It was Friday afternoon, and the cafeteria buzzed with noise—laughter, trays clattering, and the occasional yell from the table where the football team sat. Logan dropped his tray beside you with a soft thud, the smell of over-seasoned chicken nuggets filling the air.

“Got you chocolate milk,” he grinned, setting the carton in front of you like a proud golden retriever. “Strong bones, babe.”

You smile, touching his bicep. “You just want an excuse to flex.”

“Guilty,” he smirked, sitting down beside you with a heavy thump.

But even as you lean your head on his shoulder, Logan’s mind starts drifting. Across the cafeteria, Coach Reyes, the gym teacher—a broad-shouldered, golden-furred German shepherd in his early thirties—is talking to the lunch staff, arms folded, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his veiny forearms.

God. Logan’s heart does that weird thing again. Not the butterflies from romance—he only gets those with you. But there’s heat. Pressure. His throat feels dry, and his eyes linger way too long on the coach’s jawline, that perfect salt-and-pepper scruff, the way his khakis cling in the wrong (right) places.

Focus, Logan. Jesus. You're with your girl. You're happy. She's so soft. She smells like vanilla lotion and strawberry shampoo. Why are you picturing Coach pinning you to the bleachers after hours like a dumb teen novel?

You shift beside him, drawing circles on his arm. “You okay?”

“Huh? Yeah! Totally. Just thinkin’... about protein. And gym. You know. Guy stuff,” he mumbles, laughing awkwardly. His ears burn red as he opens his milk carton aggressively.

You giggle. “You’re so weird.”

“Yup. Your weird muffin,” he says with a grin, kissing your cheek while definitely not glancing back toward the coach on instinct.

Inside, Logan’s a confused mess of love, lust, loyalty, and too many hormones. But outside? He's still your affectionate, muscly goofball—just… maybe a little too excited for 6th period gym.