The nerve that he had, moving to sit down beside you. Your eyes never left him, trying to watch his every move, wanting to predict what he’d do next. You couldn’t. Didn’t know why he had to hurt you. Why it had to be your Sam.

“You know,” he twisted, brought the knife up to your face again. “Sam thought of you as this strong, capable hunter… seems to me that you’re just weak.”

The knife pressed in, cutting your cheek. He didn’t slice as hard as your leg, but you could feel the blood trickling down. Yet, you still kept your gaze on him. Never looking away. You couldn’t.

Until…

Lights from outside shone through the bar windows. The sound of an oh so familiar car pulling up, the engine turning off, followed by two doors slamming shut.

Instead of Sam’s face dropping as you’d hoped it would, he smirked. Rushing around to cut half of your ropes, freeing you from the post you were up against. Not free enough, hands still tied behind your back.

He roughly pulled you to your feet, pulling you against his front, knife pressed to your neck. He was playing smart, maybe thinking he wouldn’t get hurt if he had you like this.

The door burst open, Dean coming inside, gun held high. He spotted you, stared, brow furrowing when he saw Sam holding you.

“Come closer and I’ll kill her,” Sam pressed the knife harder.

Dean took another step, challenging, “Sammy, this isn’t you, but I know you’re in there somewhere,” he called. “You’re stronger than this.”

“Sam isn’t here right now,” he chuckled.

Dean aimed his gun, trying to line it up to a location that wouldn’t severely harm Sam. Just slow him down enough for them to get a hold of him. He was adamant on standing directly behind you though, keeping out of the line of fire.

“Stop,” you tried tugging at your ropes, glaring at Dean. “Just— he’s serious Dean.”

“See, she gets it,” Sam leaned to the side for just a second.

Even though you had been watching Dean, the loud bang of the gun echoing made your body jolt. He missed Sam by an inch, if that. He pulled you tighter by your ropes, digging the knife into the soft flesh of your neck.

“I warned you,” he cocked his head, blood starting to trickle down.

“Get away from her,” Dean started charging. “Son of a—“

You didn’t hear anything after that. The sound of another gunshot, your head getting smashed against the bar counter, everything went black. Maybe you got shot, maybe it was Sam. It came from behind you, from the back door unexpectedly.

The next time you felt anything, it was mostly quiet. Muffled talking coming from elsewhere. There was a cold compress on your forehead, cheek slightly sore with make shift stitches, leg wrapped in bandages.

You weren’t at the bar anymore, you were… at Bobby’s place?

Bobby.

He must’ve been where the second gunshot came from. The last shot you heard. He got Sam. He had to. For you to be here and not dead, meant Sam was here. Bobby and Dean must be here.

Slowly, you tried sitting up, wincing as the pain in your head started throbbing. You needed to know what was going on, if they’d managed to get the demon out of Sam.

As you made your way cautiously down the stairs, the voices got louder. You recognised the sound of Dean speaking latin, an exorcism from one of Bobby’s books. They were trying to help Sam still.

Without walking fully into the room, you peeked around the corner. Sam with his arms strapped to a chair, caught under the sigils on the ceiling and floor. He was pulling at his ropes, groaning as Dean kept talking.

At that moment, Dean paused, “this isn’t working!” He shouted. “We need something more powerful.”

He rushed to the other side of the room, digging through the other books. That’s when Sam— or whoever the demon was, caught sight of you.

“There she is,” Sam laughed. “Maybe you’re stronger than I thought, took quite the—“

“Shut up!” Dean’s raised voice interrupting.

Sam’s eyes widened, a smirk growing. He roughly tugged his arms upwards, ropes snapping, chair flying backwards as he stood. His first idea? Lunging at Dean. Punching him square in the face to knock him back against the wall.

“Oh, hell no,” Bobby rushed to grab the book Dean had been holding.

He started chanting something new in latin, it seemingly effecting Sam more this time. Not enough to hold him back, to stop him from hitting Dean.

You weren’t strong enough to help, but what choice did you have.

Your legs carried you towards Sam, grabbing the gun from Bobby’s desk, using all of your strength to shove him off of Dean, making him fall onto his back in the process.

“Stay down,” you pointed the gun at him.

For a second, he looked worried. But he remembered who he was possessing. The love of your life. The person you found comfort in the most. You were stalling.

“Shoot me,” he challenged. “I dare you.”

Your jaw clenched, keeping the gun pointed at his head, finger hovering over the trigger. Of course, you couldn’t shoot. You wouldn’t shoot.

Sam began to struggle, you could see it in his face. The way his eyes flickered between completely black and normal. A pained expression while the demon tried to fight the exorcism chant.

While standing over him, you couldn’t ignore the woozy feeling flooding your head. You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping it would pass, only seeming to make it worse. The room starting to spin.

“Two head injuries,” Sam managed to lean back on his elbows. “I think you need to lay down… don’t you?”

He kicked towards you, catching against your ankle to knock you over. You only just didn’t hit your head a third time. Thanks to Dean who slid towards you, his hand catching the back of your head.

The gun in your hand ended up next to Sam, who immediately picked it up, pointing it between you and Dean. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t line the gun up properly. The exorcism was working.

You glanced at Bobby, who paused for just a second to look at you. He knew you were worried. Worried for Sam, worried for if he was going to shoot.

He kept reading from his book, Sam’s hand starting to shake. He shouted, knowing his time was up, that this demon would be cast out in the next minute.

The final moment came. Somehow a last smirk on his face as he pulled the trigger. The gunshot deafening. You closed your eyes, feeling the impact of the bullet grazing your shoulder.

Thankfully not getting the aim dead on.

You fell down fully. Letting out a scream of pain, blood seeping through the top of your shirt. Dean was frantically trying to see how bad it was, relieved to know it was only a surface wound.

Bobby was the only one watching the black smoke leave Sam. The demon going back to where it came from. He stayed back, watching everything happen in front of him.

It took Sam a few moments to come around, staring at the ceiling, seeing Bobby, sitting up to see his brother and you together, clearly in pain. You mostly in agony.

“No, it hurts Dean— just—“ you sat yourself up, pressing your hand against your shoulder. “Damn it.”

“What— what happened?” Sam’s voice got your attention.

Both of your heads snapped in his direction. Dean looked away almost instantly, his focus back on you and your injuries. Your eyes stayed on Sam’s, the confused look on his face, how fast it turned to worry and panic after seeing the state you were in.

He managed to half get up, drag himself over to where you were sitting, “are you okay?” His voice soft, a complete contrast to not long ago. He reached out. “Here let me—“

“No!” You shuffled backwards. “Don’t— don’t touch me. Please.”

You looked down, hand going over your mouth as you couldn’t hold back the sob that left your lips. Dean placed his hand on your good shoulder for support, giving one final look at Sam.

“It’s okay, we’re gonna get you patched up,” Dean reassured you, taking your hands in his so he could help you to stand. “I’d give her some space for a while, Sam.”

Sam blinked a few times, finally nodding at his brother, understanding. Still unsure of all the things he’d done to you while under the influence of possession.

You didn’t look at him again. You couldn’t bring yourself to. He didn’t do any of this to you on purpose, you knew that. But it would be hard to get the image of Sam, your Sam, hurting you, out of your head.

He watched as Dean helped you out of the room, and he wanted to follow. Taking a few steps in that direction before Bobby’s familiar voice sounded around the room.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” He walked past Sam, placing his book back where it belonged. “You hurt her, a hell of a lot, boy.”

Sam had a sheepish look on his face. Unsure of what to do now. He couldn’t remember everything, flashes here and there. Knowing he hurt you though? That was the worst part.

Bobby gave Sam one last look, knowing there was more to say, but he had been through a lot too. He left the room, following where Dean was taking you to make sure he was careful enough tending to your wounds. Leaving Sam alone.

He stood in silence, seeing the mess in the room, blood on the floor, on the wall. He hated to think about how much he did to you. And he felt terrible, even though he couldn’t help it.

For the first time, he couldn’t comfort you. Couldn’t check on you. Couldn’t patch you up himself. The person he loved most wasn’t with him right now, because of what the demon possessing him had done.

He felt like he’d ruined everything, and it was all his fault.

Your jeans clung to your slightly damp skin, your top (a light green with florals and many fluttery layers) skillfully hid your rolls. Your hair was blown out, your makeup perfectly done (besides the beads of sweat building up on your brow), and your sunglasses were perched neatly on your nose. 

In other words, you felt good. Hot, even. 

There was one issue though. You’d yet to see Beau. Who, even if you were too scared to say it outloud, was the whole reason you were here. 

You nervously fidgeted with your purse while taking a leisurely sip of the Sig Tau bucket. It tasted like a Dirty Shirley, but you couldn’t be sure.

“Come here often?”

“Nope.” You smiled lightly as your eyes scanned the crowd. “Just waiting on a friend.” 

“Oh?” The frat brother was not leaving. Great. You tried to come across as friendly, but not friendly enough that it felt flirty. Obviously, you did not succeed. “If she’s half as beautiful as you, we’re in for a treat?” 

There were so many things wrong with that statement, that you simply did not have time to unpack it. “He is on the way, so…” 

“He?” This statement only seemed to egg on his flirtations. “Is he your boyfriend?” 

“Not exactly.” You thanked whatever was above that your glasses hid your deadly glare. “Look it was nice talking to you, but I should really get-” 

“He obviously isn’t interested enough to stay by your side. Whereas I-” 

“Am making someone extremely uncomfortable?” You raised a brow, officially done with playing nice. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me.” You took your glasses off, placing them on your head. “This entire conversation you have done nothing but talk over me and treat me as an object. I honestly thought that maybe you’d respect the threat of another man coming over here. But still, you persisted.” You crossed your arms, jutting your hip out ever so slightly. “You are the very worst of what Sig Tau has to offer.” 

“You’re a-” 

“Is there a problem here?” Beau’s voice broke through the tense air. “What’s going on, Tucker?” 

“Maxwell.” Tucker seemingly cowered at the sight of Briar’s beloved quarterback. Good, serves him right.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Beau’s cologne flooded your senses. “Is there a problem here?” 

“No.” Tucker shook his head quickly. “No problem.” 

“Huh.” Beau’s eyes stayed on the boy as he addressed you. “Is there a problem here, Killer?” 

Killer. A nickname you’d earned after tearing Beau to shreds. You were in a bad mood, and once you set your sights on Beau, there was no turning back. You’d apologized profusely, but it was too late. He’d dubbed you Killer, and the nickname had stuck ever since. 

“Not anymore.” You responded. “I think Turner here was just leaving.” 

“Tucker, but, yea.” Turner nodded. “Bye.” 

Beau scoffed, mumbling under his breath. “I am so reporting his ass to standards.” 

“That is so kind of you.” You imitated, turning around to face the boy. “How are you?” 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He frowned. Your eyes drifted down to his hands, which were grazing yours just barely. You could tell he was itching to reach out and hold you, to make sure you were alright. Deciding to put him out of his misery, you settled on a nice arm squeeze.

“I’m fine. But thank you.” You genuinely smiled at the boy, your hand still lingering on his arm. (It was hard not to notice exactly how muscular he was.) “Seriously. I had no idea where that was going.” 

“Don’t worry. If I have it my way, Tucker won’t be a brother for much longer.” 

You smirked, stepping just a hair closer, testing the waters. “And we all know the influence you have.” 

“Are you having fun?” He laughed. “Besides the whole-” 

“I’m having a great time.” Liar.

“And to think,” His pointer finger wrapped around yours. “That you hate darties. Now look at you.” 

“What can I say?” You shrugged. “I’m a changed woman.” 

“You know,” he was bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet. “I was just about to play a game of pong. I don’t know if you’d be down, but I need a partner.” 

Something about seeing him reduced to a bumbling nervous mess made you incredibly mushy inside. “I’m down.” You smiled. “I’m so down. Lead the way.”

And when his hand tightened its grasp on yours, you said nothing, simply following after him. 

two: the spa day

This was stupid. There was no way that he would want to do this. 

Spa day was originally a girls' night. All of your roommates had excitedly put the event into their calendars. Then, suspiciously, hours before, all of their boyfriends had decided to take them out for a date, a date that they just couldn’t get out of. 

They later confessed with not a shred of guilt in their tones.  

They were giggling when they told you. Actually giggling in your face as they destroyed your girls night. The smug bastards. Grace at least gave you the courtesy of apoligizing. 

“We’re sorry, but we knew you would never do it on your own. You need to make sure he knows you’re interested, babe. And what better way than a chill night in? Just the two of you.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Alone.” 

“We want to see you in love.” Malia added on. “You deserve it.” 

“And in order to do that-” Grace continued. “You need to be vulnerable.” 

The phone is ringing longer than normal, and you take that as a sign to hang up. The second you pull the phone away from your ear, Beau’s voice rings out like a beacon in the dark. “Hello?” Your throat closes, and suddenly, you’ve forgotten how to speak. Why were you so nervous? “Killer? Are you there?” 

“Hi.” You put him on speaker as you pace around your apartment, your voice crackling. “Are you, um…” You take a deep breath. “Are you busy right now?” You can hear Dean in the background, as well as some of the other hockey guys. Shit. “This was crazy, sorry for bothering-” 

“I’m not busy at all.” Dean groans, and you can hear Beau hiss at him to ‘shut up’. “What’s up?” 

“My roommates and I were supposed to have a spa day today, but they all backed out at the last minute. And I know this is stupid, so I honestly wouldn’t blame you for saying no, but I was wondering-” 

“Yes.”

“Yes to this is stupid, or yes to-” 

“To the spa day.” Beau laughed. “Yes to the spa day.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, really.” He sounded like he was smiling. God, you hoped he was smiling. “I’m on the way. Do you need anything?” 

“I have snacks and wine and face masks, so I’m good.” 

“Give me ten minutes.” It takes at least twenty minutes to get to your apartment from the hockey house. He most definitely drove over the speed limit, because ten minutes later, Beau was at your door. 

You whipped it open, trying your best to look disappointed. “How many minor traffic laws did you break?” 

“Only a few.” He grinned. “Can I come in?”

“Please.” You shut the door behind him, watching as he walked around your living room.

“It’s different from the last time I was here.” 

Ah, yes, the last time he was here. 

Sophomore year, you had had too much to drink. After making Beau swear that he would take care of you, your roommates all left the party. And take care of you he did. The entire night he stayed by your side, guarded your drinks, danced, and even laid with you on the grass to look at the stars. 

When you were ready to leave, so was he. He walked you all the way home, took off your makeup, and tucked you into bed. Looking back, Beau had always been boyfriend material. Even when you were just mutual friends. That was just Beau though, he was kind to a fault. 

“We went with a coastal grandmother vibe this year.” 

“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “As opposed to the ‘barbie hot pink’ vibe.” 

“Exactly.” You laughed. “You get it.” 

“This face mask is cold.” 

“Did you expect it to be warm?” You mumble, carefully spreading the mask around his face. “It’s supposed to help your skin glow.” 

“Do you think my skin needs to glow more than it already does?”

A snort escaped you before you could help it. “Just think, you’ll like the sun baby from Teletubbies after this.” 

“I’ve always wanted to look like her.” “Really?” Giggles snuck out between every word. “Trust me. With the help of this mask, people are going to have to wear shades to look at you.” 

“They already do.” He wiggled his brows. “You know why?” 

“Why?” 

“Because my future’s so bright.” 

You closed your eyes. “You did not just say that.” 

“I’m not ashamed.” He smirked. “What does the one that you’re wearing do?” 

“It uh-” You opened your eyes, suddenly realizing how close the two of you are. There’s no other way to put it: you were sitting on his lap, straddling him as you applied his mask. “It’s supposed to hydrate your skin while cooling it down. Sometimes-” Your breath hitches as his hands drift up from your hips to your waist. Normally, you’d flinch. You’re extremely uncomfortable with people being anywhere near your rolls, but with Beau, you crave more. Always more. “My moisturizer doesn’t exactly do the trick, and I use this face mask to rejuvenate.”

“Huh.” His smile could make flowers bloom. “So that’s why your skin looks so dewy.” 

Your head falls back as the giggles take over once again. “Dewy?” 

“What’s so funny?” His hands squeeze ever so slightly. “Your skin is dewy.” 

“You’re perfect.” You laugh. “Who taught you how to use that word?” 

“Learned it all on my own, thank you very much.” 

“I’ll take your word for it.” You focus back on the task at hand. “Now hold still, I’m almost done.” 

He tried to contain his smile as he tipped his head back. “Yes, ma’am.” 

three: the gala

“Football’s biggest fundraiser of the year is coming up.” 

You look up from your textbook. “That’s cool.” 

“It’s a silent auction, gala, sort of thing. Briar’s entire board of trustees normally attends. We also invite our biggest donors, parents, and friends.” 

“Sounds like a fun night, Beau.” You smile, trying not to be obvious about the fact that you’re talking in the middle of a lecture. “Is it fancy?” 

“The fanciest.” He leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. “Would you want to go?”

“To the gala?” You hummed. “With you?” 

“Yes?” He sounds scared.

“I’d love to.” You looked over, covering your mouth to hold back the laughter. “Breathe, Maxwell. You know I can’t say no to you.” 

“I just don’t want you to go because you feel obligated or anything-” 

“I don’t feel obligated, Beau.” You smiled. “I want to go with you.” 

“Good.” He smiled back. “Good.” 

“I’ll have to buy a new dress.” 

“Of course.” He sounds so sure when he says it, that you just know he’s gonna weasel himself into coming along with you. 

“Is there a color scheme?” 

“Normally I see the girls wearing navy blue, red, black, that sort of stuff.” 

“Briar colors?” You nod slowly, envisioning the possibilities. “I can work with that.” 

“You know you’ll look beautiful in whatever you wear.” 

Your cheeks could cook an egg. “That’s sweet of you to say but-” 

“Am I interrupting something?” Your professor stared at the two of you. “Is Mr. Maxwell distracting you?”

“Not at all.” You smiled brightly. “I was just clarifying something for him.” 

“Mhm.” She was not convinced. “Raise your hand next time.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Beau replied. “Will do.” 

You waited a minute before continuing. “Is there dancing?” 

“So much dancing.” 

“Good.” You grinned. “I love dancing.” 

“I know.” His pen tapped against the table at a million miles a minute. “I know you love to dance.”

“Relax, Killer.” Beau leans over, whispering in your ear.

“I’m very relaxed.” 

“You’re messing with your dress a lot for someone who’s relaxed.” 

“Do you always notice everything I do?” A scowl forms on your lips.

He hums. “Usually.” 

“Oh.” You don’t have a retort for that. “I should have gone with the black one. It’s more slimming and-” 

“You look beautiful. Like a movie star.” His eyes bear into yours, with a look that almost feels like he’s daring you to disagree with him. “You’re beautiful.” 

“Thank you.” You whisper. “Are you sure it’s not too much-” 

“Killer, don’t make me do something drastic.”

“Drastic?” You raised a brow. “And what exactly would that entail?” 

“Do you really want to know?” He put the car into park, staring at you.

“That’s why I asked.” 

He smirked, running around to open your door. “I guess I’d have to prove to you just how beautiful I think you are.” 

“Oh.” Your breath hitched as he extended his hand for you to take. “I’ll take your word for it then.” 

“Thought you might.” He handed his keys to the valet, walking you into the venue. Jazz standards and small talk filled the air, with people packed into the hotel ballroom as far as the eye could see.

Beau was immediately bombarded with fans, board members, and the like. He smiled, shook hands, and introduced you to every single one of them. He talked his way through a million conversations like it was easy, like this was just another day. He’d grabbed you champagne without you even having to ask, handing it to you mid-conversation. 

After what felt like an hour of talking, you’d finally found yourselves alone. Or at least, able to talk to each other without another person present. “How do you do it?” 

“Do what?” He tilted his head. 

“You just seemed so-” Your cheeks feel hot. Maybe it’s the champagne, maybe it’s his attention. “So natural talking to all those people.”

“I like to talk, so it works out.” 

“No that’s not it.” You shook your head. “You’re just so-” 

“So?” His hand found its way to your waist. 

“So confident. So quick witted and kind. A natural leader.” Your hands, now free of a champagne glass, found themselves placed gently on his chest. You can’t help but think that to an outsider, it must look like the two of you were about to kiss. “It’s admirable. You’re amazing.” 

“Wow.” He grinned, his hands falling to your hips as he spoke. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever told me.” 

“Don’t let it get to your head.” You laughed. Your eyes drifted from his lips to his bow. “Your bow is crooked.” 

“Oh.” He looked down, frowning.

“Do you mind?” 

“Not at all.” Your hands reached up, fidgeting with it until it was just right. When you were done, you leaned back, admiring your work and smoothing out his jacket. Was it sort of an excuse to rub your hands down his chest? 

Maybe. 

Beau must have been holding his breath, because when you’d finished, his chest practically heaved. “Thank you.” 

“Of course.” 

“Killer.” His voice broke. 

“Beau.” This felt like something out of a fairytale.

“Do you want to dance?” 

“Yes.” You sound breathless.

He grabbed your hand, leading you through the crowd. The dance floor is in sight when an older man and his wife steps in front of him. “Mr. Maxwell.” 

“Sir, ma’am.” Beau smiles kindly. “How are you?” 

“I’m great. You were fantastic this season. Lots of talk regarding the draft.” 

“Thank you sir.” It’s hard to miss the way the quarterback’s eyes light up.

“Do you have time to talk?” 

“I-” Beau looks back at you, and then at the man. “Sorry sir. I need to dance with my date.” 

“Understood.” The older man smiles at you. “Miss.” 

You nod, staring over your shoulder and Beau leads you the rest of the way. “Who was that?” 

“Oh him?” Beau shrugs, twirling you into his arms. “He’s the head coach of the Buffalo Bills.” 

“What?” You’re gawking, you can feel it. “Beau, go talk to him.” 

“Do you not want to dance?” His hands find their place, gently swaying to the music. “Of course I want to dance. But I can wait.” 

“Well, so can he.” He’s holding you so close it feels like you’re one person.

“That man could get you a career, Beau. It’s really not worth it.” 

“It is to me.” He leaned his forehead against yours. “You’re worth it.” 

You were gawking again. You can’t think of anything to say, and so, you lean your head against his chest and dance with him for what felt like forever.

And when the dance is over, he guides you back towards the Buffalo Bills coach with his hand on the small of your back. “Sir.” 

“You have a good one here.” The man smiles. 

“Thank you.” Your arm wraps around Beau’s. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” 

“I’m Joey Brady, and this is my wife Lauren.” 

“It’s so nice to meet you.” Lauren sticks her hand out, and you shake it. 

“It’s nice to meet you as well.”

“Did you have fun dancing?” Lauren replies. “It’s so rare to find a moment to slow dance anymore.” 

“I agree.” You smile. “Thank you for waiting.” 

“No need to thank us.” Mr. Brady smiles. “I would do the same.” 

The conversation flows easily between the four of you. The night ends before you can blink. You and Beau are leaning against the bar, nursing a couple of espresso martinis when the bartender yells out last call.

“Shall we?” You tilt your head, pushing your drink away. 

“We shall.” he grins, shrugging off his coat. “Here.” 

“You really don’t need to.” 

“Take the coat, Killer.” 

You gladly take the warm, cologne soaked coat from his hands, pulling it close. “If you insist.” 

one: the conversation that changed everything

So this was what heartbreak felt like. 

Yesterday, Briar Hockey threw a party. Of course, you went. You had fun, played Pong, danced (of course), and you’d even stayed longer than normal, watching ‘America’s Got Talent Worst Auditions’ with Dean and Beau until the wee hours of the night. And, in the deep moments of tired delusion, you’d left your things behind. 

Most notably, your hoodie and purse.

You’d texted Garrett asking when a good time to come over was, and he’d said whenever. Your fist had been raised, you’d almost knocked. And then you heard it. 

“She’s been leading you on, man.” Some Sig Tau brother. 

Beau’s voice cuts through. “No she hasn’t.” 

“She kind of has, though.” Some other Sig Tau brother. Dean must have been hosting some brotherly bonding event. 

“What do you know about it?” Dean. You smiled to yourself. “Some girls take a little longer to warm up. That doesn’t mean that they’re leading you on.” 

“It’s been four years, man.” 

Beau scoffed. “Are you guys keeping track or something?” 

“Maxwell, you have to admit, it’s crazy that she still hasn’t-” The first Sig Tau brother speaks up. “You know.” 

“No I don’t, you know.” Beau sounds heavily annoyed. “And you should stop talking about her like you know her. You have no idea what she’s been through or what she’s actually like. You’ve talked to her once, dude. In class.” 

“She’s not exactly the easiest person to talk to.” He had a point.

“Or the nicest.” 

“I guess that’s why she’s called Killer.” The second Sig Tau brother mutters. 

Tears threaten to spill over your water line. “Hold on a second. When did this turn into a ‘let's all be dickhead’s’ party?” Dean, once again. 

“If she needs to take her time, then I’ll do anything she needs me to-” Beau’s voice grows in volume, but you sort of black out from the sheer embarrassment of it all. “And for however long she wants. I’m sorry you assholes don’t understand what being in lo-” 

You step back, the floor board creaking under the weight. A gasp leaves your lips before you can help it, and you know you’ve been caught. The only reasonable thought that passes through your mind is to run.

So you do.

Or at least, you try to. You get down the porch steps and to the sidewalk when the door swings open, and Beau Maxwell calls out your name. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough.” 

He frowns. “They’re dicks.” 

“Beau-” A single tear falls. “I- I shouldn’t have been here. It’s really okay-” 

“Killer.” He approaches you carefully, like you’re a stray dog. Like you’re going to bite at any minute. Because, in all fairness, you might. It’s your defense mechanism after all, and it kills you that you’ve made him feel like he has to walk on eggshells around you. “Don’t listen to them. They’re stupid, they don’t know what they’re talking about.” 

“They’re not stupid.” You shook your head. “They’re right, and you know they are.” 

“What?” This is the first time you’ve seen Beau look even slightly annoyed in your presence. You never want to see him look like that again. “What are you saying right now?” 

“Beau-” You sob, hugging yourself. “I- It’s all my fault, why we haven’t-” 

“Haven’t what?” He steps closer. “Haven’t what, baby?” 

That’s new. “We could have been something this whole time, and I- I’ve held us back.” 

“You haven’t held us back.” He shook his head. “How could you think that?” 

You’re fully sobbing. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for projecting my insecurities on you. You just- you don’t understand what it’s like.” 

“You don’t need to explain anything to me.” He whispered. “You have to know that.” 

“Boys see someone like me and they laugh. It’s just the truth. Eventually, after years of being asked out as a joke, I decided that it was easier to be harsh and mean than it was to be kind and vulnerable. I became resentful, and harsh to cover up the fact that I-” You laughed, angrily wiping away your wet cheeks. “I wanted what everyone else had.” 

“Baby-” 

“And then you came along, all kind and pure, and I thought, this must be a joke. A bet him and his friends made. And then you kept talking to me. You hung out with me, you introduced me to your friends, and I was like maybe, maybe you liked me.”

“I do.” He’s now in front of you.

You almost step back from the shock of it all. “You care about me, even when I treat you like shit.” 

“You don’t treat me like shit.” 

“I do.” You whisper. “I do and you know it. I push you away, and you always come back.” 

“Because I love you.” He sounds as confident as ever, like he’s barking out orders on the field. Like what he just said is something he’s said a million times. “And I’ve always known it, deep down. From the day you tore into me, I told myself that if it took a million years, I was gonna get you to trust me. And if it took another million, I was going to wait for you to love me back.”

“You’re determined.” 

“Yeah.” He laughed. “I guess I am. Others could say I’m in love.” 

Your stomach flipped as you spoke. “You’re wrong, you know.” 

“About what exactly?” 

“You don’t have to wait for me to love you back.” 

The look of sheer panic was replaced with one of a pure smug nature. “Is that so?” 

“I’ve loved you always. But I especially love you right now.” 

He lunged forward, lips colliding against yours, and his hands holding your face as if it were made of glass. He’s no longer afraid to hold you. No longer are you a stray feral killer. You are in love with a man who knows all of you and chooses to stay. 

He leans his forehead against yours, and his hands fall to your waist.

And, selfishly, you want more. 

Always more. 

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It was a messy jumble of words, ink stains obvious on the fading paper, the emotions spilling out before you could even register what you were writing. All you knew was that you needed the whole thing out of your system and onto the only thing you knew what to do and that was to write. 

Before you could stop, or be smart about it, everything was poured on the paper. Lengthy, descriptive, and full of the things you wanted to say, and things you know you can’t say, because even at that age, you knew that liking John Logan was a beautiful terrible idea. 

Because he was your best friend. And you aren’t supposed to like your best friend. At least, in your head. Who are you to ruin the friendship, you know?

You remember folding it in half. Then again, then for a third time, like you were trying to make it as small as possible. Like diminishing it physically would diminish what the words on the paper meant. 

You'd been looking for somewhere to put it. The trash felt too final, too much like admitting it had existed, and you were halfway on just stuffing it under your pillow  when you'd found the box. Your grandmother's, handed down at the end of summer with a kiss on your forehead and the words for letters you mean to send someday. Wooden, old-smelling, with a brass latch that stuck a little if you didn't press it just right.

You'd tucked the letter in and shut the latch.

That was the beginning of it.

-

It had been a random tuesday, back in junior year of high school.

John – he had always been John to you before he became Logan – had after school hockey practice. You'd been draped over the boards for the past ten minutes, watching from the bleachers the way you always did when you had nowhere better to be, which was most days— something you'd never quite admitted to yourself until recently. Because the walk home was shorter from this direction. You had a whole catalogue of reasons, and not one of them was true.

John had been the last one off the ice.

That in itself was not unusual. John Logan was always the last one off the ice. The coach was nice enough to lend him that extra time, considering that he had always been the kid that loved hockey more than anything else. 

And you would always wait in the bleachers. Sometimes on your phone, most times watching him as he skated. You count the amount of times he circled it, especially when you felt bored but didn’t have the strength to look away. Because something about him was magnetic to you. You wondered what it was, every time you stay that extra ten minutes in the rink.

Then after his usual rounds (at most, seven rounds), he looked up, and caught your gaze.

John grinned. The stupid, lopsided grin that suddenly made your heart skip. Then he skated all the way over to the boards, where you were, and leaned on them as he grinned. His helmet was tucked under his arm, hair damp at the temples, “You just got here?”

“Yep. Passed by after practice.” You tried to keep your tone as casual as possible, like the sight of him didn't make your heart skip. 

“You really didn’t have to come by, you know. It’s late.”

“I wanted to.” You smiled. You didn’t say anything else as follow up. Because adding something else after that would mean that you were admitting something that you weren’t ready to admit. And you would have to explain everything else that you didn’t name yet.

He looked at you for a second, searching for something in your face, and then he looked down and smiled again. It was softer this time, private, the one that felt like it wasn't for anyone else, the one he wore when something surprised him in a way he found pleasant, and tilted his head. 

"Sure. Thanks for that.”

You just shrugged.

John nods over at the locker rooms. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll get you hot chocolate at the cafe nearby.”

You huffed, lips curling in amusement. “There? Really? Last time we went there, you said you didn't like the hot chocolate they made.” 

John just grinned at you. “Yeah. But you like it.” 

He skated away after that. Like those words didn’t make you freeze, your eyes trailing after him, heart stuttering and your brain finally naming that warmth that spread on your cheeks. 

And that was it. That was the whole thing. That was the moment that broke you open.

You'd gone home that day and picked up the closest paper and pen, and the words just started coming, because they didn't have anywhere else to go. You wrote about how his smile was the most disarming thing he could have. You wrote about the way he'd leaned on the boards and looked at you like looking at you was just a natural extension of breathing. You wrote about how his curls fell perfectly on his face.

You wrote about how the hot chocolate from the machine in the convenience store nearby had been terrible, watery and too sweet for him, and even when you told him he didn't have to drink it, he'd laughed and drank it anyway and said that it was fine with all the cheerfulness of someone who genuinely didn't mind, and how that had somehow made everything worse.

You wrote, hesitantly, but filled with everything in your chest— I like him. 

You folded the paper into thirds, tucked it into your grandmother's box, and pressed the brass latch shut.

You didn't open the box for three weeks after that. Not because you were over it, but because you were hoping, very determinedly, that if you didn't look at it, the feeling would dissolve on its own.

It didn't.

-

The letters accumulated the way all things do when you are trying not to notice them: gradually, and then all at once. 

By the end of junior year, there were ten. By senior year of high school, fifteen.

They were not all long. Some were barely a paragraph, dashed out on notebook paper in the middle of class when something happened that you had no one to tell except him, which was the problem, because he was the person that you would usually go to about these things… so you tell the paper instead.

Junior year, you wrote about how naturally John seemed to do things for you. Carrying your bag, buying things in the cafeteria when you didn't want to get up from the bench. But at the same time, it was always the question if he liked you, or if he was being nice

You remembered I hate raisins in things. You picked them out of the muffin before you gave it to me. You've been doing that since seventh grade and I only just noticed today that it's something you do on purpose.

Jealousy would often seep into your letters, as well. Because you knew he was well liked. That John had a future of having girls that would throw themselves at him, and he would always entertain it with his smile and pretty curls and— 

— but you act like I’m special, and that they don't matter. But I don't have the right to even stop them from liking you, so all I could do is watch and wish that you would instead look at me.

You kept those folded five times. 

--

Senior year, anger would sometimes seep into them.

I should tell you. I should tell you that I lie in bed until 3 am wondering if anything would happen between us. I should— but you are so unfair. You act like you care, and then I'm left hanging again. I still have your jacket. That stupid, gray jacket that you gave me. The damn gray jacket that was your favorite and you don't let anyone wear but you handed it to me when I was cold. And at the same time, you turned and smiled at Kaia like she mattered and. I hate that I like you and I hate that it feels like you do too— but then you turn around and act like you don't.

Some were the soft, bewildered variety, written in the margins of homework you’d never turn in, about something small he'd done that shouldn't have meant as much as it did.

You know how everyone else talks over me when I'm telling a story and moves on before I'm done? You always wait. You just… wait. You wait until I'm finished, and then you respond to what I actually said, not what you were going to say next. I don't know if you know you do that. I don't know how to tell you that it matters.

When you both got into Briar University, John on a hockey scholarship, you on a Merit Scholarship— you celebrated together in the parking lot of the ice rink, his arms around you, lifting you a full two inches off the ground, and you laughed and said “John, put me down!” even if you knew that deep down, you didn’t mean any of it, wanting him to keep his arms around you longer. 

You'd gone home that night and written four pages.

I keep telling myself I'm not following you. And I'm not. I worked for this, I studied late into the night and doubled my efforts whenever I would fail because I wanted Briar before you got in.  But some part of me is terrified that the reason I want it so badly is mixed up with the reason you're going, and I can't separate them cleanly, and that scares me.  What if I didn't want Briar so much as I wanted to be wherever you were going to be? What does that mean? What am I supposed to do with that? I don't have an answer. I'm going to go to sleep. I'm going to not think about it. I'm going to go to Briar, even if I can't solidify why I am.

You went to Briar.

You don’t address it after the long four page letter, and somewhere between orientation week and prelims, the box had gone from a strange habit to a necessity, a pressure valve that kept everything from building to critical mass.

You'd gotten good at it. At the translation of feeling into ink, at the sealing away of things that had no business existing in the open air. The box lived under your bed, behind your extra blankets and a stack of Intro to Lit anthologies you kept meaning to donate. The latch, temperamental from the start, had gotten worse with age. 

You'd meant to fix it.

You kept meaning to do a lot of things.

The letters still ranged from two lines to four pages, even when you entered Freshman Year in Briar. They still kept the same amount of yearning and thoughts you would never find the courage to say, or even send to Logan– and soon after, you started signing them too.

John – or maybe Logan?  You started being called Logan after you teamed up with Tucker and the rest. So maybe I should change it up to. Adapt and change, you know. Though it would be weird to start calling you by your last name.  – With love, and judgement.

You tried to call him Logan. He looked at you then with such offense that you back tracked and went back to calling him John. He said it made him feel better. Special, because John was a name only you could use. 

You wrote another letter that night, trying to reason out the butterflies and the implications of what he meant. Because rationalizing it away makes it easier than admitting it out loud.

They kept piling up. Letter after letter.

This sucks. You remembered my coffee order even after I changed it three times in two months. I can’t blame you for how well you treat me. It’s just how you are.  I should just stop putting meaning into things, but the other part of me just wants to believe that maybe it did mean something. UGH. John Logan you fucking suck. I hope you trip on the ice during practice. Actually, no. That was a joke. Maybe. – With love.

You called the longest ones your pathetic, yearning lovergirl letters. Late-night things, written when the distance between what you felt and what you were allowed to say felt too wide to sleep across. Those ones you sometimes read back in the morning with a kind of horrified tenderness, like finding a diary from a younger self. 

They were overwrought. 

They were honest in ways you couldn't quite access in daylight.

John, I've been thinking about the thing you said last week, that you don't know what you'd do without me. You said it so easily. Like it was just true, just a fact of your life, the way you'd say it's cold out or practice got cancelled. I don't know what to do with that. I've been turning it over and over in my head trying to figure out what it means and I think the honest answer is that it means exactly what it sounds like and nothing more and I need to learn to be okay with that. I'm working on it. – With love. P.S. You should stop handing me your hoodies when I get cold and letting me keep them. It messes with me and my late night 3 am delusional thoughts.

John, You have this thing you do when you're listening to someone — you get very still. Most people, when they listen, they nod, they mm-hm, they start formulating their response and you can see the moment they stop actually hearing you. You don't do that. You just go still and you look at the person and you listen, like it costs you nothing, like you have all the time in the world. I don't think you realize you do it. I don't think you realize what it does to people. What it does to me. I'm going to stop writing now. Before I start turning into the 3 am yearner I was last night. Again. — With love.

By freshman year of college, there were thirty letters.

Sophomore year is when it all cracked.

Classes started to weigh on you in a way freshman year hadn't warned you about. Rehearsals that ran until midnight, choreography notes bleeding red ink across marked-up scores, tech week for the department showcase bleeding into finals week, the constant ache in your calves and the tape on your feet that never seemed to come off in time — a dance major was not a degree that let up, and you were running harder than you ever had, barely sleeping, more often than not with Logan being the one thing keeping you sane, showing up with food you hadn't asked for and quiet company at your desk — or in the studio doorway — at midnight, watching you run the same eight counts until your body finally understood what your brain already knew. 

And then there was the puck bunny thing.

You didn't have the right to say anything about it, not really. You understood why. John Logan was hot. He was charming, easy to talk to, easy to fall for — and there was always a rotating cast of girls finding excuses to linger near him after games. You watched it happen the way you'd always watched it happen, except now you were closer to it, in his dorm, at his games, in the middle of the aftermath. And you had no claim to any of it. He wasn't yours. He'd never been yours. You just got to watch, the way you always had.

So you stopped writing. You shoved the box into the dark crevice under your bed and didn't take it out again. You prayed it would stay there. You told yourself you were moving on.

Meeting Davis was almost spontaneous — a late night out at Malone's, small talk with a guy from your gen-ed class that turned into something steadier. He was easy. Uncomplicated. He didn't make your chest hurt the way John did, and for a while, that felt like a relief instead of a warning sign. The letters stayed buried. Things between you and Logan went back to what looked, on the surface, like normal. Friends. Best friends. 

Because that was all it was going to be.

-

"So how are things with Davis?" Logan asked, leaning against the kitchen counter while you hunched over a marked-up piece of choreography notation, notes scattered across the counter in purple and yellow highlighter, counts and spacing diagrams bleeding into the margins. Gen ed notes scatter on top of them, but you seemed more preoccupied with the scrawls of markings for your major.

"Things are fine." You tried to keep the annoyance out of your voice, but Logan had always been perceptive, and it showed in the way his brows drew together.

"Yeah? Then why do you sound like that?"

Your pen dug a little deeper into the page. "Sound like what?"

"Like things aren't fine."

Your head snapped up, an evident frown pulling at your mouth. "It's none of your business, John."

Your voice came out sharper than you meant it to, and you winced, immediately regretting it. "Sorry. That was — sorry."

He didn't push on the apology. Just crossed his arms and softened his voice instead. "What's wrong?"

You hesitated, pen hovering over your notes, and then you let out a long groan and dropped your forehead against your textbook. "I don't want to start venting."

"Vent anyway."

"He keeps asking when I'm free. Wants to hang out constantly, and I get it, I do, but callbacks are in two weeks and I have a showcase piece I'm not off-book for yet, and I told him that, and he just —" You sat up, dragging a hand down your face. "He said it's kind of pathetic that I care this much about a theater degree. That I don’t have a future in this and that I’m only wasting my time."

Logan's jaw went tight. He would also do that when something pissed him off, and you knew him enough to know that he was also pissed off at what you said. "He said that?"

"Basically."

"That's not — " He stopped himself, exhaled through his nose, clearly working to keep his voice level. "You've wanted this since we were sixteen. You used to run your combinations for me in your driveway at eleven at night in the middle of winter because you couldn't get the phrase to feel right, and I stood there freezing my hands off holding your phone so you could film it."

That got a small, watery laugh out of you. "You always came outside, though. Even when it was that cold."

"Because it mattered to you." He said it so plainly, like it wasn't even a decision he'd had to make. "Anyone who makes you feel stupid for caring about the thing you've wanted since we were in high school doesn't get to also get your time. That's not — that's not how it should work."

You didn't have an answer for that. You just nodded at your notes, throat tight, and went back to studying, and Logan stayed leaning against the counter a while longer before he finally pushed off it and went to make you tea you hadn't asked for, the same way he always did.

-

Things ended with Davis not long after that — quietly, without a scene (an irony you did clock, even mid-breakup), the kind of ending that comes less from a single fight and more from a slow accumulation of moments where you'd chosen your scripts, your late rehearsals, your friendship with Logan, over him, and he'd finally said out loud what he'd clearly been thinking for weeks. You didn't wallow in it. It hadn't felt like losing something so much as setting something down.

Allie, your dorm neighbor across the hall, caught you in the laundry room a few days later, sorting a basket of mismatched socks.

"Wait, so you and Davis are actually done?" Allie asked, propping her hip against the dryer.

"Yeah." You shrugged, feeding a quarter into the slot. "It didn't work out." She knew about what he said, and she made the same face as you the moment you told her. She was the friend you made in one of the early collaborations your major did with hers, and she was the one who knew well how taxing it would be on your body and to have someone just brush it off? She had also pushed for you re-evaluating your whole relationship before you even talked to John about it.

"Huh." Allie studied you for a second too long. "You don't seem that broken up about it."

"I'm fine," you said, and mostly meant it, which felt strange enough that you didn't examine it too closely.

Allie didn't push, but she gave you a look on her way out that said she'd clocked something you hadn't said out loud.

Your roommate and best friend in all things best friend, Jai, was less subtle about it. She came in that night to find you cross-legged on your bed, not doing anything in particular, just sort of staring at the wall.

"Okay, what's actually going on with you?" Jai said, dropping her bag and sitting across from you. "You broke up with Davis, which you knew most of us had been telling you to, but usually break ups have the whole grieving process. And right now,  you look like you're thinking about a math problem, not a breakup."

"I don't know. I think I just — I didn't care as much as I should have. The whole time. I feel bad about that." You fiddle with your fingers. “That maybe I feel this apathetic because I didn’t care as much in the beginning.”

Jai considered you for a moment, tilting her head the way she did when she was about to say something you weren't going to like. "You know what I think?” 

You looked up at Jai, who nodded over at the space under your bed. “You never wrote about him.”

You blinked. "What?"

"The letters." Jai said it like it was obvious, like she'd noticed the box's absence the same way she'd notice if you'd rearranged the furniture. "You've had that thing since I've known you — you disappear into it when something's actually gotten to you. You didn't write a single letter about Davis. Not one, in like four months."

You opened your mouth to argue and found you didn't have anything to argue with.

You hadn't written about Davis. Not once. Every single letter in that box, every one you'd ever written, had one name on it, and it wasn't his.

The realization hit you like cold water. 

You hadn't moved on. Not even a little.

That night you pulled the box out from under the bed — dusty, a stray cobweb clinging to one corner — wiped it down, and wrote the first letter in months. You didn't let yourself think too hard about what it meant that your hand knew exactly how to start again, like it had never really stopped.

I dated someone in hopes of getting over you– only to realize that every time I sit across from him, I imagine its you. It’s not fair on him. Or myself. But though he did deserve the break-up… he didn’t deserve someone who is still hung over a guy she liked since high school, It’s stupid. Terribly so, but I had four months of thinking that dealing with him was much easier than dealing with the constant ache in my chest every time I see you.  Maybe it’s more stupid of me to get back to writing to you and acknowledging the constant hurt i feel. — With love, reluctantly, again, and always.

By Junior year, the letters slowed but never stopped completely. The program was, if anything, worse than sophomore year — a full-length ensemble piece now, not just technique classes, and you were buried in rehearsal schedules and rep notes, and the only thing that made any of it bearable was Logan, constant as ever, still showing up with food, still sitting on the studio floor with you at 1 a.m. while you both pretended you weren't exhausted, still somehow always exactly where you needed him to be. 

Jai, who had appointed herself the unofficial keeper of your feelings since the Davis revelation, was relentless about it.

"You have to tell him," she said one night, apropos of nothing, while you were both supposed to be doing readings for your gen ed classes. "Junior year of high school, senior year, all of freshman and now half of junior year of college. That's — I did the math, that's four years, and you're going to keep writing it down instead of just saying it?"

"It's not that simple."

"It kind of is, though."

You'd relented eventually, worn down by her insistence and your own exhaustion at holding the same shape for four years straight. You told her you'd do it. You'd tell him. Maybe at the house party that weekend, when everything felt looser and easier and less like something you had to plan for.

You didn't get the chance.

You found him in the kitchen of the party, laughing with a girl whose name you didn't know, and before you could process anything, she'd leaned in and he hadn't leaned away.

You didn't wait to see more than that. You turned around and left before he ever noticed you'd been there, walked back to your dorm in the cold without your jacket, and didn't cry, exactly — just sat on your floor and wrote until your hand cramped.

I stopped hoping tonight. I think I needed to see it to actually believe it, because apparently telling myself wasn't enough. I'm not writing this one for you to ever read. I'm writing it so I stop lying to myself about what almost happened this weekend, and didn't, and isn't going to.

I keep thinking about how badly I wanted to walk over there and how I didn't, and how that's the whole story of us, isn't it. Me, standing a few feet away, wanting, and staying exactly where I am.

You told Jai it hadn't worked out. She didn't push for details, just sat with you until you didn't feel like crying anymore.

Things between you and Logan, in the weeks after, went quiet in a way that wasn't quite a fight and wasn't quite normal either — some instinctive retreat on your end that you dressed up as being busy. Eventually it faded, the way most things did when you were both incapable of staying upset at each other for long, and by the second half of the semester you'd settled back into something that looked, from the outside, exactly like it always had. You told yourself that was enough. You tried, in your quiet, determined way, to move on.

There was one more letter before the long silence, written the week after, when he'd shown up at your studio with soup because Jai had mentioned you were sick, and stayed on the floor doing his own reading while you slept on and off on the yoga mats, and woken you gently every hour to make sure you drank water.

You have no idea what you do to me by being like this. You have no idea, or you do, and you just don't care, because it's easier to be kind to me than to explain why you keep being kind to me. Either way, I am so tired of this constant wishing and wanting. I’ll move on. I have to. Or I’ll never get out of this stupid hole.  I love you. But it hurts to keep loving you.

By the second semester of junior year, there were forty-three letters. You left it at forty-three letters.

Ever since that night, where your anger and everything about you spilled into paper and ink– you didn't slip in another letter. It stayed at forty-three.

Forty-three letters, across four years, across the span of a friendship that had become the most important thing in your life and the most carefully guarded secret you kept. Forty-three letters that were supposed to go with you to the grave while you plan out your whole moving on shtick.

That was the plan. That had always been the plan.

The plan, it turned out, was not consulted before Thursday afternoon.

—

It was a fire drill that turned out not to be a drill.

You'd been on the floor beside your bed, hunting for your phone charger, having pulled the mattress out from the wall and tangled yourself in the extra blankets you kept stuffed behind it, when the alarm split the air — sudden, violent, the particular shriek of the Briar dorms that had never once not startled you no matter how many times you'd heard it.

Your elbow caught the edge of the blanket stack. The box, which you'd shoved back into place after re-reading that last letter just the other day, teetered on the edge of the mattress frame. You grabbed for it, fingers catching the corner.

The latch — that brass, temperamental, long-suffering latch you'd always meant to fix and never had — gave.

The box opened.

Forty-three letters, across the floor of your dorm room.

You were still on the ground, staring at them, trying to process the scope of the disaster, when you heard Logan's familiar voice, your name, followed by a quick, "It's me, don't freak out —"

You looked up. Panic set in immediately, your heart dropping to your feet.

John Logan stood in the doorway, your dorm key in his hand — the one you'd given him freshman year for emergencies and never asked back — the opening words dying in his throat as he watched the letters settle.

The alarm was still going. Someone in the hall was shouting about everyone needing to get out. The late-afternoon light came through the window, gold and slanted, landing on the scattered envelopes and the stunned expression on his face and every single letter that bore, in your own handwriting, his name.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you hit the floor on both knees, grabbing at the letters with both hands, stacking them against your chest with no particular order, your mind repeating the same panicked loop — collect them, get them back in the box, get them away from his line of sight.

"These are nothing — they're old, they're just — don't look at those—" You scrambled, but the panic made the ones in your hand slip loose again, and you nearly wanted to just sprawl over the envelopes and pretend they'd never fallen at all.

But John was crouching too. He wasn't reading them. He was just looking at the envelopes scattered across your floor, and you could see the exact moment he registered what they all had in common.

All of them. Every single one.

John Logan.

Your handwriting. His name. Over and over, in blue ink and black ink, and once in green, junior year of high school, when you'd been out of everything else.

His name on the front of forty-three letters you never sent.

He picked one up. He did it with the careful hands he used for things he wasn't sure about — the same way he picked up injured birds on his way to practice, the same way he handled other people's textbooks, and, twice, your feelings, on the two occasions you'd broken down in front of him and he'd gently cradled your face and helped you through the tears. Those were among the ten thousand other things written in your letters. Things you loved him for.

"These are addressed to me," he said. His voice was quiet. Unsure, tentative, like if he spoke louder he'd scare you off entirely.

"They're not —" you stammered. "I didn't send them. That's the whole —" You pressed the stack still in your hand to your sternum. "Please. Just — pretend you didn't see them."

"How many are there?"

His voice was doing something you couldn't quite pinpoint. Low. Careful. Something heavy underneath it, if you read between the lines.

You looked at him over the letters clutched to your chest, not sure what expression was on your face that made him soften even further. Maybe it was the pure panic. Maybe it was something else.

"Twenty — wait, uhm." You paused, blinked. "Thirty-four."

He lifted a brow. "You hesitated."

"...Forty-three."

The silence after that had weight. The alarm had stopped — someone had pulled it, or the drill was over, or building staff had caught up to whatever triggered it — and the sudden absence of noise made everything feel louder. Your heartbeat. His breathing. The soft scratch of the envelope he was turning over in his hands, not opening, just turning.

"How long?" he asked.

You didn't want to answer that. The answer was the part that would make it real. The part that would say out loud what had only ever existed on paper.

"Since junior year of high school," you said quietly.

You watched him absorb it.

He sat back on his heels, and you could see him doing the math. Junior year of high school. The end of the letter stack. The date on whatever letter he was holding. The span of years between then and now.

"You've been writing me letters," he said slowly, like he was learning the sentence as he spoke it, "for four years. That you never sent."

"It's not — it's a journaling thing. It's not —"

"Your journals have my name on them."

You winced and closed your eyes. "Yes."

"Why didn't you send them?"

You opened your eyes. He was watching you with an expression that made it very hard to think clearly, and you needed to think clearly to get through this conversation without losing something you couldn't afford to lose. Carefully, you thought. Be careful. He is your best friend and he is looking at you and you are not allowed to ruin this.

"Because I didn't want things to change," you said, which was the truest and most incomplete answer you had.

"What things?"

"Us." The word landed between you, bare, nothing around it to soften it. "The way things are. The way things have always been. I didn't — I wasn't willing to risk it. So I wrote it down instead, and I kept it, and I was going to keep it forever, and this was a mistake, Logan —"

"John." He interrupted quietly. You ignored the correction.

"— you were not supposed to see these."

"What are they?" he asked. "Just — tell me what they are. In plain English."

You looked at him. Then at the forty-three letters — the ones against your chest, the ones still sprawled on the floor, the one in his hands, the stupid brass-latched box open between you. You thought about every 2 a.m., every bleacher, every game, every borrowed hoodie you'd never given back. You thought about how long you'd been careful not to say a single thing. How much energy you'd spent on the not-saying, and how completely, catastrophically exhausted you were from it.

"They're everything," you said, "that I didn't know how to say to your face."

—

He was quiet for a long time after that.

You spent most of it looking at the floor, cataloguing the letters you could see from where you sat — the corner of the very first one, faded and ink-stained, from that Tuesday in junior year. The familiar blue pen of the one from a few months ago, the night of the game where he'd scored the tying goal in the final minute and looked up into the bleachers and found you immediately, like he'd known exactly where to look, like he always knew where to look, and you'd gone home and written four pages you didn't remember most of the next morning.

Then right by your knees was the latest letter. The one that was lengthy and full of hurt and anger and everything else that you poured out after seeing him make out with another girl– You push down the memory. 

The afternoon light had shifted. It was later than you'd realized.

"I want to ask you something," Logan said, "and I need you to answer honestly."

"Okay."

"Is it —" He exhaled through his nose, tried again. You watched the struggle on his face — that particular Logan expression of someone who had something to say and was working out how to say it without saying too much or too little. You'd seen it a thousand times. You'd written about it. Letter fourteen, sophomore year of high school. The way he gets quiet before he says something he means.

"Is it the same thing I think it is?"

"Probably," you said, to the floor. "Unless you think it's a grocery list, in which case, no."

He made a sound that might have been a laugh — hoarse, surprised out of him.

"You've liked me," he said, still careful, "since junior year."

"Yes."

"And you didn't say anything because you didn't want to lose the friendship."

"Yes."

"And you wrote — forty-three letters. Instead."

"I was going to say forty-three seemed excessive, but honestly, given the timeline, I think it's fairly restrained."

"Hey." His voice changed. That made you look at him. He was watching you with something so open on his face it hit you square in the sternum. "Don't do that. Don't make it a joke right now."

You swallowed. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry either." He set the letter down between you, gently, the way he set down things he didn't want to damage, and ran a hand through his hair — the thing he did when he was thinking hard, when something had knocked him somewhere he hadn't planned to go. "I just need a second."

You gave him the second.

Outside, someone on the quad was playing music, drifting up through your open window without any particular hurry. Late afternoon light cut across the room at the angle it only ever hit in March — long and gold and slanted, the kind that made everything look like it was happening in the last good hour of something. The last hour before whatever came next.

He abruptly brings up Davis. "What about Davis?"

Your brows furrow. "What about him?"

"You dated him last year."

You hesitate. "It was a half-hearted attempt to try and get over you."

"Did it work?"

You deadpan. "Well, I broke up with him, didn't I?"

John laughs through his nose. "Yeah. Yeah that makes sense."

Another beat passes, quieter this time, before he asks if you know why he's shown up to every single one of your performances since freshman year. Not just the winter and spring showcases. The studio showings nobody came to, the ten-minute improvisation pieces you took for the sake of getting better, performed to an audience of six, the Tuesday afternoon rehearsal run-throughs that overlapped with his lift block, when he'd shown up, hair damp, sitting cross-legged in the back corner of the studio so he could leave before anyone noticed a hockey player watching a modern dance rehearsal like it was the only thing happening in the building.

"That's practice, though," you say. "You're always busy."

"Not always." He says it like it's nothing, like it was never a real sacrifice, just a matter of arranging things around each other the way you'd both always done. "I never missed a lift block or a mandatory practice for it, if that's what you're asking. Coach would've had my head, and there goes the scholarship. I'm not that much of an idiot."

"So how—"

"I just used the time I actually had. Free blocks. The hour after morning skate before class. You'd be in Studio B until midnight running the same eight counts over and over, and I'd come sit in the corner with a granola bar and my laundry, because doing laundry at the machines by the dance building was somehow always more urgent than doing it in my own dorm."

You protest anyway, because your brain is still catching up, still trying to file this under good friend the way you have filed every other thing he's ever done for four years running. "You're just — that's just you being supportive. You did that for Summer-"

"I went to Summer's event once, and that was because Dean wanted us to. I have sat through you running the same eight counts eleven times in a row at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday because you couldn't get the turn right, and I have watched you mark a whole solo with a busted ankle because you didn't want to fall behind, and I still came."

"That was one time."

"I know. I counted the limps."

That gets you. Something in your chest cracks open a little wider.

He tells you about the incidents, then — the small things you never clocked because you were always mid-combination or too deep in your own head to notice him in the doorway, or slumped against the wall outside the studio with his bag still packed from practice. The night your partner dropped you a beat early in a lift and you both recovered it so smoothly the audience never noticed, and how he'd told Tucker after, unprompted, that he'd never seen anyone save a mistake like that mid-air, like it mattered to him the way his own game footage mattered.

The way he'd show up straight from morning skate, hair still wet, to walk you back to your dorm after a late rehearsal because he didn't like the idea of you crossing the quad alone at midnight, ice pack pressed to your shin, making conversation about nothing in particular just so you wouldn't have to walk in silence. The stretch of a week during tech for the fall showcase, when you barely left the studio, and he started just bringing his own homework to do on the floor during your five-minute breaks, so you'd have someone there without either of you having to say why that mattered.

"You did that the whole week," you say slowly.

"I did that the whole week."

"You never told me you had a physics midterm that same week."

"Didn't want you to feel bad about it." He shrugs, like this is a reasonable thing to have kept from you for two years. "It wasn't your fault. I wanted to be there."

You're quiet for a second, turning that over, and something about the quiet must give you away, because he tilts his head at you. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You've got a face on. That's not nothing."

"It's just—" You stop. Start again. "If you wanted to be there that badly. If you were doing all of that. Then what was with the girls?"

He blinks. "What girls?"

"You know what girls, Logan." Your voice comes out sharper than you mean it to, two years of swallowed irritation finally finding a door. "The ones after games. Hanging off the boards. The ones who got to walk up to you, because they didn't have some — some rule in their head about not ruining anything."

"That's what this is about?"

"I'm asking."

He drags a hand down his face, and for the first time all night, he looks ashamed instead of careful. "Those weren't anything," he says. "You know that, right? They were never anything."

"They looked like something."

Logan lets out a hoarse laugh — short, not really about anything funny. It's the sound of a person getting cornered by their own bad decisions. "Yeah," he says. "I bet they did."

There's something almost shameful in the way his jaw works before he goes on.

"They were a distraction." He says it plainly, no dressing it up. "You didn't — I thought you didn't feel the same way. I thought I was the only one carrying this, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I did the dumbest possible thing, which was try to feel something for anyone else so I'd stop feeling this much for you. It never worked. Not once. I always ended up back at your door with food you didn't ask for, like an idiot."

"I did care," you say, and it comes out smaller than you mean it to, four years of carefulness still clinging to your voice even now. "I thought you didn't."

"I know that now."

You stare at each other for a second, and it lands on both of you at once — the sheer, staggering waste of it. Four years of two people orbiting the same unspoken thing, each one certain the other didn't want it, each one building elaborate, private monuments to a feeling neither of you would say out loud. You almost want to laugh. You almost want to be furious. Mostly you just want to sit in the wreckage of it with him and not move for a while.

That's when he tells you about the texts.

"There's something you should probably know, since, well– I just accidentally saw your very personal letters." he says, and something in his voice makes you go still before he even finishes the thought. "I've been deleting texts to you since October of junior year."

"What texts?" you said.

"The ones I wasn't going to send." A muscle in his jaw moved. "Different medium. Same problem."

You stared at him.

"You," you said carefully, "have also been —"

"Yeah."

"Since —"

"Junior year." He kept his eyes on you. "You did that solo — the contemporary piece, the one set to that stripped-down piano track, for the fall showcase. I only went because you asked me to come, and also promised to buy me free snacks right after. So I came. I sat in the back row not expecting to care, and then the lights came up on you and you just — you weren't you anymore, you were something else entirely, and I remember thinking, very clearly, that I had never seen anything move like that. Not the piece. You. I didn't say anything to anyone. I definitely didn't say anything to you. I just knew, sitting in that folding chair, that something in me had rearranged itself and it wasn't going back." He stopped. Shook his head. "I thought you knew, later, that something had shifted for me. I thought it was obvious. I thought you didn't feel the same way, and I figured I could live with that — be your friend, be fine. And I was mostly fine. I was fine until you and Davis started whatever that was, and I wasn't fine anymore, and that's when I knew I was a lost cause."

"There was nothing with Davis," you said. "It was just — a gen-ed class, and I thought it was something—" The words died on your tongue.

"I know that now."

"John." Something enormous was rising in your chest — too big for any letter, too loud for that box. "We've been — we've both been —"

"Catastrophically stupid," he said, with a short, helpless laugh. "Yeah. I'm aware."

"Four years."

"I know."

"I have forty-three letters —"

"I know, I can see them —"

You laughed, and it came out slightly broken, and he laughed too, and for a moment it was just that — the two of you on your dorm room floor, surrounded by four years of everything you hadn't said, laughing at the sheer, impossible absurdity of it. At how close you'd been the whole time. At how completely you'd managed to miss each other while never once being apart.

Then the laughter faded.

He was looking at you. The gold light had shifted, fallen across him, and he looked the way he always looked when he was done thinking and had arrived somewhere decided. You knew that look. You'd written about it. Letter twenty-one. The way he looks when he's made up his mind about something and nothing in the world is going to unmake it.

"What do we do now?" you asked.

John reached out slowly, giving you every chance to move away if you wanted to. He tucked a loose strand of hair back from your face, hand staying at your jaw, careful. His thumb traced, barely, along your cheekbone.

"I have a practice slot tomorrow morning," he said. "Early. Six a.m., the rink's usually empty." He paused. "You could come. Sit in the bleachers, like you always do. And after — I could buy you hot chocolate. And maybe this time I could actually say what I haven't been saying for four years."

You looked at him. His hand was warm at your jaw, and the room smelled like old paper and cedar and whatever that specific thing was that his jacket always smelled like, because of course he was wearing the jacket you knew best.

"And we're doing it at the rink," you said slowly, "because —"

"Because that's where it started," he said, shrugging. "It should start there too. Not the ratty ice rink back home, but it still counts."

The feeling in your chest crested, enormous and warm, nothing like the quiet ache you'd carried for four years. That ache had been private and careful, kept deliberately small so it wouldn't take up too much room, wouldn't crowd out anything else. This was not small. This was taking up every room you had. This was refusing, loudly and completely, to fit inside a box.

"Okay," you said.

He smiled — the full one, the private one, the one that had always felt like it was only for you. Maybe it had been. Maybe you'd just been too busy cataloguing reasons not to believe it.

"Okay," he echoed.

He let go of your jaw slowly, like he was in no hurry about it, then stood and started helping you gather the letters off the floor, stacking them with surprising care, not reading them, just collecting. You watched him do it and didn't say anything. There was something strange and sweet about watching his hands handle these things that had existed in secret for so long.

He asked a few questions. Simple ones. The things you could admit to. Small rants you'd written. How you didn't read back on some of them, out of fear of what you'd find. You mentioned the one where you'd hoped he tripped, and how the very next day, he actually had.

Logan laughed at that — bright, curls settling around his face. You had to stop yourself from staring too long.

"Which one's your favorite?" he asked, holding the stack against his chest the way you'd been holding it minutes ago.

"I'm not telling you that."

"Come on."

"Absolutely not."

"I'll find it eventually."

"That sounds like a threat."

"It's a promise." He looked entirely too pleased with himself. "I have forty-three letters and the rest of my life. I'll get there."

When all the letters were back in the box, he set it on your desk and looked at it for a moment.

"You're going to have to let me read them eventually," he said.

"I really am not."

"The 'I hope you trip' one. I want to find that one."

"Absolutely not."

"I'm going to find it."

"Get out of my room, Logan."

"I thought I said you could call me John?"

You rolled your eyes. "I'm adapting to Briar. You're either Logan or John. Now get out of my room."

He grinned, the lopsided, lethal one, and you felt it the same way you always had — right in the sternum, like a bell being struck — and went, unhurried, toward the door.

"Six a.m.," he said from the doorway.

"Six a.m.," you agreed.

He left.

You stood in your room surrounded by the afterimage of all of it, then sat on the edge of your bed and put your face in your hands, staying that way for a while — not crying exactly, just feeling the full, enormous weight of something shifting into a new configuration, four years of tectonic plates rearranging themselves into something that finally made sense.

After a while, you got up, took the box from the desk, and put it back under your bed.

You set your alarm for five-thirty.

Hockey rinks always smelled and looked the same, no matter where you would go. It would always smell like ice and rubber and something underneath, though it didn't have the same ratty smell from the old hockey rink at home.

You climbed to your usual spot in the bleachers. Third row, center. You'd been sitting here since the first time you ever came to watch him practice. Even when you moved closer to Briar, you always gravitated to the same spot, before you'd known it was your spot, before you'd known you'd keep coming back. You'd just sat where the sight line was clear and the draft from the ventilation didn't hit as hard. You'd sat there every time after that, out of habit, out of something you'd told yourself was just habit.

John stepped onto the ice.

He didn't look up at the bleachers right away. That wasn't unusual. He rarely did, at first. He had a routine — you knew the routine, had watched it enough times to know it by heart — where he'd take a lap or two before he settled into the actual work of it, like he was reacquainting himself with the ice, reminding himself of the particular quality of this rink on this morning. Then he'd pick up speed. Then he'd look like himself.

You watched him. You were done pretending you weren't.

He skated the way he always skated — like it required nothing, like it was breathing, like the rink was just another place he lived and the ice was simply the ground beneath him. He did a lap, and then another, and then he started working through something, crossovers into a long sweep across the length of the rink, and you watched the way he held his weight, the clean economy of every movement, and felt the thing you always felt watching him, which you'd spent four years filing under aesthetic appreciation, nothing more, and which you were now allowed to call by its actual name.

After a while he came to the boards and looked up at you.

"You're in your spot," he said.

"I'm always in my spot." 

"I know." He leaned on the boards, the same way he had the first time, junior year, helmet under his arm, and he looked up at you with that look you were done misreading. "I skate better when you're here. I don't know if you knew that."

"I didn't."

"I didn't either, for a while. I thought it was just that the bleachers were less empty, which helps. But then I figured out it was specifically you." He said it matter-of-factly, like it was just a thing that was true. Like it was weather. Like it was temperature. "Third row, center. Every time."

"You knew the seat."

"I always knew the seat."

You looked at him, and the rink was cold, and the light was just beginning to come in through the high windows, pale and early and new, and forty-three unsent letters sat in a box under your bed, and standing at the boards in front of you — in his skates, in his gear, on his ice — was the person they were all addressed to. 

With a smile, you got up and headed down from your seat. The second you stopped in front of Logan, the only thing separating you being the rink’s wall, you smiled wider. "Hi," you said.

"Hi," he said back.

He reached for you, and you reached back, and when his hand found yours over the boards it was easy, the easiest thing, like something that had been waiting a long time to finally happen and was not going to make a fuss about it now that it had. His hand was cold from the ice, and you held it anyway, and neither of you said anything for a moment, because there wasn't anything that needed saying.

You got the hot chocolate from the machine in the convenience store. Different store, same franchise. It was, as promised, terrible. Watery and too sweet, dispensed in a thin paper cup that was already going soggy at the base.

He handed it to you and watched you take a sip and pull a face.

"Still bad," you reported. “It’s surprising how consistent the store is.”

"Still bad," he agreed, leaning against the wall, holding his own cup, looking entirely unbothered. He'd never minded the terrible hot chocolate. You'd written about that once. Letter seven. The way you seem genuinely content with things that aren't good. Like the contentment is the point, not the quality of the thing.

"You said you were going to say what you hadn't said."

"I was getting to it."

"It's been twenty minutes."

"I was working up to it," he said, and there was something almost shy in the way he said it, which was not a quality you'd had many opportunities to observe in him, and which was doing things to you that you weren't prepared for. "I've been working up to it for four years, give me another thirty seconds."

You giggled, but you still waited.

He looked at his terrible hot chocolate. Then he looked at you.

"I love you," he said. "I've loved you since I saw you performing on stage and I thought — I thought, that's her. That's the person. And I didn't say anything because you didn't, and I figured I was misreading it, and I kept not saying anything for four years and I had a phone full of deleted texts and a very long mental list of things I was not going to tell you, and then yesterday I walked into your room and saw my name on forty-three envelopes on your floor and I thought—" He stopped. Something moved across his face, somewhere between wrecked and grateful. "I thought: we are both absolute idiots."

"We really are," you said.

"We really are." He pushed off the wall and set his cup down on the machine and took yours out of your hands and set it next to his, and then he looked at you the way he had yesterday, with that decided, arrived quality, and said, "I'm done not saying it. I love you. Okay? I just — I love you."

You looked at him. This person you'd known since before you knew what it meant to know someone. This person who remembered your coffee order and picked raisins out of muffins and drove forty minutes in the rain and kept nine of your hoodies and showed up to every meet in every kind of weather and had, apparently, been composing and deleting texts to you since junior year of high school.

"I love you," you said. "I have loved you for a very long time."

He exhaled, slow, like something he'd been holding finally let go, and then he smiled — the private one, the full one, the one that had always felt like it was only for you because, you understood now, it had always only been for you — and said, "Yeah. We're definitely idiots."

"Monumental idiots."

"Historically unprecedented idiots."

"There should be a word for it."

"There probably is, in some language we don't speak." He reached out, and you let him pull you in, and he held you the way he'd held you before, the same arms, the same warmth, but with something different in it now, something that had been allowed to be what it was instead of being carefully kept at a certain size. You pressed your face against his shoulder. His chin dropped to the top of your head.

"We wasted four years," you said into his shoulder.

"Nah." His voice rumbled against your ear. "We just took the long way."

You thought about that. About the letters, and the bleachers, and the hot chocolate, and the forty-minute drives in rain,  the deleted texts, and the space between what you feel and what you're brave enough to say. About all the things that had happened in the gap.

"The long way," you agreed.

Outside the rink, the morning was getting started. Inside, it smelled like ice and rubber and cedar and something new.

—

The forty-fourth letter was the last one. Written that night, because some habits deserve a proper ending.

John. Logan. Or whatever name you want to be called–  The hot chocolate was terrible. The one near our old school was better (I’m lying, but you know that), but it’s not like you would drive an hour just to get there. Still, you know hot chocolate is always terrible from that machine. You bought it anyway because I said I wanted it and you cannot help yourself. I've been writing these since high school. I don't think I'm going to write another one. Not because I have nothing left to say — I think I'm going to have a lot to say, for a very long time — but because I'm going to say it to you from now on. Out loud. In real time. Without a box to put it in afterward. You told me today that you skate better when I'm in the stands. I wanted you to know that I run better when you're at the end of the finish line. I have never told you that. I'm telling you now. I love you. I have loved you since a Tuesday in junior year in High school when you offered me bad hot chocolate on an empty rink and smiled at me like I was someone worth skating across the ice for.I loved you through every year after that, through every letter I wrote and sealed and tucked away, through every moment I talked myself out of saying something because I was afraid of what it would cost. It turns out it didn't cost anything. It turns out you were over there deleting texts. We were both such idiots. Though I guess it does make sense with our track record. I'm done keeping it in a box, and I'll say it to your face from now on, and I'm sorry it took me four years and a broken latch and forty-three embarrassing letters, some of which you are never going to read, to get here. But I'm here. And so are you. That's enough. That's more than enough. — With love.

But you hadn’t seen him.

Not in real life.

Not close enough to remember the shape of his smile or the way his eyes softened before he laughed.

That was probably why you convinced yourself you were fine.

It was easy to be fine when he was just a name you avoided, a memory you kept folded up somewhere quiet. It was easy to tell people you were happy for him, that things ended naturally, that sometimes two people loved each other and still lost the timing.

That was what everyone said, wasn’t it?

Bad timing.

You hated that phrase.

It made heartbreak sound polite.

The party was smaller than you expected, tucked inside a friend’s apartment with warm lighting, half-empty wine glasses, and people sitting on the arms of couches because there weren’t enough seats. It was the kind of gathering you usually liked. Familiar faces. Music low enough to talk over. Someone in the kitchen making everyone try a dip they were very proud of.

You should’ve been comfortable.

Instead, from the second you walked in, you felt like you were waiting for something.

Or someone.

You knew Joe might be there. Your friend had mentioned it so casually that it almost made you laugh.

“Joe said he might stop by.”

As if that sentence didn’t still have the power to ruin your evening.

You’d nodded like it meant nothing.

“Cool.”

Cool.

Pathetic.

So, you did what you always did when you were trying not to care. You became too normal. Too cheerful. You laughed a little too quickly, asked people too many questions, kept your hands busy with a drink you barely touched.

For almost an hour, it worked.

Then the front door opened.

You didn’t turn around at first.

There were voices in the hallway, a burst of cold air, someone saying, “Finally, dude,” and then a laugh.

His laugh.

Your body knew before your brain did.

It was awful, really, how quickly it all came back. How one sound could reach across months and pull you straight back into every version of yourself that had ever loved him.

You stood near the window, your fingers tightening around your glass.

Don’t turn around, you told yourself.

Then you did.

Joe was standing in the doorway, half-lit by the warm yellow light from the hall. He was wearing a dark jacket, his hair slightly messy from outside, cheeks pink from the cold. Someone was talking to him, but he wasn’t fully listening anymore.

Because he’d seen you too.

For a second, the whole apartment seemed to fall away.

The music, the voices, the clinking glasses. All of it blurred around the edges until there was only him, standing there in the light of the window across from you, wearing that same smile.

Not a big one.

Not the kind he gave cameras or strangers.

It was smaller than that. Softer.

The smile that used to appear when he came home and found you asleep on the couch. The smile he gave you when you’d say something stupid and then immediately pretend you hadn’t. The smile you never realised you’d missed so much until it was right in front of you again.

And just like that, you remembered.

You remembered you loved him.

Not in some dramatic, movie kind of way. Not like lightning. More like breathing in after holding your breath for too long.

You remembered slowly and then all at once.

You remembered his hands on your waist in crowded kitchens. His voice in the morning, rough with sleep. The way he used to press his cold nose against your neck just to annoy you. The way he’d always say your name gently, even when you were arguing.

You remembered how safe he used to feel.

How much you had missed being known by him.

Joe looked at you like he was having the exact same realisation.

That made it worse.

Or better.

You weren’t sure yet.

He started making his way over, stopping when people greeted him, hugging someone quickly, answering a question with a distracted nod. His eyes kept coming back to you like he was checking you were still there.

By the time he reached you, your heart was beating so hard it felt embarrassing.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You swallowed.

“Hi.”

That was it.

Months of silence, and all you had was hi.

Joe smiled, but his eyes looked a little sad.

“Man,” he said, letting out a quiet breath. “It’s been a while.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out thinner than you wanted.

“Yeah. It has.”

He looked at you for a moment, properly looked at you, and you forgot how to stand normally.

“You look…” He paused, like he was trying to choose a word that wouldn’t give too much away. Then he shook his head a little. “You look really good.”

You smiled down at your drink.

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know.”

You looked back up.

Joe’s expression was open. Nervous, almost. Like he wasn’t hiding behind charm tonight.

“That’s why I said it,” he added.

You hated how easily that got to you.

There was a pause between you, full of every unsaid thing.

Then he nodded toward the window behind you.

“You still do that.”

“What?”

“Stand by windows at parties.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“I do not.”

“You do.” His smile grew. “You say it’s because you like the view, but really it’s because you want to be near an escape route.”

Your mouth fell open slightly.

“That is not true.”

“It’s completely true.”

You wanted to argue, but the familiar warmth of it hit you too hard. The fact he remembered something so small. The fact he said it like no time had passed, like he still had a drawer full of tiny details about you in his head.

Your smile faded before you could stop it.

Joe noticed.

Of course he did.

His face softened.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

You shook your head.

“No. It’s okay.”

But your voice had changed.

Both of you heard it.

Joe’s hand shifted at his side, like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t know if he was allowed.

“You okay?” he asked.

You looked at him and almost laughed.

Because what a question.

Were you okay?

You were standing in front of the person you had spent almost a year trying to unlove, and he still knew where you stood at parties. He still looked at you like that. He still made the room feel smaller just by being in it.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly.

Joe nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me neither.”

The honesty of it made your throat tighten.

Someone behind him called his name, but he didn’t turn around. He stayed exactly where he was, looking at you with that careful, familiar softness.

“Do you want to get some air?” he asked.

You let out a tiny laugh.

“I’m already by the window.”

“I mean outside.”

“It’s freezing.”

“I’ll give you my jacket.”

“You always do that.”

His smile flickered.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

And that was enough to make your eyes sting.

You looked away quickly, blinking at the lights outside.

Joe’s voice dropped.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You still say that when you’re not.”

You looked back at him.

His eyes were gentle, but there was sadness there now too. The kind that came from knowing someone well enough to hurt them without meaning to.

You held his gaze for a second, then sighed.

“Air would be good.”

The two of you slipped out onto the fire escape through the window. It was clumsy and awkward, especially when your shoe caught slightly and Joe instinctively reached out to steady you.

His hand landed at your waist.

Just for a second.

Both of you froze.

His touch was warm through your clothes, familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling back quickly.

“It’s okay,” you said.

You wished he hadn’t moved.

You hated that you wished that.

Outside, the air was cold enough to make you shiver almost immediately. Joe noticed within seconds and took off his jacket without a word.

“Joe.”

“What?”

“You’ll be cold.”

“I’ll survive.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m barely shivering.”

“You’re aggressively shivering.”

You rolled your eyes, but you let him drape the jacket around your shoulders. His fingers brushed your collarbone lightly as he fixed it, careful and gentle.

“There,” he said.

You pulled the jacket closer around you.

It smelled like him.

That was unfair.

You stared out at the street below, blinking harder than necessary.

For a few moments, neither of you said anything.

The party carried on behind you, muffled through the window. Laughter. Music. The kind of life you were meant to go back to once this strange little moment ended.

Joe leaned beside you, elbows on the railing.

“I thought seeing you would be easier,” he said.

You looked at him.

He let out a breath, smiling faintly but not happily.

“I don’t know why. That sounds stupid now.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does a little.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Maybe a little.”

He laughed quietly, and the sound settled something in you.

Then he looked at you again.

“I missed you.”

The words were simple.

That was what made them hurt.

You pressed your lips together, looking down at your hands inside his sleeves.

“I missed you too.”

Joe looked like he’d been holding his breath and had only just remembered how to let it out.

“Yeah?”

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

His eyes moved over your face, soft and almost disbelieving.

“I didn’t know if you did.”

You laughed once, but it came out shaky.

“Joe.”

“I know,” he said. “I know. I just…” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I thought maybe you were better off. And I didn’t want to be selfish.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

“You were always too good at deciding things for me.”

His face changed.

Not defensive. Just guilty.

“You’re right.”

That surprised you.

He looked out over the street.

“I told myself leaving you alone was the decent thing to do,” he said. “That if I really loved you, I’d let you move on without dragging you back into all of it.”

Your chest tightened.

“And did you?”

He looked at you.

“Did I what?”

“Let me move on?”

Joe’s eyes softened painfully.

“I tried.”

The cold air slipped between you.

You nodded slowly.

“I tried too.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Did it work?”

You looked at him, and that was answer enough.

Joe’s expression crumpled slightly, like he wished it didn’t make him happy to hear that.

You looked away first because your eyes were burning again.

“It’s so annoying,” you said, wiping quickly under one eye.

“What is?”

“You.”

He let out a surprised laugh.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” You laughed too, even though you were crying now. “You come back with your stupid hair and your stupid jacket and your stupid face, and I’m supposed to act normal?”

Joe’s smile broke through, soft and helpless.

“My stupid face?”

“Don’t make me say nice things right now.”

“I would never.”

“You would absolutely.”

He looked at you for a second, then his smile faded into something gentler.

“I saw you by the window,” he said, “and I just…”

You waited.

He looked down at the railing, almost embarrassed.

“I remembered.”

Your breath caught.

“What?”

Joe’s thumb rubbed against the side of his own hand, nervous.

“I remembered loving you,” he said. “Not that I forgot. I didn’t. But I think I got used to missing you in this quiet way, and then I saw you standing there, and it wasn’t quiet anymore.”

You couldn’t speak.

He looked at you then, eyes shining slightly.

“It was just there again. All of it.”

Your face crumpled before you could stop it.

Joe’s expression softened instantly.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” you admitted, laughing through the tears. “I’m really not.”

He stepped closer, slow enough that you could move away if you wanted.

You didn’t.

“I knew it,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him.

“I knew I missed you. I knew I still looked for you in every room. I knew I wasn’t over it.” His voice softened even more. “But then I saw you tonight, and I knew you. I remembered how it felt to know you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

Joe lifted his hand, then stopped.

“Can I?”

You nodded.

His thumb brushed the tear away so gently it made you want to cry harder.

“You still ask,” you whispered.

“Of course I do.”

That was it.

That was the thing that broke you a little.

Not a grand speech. Not a dramatic confession. Just the way he still treated your heart like something he was lucky to be near.

You leaned forward before you could overthink it, resting your forehead against his chest.

Joe froze for half a second.

Then his arms wrapped around you.

Carefully at first.

Then tighter.

Like he’d been waiting months to hold you and was trying not to make it too obvious.

You closed your eyes as his chin rested lightly on top of your head.

“I missed this,” you whispered.

His hand moved slowly over your back.

“Me too.”

“I missed you being annoying.”

“I can be more annoying. Really easily.”

You laughed into his shirt, and you felt him laugh too.

“I missed that,” he said.

“What?”

“You laughing at me.”

“I’m laughing with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” you admitted. “I’m not.”

His arms tightened around you for a second, and somehow that made everything feel lighter.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His face was close now. Too close to pretend this was casual. His eyes moved over yours, down to your mouth, then back up again.

But he didn’t rush.

He never did when it mattered.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said.

You swallowed.

“Then don’t.”

He nodded, serious.

“I won’t.”

“You can’t just say things like that because it’s a nice moment.”

“I know.”

“I mean it, Joe.”

“I know,” he said again. “I’m not saying I have everything figured out. I’m not saying we just go back like nothing happened.” He paused. “But I know I don’t want to walk back inside and pretend this didn’t mean something.”

Your eyes searched his face.

“And what does it mean?”

He smiled faintly.

“I think it means I’m still in love with you.”

Your breath caught.

There it was.

So simple.

So awful.

So perfect.

You looked down, overwhelmed, and Joe immediately panicked.

“Sorry. Was that too much? That was probably too much. I can take like, twenty percent of it back if you want.”

A laugh burst out of you through the tears.

“You can’t take twenty percent of being in love back.”

“I could try.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But I’m your idiot, historically.”

You looked up at him.

He looked nervous now, like he realised he’d said too much again.

You smiled, small and teary.

“Historically.”

Joe’s face warmed.

“I’ll take historically.”

You shook your head, but you were still smiling.

Then, because you were tired of pretending and tired of waiting and tired of acting like loving him was something you had grown out of, you reached for his hand.

His fingers closed around yours immediately.

Like muscle memory.

Like home.

“I think I’m still in love with you too,” you said.

Joe stared at you.

For once, he had no joke ready.

His eyes went glassy, and he looked away for a second, laughing softly under his breath like he needed somewhere to put the feeling.

“Don’t cry,” you said, even though you were crying.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m emotionally sweating.”

You laughed again, and he looked back at you with that same smile.

The one from the doorway.

The one from before.

The one you knew.

He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

It was so gentle that it hurt.

Not badly.

Just deeply.

Like something in you had been waiting for it.

“I don’t want to rush you,” he said. “I don’t want to assume anything. I just… I’d really like to see you again. Properly.”

“You’re seeing me now.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

He smiled.

“Dinner?”

You pretended to think about it.

“With you?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“Hmm.”

“Wow. I pour my heart out and get hmm.”

You smiled wider.

“I’m considering.”

“Take your time. I’m only freezing.”

You looked down at his thin shirt and finally laughed properly.

“Oh my God. Joe, take your jacket back.”

“No.”

“You’re literally shaking.”

“I’m being romantic.”

“You’re being stupid.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

You rolled your eyes but stepped closer, wrapping the jacket around both of you as best you could. It didn’t really work, but Joe seemed pleased anyway, pulling you back into him with a smile.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered.

“I know.”

His cheek rested lightly against your hair.

You stood there together, half-wrapped in his jacket, the city glowing beneath you and the party humming behind you.

Nothing was fully solved.

There would be things to talk about. Real things. The kind that didn’t fit neatly into a cute moment on a fire escape. You both knew that.

But his hand was warm in yours.

His smile was the same.

And when you looked up at him, you didn’t feel like you were going backward.

You felt like something had come back when it mattered.

Joe looked down at you.

“What?” you asked.

He smiled, soft and teary and familiar.

“Nothing.”

“You always say nothing when it’s something.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You know me.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I knew it.”

His smile grew.

“I knew you.”

And there it was.

The thing you’d both been pretending not to know.

That sometimes love left quietly, not because it was gone, but because it was waiting for the right moment to come home.

You hadn’t come around to changing it. And if you’re really being honest—something you only do on Wednesdays at 4 pm with your therapist—you hadn’t changed it because you hoped that you wouldn’t have to.

You hoped that maybe keeping him as your hockey boy meant that he’d come back into your life and stay that way.

Now, as the sky continued to rumble and weep above, you prayed that Logan’s generosity was not limited to your relationship. And tonight, you were going to test that.

The phone rang three times before the call connected.

“Hello?” His voice was raspy, laced with more perplexity than anything else.

You closed your eyes. You hadn’t heard his voice in a year. “Hey, Logan?”

He could hear the faint yet rhythmic thuds of rain hitting your car window through the speaker. You had gone back inside your car to make this phone call.

“Is everything okay?”

He sounded concerned. That’s good, you thought. That means he cares.

You took a deep breath, “No, I…I’m not okay. My car stopped working and I’m stuck in the middle of this rain storm.”

“You’re in Hastings?” He asked.

You swallowed. “Boston.”

The line went so quiet you had to check your screen to make sure you hadn’t been disconnected.

Then, “You’re here in Boston?”

You bit your bottom lip, “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Boston Common.”

You heard the soft metallic jingle of keys and your heart skipped a beat at the implication. You almost wanted to take it back, undo this call, pretend it never happened.

“Listen, Logan, I don’t know where you live. You could be miles away from where I am, but I didn’t know who else to call—”

“I will be there in 10 minutes. Do not leave your car, alright?”

Your heartbeat spiked. For a moment, you felt like a selfish monster—making him leave his home, reopening a chapter in his life he might’ve wanted to close, clawing your way back in on your terms. Logan had always been too kind for his own good.

He called your name softly and you snapped out of it.

“You hear me?” He repeated.

“Yes, I won’t leave my car.”

“And lock your doors.”

You pressed the button on your car door.

After he hung up, you did nothing but stare out your window. You put the windshield wipers to tedious work, watching as they slid water across the glass in futile efforts.

You didn’t notice the time passing. And you certainly didn’t notice Logan’s figure until his knock on your window made you jump out of your skin.

You quickly unlocked and pushed your door open. Logan was drenched. His cotton t-shirt clung to his torso, catching the ridges enough to leave an imprint of his abs. Droplets of rain dripped from his brown locks, falling and sticking to his forehead. He looked like a vision.

Logan helped you out your car, guiding you with a strong arm behind your back—not touching—towards his jeep. He opened the passenger door and made sure you settled inside before closing it and going around to his side of the car.

You were breathing heavily, still recovering from the heavy downpour. When Logan got in and shut the door behind him, you looked over.

He threw his head back to push the wet strands of hair out of his face. When he turned to face you, you felt a dip in your stomach.

“I’m really sorry,” you said right away.

He held his hand up to stop your apology. “Are you alright? Did you leave anything important in your car?”

You shook your head. Phone, wallet, keys. All tucked safely—albeit sodden—in your deep coat pockets.

He shifted the gear out of park mode and drove the two of you away from the street.

The car ride was silent. The ambience of the outside storm filled enough gaps that should have been packed with conversation.

God, when was the last time you had a conversation with Logan?

It must’ve been junior year for you. He had just moved to Boston after being drafted by the Bruins, got a place of his own, playing hockey professionally like he always wanted. And you were back at Briar, studying hard, doing long distance with him, sharing dreams whenever he came to visit you on campus.

“It needs to be a loft apartment.”

“Why a loft?” Logan furrowed his brows.

“Fun downstairs, cozy upstairs,” you replied.

He smiled and nodded along, “Okay.”

“With floor to ceiling windows, so we can always have a view.”