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Tucker, who has been quietly peeling the label off his beer bottle, looks up with a heavy sigh. “I swear to God, Logan. If you make me ask what that means, I’m leaving.”

“No Fun Permitted,” Logan deadpans, flashing that easy, charming grin that usually gets him out of trouble. “Garrett’s resting up. The captain’s gotta lead by example. Or whatever.”

“More like missing out by example,” Dean grumbles. 

Logan lets his friends bicker, his gaze sweeping over the crowded dance floor. The flashing neon lights paint the sweating bodies in shades of electric blue and violent pink. He loves this city, loves the start of the hockey season. Out on the ice, he’s one of Briar University’s top players, a forward with hands so fast the scouts practically drool over him. They did drool over him. Up until the draft. 

A familiar, heavy weight settles in Logan’s chest, dulling the buzz of the whiskey. He skipped the draft. Walked away from the NHL, from the millions, from the dream. The guys know he pulled his name, but they don’t really know the depths of the why. It’s easier to play the funny, sarcastic, reliable guy than it is to explain the deal he made with his older brother. His brother put his own life in a holding pattern to run Logan & Sons, the family mechanic shop, while Logan gets to play college hockey for four years. The shop was supposed to be run by their father, but their father is currently busy being a fall-down drunk. When graduation hits, the party is over. Logan goes back home, takes over the shop, takes care of the old man, and his brother goes free. 

“Earth to Logan,” Tucker says, waving a hand in front of Logan’s face. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The ’I’m plotting a murder or thinking up a terrible acronym’ look,” Tucker points out.

“JCT,” Logan counters smoothly. “Just Chilling, Tucker. Relax. I’m going to go get another drink. Try not to marry anyone before I get back.”

Logan pushes off the bar, leaving his teammates to their own devices, and weaves his way through the crush of bodies. That’s when he sees you.

***

Across the room, the heat of the dance floor is exactly what you need. You throw your head back and laugh as your Northeastern teammate, a fiery winger named Cammi, spins you around. 

“See?” Cammi yells over the pounding remix of a 2000s R&B track. “I told you coming out was better than sitting in your dorm organizing your hockey tape!”

“I don’t organize my tape!” You shout back, laughing as you sway your hips to the rhythm. 

“Liar!” 

You let the music wash over you, closing your eyes for a brief second. You’re a freshman. You made the Northeastern women’s hockey team as their starting center. You’re in Boston. You are finally, truly, free. 

Whenever things get too loud, too chaotic, your mind always drifts back to the quiet, suffocating terror of your childhood home in New York. Your father, a star defenseman for the Rangers, was a god to the public and a monster behind closed doors. The memories of his explosive rage, the sound of things breaking, the way he treated your mother — it’s a dark stain on your mind. Garrett, your older brother, had been your shield. He took the hits, both literal and metaphorical, hiding you in his room, turning up the TV, doing whatever it took to keep you safe. 

And then the lung cancer took your mother, and the house had grown even colder. But you survived. Garrett survived. You both got out. Garrett is across town right now, the captain at Briar, nursing a sprained ankle. You had texted him earlier to check in, and he’d ordered you to go out and celebrate the start of your own season. 

So here you are. 

You’re wearing a sleek, dark red slip dress that clings to your curves in all the right ways, paired with comfortable black combat boots because you refuse to ruin your feet in heels. Your hair falls in messy waves around your shoulders. You feel good. You feel electric. 

Someone bumps into you, sending a splash of someone’s drink onto your boots, but you barely register it. You just keep moving, letting the heavy bass guide your hips, losing yourself in the anonymity of the crowd. 

***

Logan freezes halfway to the bar. 

He’s seen a lot of beautiful girls in his time at Briar, but the sight of you in that dark red dress stops him dead in his tracks. It’s not just the way the fabric slides against your skin, or the way you move with a natural, effortless athleticism. It’s the sheer joy radiating from you. You look like you don’t have a single care in the world, like you own the space you’re occupying. 

He watches you laugh at something your friend says, the bright, genuine sound of it somehow cutting through the heavy thrum of the club’s speakers. 

“Well, damn,” Logan mutters to himself. 

He doesn’t think. He just moves. Logan has always been a player who acts on instinct — on the ice, and off it. He navigates the sweaty crowd until he’s right at the edge of your circle. He waits for the exact right moment, right as the DJ transitions into a slower, heavier beat. 

You step back, and Logan steps in. 

***

You feel the solid wall of a chest against your back before you even realize someone has approached. The sudden heat radiating from the stranger sends a shiver down your spine. A pair of large, strong hands settle lightly on your hips. 

Normally, you’d shove a guy away. But there’s something about the confident, gentle pressure of his hands that makes you pause. 

You glance over your shoulder. 

He’s tall. Much taller than you. Broad shoulders, a mop of messy, dark hair, and a pair of sharp, amused eyes that lock onto yours. He has a ridiculously handsome face, a sharp jawline dotted with a faint hint of stubble, and a smirk that screams trouble. 

“You’re in my way,” you say, shouting slightly over the music, though your tone is teasing. 

“Actually,” Logan says, leaning down so his mouth is hovering near your ear, his voice a low, raspy rumble that makes your stomach flip, “I think you backed into me. Standard MVA.”

“MVA?” You ask, turning around fully so you are facing him. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. 

“Motor Vehicle Accident,” he replies smoothly, his hands sliding from your hips to rest casually at his sides, giving you space, which you internally appreciate. “But in this case, a Dance Floor Collision. DFC.”

You arch an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Do you always speak in acronyms, or are you just trying to be annoying?”

“A little bit of Column A, a little bit of Column B,” Logan says, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer. The scent of him — woodsmoke, musky cologne, and something distinctly masculine — wraps around you. “I’m mostly just trying to keep your attention.”

“It’s a bold strategy.”

“I’m a bold guy.” He smirks, and there’s a genuine sweetness in his eyes that contrasts with the cocky tilt of his mouth. “You’re celebrating something. I can tell. Your vibe is extremely ... victorious.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. “You can read vibes now?”

“It’s a gift,” he nods solemnly. “So? What are we celebrating? A promotion? A birthday? Successful bank heist?”

“Start of the season,” you reply, the words slipping out before you can filter them. 

“Ah.” Logan’s eyes light up with recognition. “An athlete. Should have known. You’ve got that ... balance.”

“Balance?”

“Yeah. And the combat boots. Very intimidating. I like it.” He leans in again. “I’m celebrating the exact same thing.”

“You play?” You ask, looking at the breadth of his shoulders. Obviously, he plays. 

“I dabble,” Logan says, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. The shift in his attention is subtle, but it sends a rush of heat straight to your core. “What’s your sport?”

“Puck,” you say. 

Logan’s smile widens. “A hockey girl. My favorite kind.” 

He doesn’t ask what team. You don’t ask him either. It’s better this way. No names, no schools, no complications. Just the heavy, pulsing beat of the music and the electric tension pulling the two of you together. 

“You talk a lot,” you murmur, stepping into his space. You don’t know what’s come over you tonight. Maybe it’s the freedom. Maybe it’s the whiskey you had before leaving the dorms. Or maybe it’s just him. 

“I’ve been told I have a big mouth,” Logan whispers, his hands finding their way back to your waist. His thumbs brush against the bare skin at the low dip of your back, and you gasp softly. 

“Prove it,” you challenge. 

Logan doesn’t hesitate. He closes the distance, his mouth crashing down onto yours. 

The kiss is explosive. It’s not hesitant or sweet; it’s hungry, demanding, and incredibly hot. Your hands immediately go to his hair, pulling him down, deepening the kiss. He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your lips, and pulls you flush against his body. You can feel every hard line of him against the soft fabric of your dress. 

The club is too loud, too crowded, but right now, there is only the frantic slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of whiskey and mint, the desperate grip of his hands on your hips. 

“Too crowded,” Logan mutters against your mouth, his breathing jagged. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and dilated. “Let’s go.”

You don’t need to be told twice. 

He grabs your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and pulls you through the throng of dancing bodies. You follow blindly, your heart hammering against your ribs. The destination doesn’t matter, only the urgency. 

Logan navigates the club with practiced ease, finally spotting a secluded hallway near the back that leads to the bathrooms. It’s dimly lit, the pulsing lights of the dance floor reduced to a soft, flickering glow. He pulls you down the hall, pushing open the heavy wooden door of what looks like an employee or VIP bathroom that someone forgot to lock. 

He pulls you inside and kicks the door shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with a sharp clack. 

The silence of the tiled room is deafening compared to the club outside. The only sound is the heavy, ragged breathing echoing between the two of you. 

“You are absolutely gorgeous,” Logan breathes out, backing you up against the cool tiles of the wall. 

“Less talking,” you demand, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and pulling him back down to you. 

He laughs softly against your lips — a rough, breathless sound — before devouring your mouth again. His hands are everywhere, frantic and exploring. He maps the curve of your waist, the slope of your back, his large palms hot against your skin. You let out a soft moan as his lips leave your mouth to trail fiery kisses down your jawline and onto your neck. 

“So impatient,” Logan teases, though his own voice is tight with desire. He bites down gently on a sensitive spot just below your ear, making your knees buckle slightly. 

“You’re the one who dragged me in here,” you manage to say, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. You push the fabric aside, pressing your palms flat against his warm, hard chest. His heart is racing just as fast as yours. 

“Correction,” Logan groans, as your hands slide over his abs. “We dragged each other. Mutually Assured Destruction. MAD.”

“Shut up with the acronyms,” you whisper fiercely, pulling his face back up to yours. 

He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. With a swift, effortless motion that reminds you how incredibly strong he is, he lifts you off the ground. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, your combat boots scraping against his jeans. Logan presses you against the door, holding you up with ease, his body a solid weight keeping you pinned. 

The angle is perfect. The friction is maddening. 

You reach down, your fingers tangling in his belt loops, tugging him even closer. The raw, desperate energy between you two is overwhelming. It’s completely out of character for you. You don’t do this. You don’t hook up with random guys in club bathrooms. But the way he looks at you, the way he touches you like he’s starving for it, strips away every inhibition you have. 

“Tell me if I need to stop,” Logan says, his voice thick, his forehead resting against yours. Even in the haze of lust, that core of reliability, of fundamental goodness, shines through. He’s asking for consent. He’s making sure you’re okay. 

“Don’t you dare stop,” you breathe, your hands sliding up into his hair, pulling gently. 

Logan’s eyes flash with a dark, primal heat. He shifts his grip, one hand supporting your thighs while the other slides up to trace the edge of your red dress. He pushes the thin fabric up, his rough fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your upper thigh. You gasp into his mouth as his touch becomes more deliberate, tracing higher, sending bolts of pure electricity straight to your core. 

He kisses you harder, swallowing your moans, his tongue tangling with yours in a desperate, wet rhythm that mirrors the heavy thrusting of his hips against yours. The heavy denim of his jeans grinds against you, and it’s simultaneously the best and most frustrating feeling in the world. 

“You’re driving me crazy,” Logan mutters, his lips moving frantically over your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your collarbone. 

“Then do something about it,” you dare him, your voice shaking with need. 

Logan chuckles, a low, dangerous sound. His fingers expertly work the clasp of your undergarments, and when his skin finally meets yours, you let out a loud, uninhibited cry that is completely swallowed by his mouth. 

He moves inside you, and the sensation is so intense, so overwhelmingly perfect, that you see stars behind your closed eyelids. Logan groans loudly, his grip on your thighs tightening as he sets a frantic, punishing pace. He’s strong, so incredibly strong, pinning you against the heavy wood of the door, completely controlling the rhythm. 

Every thrust sends a shockwave through you. The heat in the small bathroom is stifling, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat and his intoxicating cologne. 

“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice ragged. 

You open your eyes, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of holding back. The sheer intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch. 

“You feel unbelievable,” he rasps out, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes the door rattle in its frame. 

“Faster,” you plead, your nails digging into his shoulders. 

Logan obliges, his pace doubling. You cling to him, entirely lost in the storm of sensation. The world outside the bathroom ceases to exist. There is no abusive past, no dead mother, no heavy burden of the mechanic shop or the alcoholic father. There is only here. There is only now. There is only the sliding heat of his body, the rough texture of the wall at your back, and the mind-shattering pleasure building in your chest. 

“I’m close,” you sob out, tossing your head back. 

“Let go for me,” Logan whispers against your neck, his thrusts becoming jagged and desperate. “Come on. Let go.”

His words, the deep, encouraging rumble of his voice, are the final push you need. The climax hits you like a freight train, a cascading wave of blinding heat that tears a loud moan from your throat. Your body shudders violently against his, your muscles clenching tightly around him. 

Logan grunts, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He gives one final, deep thrust, his entire body going rigid as he finds his own release. He holds you tightly against him, his chest heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own. 

For a long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the bathroom is the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing. Logan’s face is still buried in your neck, his lips pressing soft, absentminded kisses against your damp skin as his heart rate slowly begins to settle. 

Eventually, the reality of the situation begins to seep back in. The muffled thud of the bass from the club outside reminds you both where you are. 

Logan slowly lowers you down, his hands lingering on your hips until your boots hit the floor. Your knees are trembling so violently that you have to lean against the door for support. 

He steps back, looking slightly dazed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he buttons his shirt. He looks at you, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face, your swollen lips, and the messy tangle of your hair. 

“Wow,” Logan breathes, a genuine, awe-struck smile breaking across his face. “That was ...”

“Yeah,” you manage to say, smoothing down the front of your red dress, feeling a sudden, intense flush of shyness. “It was.”

You avoid his gaze, quickly fixing your clothes and running a hand through your hair. The magic of the bubble is bursting. The anonymity is starting to feel heavy. 

“Hey,” Logan says softly, stepping closer and lifting a hand to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The sweetness of the gesture makes your heart ache. “I never even got your name.”

You look up at him. You see the genuine interest in his eyes. He’s not just a frat boy looking for a quick lay. There is a depth to him, a heavy, quiet kind of reliability that you can sense even now. But you can’t. You’re Garrett’s little sister. You have a reputation to build, a life to start, and getting tangled up with a Briar hockey player — a guy who looks like trouble wrapped in charm — is a terrible idea. 

“It’s better this way,” you say quietly, stepping around him toward the door. 

Logan frowns, his hand dropping to his side. “Wait. Seriously? No name? No number?”

“No acronyms,” you reply, offering him a small, almost sad smile. 

Before he can argue, you unlock the door and slip out into the dimly lit hallway. You don’t look back. You merge back into the sweaty, pulsing crowd of the dance floor, letting the music swallow you whole. 

Back in the bathroom, Logan stands alone, staring at the closed door. He runs a hand through his hair, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. 

“Well,” he murmurs to the empty room. “FML.”

***

The Matthews Arena is freezing, smelling sharply of Zamboni exhaust, stale popcorn, and that distinct, metallic tang of fresh ice. For Logan, it’s a scent that instantly feels like home, even if he’s sitting in enemy territory. Northeastern University’s rink is packed for the women’s game against Harvard, the crowd a sea of red and black. 

Logan shivers, pulling the collar of his Briar University hockey jacket a little higher. He bumps his knee against the plastic seat in front of him, leaning over to look at his best friend. 

“I still can’t believe you dragged us out of bed before noon on a Sunday,” Logan complains, his voice raspy from sleep. “It’s practically a human rights violation.”

Garrett doesn’t even look away from the ice. He’s practically vibrating with nervous energy, a half-eaten pretzel abandoned in his lap. “Shut up, Logan. You slept until eleven. And it’s my sister’s first home game against a rival. I wasn’t going to miss it, and I wasn’t letting you idiots miss it either.”

“We’re honored, truly,” Dean drawls from Logan’s right, suppressing a yawn. “But couldn’t we have been honored from the comfort of our couch? With, like, breakfast sandwiches?”

“Focus,” Garrett commands, pointing a finger toward the ice. “Puck drop is in two minutes. And I swear to God, if any of you embarrass me, I’m making you run stairs until you puke at practice tomorrow.”

Tucker, sitting on the other side of Dean, chuckles softly. “Relax, G. We’re on our best behavior. We just want to see if the Graham hockey genes actually transferred over, or if you stole all the talent in the womb.”

“Oh, she’s got the talent,” Garrett says, and for a second, the cocky, commanding captain of the Briar team melts away, replaced by a fiercely proud older brother. “Just watch number twenty-one.”

Logan leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He hasn’t met Garrett’s little sister yet. He knows they’re incredibly close, knows a little bit about the dark, heavy history they share with their father — a topic Garrett rarely touches, but when he does, it’s with a protective ferocity that Logan respects. The timing just never worked out for them to meet. When you were visiting Briar, Logan was usually back home dealing with his dad or at the shop. And since you started at Northeastern a few weeks ago, their schedules have been a nightmare of overlapping practices and away games. 

The buzzer blares, echoing through the arena, and the starting lines skate out to the center circle. 

Logan’s eyes immediately scan the red jerseys for the number twenty-one. He spots you lining up for the face-off. Even under the bulky pads and the caged helmet, there’s a distinct posture to you. A coiled, aggressive energy that reminds him so much of Garrett it’s almost funny. 

The referee drops the puck. 

You win the draw instantly, a sharp, precise flick of the wrist that sends the puck straight back to your defenseman. And then, you explode into motion. 

“Whoa,” Dean says, sitting up a little straighter. “Okay. She’s fast.”

“Told you,” Garrett says smugly. 

Logan watches in genuine awe as the game unfolds. You aren’t just fast; you’re brilliant on the ice. Your hockey IQ is off the charts. You anticipate plays before they happen, finding open ice where there shouldn’t be any. Halfway through the first period, you receive a pass in the neutral zone, weave through two Harvard defenders with a blindingly quick deke, and fire a wrist shot that pings off the crossbar and into the net. 

The crowd erupts. Garrett jumps to his feet, screaming his head off, slamming his hands against the glass. 

“That’s my sister!” Garrett roars, looking back at the guys with a wild grin. “Did you see those hands? Did you see that?”

“NFD,” Logan mutters, his eyes wide as he watches you celebrate with your team, slamming your gloves against your teammates’. 

“Don’t do it, Tucker,” Dean warns. 

“I have to,” Tucker sighs. “What does NFD mean, Logan?”

“No Freaking Doubt,” Logan says, a grin spreading across his face. “She’s lethal. G, I think she might actually be better than you.”

“Don’t push it,” Garrett warns, sitting back down, though he’s practically glowing with pride. “But yeah. She’s incredible. Has been since she was five. I basically taught her everything she knows.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Logan laughs. 

For the rest of the game, Logan can’t take his eyes off the ice. It’s a distraction he desperately needs. For the past three weeks, his mind has been a broken record, constantly skipping back to the girl in the red dress from the club. It’s driving him insane. He’s the guy who lives in the moment, the guy who never gets hung up on a one-night stand. But that night in the bathroom wasn’t just a hookup. It felt like a collision. He’s spent the last twenty-one days scanning crowds, looking for that wild hair, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He doesn’t even know her name. He’s half-convinced he hallucinated the entire thing. 

But watching you play, the sheer aggression and skill you bring to the ice, it centers him. It’s a damn good game of hockey. 

By the time the final buzzer sounds, Northeastern has secured a 4-2 victory, with you notching a goal and two assists. You’re the clear MVP of the match. 

“Alright,” Garrett says, standing up and stretching. “Let’s head down to the tunnels. I texted her to meet us outside the locker room.”

The boys shuffle out of the stands, joining the flow of parents and friends heading down to the lower levels of the arena. The air down here is thicker, smelling strongly of sweat and sports tape. They find a spot against a cinderblock wall just outside the double doors of the Northeastern locker room. 

“So, what’s the protocol here?” Dean asks, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “Do we bow? Do we offer her a tribute for absolutely carrying her team today?”

“Just be normal,” Garrett snaps, suddenly looking a little anxious. “And keep your gross, flirtatious comments to yourselves. She’s my baby sister. Look at her, tell her she played well, and do not hit on her. I mean it. Especially you, Dean.”

“Hey! I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests. 

Logan chuckles, leaning his head back against the cold wall. “Relax, Garrett. We know the bro code. Best friend’s sister is strictly off-limits. Untouchable. It’s, like, the fundamental law of the universe.”

“Exactly,” Garrett says, pointing a firm finger at Logan. “I trust you, Logan. You’re the only one of these idiots who actually respects boundaries.”

“I am a pillar of morality,” Logan agrees solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. 

Tucker snorts. “You’re a pillar of something, alright.”

They wait for another fifteen minutes as players slowly trickle out, greeting their families. The heavy double doors swing open again, and Logan hears Garrett suck in a sharp breath. 

***

You push through the locker room doors, a heavy duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Your hair is still damp from the showers, falling in messy, natural waves around your face. You’re wearing a pair of comfortable gray sweatpants and a massive, oversized Northeastern Hockey hoodie that swallows you whole. Your muscles are aching, your legs feel like lead, but there is a triumphant, soaring feeling in your chest. 

You beat Harvard. You proved you belong here. 

You scan the crowd of lingering families in the hallway, your eyes searching for a familiar face. And then you see him. Standing tall in his Briar letterman jacket, looking exactly the same as he always does. 

“Garrett!” You call out, a massive, exhausted smile breaking across your face. 

You drop your duffel bag instantly, not caring where it lands, and practically launch yourself at him. Garrett catches you easily, wrapping his large arms around you and lifting you entirely off your feet, burying his face in your damp hair. 

“God, you were amazing,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “I am so damn proud of you. That goal in the first period? Filthy. Absolutely filthy.”

“I learned from the best,” you whisper back, squeezing him tight. 

In this moment, the rest of the world fades away. It’s just the two of you. The two kids who used to hide in a locked bedroom in New York, the two survivors who made it out to the other side. Every time you step onto the ice, you play for yourself, but you also play for him. Because he made sure you survived long enough to lace up your skates. 

“Okay, okay,” Garrett laughs, finally setting you down, though he keeps one arm securely draped over your shoulders. He looks down at you, his eyes shining. “Let me look at you. You look terrible. Exhausted.”

“Thanks,” you scoff, punching him lightly in the ribs. “I feel terrible. But winning takes the edge off.”

“I brought the guys,” Garrett says, his tone shifting into his captain voice. He turns slightly, gesturing to the three tall, intimidating hockey players standing a few feet away. “They’ve been dying to meet the mythical little sister. Guys, this is her.”

You turn, a polite, friendly smile already plastered on your face. You’re ready to meet the famous Briar boys you’ve heard so much about. 

“Hey, it’s nice to-” 

The words die in your throat. 

Your eyes sweep past a blonde guy with a cocky grin, past a tall, quiet-looking guy with curly hair, and land squarely on the third guy. 

The tall guy with the messy, dark brown hair. The sharp jawline. The broad shoulders. The guy who, three weeks ago, pinned you against a heavy wooden door in a club bathroom and made you see stars. 

The blood instantly drains from your face. The world tilts on its axis. 

***

Logan freezes. 

Every single muscle in his body locks up. He stops breathing. He stops blinking. The cinderblock wall behind him is the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor. 

He stares at you. At the damp hair, the gray sweatpants, the oversized hoodie. But it’s the eyes. It’s the sharp, expressive eyes that he spent an hour staring into in a dark, sweaty hallway. It’s the curve of your mouth that he had bruised with his own. 

*No. No, no, no.*

The realization hits him with the force of a freight train colliding with a brick wall. The girl in the red dress. The girl who tasted like whiskey and mint. The girl whose moans he still hears when he tries to fall asleep. 

It’s you. 

It’s Garrett’s little sister. 

Panic, cold and sharp, floods Logan’s veins. His heart begins to hammer violently against his ribs, a frantic, terrified rhythm. He is a dead man. He is literally going to die today, right here in the Matthews Arena. Garrett is going to murder him. Garrett is going to strip him of his hockey gear, drag him out onto the ice, and beat him to death with his own stick. 

“Earth to Logan,” Dean says, elbowing Logan sharply in the ribs. “Introduce yourself, weirdo.”

Logan swallows hard. His mouth is completely dry. He tries to form words, but his brain is short-circuiting. Code Red. CR. Catastrophic Failure. CF. I Am Going To Die. IAGTD.

He looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the exact same horror mirrored in your eyes. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Your lips are slightly parted, your chest rising and falling rapidly as the shock registers. 

“Hey,” Logan manages to croak out, his voice sounding entirely unlike his own. It’s an octave higher, strangled and tight. “I’m Logan.”

***

“Logan,” you repeat, the name slipping out of your mouth like a curse word. 

John Logan. Garrett’s best friend. The guy your brother trusts more than anyone else in the world. 

You slept with him.

You can feel the hysterical urge to laugh bubbling up in your throat, but you ruthlessly suppress it. Your mind races, trying to stitch together the pieces of that night. No names, no schools, no complications. What a spectacularly stupid rule that turned out to be. If you had just asked his name, if he had just mentioned he played for Briar ... 

“Yeah, this is Logan,” Garrett says, oblivious to the nuclear bomb currently detonating in the space between you two. He claps Logan on the shoulder, and you watch Logan flinch as if he’s been burned. “And this is Dean, and Tucker. Guys, my little sister.”

“Incredible game out there,” Tucker says smoothly, stepping forward to offer a fist bump, which you return mechanically. “Your vision on the ice is insane.”

“Uh, thanks,” you manage to say, tearing your eyes away from Logan to look at Tucker. “I appreciate it.”

“Seriously,” Dean chimes in, flashing a bright, flirtatious smile that instantly makes Garrett narrow his eyes. “You didn’t tell us she was a superstar, G. Or that she was this pretty.”

“Dean,” Garrett barks, his voice low and dangerous. “I will end you.”

“Just stating facts!” Dean raises his hands in surrender. 

You try to focus on the banter, try to act normal, but it’s impossible. You can feel Logan’s stare burning a hole into the side of your head. The tension radiating from him is palpable. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler. 

“So,” Garrett says, turning back to you, completely blind to the silent panic attack Logan is having three feet away. “We were thinking of grabbing food to celebrate. There’s a diner a few blocks from here. You up for it, or are you too dead?”

“I ...” You desperately want to say no. You want to grab your bag, run back into the locker room, lock the door, and never come out. But you look at Garrett, at the sheer happiness on his face. He’s so excited to have you here, to introduce you to his world. You can’t ruin this for him. 

“I’m starving,” you lie, forcing a bright smile. “Food sounds great.”

“Awesome,” Garrett beams. “Logan, you’re driving.”

“I am?” Logan stammers, his eyes snapping to Garrett. 

“Yeah, you drove us here in your truck,” Garrett points out, looking at Logan like he’s grown a second head. “Are you okay, man? You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“I’m fine,” Logan says quickly, too quickly. “Just hungry. Blood sugar is low. LBS.”

“Stop with the acronyms,” Garrett sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns to you. “He does this thing where he makes up acronyms. It’s annoying, but you learn to tune it out.”

“I know,” you say softly. 

The words slip out before you can stop them. 

The hallway goes completely silent. 

Dean and Tucker pause. Garrett frowns, looking between you and Logan. Logan looks like he’s about to sprint down the hallway and jump into moving traffic. 

“You know?” Garrett asks slowly, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “How do you know?”

Crap. Crap. Crap.

“I mean,” you backpedal frantically, your heart hammering against your ribs, “I assume it’s annoying. You know? Guys who do that ... it’s usually annoying.”

Garrett stares at you for a second longer before his face clears, and he laughs. “Yeah. See? Even she thinks you’re annoying, Logan.”

Logan manages a weak, strained chuckle. “Yeah. Hilarious.”

The walk to Logan’s truck is the longest walk of your entire life. Garrett walks beside you, excitedly breaking down the plays from the game, asking you about your linemates, while the three boys trail behind. 

You can feel Logan’s eyes on your back the entire time. It’s a heavy, burning weight. 

When you reach the parking lot, Logan clicks his keys, and a massive, beat-up black Chevy Silverado chirps. 

“I call shotgun!” Dean yells, lunging for the front door. 

“No way,” Garrett says, grabbing Dean by the back of his jacket and yanking him backward. “Sister gets shotgun. You animals get in the back.”

“Garrett, it’s fine,” you protest immediately, holding your hands up. “I can sit in the back.”

The idea of sitting in the passenger seat, mere inches away from Logan, in the enclosed space of his truck, sounds like absolute torture. 

“Nonsense,” Garrett insists, opening the passenger side door for you. “You’re the VIP today. Get in.”

You shoot a desperate, fleeting glance at Logan over the hood of the truck. His face is pale, his jaw clenched tight. He looks completely out of his depth, which is terrifying, because Logan is supposed to be the guy who has it all together. The cool, calm, collected one. 

You climb into the truck. The smell of the interior hits you instantly. It’s the exact same smell that clung to his skin that night in the bathroom. Woodsmoke and that same masculine cologne. It makes your head spin. 

Logan climbs into the driver’s seat. He shuts the door, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. 

Garrett, Dean, and Tucker pile into the back seat, instantly filling the cab with noise and chaos as they argue over legroom. 

“Alright, Logan,” Garrett says from the backseat, leaning forward to clap Logan on the shoulder. “To the diner. Let’s get some food in this champion.”

Logan starts the engine. The low rumble of the truck vibrates through the seat, sending a phantom shiver up your spine. He puts the car in drive, finally turning to look at you for the first time since the locker room. 

His eyes are dark, filled with a chaotic mixture of panic, disbelief, and something else — something dangerously similar to the raw hunger you saw in the club. 

“Buckle up,” Logan says, his voice a low, raspy whisper that is meant only for you. 

You swallow hard, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across your chest. The click of the buckle sounds as loud as a gunshot in the tense silence of the front seat. 

“Ready,” you whisper back. 

Logan tears his gaze away, staring straight ahead at the road as he pulls out of the parking lot. 

It’s going to be a very, very long lunch.

***

The bell above the door of Della’s Diner chimes a cheerful, tinny note that sounds entirely too happy for the funeral march currently playing in Logan’s head. 

The diner is a quintessential college town staple — smelling of old frying oil, burnt coffee, and maple syrup, with neon beer signs buzzing faintly in the grease-stained windows. It’s usually Logan’s favorite place to recover after a rough practice, but right now, it feels like an interrogation room. 

“Booth in the back,” Garrett declares, pointing to a circular corner booth upholstered in cracked red vinyl. 

It’s a tight squeeze. Too tight. 

Garrett slides in first, pulling you in right beside him. Dean drops into the opposite side, dragging Tucker with him. That leaves one spot left. Right in the middle. Directly across from you. 

Logan stands in the aisle for a fraction of a second too long, staring at the empty space on the vinyl seat like it’s a trap door. 

“Sit down, man, you’re blocking the aisle,” Tucker says, giving Logan a shove. 

Logan practically falls into the booth. His knees immediately bump against something soft under the table. 

You jerk your legs back so fast you nearly spill the glass of water the waitress just set down. “Sorry,” you murmur, your cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of crimson. 

“My bad,” Logan chokes out. He pulls his long legs back, pressing his knees firmly together. He feels like he’s trying to defuse a bomb with a pair of chopsticks. 

The waitress, a gum-chewing woman in her fifties named Stacy, pulls a notepad from her apron. “What can I get you boys? And the lovely lady?”

“Three orders of the lumberjack special,” Garrett says without looking at the menu. “Extra bacon for me. Tucker will have the chicken wrap, because he’s boring.”

“It’s called macronutrients, Garrett,” Tucker sighs. 

“And for the lady?” Stacy asks, giving you a warm smile. 

“I’ll just take a side of fries, please,” you say, peeling off your oversized Northeastern hockey hoodie to reveal the gray tank top underneath. “And a strawberry milkshake. Extra thick.”

Logan swallows. Hard. 

“Coming right up, hon,” Stacy says, clicking her pen and sauntering away. 

“Just fries?” Garrett frowns, shifting in the booth to look at you. “You played a hell of a game, you need protein. You want some of my eggs?”

“I’m too amped up to eat a heavy meal, G,” you say, leaning back against the vinyl. “You know how I get after a game. Adrenaline crash hasn’t hit yet.”

“Suit yourself,” Garrett shrugs. “But you’re eating at least half my bacon.”

Logan stares blankly at the laminated menu in front of him, seeing absolutely nothing. He is in hell. A very specific, vinyl-upholstered circle of hell. 

You are sitting directly across from him. The diner lighting is catching the faint sheen of sweat still lingering on your collarbones. He can see the subtle shift of your athletic shoulders under the thin fabric of your tank top, and all he can think about is the way those shoulders felt under his hands when he pinned you against that bathroom door. 

Stop it. Logan squeezes his eyes shut for a microsecond. Wayne Gretzky. 2,857 career points. 894 goals. 1,963 assists.

“So,” Dean starts, leaning his elbows on the table and giving you his best, most dazzling smile. The one that usually makes puck bunnies melt into puddles. “Northeastern, huh? Why didn’t you come to Briar with Garrett?”

You look at Dean, your expression perfectly composed. “Northeastern offered me a full ride and a starting position at center. Briar wanted me to sit on the bench for a year to develop. It wasn’t a hard choice.”

“Ouch,” Dean laughs, clutching his chest. “Brains, beauty, and she’s ruthless. You sure you’re related to Garrett?”

“Dean, I swear to God,” Garrett warns, his voice dropping an octave. “I will stab you with this fork.”

“Just making conversation!” Dean defends himself, picking up a sugar packet and tossing it at Garrett. “It’s nice to actually meet her. You’ve kept her locked in a tower for years.”

“I haven’t kept her in a tower,” Garrett grumbles. “She was back home. I was here.”

Logan keeps his eyes glued to the table, tracing the wood-grain pattern with his thumbnail. He needs to say something. If he stays silent, it’s going to look suspicious. He is the loud one. The funny one. The guy who never shuts up. 

“So,” Logan forces his vocal cords to work, glancing up to meet your eyes. “Center. You like running the offense?”

Your breath hitches slightly when his eyes lock onto yours, but you recover instantly. You are incredibly good at this game. 

“I do,” you nod, wrapping your hands around your glass of water. “I like controlling the pace. Setting up the plays. Better than waiting around for someone else to pass me the puck.”

Oh, Jesus. Logan’s brain completely short-circuits. She likes controlling the pace. Mario Lemieux. 1,723 points. 690 goals. 1,033 assists. Won the Stanley Cup in ‘91 and ‘92.

“She’s a control freak on the ice,” Garrett laughs, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Always has been. Even when we were playing street hockey as kids, she bossed me around.”

“Someone had to,” you shoot back, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face. It’s the exact same smile Logan saw in the club right before he kissed you. 

Stacy returns, balancing a massive tray of food. She deposits plates of eggs, pancakes, and greasy bacon onto the table. Finally, she places a tall, condensation-beaded glass filled with pink milkshake directly in front of you. It comes with a thick red straw and a mountain of whipped cream. 

“Enjoy, sweetheart,” Stacy says, winking before she walks away. 

“Thanks,” you say, grabbing the glass. 

Logan watches in slow motion as your lips wrap around the thick red straw. 

You take a long, deep pull of the milkshake. Your cheeks hollow out slightly from the effort, the thick ice cream requiring serious suction. You swallow, your throat working, and pull the straw away, your lips slick and shining with the pale pink liquid. A tiny drop of milkshake lingers on the corner of your mouth. 

You dart your tongue out and lick it away. 

Logan’s hands grip the edges of the table so hard his knuckles turn stark white. Bobby Orr. Number 4. Eight consecutive Norris Trophies. 270 career goals. It’s not working. The stats aren’t working. 

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust his jeans without anyone noticing the distinct, painful problem developing below the table. He is having a physical reaction to his best friend’s sister drinking a strawberry milkshake. He is a monster. A depraved, irredeemable monster. 

He just wants to finish the season. He wants to play his final year of college hockey, graduate, and go back to his dad’s mechanic shop. That’s the deal. He just needs to survive these next few months before Garrett inevitably finds out and murders him with his bare hands. 

“You okay, Logan?” Tucker asks, pausing halfway through a bite of his chicken wrap. He looks at Logan with narrow, analytical eyes. “You’re sweating.”

“I’m fine,” Logan rasps, reaching for his ice water and downing half the glass in one go. “It’s hot in here. HC. Heat Casualties.”

You let out a soft, sudden sound — a cross between a cough and a laugh — and choke on your milkshake. 

Garrett immediately drops his fork and thumps you on the back. “Whoa, easy. Breathe. You good?”

“I’m fine,” you wheeze, covering your mouth with a napkin. Your eyes, bright and watery, dart across the table to glare at Logan. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”

“It’s Logan’s stupid acronyms,” Garrett sighs, handing you another napkin. “I told you, he’s insufferable.”

“They’re not stupid, they’re efficient,” Logan says defensively, though his voice is still a little tight. “Saves time.”

“Saves time for what? More terrible jokes?” Dean quips around a mouthful of pancake. 

“Exactly,” Logan snaps back, finally finding his rhythm. The banter is safe. The banter is familiar. “At least I have jokes. Your entire personality is just hair gel and daddy issues, Dean.”

“Hey!” Dean protests, running a self-conscious hand through his perfectly styled hair. “I love my father, thank you very much.”

You laugh, and the sound does funny things to Logan’s chest. It’s warm and real, totally different from the dark, heavy lust that defined your first encounter. He realizes, with a sinking feeling of dread, that he likes you. Not just the physical memory of you, but you. The way you hold your own against his idiot friends. The way you look at Garrett with pure adoration. 

I am so dead, Logan thinks, watching you steal a piece of bacon off Garrett’s plate. I am absolutely, definitively dead.

The rest of the meal passes in a blur of hockey talk, arguments over NHL standings, and Tucker quietly destroying everyone’s logic with statistics. You fit into the group seamlessly. You speak their language. 

Under the table, it’s a different story. 

The booth is small, and Logan has long legs. Twice, your knee brushes against his. The first time, he flinches so violently he nearly knocks over his coffee mug. The second time, he freezes, holding his breath as the soft denim of your sweatpants drags slowly across the heavy denim of his jeans. 

He looks up. You are casually talking to Dean about Northeastern’s defensive lineup, sipping your milkshake, acting completely unaffected. But Logan sees the slight tremor in your hand holding the glass. He sees the high color in your cheeks. 

You are feeling it too. The electricity. The undeniable pull. 

It’s making the situation infinitely worse. If you hated him, if you were disgusted by him, he could back off. He could bury it. But knowing that the memory of that bathroom is playing on a loop in your head just like it is in his? It’s a ticking time bomb. 

“Alright,” Garrett says, tossing his napkin onto his empty plate and reaching for his wallet. “I got this.”

“You don’t have to pay for me, G,” you protest, reaching for your own bag. 

“Put it away,” Garrett orders, throwing a twenty-dollar bill onto the table. “Big brother privilege. Besides, you’re a broke freshman. Save your money.”

You roll your eyes but let your bag drop back onto the seat. “Fine. Thank you.”

“Okay, before we get out of here,” Garrett says, his tone suddenly shifting from casual to commanding. He looks at Dean, Tucker, and finally, Logan. “Phones out. All of you.”

Logan stares at him. “What?”

“Phones out,” Garrett repeats, pulling his own cell phone from his pocket. “You too, Y/N.”

You look just as confused as Logan, pulling your phone out of your hoodie pocket. 

“Exchange numbers,” Garrett instructs, gesturing between you and the boys. 

Logan’s blood runs cold. He stares at Garrett, convinced this is some sort of elaborate trap. “Why?”

“Because,” Garrett says, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looks at the three of them with deadly serious eyes. “You three are my brothers. You’re the only people I trust completely. My sister is living in this city now. She’s at Northeastern, dealing with a new team, new classes, new everything.”

Garrett pauses, looking at you, his expression softening slightly. “I’m not always going to be available. We have away games. I have practice. Sometimes my phone dies. If she ever needs anything — a ride, help moving a couch, someone to bail her out of a bad situation — and she can’t reach me, I want her to be able to reach you.”

You stare at your brother, your throat working. “Garrett, I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitting squad.”

“It’s not a babysitting squad,” Garrett says firmly. “It’s an insurance policy. Mom is gone. Dad is ...” Garrett’s jaw clenches, the muscles ticking violently. “Dad is dead to us. It’s just you and me. And these guys. This is our family now.”

The diner goes totally quiet. Dean drops the joking facade, his face sobering instantly. Tucker nods slowly. 

Even Logan feels a sharp, painful ache in his chest. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to deal with a toxic father. He knows what Garrett has sacrificed to protect you. Garrett is handing over the most precious thing in his life to his best friends, trusting them to protect her. 

“He’s right,” Tucker says quietly, unlocking his phone. “Read us your number, Y/N.”

You look overwhelmed, blinking rapidly as if fighting back tears, but you softly read out your ten-digit number. 

Dean types it in, saving the contact. “Got it. And hey, for the record? I’m honored, G. We got her back.”

“Always,” Tucker agrees. 

Garrett looks at Logan. “Logan?”

Logan’s hands are shaking as he unlocks his phone. He types your number into the keypad. The screen glows brightly, mocking him. He hits Save Contact. 

Y/N Graham.

“Got it,” Logan forces the words past the massive lump in his throat. He looks up, meeting Garrett’s eyes. 

“I need you to promise me,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion, looking specifically at Logan. “You treat her like a sister. All of you. She is off-limits to everyone on our team, everyone you know. You look out for her like she’s your own blood. Understood?”

“Understood,” Dean says solemnly. 

“Got it, Garrett,” Tucker nods. 

Garrett doesn’t look away from Logan. He knows Logan is the wild card. The guy who hooks up and moves on. The guy who never commits. 

“Logan?” Garrett prompts. 

Logan looks at his best friend. The guy who covered for him when his dad showed up drunk to a home game. The guy who let Logan sleep on his floor for a week when things got too bad at home. Garrett trusts him implicitly. 

“I promise,” Logan says, the lie tasting like ash on his tongue. “Like a sister. I swear, G.”

“Good,” Garrett exhales, clapping Logan on the shoulder. The tension breaks, the heavy atmosphere dissipating back into the background noise of the diner. “Alright. Let’s get out of here. I need to ice my ankle again before practice tomorrow.”

They all slide out of the booth. You grab your hoodie, pulling it over your head to hide your face for a second. 

As they file out of the diner into the crisp autumn air, Garrett walks ahead, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. You lean into him, laughing at something he says. 

Logan hangs back, trailing behind with Dean and Tucker. 

He stops on the sidewalk, looking up at the gray, overcast Boston sky. The clouds are thick, heavy with the promise of rain. 

He promised Garrett he would treat you like a sister. 

He thinks about the heavy wooden door of the club bathroom. He thinks about the way your nails dug into his shoulders. He thinks about the sounds you made when he pushed inside you, the desperate, uninhibited way you wrapped your legs around his waist and begged him not to stop. 

Logan closes his eyes, tilting his head back toward the sky. He lets out a long, ragged exhale that turns into a white cloud in the cold air. 

I have done things to her, Logan thinks, a feeling of absolute doom settling deep in his bones, that absolutely no one should ever do to their little sister.

He opens his eyes, staring at your retreating back as you walk to the truck with Garrett. 

Fuck his life.

***

The dashboard of your beat-up Toyota Corolla flickers violently, a dying strobe light of warning symbols, before the entire console goes pitch black. The engine gives one final, pathetic shudder and dies, leaving you coasting in terrifying silence down a dark, empty stretch of road just outside the Boston city limits. 

You wrench the steering wheel hard to the right, using the last of your momentum to pull onto the gravel shoulder before slamming the car into park. 

For a moment, the only sound is the frantic beating of your own heart and the rhythmic, aggressive drumming of the freezing November rain against your windshield. 

“Perfect,” you whisper to the empty car. “Just perfect.”

You slam your hands against the steering wheel, letting out a frustrated groan. It’s nearly midnight on a Tuesday. You were just driving back from a late-night study session at the library, your brain completely fried from staring at anatomy textbooks. Now, you are stranded in the freezing cold. 

You grab your phone from the cup holder. Your fingers are already starting to go numb. You pull up your favorites list and immediately hit Garrett’s name. 

The line rings once. Twice. Three times. 

“Hey, this is Garrett. Leave a message, unless you’re Dean, in which case, stop calling me.”

“Damn it, Garrett,” you mutter, hanging up. You try again. Straight to voicemail. He must have finally fallen asleep after complaining all afternoon about the massive bruising on his ribs from practice. 

You lean back against the headrest, staring blankly at the dark screen of your phone. You need a jump. Or a tow. Or a miracle. 

Your thumb hovers over the contacts list. Garrett’s mandate from the diner echoes in your head. If she ever needs anything ... I want her to be able to reach you.

You never thought you’d actually have to use the emergency hockey-player hotline. 

You scroll down. Dean? Absolutely not. He would show up with a stupid grin, probably hit on you while holding the jumper cables, and make the entire ordeal ten times more exhausting. Tucker? Tucker is a solid option. He’s quiet, respectful, and probably knows how to fix a car. 

But then your thumb stops on the last name. 

John Logan.

A hot flush of heat floods your chest, completely counteracting the freezing temperature of the car. It’s been weeks since the diner. Weeks of aggressively avoiding him. If you go to Briar to see Garrett, you make sure Logan isn’t around. If the boys come to your games, you keep a safe, polite distance. But avoiding him hasn’t stopped you from thinking about him. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in that club bathroom. 

You stare at his name. If you call Tucker, it’s safe. If you call Logan, you are willingly inviting the chaos back into your space. 

But there is a strange, twisted logic forming in your tired brain. Logan has already seen you completely unraveled. He knows what you sound like when you lose control. The barrier of intimacy is already so irrevocably shattered between the two of you that calling him almost feels ... easier. There’s no pretense to keep up. 

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press the green call button. 

It rings twice. 

“Hello?” His voice is rough, heavy with sleep, and the sound of it sends a sharp jolt straight to your core. 

“Logan,” you say, your voice trembling slightly — mostly from the cold, but partly from the sheer adrenaline of hearing him say your name. “It’s ... it’s Y/N.”

There is a split second of silence on the line, followed by the sound of rustling sheets and a loud thud, as if he just vaulted out of bed. 

“Y/N?” His voice is suddenly wide awake, sharp and entirely focused. “Are you okay? Where are you? Did something happen?”

“I’m okay,” you say quickly, not wanting to trigger a full-blown panic. “I’m not hurt or anything. I’m just ... my car died. I’m stuck on the shoulder off Route 9, a couple of miles past the exit for the campus.”

“Is anyone with you?” He demands, the protective edge in his voice so fiercely reminiscent of Garrett it makes your throat ache. 

“No, I’m alone. I tried calling Garrett, but he’s not picking up, and-”

“I’m on my way,” Logan cuts you off smoothly. “Lock the doors. Keep the hazards on if the battery has enough juice for them. Do not get out of the car for anyone but me. Understood?”

“Understood,” you whisper. 

“ETA is twenty minutes. Hang tight, sweetheart.”

The phone clicks dead. You stare at the screen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering gymnastics routine in your chest.

***

True to his word, exactly eighteen minutes later, the blinding headlights of a pickup truck cut through the rain, pulling up right behind your dead Civic. 

You unlock the door the second Logan steps out of his truck. He’s wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and a dark Briar hockey hoodie, the hood pulled up against the freezing rain. He walks over to your window, his jaw clenched tight, scanning the dark road around you before he looks down at you. 

“You okay?” He asks, his voice muffled by the glass. 

You roll the window down an inch. “I’m freezing, but I’m fine. The engine just completely died.”

Logan nods, immediately shifting into a mode you haven’t seen before. It’s not the sarcastic jokester from the bar, and it’s not the panicked guy from the diner. This is Logan in his element. He grew up in a mechanic shop. 

“Pop the hood,” he instructs, turning back to his truck. 

You pull the lever under the dash. By the time you step out of the car, wrapping your thin jacket tightly around yourself, Logan is already hooking up a set of heavy-duty jumper cables to his battery. 

“Get back in the car, Y/N,” Logan barks over the sound of the rain, glancing up at you. “You’re shivering. I’ve got this.”

“I want to help,” you insist, your teeth chattering. 

Logan sighs, walking over to the front of your car. He effortlessly lifts the heavy hood, propping it open. He moves with practiced, confident precision, attaching the red clamp to the positive terminal of your battery, then the black clamp to a piece of unpainted metal on the engine block. 

“It’s a dead battery,” Logan says, wiping his wet hands on his sweatpants. “Alternator might be shot, too, considering it died while you were driving. But this should get you enough juice to get to my place or back to your dorm.”

“Your place?” You echo, the words slipping out. 

Logan pauses, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. “Yeah. My place. Or your dorm. Whichever you want.”

He turns away, walking back to his truck. “Start it up!” He yells over his shoulder. 

You slide back into the driver’s seat, turning the key. The engine sputters, whines a pathetic, high-pitched noise, and then, miraculously, roars to life. The heat instantly blasts from the vents. 

You let out a massive sigh of relief, leaning your head against the steering wheel. He saved you. 

You step back out of the car into the rain. Logan is already disconnecting the cables, tossing them into the bed of his truck before slamming the tailgate shut. He walks back over to you, rain dripping from his nose and chin, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. 

“Good to go,” he says, his voice a low rumble over the idling engine. “SRO. Successful Rescue Operation.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up through the cold. You are so overwhelmed with relief, so utterly grateful that you didn’t have to spend the night freezing on the side of the road, that you don’t even think about what you’re doing next. 

You step directly into his space. 

“Thank you, Logan,” you say, looking up at him. “Seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”

Before he can respond, you rise up on your toes, press a hand flat against his damp chest for balance, and press your lips to his. 

It is meant to be a thank-you kiss. A quick, friendly peck on the corner of the mouth. But the second your lips touch his, muscle memory violently hijacks your brain. 

Logan freezes. For a millisecond, his entire body goes completely rigid under your hand. And then, with a sharp, desperate intake of breath, he breaks. 

His large hands come up, gripping your waist with bruising force. He pulls you flush against his body, opening his mouth over yours, entirely swallowing your gasp. The kiss is instantaneous fire. It’s exactly like the bathroom at the club — frantic, hungry, and completely consuming. You tangle your fingers into the wet hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, your mouth opening to the familiar, intoxicating slide of his tongue. 

The freezing rain soaking through your clothes suddenly doesn’t matter at all. The only thing that exists is the burning heat of his mouth, the solid wall of his chest, and the desperate, crushing grip of his hands on your hips. 

Logan groans into your mouth, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your toes. He walks you backward until your spine hits the wet metal of your car door, pinning you there just like he did before. 

But then, as quickly as it started, the reality of the situation crashes down on both of you. 

Logan tears his mouth away, his chest heaving violently. He rests his forehead against yours, his hands still gripping your waist in a vise. You are both panting, staring into each other’s wide, terrified eyes. 

“What are we doing?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling. 

“I don’t know,” you breathe back, your hands still resting on his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart. 

“Garrett is going to bury me under the ice rink,” Logan says, his eyes squeezing shut. “He is going to murder me. He’s going to use my bones to make a new hockey stick.”

“And I’ll be shipped off to a convent,” you add, your voice tight with panic. “I’ll be the first ever hockey-playing cloistered nun.”

Logan lets out a breathless, choked laugh, his forehead still resting against yours. “We can’t do this. You know we can’t do this.”

“I know,” you whisper. “We really can’t.”

You wait for him to step back. You wait for him to let you go. 

He doesn’t move an inch. 

Instead, his thumbs slowly begin to stroke the curve of your waist, right through the wet fabric of your jacket. The touch is so agonizingly slow, so heavy with intent, that a small, broken whimper escapes your lips. 

“I’ve been going insane,” Logan admits, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp. He opens his eyes, staring directly into yours. The raw vulnerability in his expression makes your heart shatter. “Since the diner. Since the club. I can’t sleep. I can’t think on the ice. Every time I close my eyes, I see you drinking that damn milkshake.”

“Logan ...”

“I know I’m supposed to be the reliable guy,” he continues, his hands sliding up your sides to grip the lapels of your jacket. “I promised Garrett. I swore to him. But Y/N, I can’t stop. You are all I think about.”

The admission hangs heavy in the freezing air between you, thick and undeniably true. You feel the exact same way. The rules, the brother, the consequences — none of it feels real compared to the overwhelming, magnetic pull you have toward this man. 

“My backseat is practically a living room,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting down to your lips. 

“Logan ...” you say his name again, but this time, it’s not a warning. It’s a surrender. 

“Tell me to get in my truck and drive away,” Logan pleads, his face inches from yours. “Tell me right now, and I will.”

You look at him. You look at the rain dripping from his lashes, at the desperate, agonizing hope in his eyes. 

“I don’t want you to drive away,” you say, your voice perfectly clear over the sound of the storm. 

Logan lets out a sharp exhale, his restraint finally snapping completely. He kisses you again, hard and bruising, before grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your car. He drags you toward the truck. He throws open the heavy back door, practically lifting you off your feet and tossing you onto the wide, expansive upholstered bench of the backseat. 

He climbs in after you, slamming the door shut. 

The sudden silence inside the truck is deafening. The windows are heavily tinted, shielding you from the outside world. The only light comes from the faint glow of the dashboard in the front. 

Logan wastes absolutely no time. He crawls over the leather seats, caging you in against the soft upholstery. He straddles your hips, looking down at you with a gaze so hot it could melt glass. 

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands instantly reaching for the zipper of your wet jacket. He pulls it down with frantic haste, tugging the damp material off your shoulders and tossing it onto the floorboards. 

“You talk too much,” you breathe, reaching up to grab the collar of his hoodie, pulling him down to you. 

The kiss is explosive. It’s different from the club. At the club, it was pure, anonymous lust. This is heavier. This is loaded with weeks of pent-up desire, forbidden attraction, and the terrifying realization that there are real feelings involved. 

Logan’s hands are everywhere, exploring you with a desperate reverence. He pushes your tank top up, his large, warm palms flattening against the bare, shivering skin of your stomach. You gasp into his mouth as he trails his hands higher, mapping the curve of your ribs before pushing the fabric up entirely. 

“God,” Logan groans, pulling back just enough to look at you in the dim light. His eyes trace the lines of your body, filled with a deep, consuming hunger. 

“Don’t stop,” you plead, your fingers tangling into his wet hair. 

Logan leans down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of your breast. The contrast of his scorching mouth against your cold skin sends a violent shiver down your spine. He traces his tongue along the edge of your bra, biting down gently on the sensitive skin, eliciting a loud, uninhibited moan from your throat. 

“You like that?” Logan rumbles against your skin, his hands moving to the button of your jeans. 

“Logan, please,” you beg, arching your back off the leather seat. 

He works the button and zipper with practiced ease, his fingers sliding beneath the denim. The second his rough skin brushes against your center, your entire body completely locks up. 

Logan watches your face intently as his fingers begin to move. He sets a slow, maddeningly precise rhythm, his thumb circling and pressing exactly where you need it. You throw your head back into the leather seat, your hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. 

“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice thick with lust. 

You force your eyes open, meeting his dark, intense gaze. 

“You are mine,” Logan whispers fiercely, the words slipping out of him like an undeniable truth. He increases the pressure, his fingers moving faster, deeper. “You hear me? You’re mine.”

You can’t even form words to agree. The pleasure is too absolute, too consuming. The heat inside the cab of the truck is suffocating, completely fogging up the windows and isolating you both in a cocoon of raw, desperate need. 

You feel the climax building rapidly, a tight, coil of energy in your lower stomach. 

“Logan,” you sob out, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders. 

“Let it go, sweetheart,” he encourages, leaning down to capture your lips in a devastating kiss. “I’ve got you.”

You shatter completely. The orgasm rips through you with a violent intensity, pulling a loud, muffled scream from your throat directly into his mouth. Your muscles clench tightly around his fingers, your entire body trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. 

Logan holds you through it, his chest heaving, waiting until the violent tremors begin to subside. 

When you finally open your eyes, you are gasping for air. Logan is looking down at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Without a word, he reaches down and grabs the hem of his own hoodie, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. He tosses it aside, revealing his broad, heavily muscled chest. 

He reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants. 

“My turn,” he whispers, his eyes completely dark. 

You reach up, helping him push the fabric down. The second he is free, he settles back over you, parting your knees with his thighs. He aligns himself perfectly, pausing for just a fraction of a second to look at you, to make sure you are ready. 

You nod, lifting your hips to meet him. 

Logan pushes inside you in one long, smooth, devastating thrust. 

A sharp gasp leaves your lips, your eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming sensation of being completely filled by him. It is infinitely better than the club. There is no door to pin you against, but the heavy, solid weight of his body pressing you deep into the leather seat is so much better. 

Logan lets out a low, guttural groan, resting his forehead against yours as he takes a moment to adjust. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice shaking. “You feel perfect.”

“Move,” you demand softly, your hands tracing down the hard, sweaty planes of his back to grip his hips. 

He obeys. He sets a slow, agonizingly deep pace. Every thrust is deliberate, completely burying himself inside you before pulling almost entirely out. The friction is maddening. The truck rocks gently on its suspension with the force of his movements, the only sound inside the cab the wet slide of bodies and the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing. 

“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan whispers harshly. 

You immediately do as he asks, crossing your ankles over the small of his back, pulling him even deeper. 

The change in angle is all it takes for Logan’s restraint to snap. The slow, deliberate pace vanishes, replaced by a frantic, punishing rhythm. He grips your hips so tightly it’s definitely going to leave bruises, his hips snapping forward with a force that drives you further and further into the seat. 

You cling to him, entirely lost to the storm. The feeling of him inside you, the way his body covers yours perfectly, the desperate sounds he makes against your neck is intoxicating. 

“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic and entirely unhinged. “I’m going to-”

“Do it,” you sob out, your own second climax building with terrifying speed. “Logan, please.”

He thrusts deeply one final time, a harsh, jagged cry tearing from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid as he finds his release, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The force of his climax pushes you directly over the edge, your body shattering around him simultaneously. 

For a long time, neither of you moves. 

Logan is a heavy, completely exhausted weight on top of you. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your chest, his skin slick with sweat despite the freezing temperatures outside. The windows of the truck are entirely opaque with condensation. 

Slowly, the reality of the situation begins to creep back in. The rain is still drumming relentlessly against the roof of the truck. 

Logan slowly lifts his head, looking down at you. His eyes are soft, devoid of the frantic panic that usually accompanies your interactions. He brushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, his touch remarkably gentle. 

“Garrett is going to kill me,” Logan says quietly, the words lacking their usual terror. 

You let out a soft, tired laugh, running your hands through his messy hair. “Yeah. He really is.”

“It’s worth it,” Logan says, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “For the record. I would let him kill me a thousand times if it meant I got to do this again.”

Your heart does a painful, stuttering flip in your chest. You look up at him, seeing the utter sincerity in his eyes. He isn’t joking. He isn’t deflecting with acronyms. 

“Me too,” you whisper. 

Logan smiles, a devastatingly soft expression that completely alters his face. He rolls off you gently, reaching down to grab his hoodie. 

“Come on,” he says, pulling the hoodie over his head before handing you your damp jacket. “Let’s get you back to your dorm before you catch pneumonia. SVD. Safe Vehicle Drop-off.”

“You’re an idiot,” you laugh, sitting up and starting to re-dress. 

“Yeah,” Logan agrees, watching you with an expression you can’t quite place. “I am.”

"I’m just saying," John Logan argued from across the sticky table, pointing a french fry at Tucker, "if you actually passed the puck instead of trying to be the hero, we would’ve scored in the second period."

"I was open!" Tucker shot back. "You’re just blind, Johnny!"

Garrett Graham, wedged next to them, rolled his eyes and stole a sip of Hannah’s beer. "You’re both idiots. Just drink."

You tuned out the hockey talk, mostly because Dean’s fingers were currently drawing lazy, distracting circles on the denim of your jeans, right at your knee.

When you transferred to Briar to escape the wreckage of your last relationship, your plan was simple: keep your head down, go to class, and stay invisible. You didn't plan on meeting Dean Di Laurentis. You definitely didn't plan on sleeping with him.

Twice.

The problem? The sex was mind-blowing, and Dean was shockingly attentive, which meant you had to pull the emergency brake. Two hookups could be written off as a fluke. Three times was a pattern. Three times meant you were knocking on the door of a relationship, and you didn't do boyfriends anymore. Not after the suffocating mess you’d left behind in your hometown.

You’d drawn a hard line.

Dean, however, treated that line like a mild suggestion.

"I'm going to grab another round before Logan and Tuck start throwing punches," Hannah announced, sliding out of the booth. "Don't kill each other."

"You're ignoring me," Dean murmured. He dropped his arm over the back of the booth behind your head, leaning in so close you could smell his expensive cologne mixed with draft beer.

"I'm listening to Logan and Tuck," you replied, keeping your eyes on your cup. "It’s very educational."

"I can think of better things to do than listen to Logan." Dean's voice dropped to that low, raspy pitch he knew exactly how to use. His thumb dragged a fraction higher on your thigh."You're wearing that perfume again," he murmured, a sound that completely bypassed your brain and went straight to your stomach.

"Shut up, Di Laurentis," you shot back, taking a desperate sip of your drink.

"I know you have this ridiculous rule about a third time meaning we're suddenly married, but come on, beautiful," he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your jaw. " You can’t stop thinking about it either. I promise I’ll make you forget why you ever made that rule in the first place."

"Read my lips, Di Laurentis," you said, turning your head just enough to give him a flat look. "We are done."

He just smirked, his thumb pressing a little firmer against your thigh. "Liar."

You opened your mouth to tell him his ego was writing checks his charm couldn't cash, but Hannah suddenly slid back into the booth, thumping a heavy plastic pitcher onto the table.

"Malone's is officially a zoo," she announced, dropping into the space next to Garrett. She wiped condensation off her hands, then paused, her eyes darting over to you. "Hey, did you tell someone we were coming here?"

You frowned. "No. Why?"

"Because some guy just stopped me by the bar," Hannah said, her brow furrowed. "Tall, dark hair, preppy polo shirt. He had this crazy intense look on his face. He asked if I knew a Y/N who just transferred here. I told him no, but... It gave me the creeps, honestly."

The buzz from the vodka evaporated.

Your stomach did a horrific, Olympic-level flip. It was an instant, violent spike of adrenaline. A cold sweat broke out across the back of your neck, and suddenly the loud, chaotic noise of the bar felt like it was pressing against your eardrums.

He’s here.

You stared at the condensation pooling on the wooden table, your brain short-circuiting.

Beside you, Dean completely misread the situation. He thought you were just giving him the silent treatment. He leaned his weight against you, his chest pressing into your shoulder.

"Come on, beautiful," Dean coaxed, his voice dropping right into your ear. "Stop playing hard to get. Let's get out of here."

The feeling of being boxed into the booth suddenly shifted from annoying to terrifying. You felt trapped.

You snapped your head up to tell Dean to back the hell off, your heart hammering against your ribs. But as you looked past him, your eyes landed on the front entrance.

Standing by the bouncer, looking exactly like the entitled prick he was, was your ex-boyfriend.

Your breath caught in your throat. Fight or flight kicked in, and your body chose flight.

You didn't care about looking cool, and you didn't care about explaining yourself. You just needed to get out of his line of sight before he spotted you.

You shoved Dean’s arm away and scrambled to get your feet under you.

"Move," you choked out.

Dean looked startled. "Whoa, hey, what—"

"Dean, let me out!" you snapped, practically climbing over his knees. You abandoned your jacket, hit the sticky floor, and bolted toward the back hallway. You pushed past a group of frat guys and burst through the heavy metal door into the freezing alleyway.

A second later, the heavy door swung open again. You heard Garrett swearing under his breath, followed by Hannah’s worried voice.

The night was officially over.

The heavy front door of the house slammed shut, cutting off the biting wind.

Garrett took one look at you—at the way your arms were wrapped tightly around your ribs, your face completely bloodless—and didn't ask a single question.

"Upstairs. Now," he muttered, shoving Logan and Tucker down the hall before they could open their mouths.

Hannah hesitated, giving you a tight, worried smile, before following Garrett's lead.

You walked straight into the kitchen on autopilot, grabbing the edge of the marble island to keep your knees from buckling. You were shaking like a leaf, and it definitely wasn't the weather.

Footsteps squeaked against the hardwood floor.

Dean walked into the kitchen and stopped a good five feet away, leaning his hip against the opposite counter.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"I’m an ass," Dean said.

His voice was flat, totally stripped of its usual lazy drawl. You looked up. He was running a hand through his blond hair, his jaw tight, looking genuinely stressed.

"Dean—"

"No, let me finish," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm an idiot. I completely misread that," Dean dragged a hand down his face, dropping his gaze to the floor. "We had a deal—you said two times was it, and I kept pushing. I crowded you in that booth, and you looked like you were suffocating. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry."

You let out an exhausted breath. Dean Di Laurentis—actual playboy extraordinaire—was standing in his kitchen apologizing because he thought his flirting had sent you into a panic attack.

"Dean," you said softly, your voice shaking. "It wasn't you."

His brow furrowed, his hazel eyes snapping up to meet yours. "What are you talking about? You couldn't get out of that booth fast enough."

"I wasn't running from you," you admitted, hugging yourself tighter. "I panicked because of what Hannah said. And because when I snapped my head up to tell you to back off... I saw someone."

Dean went perfectly still. The confusion on his face lingered for a split second before sharpening into intense focus. "Saw who?"

"My ex-boyfriend." The words tasted like ash. "The guy I transferred here to get away from."

Dean didn't move. "He was at Malone's?"

You nodded, a humiliating tear spilling over your lashes. "I didn't move to Briar for a fresh start. I came here because I was running away from him."

Dean stayed quiet, letting you set the pace. He didn't pace the room, and he didn't raise his voice.

"He didn't hit me," you said, your voice cracking. "I know people always assume that's what it takes to run. But he just... he owned me. If we had an argument, he would literally stand in front of the door so I couldn't leave the room until I gave in and apologized. He alienated my friends. He made me feel like I was crazy for wanting to exist outside of his control. By the time I finally packed my car and left, I felt like a ghost."

You wiped angrily at your cheek, staring at the marble counter. "I moved here to be invisible. I thought I was safe. And he was standing right there by the bouncers."

The air in the kitchen completely changed.

The guilt that had been weighing Dean down evaporated, swallowed up by a profound, heavy stillness. You could see the exact moment the pieces clicked together in his head—the realization of why you hated feeling cornered, why you were so fiercely independent, why you put up so many walls.

Dean was a hockey player; he had a temper. You could see the anger flare in his eyes, dark and sharp, but he brutally forced it down. He seemed to understand, instinctively, that you didn't need to see another man lose his temper right now.

"Okay," Dean said softly. His voice was incredibly calm, level, and steady. "Did he see you?"

You shook your head, "I... I don't think so."

"Good." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, keeping his hands visible and his body language completely relaxed. "He doesn't know where you live. He doesn't know who you're with."

Dean slowly reached out. He just offered his hand, palm up, resting it on the marble counter between you. An invitation, not a demand.

You stared at his large, calloused hand for a second before slowly sliding yours into it. His fingers immediately wrapped around yours in a warm, solid grip.

"I know we have an arrangement," Dean said, his thumb brushing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles to help ground you. "You call your own shots. I respect that."

He paused, making sure you were looking him in the eye.

"But you are my friend," Dean continued, "And you are standing in my house. Which means you are officially under my protection. I don't care how annoying this guy is. He doesn't get to breathe the same air as you."

The quiet, absolute certainty in his voice did more to calm your racing heart than any loud threat ever could. He wasn't posturing for his own ego; he was just stating a fact.

A small, surprised laugh escaped you. "You're going to act like my bodyguard now, Di Laurentis?"

A faint, familiar smirk finally touched the corner of Dean's mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "Somebody has to keep the country club rejects away from you. Besides, Garrett would kill me if I let a guy in a polo shirt terrorize our house."

It had been four days since Malone’s, and you were almost convinced you were safe.

You were sitting in your Tuesday morning Psychology lecture, tucked into your usual seats near the back. Dean slouched next to you, his long legs stretched out into the aisle. He tapped his pen rhythmically against his notebook while the professor droned on about cognitive dissonance.

The heavy doors at the front of the lecture hall swung open.

A guy walked in and handed a slip of paper to the professor. A transfer student.

One look at the arrogant set of his shoulders, the dark hair, and the expensive preppy sweater sent all the blood rushing out of your head. The air vanished from your lungs. You shrank back against your plastic chair, your hands immediately curling into tight fists in your lap as a cold sweat broke out across your skin.

He had actually enrolled at Briar.

Beside you, Dean felt the violent shift in your posture. The tapping stopped. "Hey," he whispered. "What is it?"

You gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head, keeping your eyes fixed on the front of the room.

Dean followed your line of sight. He studied the new guy finding a seat three rows down. The pieces clicked together instantly in Dean's head—the preppy clothes, the dark hair, and the sheer terror radiating off you. He recognized the guy from the door at Malone's.

Dean sat up straight, locking his jaw into a hard, rigid line. For the remaining forty minutes of the lecture, he remained terrifyingly still, his eyes burning a hole into the back of your ex's head.

"Class dismissed," the professor finally announced, snapping his laptop shut and briskly walking out the side door.

The hall erupted into the chaotic noise of zippers, scraping chairs, and overlapping conversations. You shoved your notebook into your backpack with shaking hands, desperate to blend into the crowd and escape through the back doors before he spotted you.

But your ex was already turning around. His eyes locked onto yours.

That familiar, entitled smirk crawled onto his face. He grabbed his bag and marched up the stairs, heading straight for your row.

Dean stood up. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder and stepped smoothly out of your row, planting his massive, athlete frame directly in the middle of the aisle to block the stairs.

Your ex stopped a few steps below him, letting out an annoyed sigh. "Excuse me, buddy. You're in the way."

Dean held his ground, staring down at him with a look of cold, absolute apathy.

Your ex scoffed, his ego flaring up. "Hey, deaf guy. Move. I need to talk to my girlfriend."

Dean dropped his backpack, shifted his weight, and threw a brutal, devastating right hook.

The sickening crack of Dean's knuckles connecting with bone echoed sharply in the thinning lecture hall.

The force of the punch lifted your ex entirely off his feet. He flew backward, crashing hard into a wooden desk before crumpling to the linoleum floor in a heap. A few remaining students gasped, freezing in their tracks. Nobody dared to intervene.

Your ex groaned, rolling onto his side. He clutched his face, blood instantly pouring from his shattered nose and dripping onto his pristine sweater. He looked up at Dean, his eyes wide with genuine shock and pain.

"What the hell?!" your ex yelled, his voice thick and nasally. He scrambled backward against the desks, staring at Dean like he was a monster. "What the hell was that for?! I don't even know you!"

Dean stood over him, breathing evenly, casually rolling his shoulders. He flexed his right hand once, his eyes dark and completely devoid of mercy.

"You know why," Dean said. His voice was deathly quiet, carrying a promise of so much worse if the guy ever tried to get up.

Dean held his gaze for three agonizing seconds, making sure the message was received loud and clear. Your ex stayed frozen on the floor, too terrified to reach for his fallen bag.

Satisfied, Dean smoothly bent down and picked up his backpack by the strap. The cold, lethal hockey player vanished in a fraction of a second as he turned back to you.

His hazel eyes softened instantly. He stepped back into your row, gently placing his uninjured hand on the small of your back.

☾ requests

→ the promotion.

Everyone could see it. Everyone who had met different versions of Frank, streaked in different shades of grief and rage, had seen the transition from the darkness to a less shadowed gradient. There was still a heaviness to him, there always would be, but most days lately there was a lightness to him that hadn’t been there in years. 

His chest rose and fell more calmly without every breath being spent crafting vengeance or contemplating the worth of the soul he wasn’t still sure he had. His posture was less rigid without the full weight of the torment that haunted him, along with the burden he bore for his believed role in its catalyst. The crinkles around his eyes sank further into his skin, because laughter came easier than tears these days.

Frank hadn’t necessarily found peace, he wasn’t sure that concept existed for him, but he had found a piece of serenity, and he was using it to steadily build towards something that resembled acceptance for being the one to outlive tragedy, to still have a life left to live, even though there were still days he didn’t think he deserved it and wished he had befell the same fate as his family. 

He’d found that piece in you. 

It wasn’t love at first sight. It didn’t happen overnight. A chance meeting had resulted in polite conversation, which flowed easier than he’d expected, and triggered curiosity. It exposed a dormant desire for companionship he hadn’t noticed was still twisted in his roots during his drought of isolation. Gradually, and with a lot of patience, something started to grow. 

It was innocent at first, just having someone to talk to once a week over coffee, and then leaves of promise started to sprout as the friendship was nurtured with genuine effort. It took a few seasons for that bud to finally blossom, to complete its evolution into something more, and when he finally opened himself up to you, Frank found comfort he’d thought had gone extinct. 

All those little moments with you were building blocks towards the credence of his second chance. The new foundation he’d carefully constructed could not only uphold what he’d created, but it could also bear the weight of what he’d lost. Sorrow and contentment. Nightmares and reverie. Despondency and resilience. Not perfectly balanced, but coexisting on the scales. 

And in the midst of it all, your graceful presence. A dream he never quite woke up from every morning. A lipstick stain on a lukewarm mug. A gentle touch that immediately soothed the ache of his memories. A heart that enveloped him fully, no matter the fractures and missing pieces in his own.