John Logan x Fem!reader

Summary: You meet Logan at Malone’s, and what starts as a simple question about your Friday shifts quickly turns into something neither of you can quite ignore.

Word Count: 8k+

Author’s Note: This fic is part of my you seem so sad for a girl in love one shots, inspired by Olivia Rodrigo. I hope you guys love this one as much as you did the last. It was honestly kind of weird writing fluff for once and not putting my characters through emotional trauma, but I’m not complaining.

Warnings: None!! Just tooth-achingly sweet fluff. Enjoy!!!

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You had always been a hopeless romantic. Not the unrealistic kind, you told yourself. You weren’t the girl who expected a man to show up outside her bedroom window with a boombox or write her name across the sky. You didn’t need grand gestures, dramatic declarations, or some ridiculous cinematic confession in the middle of a crowded street. You just liked the idea that life could still surprise you, that you could be having a completely ordinary Tuesday and somehow meet someone who made the rest of the day feel a little less ordinary.

You believed in first dates and flowers for no reason. In dancing barefoot in kitchens and handwritten notes tucked into books. In someone remembering your coffee order without being told twice, in the quiet comfort of having a person who knew exactly how you took your coffee and exactly when you needed a little extra patience. It was probably why you spent far too much time watching romantic movies and far too little time accepting that real life rarely worked like one.

Still, you liked hoping. It made everything else feel a little more bearable.

Maybe that was why you noticed things other people didn’t. The way someone’s entire face changed when they talked about a person they loved. The unconscious way couples reached for each other’s hands while walking. The way two people could look at each other from opposite sides of a crowded room and somehow have an entire conversation without speaking. You liked those things. You liked believing there was something worth paying attention to in them, something meaningful hidden in all those small, ordinary moments.

Which was probably why you were so completely, embarrassingly unprepared for John Logan.

The dinner rush had started thirty minutes ago, which meant Malone’s had gone from pleasantly busy to actively hostile. If Hannah and Allie hadn’t both picked today, of all days, to be off, your night probably would have been considerably easier. Instead, tickets were pouring from the kitchen, silverware clattered against ceramic, and somewhere in the back, an entire tray of glasses had met its unfortunate end with a crash loud enough to make half the dining room turn around.

You loved it, honestly. There was something almost comforting about the chaos when it was organized chaos, when everything around you was moving quickly but you knew exactly where you were supposed to be. You had learned the rhythm of the restaurant well enough that you didn’t have to think about it anymore. Take the order, put it in, check on the table, run the food, refill the drinks, clear the plates, smile, repeat.

“You’ve got table twelve.”

You looked up from the stack of menus in your arms. “Table twelve?”

Your manager nodded, already halfway toward the kitchen. “Yep.”

You followed his gaze toward the far side of the dining room, and your stomach dropped somewhere around your shoes.

The Briar hockey team.

You had heard enough about them through Hannah and Allie that you practically knew the team.. Garrett and Dean especially had become familiar faces around Malone’s since they were dating your coworkers, but the rest of the team had gradually become familiar too. You had just never had to serve this particular group yourself.

Until tonight.

“Why are you staring at them like they personally threatened you?”

You turned as one of your coworkers passed behind you with a tray.

“I’m not.”

She glanced at the menus in your hands, then raised an eyebrow. “You’re holding those upside down.”

You looked down. They were, in fact, upside down.

“…I knew that.”

She snorted and disappeared toward the kitchen before you could defend yourself any further. You took a slow breath, flipped the menus around, adjusted your grip on your notepad, and reminded yourself that they were customers. That was all. Large, unfairly attractive customers, sure, but still customers. You were a professional. You could handle a table of hockey players without losing your mind. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and walked over.

“Hi, guys.”

Garrett looked up first. “Hey.”

“How’s everyone doing tonight?”

“Starving,” Tucker answered immediately. 

Dean snorted. “He’s been saying that for twenty minutes.”

“Because I am starving.”

“You ate before we came here.”

“That was a snack. This is dinner. Different food groups.”

You laughed as you started writing. “Okay. Drinks first?”

You moved around the table, scribbling quickly and checking each order before moving on, until you reached the last person.

John Logan.

You glanced at your notepad before you let yourself look at him.. 

It was enough. 

He was annoyingly good looking, not in the polished, perfectly aware of himself kind of way either. There was something far more dangerous about it, something effortless. He looked comfortable where he was, leaning back in his chair with one arm resting against the table, completely unaware that the sight of him had suddenly made you very conscious of what your own hands were doing.

You looked back down at your notepad. “And you?”

“Burger and fries.” His voice was easy, completely unbothered, like he hadn’t just derailed your entire train of thought.

You wrote it down. “Anything to drink?”

“Water’s fine.”

“Okay.” You wrote that too, then looked up again,  to make sure you had everything right. He was already looking at you. For one second, maybe two, neither of you said anything. Then you remembered you were standing in the middle of a crowded restaurant holding a pen and a notepad like your life depended on it, and you looked down so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

“That’s everything?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. I’ll be right back.”

You turned before you could embarrass yourself any further. Your face felt warm. You had talked to hundreds of strangers since starting this job. You weren’t shy. There was a difference between being shy and being intimidated, and right now you were definitely the latter.

The rest of their dinner went by faster than you expected, mostly because you made a conscious effort not to linger at their table for more than thirty seconds at a time. You refilled water glasses, cleared appetizer plates, checked on their food, took a second round of drink orders, and followed the usual choreography of a busy Friday night. The only difference was that now you had one additional rule to keep yourself occupied with: do not look at Logan.

You weren’t always successful. Once, you caught him already looking at you from across the restaurant, and you immediately became fascinated with the clock on the wall behind him. You stood there for a solid second pretending to check the time as though the clock had suddenly become the most important thing in the room. Another time, you walked past their table just as Logan laughed at something Tucker said. You glanced over on instinct, catching the way his head tipped back slightly as he laughed, completely unguarded. He caught you looking. Your eyes met before you looked away so quickly that you nearly walked into a chair.

This was getting ridiculous. You weren’t flirting with him. You weren’t doing anything. He wasn’t doing anything either. He was eating dinner. You were working. That was the extent of it. So why did you suddenly feel like you were twelve years old with your first crush, heart tripping over itself every time he so much as glanced in your direction?

By the time you brought the check, you had mostly convinced yourself that you were being ridiculous. Garrett reached for it without hesitation. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” You smiled at the table. “Everything good tonight?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Everything was great.”

“Good. I’ll go grab your change.”

You turned toward the register, and by the time you returned with the receipt, they’d already started getting ready to leave. Chairs scraped back against the floor as jackets were pulled on and phones disappeared into pockets. You handed Garrett the receipt with a smile and started to turn back toward the kitchen.

“Hey.”

You stopped. When you looked back, Logan was still standing beside the table. His phone was in one hand, but he wasn’t looking at it. His attention was completely on you.

“Yeah?”

“You work here every Friday?”

The question caught you so off guard that you actually glanced toward the schedule taped near the kitchen door, as though it might somehow give you an answer more quickly than your own brain could.

“Um… usually.” He nodded once. “Why?”

He shrugged, and there was something almost amused about the expression on his face, like he knew exactly how strange the question sounded. “Just wondering.”

You looked down at the receipt in your hands before adding, “Yeah. Usually.”

He gave you another small smile. “Thanks for taking care of us tonight.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was a tiny pause then, one that seemed to stretch longer than it probably did. For half a second, you thought he might say something else. Ask another question. Maybe even give you a reason for asking about your schedule in the first place. Instead, he simply smiled.

“See you around.”

“See you.”

He walked out with the others, and you stood there watching the door swing shut behind him for a moment longer than was remotely necessary before finally forcing yourself to look away.

“Get a grip,” you muttered under your breath.

A coworker passing by glanced at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You grabbed a stack of plates and headed back toward the kitchen before she could ask anything else.

For the rest of your shift, you kept circling back to the same argument with yourself. Nothing had happened. 

By the time you got home, you’d almost convinced yourself it didn’t mean anything.

Almost.

You showered, changed into pajamas, and ate something standing over the kitchen sink because you were too tired to bother making an actual meal. Afterward, you curled up on your bed with your phone and put on a show you’d been meaning to catch up on, but you barely paid attention to what was happening on the screen. Your mind kept drifting back to the same tiny moment over and over again.

You frowned at yourself and reached for your phone.

You weren’t looking for anyone. You were just scrolling. That’s what you told yourself, anyway, right up until you remembered that Hannah followed Garrett, Garrett followed Logan, and Logan’s account had probably appeared on your suggested follows at least once before.

Your thumb hovered over the search bar. This was harmless. Everyone looked people up. It wasn’t stalking if the account was public.

You typed his name. A few results loaded, and you recognized his face immediately. You opened his profile and stared at it for a second before telling yourself, very firmly, “One picture.”

You scrolled. A team photo. A game day shot. A picture with what looked like his family around a holiday table. Then you found one of him laughing while a golden retriever practically climbed into his lap.

“Oh, come on.”

You zoomed in, despite yourself, and stared at it for another few seconds.

“You can’t be attractive and like dogs,” you said, like he was going to hear you. “Pick one.”

You kept scrolling. A beach trip. Another team photo. A candid shot with his teammates that looked like someone had taken it without anyone noticing. Another picture. Then another. At some point, you checked the time. Forty three minutes had disappeared.

You dropped your phone onto the bed and stared at the ceiling in disbelief. “No.” You pushed yourself upright. You were an adult woman. A functioning member of society. You had responsibilities. You were not the kind of person who spent the better part of an hour scrolling through some hockey player’s Instagram after one fifteen minute conversation at a restaurant.

Unfortunately, when your phone buzzed again with the screen still open to his profile, you picked it right back up. His smile stared back at you.

“…Apparently I am.”

You scrolled back toward the top, determined not to like anything. You had standards. You weren’t going to make this any more embarrassing than it already was.

Your thumb slipped.

You froze. A small red heart appeared beneath the photo. Your soul left your body. For a second you didn’t move. You just stared at the screen, horror slowly spreading through your entire body as you realized exactly what you’d done.

“Oh my God.”

You tapped the heart immediately. Gone. You stared at the picture as if you could somehow intimidate Instagram into reversing time. Maybe he hadn’t seen it. Maybe…

Your phone buzzed in your hand. You nearly threw it across the room. Instead, you stared at the notification. Read it, then read it again. And once more just to make sure your sleep deprived brain wasn’t inventing things.

John Logan started following you.

You stopped breathing. For a second, you genuinely couldn’t process it. Your eyes moved over the words again and again, as though looking at them long enough might make them change. They didn’t. Logan was following you.

“Oh my God.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your ears. Your cheeks actually hurt from smiling, and you couldn’t make yourself stop. This was absurd. You had spoken to the man for maybe fifteen minutes. 

You looked at your phone again, because apparently humiliating yourself once wasn’t enough. His name was still sitting at the top of your notifications, solid and unmistakable.

John Logan.

You bit your lip, staring at it for another second. Maybe he’d thought about you too. Maybe he’d looked you up on purpose. Maybe he’d actually remembered your name and not just your face. Maybe he’d gone home after dinner and wondered about the waitress who couldn’t seem to make eye contact with him for more than two seconds at a time.

You stopped yourself. You were getting ahead of yourself, and you knew it.

“You’re being stupid,” you muttered, setting the phone down beside you.

Three seconds later, you picked it back up. You opened his profile again and told yourself you were only going to look at one more picture. Just one. For research purposes, obviously. There was no reason to feel guilty about that. And if your heart happened to skip every time you landed on a photo of his face, well, that was nobody’s business but yours.

A few weeks passed, which objectively wasn’t very long, but in your head it felt like an eternity. You hadn’t seen Logan since that night at Malone’s. You’d both followed each other on Instagram, and that was, as far as actual contact went, the entire sum of whatever this was. There had been no messages, no comments, no likes, nothing that could reasonably be interpreted as an attempt to start a conversation.

Which was fine. Completely fine. You weren’t expecting anything. You also definitely weren’t checking his profile.

Well. Not often. Whenever he posted a story, you’d somehow developed a system around it. You waited at least a few hours before watching anything because opening a story the second it went up would look desperate, and you were not desperate. You were interested. That was an important distinction, and you intended to respect it. If he posted something at nine in the morning, you waited until lunch. If it went up around noon, you waited until dinner. Once, he’d posted something close to eleven at night, and you’d forced yourself to wait until the following morning, which you considered an impressive display of self control.

It wasn’t stalking. It was just research. 

And there wasn’t even much to see. Most of his stories were hockey related, practice clips, pictures from the rink, the occasional group photo with the guys. Every now and then there would be something completely ordinary, like a coffee or a meal, but nothing that gave you any real reason to keep thinking about him.

Except you did. More than sometimes, if you were being completely honest with yourself. You kept coming back to the way he’d looked at you across the restaurant, especially that question.

You work here every Friday?

You still didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe he’d wanted to know when Hannah and Allie’s shifts overlapped so he could plan around Garrett and Dean. There were dozens of perfectly reasonable explanations, and you refused to choose the one your romantic little brain kept trying to offer you. Because the second you started turning one harmless question into the beginning of a love story, you’d officially lost the plot.

So you carried on with your life. Classes, work, studying, trying to keep up with everything that required your attention while making a conscious effort not to think too much about the hockey player who consumed your thoughts.

The only reason you even knew why he hadn’t been back to Malone’s was because you’d overheard Hannah and Allie talking about it over lunch.

“Coach is insane this year,” Hannah said, stabbing at her salad with considerably more aggression than necessary.

You looked up from your own food. “Why?”

“Because apparently everyone needs to be ready for the apocalypse,” Allie said. “They’re practicing constantly.”

“Seriously,” Hannah added. “Garrett comes home, eats, showers, and passes out. It’s like living with a very large, very tired toddler.”

You laughed. “That bad?”

“Worse.”

You smiled and looked back down at your food, but somewhere in the back of your mind, an entirely unhelpful thought surfaced. I wonder if Logan’s doing the same thing. You immediately shoved it away. That was none of your business. You were not going to start imagining his routine after practice, how late he got home, whether he ate before bed, or whether he was as exhausted as everyone else seemed to be. That was a dangerous road. Besides, you had a physics exam to worry about.

Which was how you ended up in the library on Thursday afternoon.

The library was unusually quiet. You’d claimed a table near the window and spent the better part of an hour pretending you understood anything happening in your textbook. You didn’t. Not even remotely. At this point, you needed a different book. One written by someone who apparently believed students were human beings with functioning brains rather than machines capable of absorbing information through sheer proximity to a textbook.

You gathered your things and wandered toward the stacks, your phone in hand as you double checked the call number from your syllabus. Chapter seven. You found the section and immediately spotted the book you needed sitting on the highest shelf.

You glanced down the aisle. Empty. Perfect. There was a small rolling step stool nearby, so you dragged it over and climbed onto the first step. Still too low. You stepped up again and reached toward the shelf. Almost. Your fingertips brushed the spine of the book, but you couldn’t quite get a proper grip. You rose onto your toes and stretched farther.

“Come on.”

Your fingers finally curled around the edge. “There.” You tugged the book free.

“Hey.”

Your head turned before you could stop yourself, and the sudden movement threw off your balance.

“Oh…”

Your foot slipped from the step. The stool wobbled beneath you, and for one brief, terrifying second, your brain had just enough time to register the thought that this was going to be embarrassing before two hands caught you firmly around the waist.

Everything stopped. The book slipped from your fingers and landed on the floor with a soft thud that sounded unreasonably loud in the silence of the library. You stared down at it first, as if the answer to what was happening might be written on the cover. Then you became aware of the hands still wrapped around your waist. Slowly, very slowly, you looked up.

Logan.

 There were apparently many ways the universe could have chosen to put you in the same room with him again, and naturally, it had selected the most humiliating one possible.

He looked different outside Malone’s. Not dramatically different, but enough that seeing him this close made your brain struggle to reconcile him with the person you’d spent the last weeks trying not to think about. His hair was slightly messy, like he’d run a hand through it more than once, and he was wearing a Briar hoodie with dark sweats instead of whatever he’d had on the night you’d served him.

He looked comfortable. Unhurried. And annoyingly good looking. More importantly, he was looking at you.

“You okay?”

His voice was quiet, probably because you were in a library, and somehow that made the entire situation feel even more intimate.

“Yeah.” Your voice came out much smaller than you’d intended. You cleared your throat. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

His hands were still on your waist. You noticed. He seemed to realize at almost exactly the same moment that you had, because his eyes flickered downward for half a second before returning to your face. He immediately let go and took a small step backward, as if he’d suddenly become aware of the distance between you.

“Sorry.”

Logan crouched to pick up the book you’d dropped, then held it out to you with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Looking for this?”

You took it from him, your cheeks still warm from the embarrassment of nearly falling in front of him. “Yeah.” Instead of leaving, he glanced toward the end of the aisle where you’d abandoned your things. "You studying for a while?”

“Unfortunately.”

You gathered your things and headed back toward your table, assuming that would be the end of the conversation. Instead, a few seconds later, you heard the scrape of a chair across from you. You looked up. Logan was pulling it out.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“I did.”

“You did?”

He shrugged. “Not anymore.”

You smiled despite yourself and looked back down at your textbook. You told yourself he was only sitting there because it was a convenient place to study, and that you weren’t going to let the fact that he was across from you completely derail whatever academic progress you’d been pretending to make.

That lasted approximately four minutes.

What started with him asking what chapter you were on turned into him looking over your notes, which turned into him insisting your physics professor had a personal vendetta against students, which somehow turned into an hour and a half of the two of you talking about absolutely everything except the material you were supposed to be studying. At some point, he’d taken your notebook without asking and was flipping through your notes with the kind of confidence that suggested he had any idea what he was talking about.

“No, look.” He tapped the page with his finger. “You’re overcomplicating this part. You don’t need the whole equation. You just need to isolate velocity first.”

You leaned over the table and pointed at the page. “That’s what I did.”

“You did it in like four extra steps.”

“I did it in the correct number of steps.”

He looked up at you, completely unconvinced. “Sure.”

You fought a smile as he slid the notebook back across the table. He looked far too pleased with himself for someone who had contributed approximately nothing to your understanding of physics.

“You know, you’re not actually helping.”

“I’m helping a lot.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you reached for your notebook.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped noticing how much time had passed. You hadn’t meant to talk to him for this long. You definitely hadn’t meant to laugh as much as you had, but conversation with him came strangely easily. There was none of the awkwardness you’d expected, none of the careful searching for things to say that usually happened when you were getting to know someone. He told you a ridiculous story about Tucker faceplanting during a drill in front of the entire team, and you laughed hard enough that the guy sitting at the next table looked over at you twice.

You tried to apologize with a smile, but the second you looked back at Logan, he was laughing too.

It was easy. Too easy. And maybe that was what made it dangerous. You’d spent the entire week trying not to think about him, and now he’d somehow managed to sit across from you for an hour and a half and make you forget there was a world outside the library.

It was only when Logan glanced at his phone that you realized how much time had passed. His expression changed immediately.

“Shit.”

You looked up. “What?”

He checked the time again and started gathering his things. “I have to go.”

You nodded, trying not to let the sudden disappointment show on your face. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

He shoved his phone into his pocket, picked up his backpack, and stood. Then he paused. You watched him hesitate for a second, as though something had just occurred to him.

“Actually…” He looked at you. “We’ve got a game tomorrow.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“You should come.”

The words were casual, almost offhand, but his eyes stayed on your face.

“To the game?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “If you want.”

You absolutely did not want him to know how badly you wanted to say yes. You tried to keep your voice casual. “Sure. I’ll come.”

Something in his expression shifted, small but unmistakable, like he hadn’t been entirely sure you’d agree. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled, and it was doing something deeply unfair to your chest. “Cool.” He adjusted the strap of his backpack over his shoulder and started walking backward toward the aisle. “See you there.”

You smiled. “See you.”

He turned and headed toward the exit. You watched him go. Then you sat there for a solid thirty seconds doing absolutely nothing productive. Your textbook was still open in front of you. Your notebook was still covered in half finished equations. Your phone was still sitting beside your elbow. You stared at all of it without processing any of it. Then you quietly dropped your forehead onto your hand.

You were smiling.

The next day, you called Hannah before you’d even fully decided whether you were actually going to the game.

“Hey, can I come to the game with you and Allie tonight?”

There was a brief silence. Then Hannah said, “Obviously. Why are you asking like it’s a big deal?”

“I don’t know. I just…” You glanced around your room as though you needed inspiration. “I wanted to watch. Support the team. You know.”

“Uh huh.” You could practically hear the eyebrow raising through the phone. “Support the team.”

“Yes.” You ignored the tone in her voice. “What time are you leaving?”

“Six.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you guys.”

You didn’t mention that a specific member of the team had personally asked you to be there. That felt like information you weren’t ready to hand over yet, mostly because you weren’t sure what you’d do with the look on her face once she knew.

By the time the three of you reached the arena that evening, the place was already loud enough to make your ears ring. The student section was packed, people were shouting from the stands, and a marching band was warming up somewhere nearby, adding another layer of noise to the chaos. You followed Hannah and Allie to seats a few rows up, close enough that you could actually see the ice without needing to squint.

Then the players skated onto the ice for warmups. Hannah and Allie immediately jumped to their feet, screaming for Garrett and Dean, and you stood a second later, clapping as you tried not to look completely out of place. Your eyes moved across the ice almost automatically. You found Logan far too quickly for someone who was supposedly here just to support the team. He was doing warm up laps, helmet on, hockey stick in hand, moving easily across the ice with the kind of confidence that made it obvious he belonged there.

You watched him for a few seconds before reminding yourself that you were being weird.

Then, as though he’d somehow known exactly where you were sitting, his head turned and his eyes found yours in the crowd. He smiled, then raised one gloved hand in a small wave, right at you.

For one ridiculous second, you forgot how your own arms worked. Then you lifted your hand in response, quick and slightly stiff, and felt heat crawl up your neck.

Beside you, Allie whipped around so fast her ponytail nearly hit you in the face. “What was that?”

You blinked innocently. “What was what?”

“Don’t do that.” She pointed toward the ice. “Logan just waved at you. Like, specifically at you.”

You looked back toward the rink, but Logan had already turned away.

“He’s just being polite.”

Hannah and Allie exchanged a look over your head that you did not like even a little bit. They let it go, mostly, although you caught Allie smirking to herself twice before the first period even started.

You tried to focus on the actual game after that. You failed spectacularly. Your eyes kept finding Logan every time he stepped onto the ice, every time he came back toward the bench, every time the crowd erupted over something he’d done. You tried to convince yourself you were simply paying attention because you’d promised to support the team, but you knew better. By the end of the game, there wasn’t even a point pretending.

Briar won.

 The final buzzer sounded, and the student section exploded. People were shouting, cheering, hugging each other, and pouring toward the ice. Hannah and Allie were already making their way down, following the crowd of students climbing over the boards to celebrate with the players.

You stayed where you were. You didn’t know if you were supposed to go down there. You barely knew Logan. Walking onto the ice felt like something you had to have earned somehow, and you weren’t sure you had. So you stayed in your seat and watched from a distance while students crowded around the team, taking pictures and congratulating everyone.

Eventually, the arena began to empty. You gathered your things and stood, intending to leave before it got too late. You blended into the stream of people heading toward the exits, checking your phone as you walked. It was almost midnight.

You were just reaching the doors when you heard someone call your name.

You turned and Logan was jogging toward you, still half in his gear, looking like he’d come straight from the locker room. He slowed when he reached you, slightly out of breath.

“You’re leaving?”

Your heart did something complicated and entirely unhelpful. Did he want you to stay?

“Um, yeah.” You tried very hard to maintain eye contact and not do something insane, like throw your arms around him and kiss him in the middle of the crowded entrance. “I didn’t want to take up your time with your friends or anything. The game was over, so…”

“Do you…” He stopped and exhaled, running a hand briefly over the back of his neck as though he needed a second to figure out what he wanted to say. “There’s an after party. At our place.” He looked at you. “You want to come?”

You nearly choked on air. For a second, you just stared at him. You could feel your heart pounding against your ribs, and you were suddenly far too aware of the fact that he was standing right in front of you, waiting for an answer.

“Sure,” you managed. You tried to make it sound casual. You weren’t sure you succeeded. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Alright.” He smiled, and it did that unfair thing to your chest again. “We can go together, then. I’ll be right back. I just need to change out of this.”

He jogged off before you could think of a response, leaving you standing there with your bag over your shoulder and your heart behaving like it had completely forgotten how to function normally. You pressed a hand flat against your chest as if you could physically hold it in place.

“What the fuck,” you whispered, mostly to yourself. This was not how you’d pictured tonight going. Not even remotely.

You pulled out your phone and texted Hannah, letting her know you’d meet them at the house. Her response came almost immediately, accompanied by far too many exclamation points for someone who was supposedly there with her own boyfriend. You ignored the messages and shoved your phone back into your bag just as Logan reappeared. He’d changed out of his gear and was now wearing jeans and a hoodie, his hair still slightly damp from the shower. Somehow, the casual version of him was almost worse.

“Ready?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The drive to the house was, without question, the most awkward fifteen minutes of your life. Not because Logan was making it awkward. He actually seemed perfectly comfortable, one hand resting on the steering wheel as music played quietly through the speakers. You were the problem. You’d managed maybe three full sentences since getting into the car, and two of them had been variations of yeah. It wasn’t your fault. The man had apparently taken away your ability to form complete thoughts.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, you were almost grateful for the distraction. The house he shared with Dean, Tucker, and Garrett was already packed. People filled the front lawn, spilling through the open door and gathering on the porch, while music played loudly enough that you could feel the bass through the car floor.

Logan glanced at you before getting out. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

You were lying, but at this point you were starting to think yeah was the only word your brain had left.

He led you inside, weaving through the crowd with an ease that made it obvious he’d done this a hundred times. He grabbed you a drink before disappearing into the mass of people who seemed to know him, greet him, or want something from him. It didn’t take long for two things to become very clear. First, John Logan was apparently adored by everyone in this house. Second, you were very much not the only girl who had noticed him.

It was difficult not to notice the way girls found reasons to touch his arm as they talked to him, how some of them laughed a little harder than necessary at things that weren’t particularly funny, or how often they seemed to position themselves directly in his line of sight. You tried not to watch too closely. You hoped you hadn’t looked like that earlier. You were fairly certain you had.

You stood near the edge of the living room for a while, nursing your drink and watching the party move around you. Logan was somewhere across the room, talking to a group of people, and the two of you hadn’t really spoken since you’d arrived. You considered going over to find him. Then you saw another girl lean toward him, laughing at something he’d said, and immediately decided against it. Maybe you should find Hannah and Allie instead, except they were wrapped up with Garrett and Dean, and you had no interest in becoming the third wheel times two. So you stayed where you were.

Eventually, you checked the time. 1:30 a.m. You stared at the screen for a moment before sighing and setting your cup down on the nearest surface. You suddenly felt very stupid. Maybe this had all just been him being nice. Maybe you’d taken a few ordinary moments, a conversation at Malone’s, an invitation to the game, an afternoon in the library, and turned them into something they weren’t because you’d wanted them to mean more. You’d convinced yourself there was something between you before you even knew whether there was anything to begin with.

And now you were standing at a party where he was surrounded by people who actually knew him, realizing that maybe you didn’t belong here after all. You made your way toward the front door, not because you had anything against the party, but because the noise and the crowd were starting to get to you. More than that, you just wanted somewhere quiet where you could stop feeling like you were waiting for something that probably wasn’t going to happen.

You barely made it to the end of the sidewalk before you heard your name, and you knew who it was before you even turned.

Logan was walking toward you, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, his expression difficult to read in the dim light.

“You have a thing for slipping away unnoticed, don’t you?”

You would’ve played along under different circumstances. You probably would’ve laughed and made some joke about being a professional escape artist. But you were tired, and being tired made you brutally honest, which was a dangerous combination on a good day.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

You looked down at your shoes. His expression changed.

“Hey.” He stepped a little closer. “You okay?”

You almost snapped at him. Stop being so sweet. It’s sending mixed signals. Instead, you gave him a quiet, unconvincing, “Mm hm,” accompanied by a small nod. You’d never been good at lying. He clearly knew it.

You stared at the ground for another second before finally exhaling. “Actually…” You swallowed. “No. I’m not.”

His brow furrowed, confusion crossing his face. You immediately wished you’d kept your mouth shut. But now that you’d started, you couldn’t seem to stop.

“I know we just met,” you said, the words coming faster than you could organize them, “and I know it’s probably ridiculous, but I had this feeling there was something here. And I thought you inviting me to the game and then inviting me here meant something.” You forced yourself to look at him. “And that’s on me, not you. I do this thing where I read into stuff way too much, and I know I probably made it into something it wasn’t. So I’m just going to go home and be embarrassed about this for a while, but I’ll be back to normal by tomorrow. I promise.”

You took a breath. There. You’d said it. Now you just had to survive the aftermath. You braced yourself for pity. For awkwardness. For that careful, uncomfortable silence people used when they didn’t know how to let someone down without making it worse.

“Can I walk you home?”

You frowned at him. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“I did.” He nodded, still smiling. “But would you let me walk you home anyway?”

You could have died right there from embarrassment alone. Instead, you simply nodded. “Okay.”

You started walking, and after a second, Logan fell into step beside you. The walk was quiet. You were fairly certain the dread was practically radiating off you in visible waves, but if Logan noticed, he had the decency not to mention it. You were grateful for that much, at least. You kept your eyes ahead, trying desperately not to replay the conversation you’d just had. Every few steps, you became painfully aware of the fact that Logan was walking beside you, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed. Neither of you said anything. You weren’t sure what you could possibly say.

When your apartment building finally came into view, you nearly sagged with relief. A few more seconds and you could thank him for walking you home, go upstairs, crawl into bed, and pretend this entire night had never happened. You were already turning toward him when he spoke.

“You didn’t read too much into it.”

You stopped. Every alarm in your head went off at once.

“What?” The word came out breathless.

Logan turned toward you, his hands still tucked into his pockets. “I’m saying you were right.” You stared at him. “About the connection.”

For a moment, you couldn’t process what he meant. He took a small step closer.

“You were right,” he said again, quieter this time. “About the game. The invite. Coming here.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “And about all of it.”

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure you could. For the first time since you’d met him, Logan looked almost nervous. It was subtle, but you could see it in the way he shifted his weight and briefly looked away before meeting your eyes again. Somehow, that made your heart beat even faster.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say that without sounding insane since Malone’s.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “You’ve been thinking about this since Malone’s?”

“I asked if you worked Fridays,” he said, like the answer should have been obvious. “You think I actually cared about the schedule?”

Your face went warm. “I thought you were just being friendly.”

“I don’t follow people on Instagram to be friendly.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I saw the notification.” He paused. “Both of them.”

“Oh my God.”

You covered your face with one hand.

He laughed softly. “It’s okay.”

You lowered your hand just enough to look at him. He was fully smiling now, completely unbothered by the fact that he’d just exposed the most humiliating thing you’d done all week.

The street around you was quiet now. The distant sound of music from the party still carried faintly through the night, blending with the hum of a streetlight overhead. Logan hadn’t stepped much closer, but somehow the space between you felt smaller than the actual distance should have allowed. You looked at him, suddenly unsure of what happened next. All week, you’d been trying to figure out whether this was real. Now you finally knew.

“So…” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, mostly because you needed something to do. “What now?”

“Now,” he said, “I walk you the rest of the way to your door like I said I would. And then, if it’s okay with you, I text you tomorrow. And I take you somewhere that isn’t a hockey game or a party full of people trying to talk to me, so I can actually have you to myself for more than four minutes at a time.”

“That was oddly specific.”

“I’ve had a week to think about it.”

You laughed, and something eased in his shoulders like he’d been waiting to hear that sound all night.

He walked you the rest of the way, and at your door you both stood there a beat too long. Your heart was going so fast you were half convinced he could hear it.

“Goodnight,” he said finally, and he reached out slowly, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your cheek for half a second before he pulled back. Then he turned and started down the steps, hands going into his pockets, and you stood there in your doorway and watched him go, already dreading the version of yourself who was going to lie awake tonight rerunning every second of it.

He made it maybe five steps. Then he stopped.

You watched his shoulders rise on a breath, watched him turn back around like he’d lost some argument with himself he hadn’t bothered finishing, and before you could ask what was wrong he was already moving toward you again, the distance between you closing in a handful of strides.

You barely had time to register the look on his face before his mouth was on yours.

The first thing you felt was surprise, a full body jolt of it, your back nearly hitting the doorframe as his hands found your waist and pulled you into him. It took a full second for your brain to catch up to what was happening, one long, stunned beat where you just stood there, lips parted under his, too shocked to do anything but feel it. Then something in you clicked into place, and you were kissing him back.

Your fingers found the front of his hoodie and held on, and he made a low sound against your mouth like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he’d stopped walking. It wasn’t careful anymore. It wasn’t slow. There was nothing hesitant about the way his hand slid from your waist up into your hair, or the way you rose up onto your toes to meet him halfway, like your whole body had been waiting for permission to stop overthinking this and just move.

And then, somewhere in the middle of it, it softened. His grip on your hair eased. His mouth slowed against yours, gentled, like the urgency had done its job getting him back to you and now that he was here he had all the time in the world. Achingly, impossibly gentle, and that was the part that actually undid you, your whole chest caving in on itself, your brain going quiet for the first time in a week.

Earth shattering. Somehow both at once, the crash and the quiet after it.

When he finally pulled back, just barely, just enough to look at you, his forehead stayed resting against yours, both of you breathing like you’d run somewhere instead of just standing on a doorstep.

He smiled, that same easy, unfair smile from the restaurant, from the library, from across the ice, except now you knew exactly what it felt like pressed against your own mouth, and pressed one more kiss to your forehead before he finally, reluctantly, stepped back.

“Text you tomorrow,” he said.

“You better.”

He laughed at that, shaking his head like you’d said something ridiculous, and turned to go. You watched him walk all the way to the end of the block, hands shoved in his pockets, looking back twice, before you finally let yourself go inside.

You closed the door. Didn’t even make it to your room, just slid straight down until you were sitting on your own kitchen floor at nearly two in the morning, coat still on, two fingers pressed to your mouth like you could hold the shape of it there a little longer before it faded.

Somewhere between the sidewalk and your own front door, some small, stupid, superstitious part of you had started bracing for the catch, for the moment you’d wake up and realize you’d built the whole night out of nothing but wanting. A boy that easy to talk to, that quick to smile, who’d sprinted out of an arena after midnight rather than let you leave without saying goodbye, it felt too good to have actually happened to you. But your mouth still felt like his. That much, at least, you hadn’t invented.

And already, embarrassingly, helplessly, you were doing it again, making a mental list of every single thing you still didn’t know and suddenly needed to. Whether he was a morning person. What actually made him laugh, the real kind, not the polite one. Whether he’d let the walk home take twice as long next time, on purpose, just to stretch it out. Whether he wanted to know just as much about you as you wanted to know about him.

You didn’t know if it made sense, wanting someone this much this fast, feeling like the ground had genuinely tilted under you over something as small as a doorstep and a kiss he hadn’t even tried very hard to make earth shattering. You didn’t especially care. You’d spent your whole life being the girl who believed in exactly this, who kept hoping even when hoping made you the punchline, who still watched for handwritten notes and dancing on kitchen floors while everyone else decided real life didn’t work that way. You’d never minded being her. You’d just never expected, until tonight, to be proven right.

Your phone lit up on the floor beside you. You grabbed it without getting up, already smiling before you’d even read it.

Logan: made it back. garrett wants to know why im smiling like an idiot

Logan: told him it’s none of his business

Logan: goodnight. i’ll see you tomorrow

You: goodnight, logan. pretty sure i can’t feel my legs. thanks for that

Logan: worth it :)

You squealed out loud, alone, on your kitchen floor, at two in the morning, and didn’t bother trying to stop yourself. You just sat there in it, smiling so hard your face ached, telling yourself you’d get up in a minute.

You didn’t get up for a while.