~*~

It happened by accident the first time. He had been drunk the night before, obviously, squinting through heavy-lidded eyes while fumbling with the alarms on his phone. Daylight savings might have been involved. But you had been there, sweet and pliant on his chest, smelling so good and distracting him completely, mumbling something about Pink Whitney and stars circling your head. Your arm had flopped against his abs and your nose had tucked into his neck a minute later before you were out without another word. Really, it’s not his fault he was left unsupervised pressing buttons.

His alarm went off precisely an hour before he even needed to be awake to blearily drag his sweatpants and hoodie on. The shrieking mixed with the pounding of his head, but he was quick to cover one of your ears with his hand and press the other into his chest. You had only heard the sound of his heartbeat; he had braved the shrillness of everything else himself. He scrabbled with the bedsheets until the offensive inanimate object was firmly grasped in his hand. You hadn’t even shifted. He was proud of himself for only thinking you two were under attack for, like, a minute.

Going back to sleep would have been impractical. He was already awake, annoyed by that fact, and too damn aware of where you were pressed against him, which was everywhere and then some. Your leg was slung over his waist. Your hair was in his mouth. Your scent was on his comforter and his hands and probably deeply embedded into his bloodstream. His phone was now tucked somewhere safely, just like you, and he hadn’t felt the need to pass the time with it.

He simply gathered you closer. He used precious moments to memorize everything about you when he otherwise might not be able to because you’re awake and mouthy and less vulnerable. Something fizzled and popped at that word - Dean had never been trusted so much so quickly, not even with dropped passes or the middle of the ice by his brothers for life, and he became increasingly obsessed with the extra time he was given to guard you like a growling watch dog.

The second time, he set the earlier alarm on purpose. He was still ready for a tornado drill when he jolted awake before you could. He settled and spent the hour tracing his fingertips over your arms, barely containing a smile when you mewled something unintelligible before rolling back into him.

The third time, he had opened his eyes just seconds before it went off, like it was slowly becoming a part of him.

Around the next handful of instances, it became a part of his daily routine altogether. It didn’t matter if you were sharing your bed or his; the alarm always came with it.

The best part? You had no idea it was ever happening. Dean considered that both very good and very bad for his pride, because he felt like he was gifting you another hour of rest while still having something just for himself.

There’s one night you feel particularly clingy, teary-eyed about something that only makes Dean want to kill someone more than usual, sniffling about how he has to leave so early in the morning.

“S’all good, baby,” he murmurs in your hair, smiling about something to himself. “I’m right here.”

You pull back marginally to meet his eyes, a pout between your brows. “What are the chances Jensen cancels completely?”

Dean hums. “Very, very low, babydoll, and not even if the sky is falling.”

You tilt your head back and groan. Dean uses the movement to slot his mouth into the space where your shoulder meets your neck, nibbling and licking until you’re squirming and laughing underneath him. He kisses your tears away. He pushes you into the mattress with his hips. He melts every bad thought in your head with only one flick of his tongue.

The next morning, when it’s just Dean, he’s delicately smoothing that crease in your forehead with his thumb until your dreams are rid of your frowning, too. You reach for him even in your sleep to chase the rest of the bad away.

His other favorite thing about this whole ordeal? He can move you however he likes without you waking: folded under his chin on your sides, sprawled over his chest with him on his back and his hands low on yours, you on your tummy and him covering you completely with both sets of arms underneath the pillows. He even starts making up new positions that he genuinely believes coveted publications ought to reach out about.

You almost catch him one morning. Almost.

You sleepily blink your eyes open, wincing against the first rays of sunshine the day has seen. You think you might still be dreaming, but Dean is already awake, looking right at you. Your body catches up to you and you realize your hands had already been searching for him beneath the blankets.

“Hi?” you whisper.

“Hey, baby,” Dean murmurs. He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear; you nuzzle your face into his palm. “You wanna go back to sleep for a little?”

You nod quietly against his hand. He makes a sound of endearment somewhere low under his breath. He turns you onto your side carefully and sidles up against your back.

“What are you doing up?” you mumble.

“Nothing, baby.” He pecks the back of your neck and then leaves his mouth there, warming you. You relax against his chest and smile when you feel his head drop gently atop yours on the pillow. “Was just looking for you.”

You close your eyes with another sleepy noise. Dean keeps his eyes open and squeezes you like he might keep you here forever.

"She said what?" Dean whisper-shouts across the weight rack.

"Dude," Garrett stresses. "I'm telling you this in confidence. Don't fucking embarrass her."

Dean rolls his eyes and reracks the barbell. "Right. Like you didn't embarrass her in front of the entire campus a few weeks ago."

"I apologized profusely for that and gave her as many IOUs as I gave you and Logan."

Dean considers that for a moment. "Fine. I'll lower my voice."

"Thank you."

"I do like her. She's good for you. And a friend of Garrett Graham is a friend of mine." Dean pretends to think with a loose wrist underneath his chin. "Hey, did you happen to tell her you hate this whole 'friends' thing anyway when she brought up her lady problems?"

"I am freaking out over this. I am not above walking away and letting your lungs crush on impact."

That sobers him up. "I'm an asshole."

"Yeah, we've been trying to tell you this for years."

Dean swallows a sigh and faces Garrett fully. "What are the chances she told you on purpose? Even if she slipped up, what if she meant to because she trusts you with this problem?"

Garrett laces his fingers behind his head and paces a few steps. "I don't know if I would trust me that quickly."

"G, you are the best guy we know. You don't become captain if even one person on the team doesn't trust you. You apologized. She forgave you. You had history before all of this. Maybe she wants more now, too."

Garrett stills, processing in that uniquely male way that overloads everything with nothing all at once. "What if we're being delusional?"

"I mean, probably. But what if we're not?"

"I don't know if I can be a fixer. What if I'm... y'know, only a breaker?"

Dean's face betrays him with a twitch of his mouth. "G, I saw the way you looked at her the other night when it was still raining and you had to find a way to get her to the car from the door without getting her wet." He waggles his eyebrows. "Wet."

Garrett curses his best friend and the universe in one go. "She makes me crazy."

"I know. You make her crazy. That's why we're here. Now, can you please go respectfully figure out if both of you want to do something about it so that I can have my lifting partner back at some point?"

Garrett tries to be a good friend, he really does, so he gives you space to breathe on Wednesday. It nearly kills him.

On Thursday morning, you are slow to approach him at your usual seats. He offers you his friendliest, most supportive smile. Your face twists into an unnamed emotion that he would like to rid you of.

"Hi," you murmur. "About Tuesday..."

Garrett is already shaking his head, pulling your chair out for you. You collapse into it without grace and he snickers softly. Your lips tilt up on one side in a timid smile, already feeling some of the stress beginning to disappear with his casualness.

"About that," he starts, sliding your coffee over to you. "I wanted to talk to you after, but you ran out. I was going to text -"

You downplay it. "I must have been starting my period or something. I didn't mean to dump that on you."

For a fleeting moment, Garrett's chest constricts. He thinks about his mom and how she would have smacked him (lovingly, but brusquely) upside the head if he were to ever minimize a woman's feelings to biology. He doesn't like how you did.

"Okay," he draws out. "I'm going to be honest. I don't know how to respond to that."

He is so pathetically happy to hear you laugh. You allow yourself to rub your shoulder against his, needing - craving - his touch, but you don't say this out loud. Just like last time, a jolt of electricity flows through you, stronger than anything you have felt before.

You push it down.

"We're friends now, right?" he adds quietly when you take a sip hot enough to burn all the words you want to confess. "You can talk to me."

"I know. You don't have to worry about me." You turn your attention to the front of the classroom. "I'll figure it out."

You don't.

Your own fingers won't work that night. Your vibrator dies on you after ten minutes of searching for something that will replicate Garrett's scent in the rain and the sureness of his mouth against your ear. You give up entirely once you realize distant memories do not compare to his actual voice, a specifically deep rumble that caresses your thighs and parts them at the same time.

You toss and turn all night, feeling like a terrible friend.

When Garrett is out of town for a game on Friday night, you try again, knowing you won't have to worry about a text from him coming in at the same time your hands go lower. You even try to watch a video, but the angles are all wrong. No one gets the gray-green eyes right, either.

Later that night, in another city, one hand loosely grasping at the shower wall and wishing it was your hair tightly threaded between his knuckles instead, Garrett comes into his fist with your name on his tongue.

He tosses and turns all night, feeling like a terrible friend.

You two can barely look at each other Saturday night. You think Garrett is still disappointed by yesterday's loss; Garrett thinks you might be learning how to get comfortable in the hockey house again after the last party. You barely have time to talk inbetween the separate groups of friends you both try to distract yourselves with, apart from Garrett softly greeting you with a safe drink.

Swallowing embarrassment is easier to do when you're wasted; so, you start to get wasted.

Garrett, of course, does not; he can longer rationalize it has anything to do with his one drink rule and only everything to do with needing to watch over you.

"No," he deadpans when a guy from your class tries shimmying closer with another shot two hours later. "Absolutely fucking not happening."

Dean plucks the glass from the poor kid's hand before Garrett can confiscate it entirely. Logan leans back against the island and shakes his head pitifully.

"What?" Garrett grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. He still does not take his eyes off you from across the kitchen.

"You're doing it again," Dean explains for him, tossing back the liquid. "The whole touch her and die thing. LoLo, isn't that how Garrett got in trouble with our new best friend last time?"

Logan pretends to look up into the sky through the plaster. "Is it raining again?"

Dean cackles. Garrett glares. Logan looks over at you.

"She looks like she's having fun," he rationalizes.

You are not.

You are miserable, actually, something deep inside of you quivering every time you feel Garrett's stare on you, undressing parts of yourself you didn't know existed.

You take the shot Garrett doesn't catch your friend supplying you. It burns on its descent. You suddenly miss the feeling of silk sheets on your skin.

Twenty minutes later, you're on the hunt for the ones that cover Garrett's soft mattress. He looked away for one second and can't find you and he's pretending not to panic. You're already halfway up the stairs to his room.

The door is unlocked. You peek inside. Maybe, you realize, you are a bad friend.

Garrett watches from the bottom of the steps, grounding himself to the floor as he monitors the closing of his bedroom door.

She's alone, he promises himself. She's safe.

He follows you anyway.

The door clicks behind him with a deafening and final snap. His eyes search for you in the dark; he finds you wrapped up in his comforter, undeniably leaving your scent all over it and unknowingly marking yourself as his.

Fuck, he thinks. And I just got that smell out from last time.

"Hey," he manages. "You okay up here?"

If the room was any brighter, he might see disappointment flash across your face. "You came up here to ask if I'm okay?"

Garrett takes a deep breath to steady himself. A tickle of frustration coasts his throat. He doesn't fucking know how to do this after all.

"You don't want me to ask if you're okay?" he asks, stupidly.

"No."

"Okay. I won't."

"Fine."

"Great, done."

"Good."

"Jesus Christ," he breathes. "What the fuck is happening?"

You grouse from somewhere in the bed, now horizontal. "You tell me."

"Oh, I don't know," he snaps. "You're drunk. You won't talk to me. We're friends. The last time you were here, we weren't friends, but I don't know, I thought you might kiss me anyway. We still haven't talked about it. I'm trying to be reasonable and do the right thing. You're laying in my fucking bed - only days after you looked at me with blowjob eyes and told me you can't get off, so every time I look at you, all I can think about is helping you."

You sit up suddenly. "Blowjob eyes? What the fuck? What's next, stripper tits?"

Garrett makes a sound between a needy growl and a frustrated snarl. "Did you even hear the rest of that?"

"Yes, asshole, I was just stuck on the whole blowjob thing."

"Oh, good, so maybe you can finally admit that you did share something personal with me in the hopes I would help you."

"So what if I did?"

That makes Garrett falter, just for a second, and the heat leaves his voice instantaneously. "Wait. Did you?"

You continue on anyway, now using your hands to argue in a way that usually makes Garrett want to smile. "This is so annoying, Garrett, really. All of it. I can't -" You let out your own sound of frustration. "I can't come. I want to come. Why can't I - why can't I stop thinking about it whenever I'm around you?"

Garrett's mouth is so, so dry. He tries saying your name; it comes out like a wheeze. Your eyes snap to him.

"Fuck," you whimper behind your hand, which is now pressed to your mouth to stop you from saying anything else that shows all of your cards to him. "Did I just say that?"

Garrett has to close his eyes to stop himself from looking at you, all messed up hair and pink lips and wide eyes from the place he conjures up the filthiest dreams about you.

"Yeah," he rasps. "Yeah, sweetheart, you did. It's okay. You're drunk. Let's put you to bed and we can talk about this tomorrow or pretend it never happened again."

He thinks he might be able to tuck you in with his eyes still closed if he tries hard enough to be a good friend. You think you might bite him if he tries.

"Garrett."

He hums, eyes still closed.

The bedsheets rustle as you crawl to the edge of the bed. You don't feel that drunk anymore, because now something else entirely is filling the void.

You try again, now close enough to touch him with that bit of liquid courage you have left. "Garrett."

He cracks open one eye. Your fingers latch around his wrist and over his pulse point. It jumps beneath you.

"Please," you whisper, soft and needy. "Will you help me?"

"You don't know what you're saying," he practically begs.

You rise up taller onto your knees. You're still not quite his height, but now you're closer to his mouth and his eyes are falling to your lips in the dark, like he's memorized every part of you already and knows exactly where to find you.

You whisper, "If I tell you something else, will you trust me enough to know I want this?"

Garrett is so quiet for a moment, you think he mustn't have heard you. Then, a choked, "You touched yourself thinking about me, too."

Your shocked, jerky nod is the only response he'll be getting for some time, because it's all you can manage for the questions that follow:

"You couldn't make yourself come."

"It wasn't enough for you."

"You need me."

"No, you want me."

You squeeze your legs together, hoping it'll pause some of the friction enough to let you get a breath in between the nodding. Garrett's hand has found the perfect slot against your sternum, long fingers curling towards your throat to rest their weight there.

Their presence is a question and a promise.

"Yeah?" His voice has found a soft, condescending twinge. "That why you're fighting me all the time, sweetheart?"

Garrett slides his one hand up higher to cage your neck, the other pushing a thumb into your waiting mouth. You clasp around him instantly, moaning into his digit while simultaneously fighting to get closer to where he stands above you.

"Yeah," he answers his own question in a mesmerized tone, breathing raggedly. "You gonna tell me what you need and if I need to stop?"

You nod again, swirling your tongue around him. He pulls back just a fraction of an inch to release your jaw.

"Tell me," he commands lowly, not at all unkindly, but with enough control in his voice that you feel safe letting go of yours.

Those eyes look up at him again and he nearly buckles. "Kiss me."

Garrett has to stall or else this is going to be over before it starts. "Yeah, baby, I can do that."

Placing his hands on either side of your hips, he leans down low and captures your mouth in a bruising kiss with his. You open for him immediately, parting your lips for his tongue and your legs for the rest of him. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him further down.

Much like your verbal spars, you're already fighting: him with your wandering hands, you with his greedy mouth. He wedges one of his legs inbetween your thighs, splaying you open for him as he lays you back down. You bite hard on his lower lip, inciting a groan from him, meeting his mouth wherever it tries to wander.

When he kisses your cupid's bow, you lick the seam of his lip.

When your hand fumbles with his buckle, he gathers it up and pins it above your head.

When he swallows your next moan with his mouth, you shift your hips up into his impatiently. You fall back when the hard length of him pushes somewhere too close and too far from the apex of your thighs.

"I know," he coos, winning your other hand in the battle and collecting it in one of his big hands with the other. "Greedy girl."

Your incoming witty one-liner disappears into thin air when his free hand finds the soft cotton of your panties underneath your dress. Both of you still when you realize how wet his fingers come back.

Garrett looks down at you, so much fondness written on his face without him having to say anything at all. He rubs his middle finger against your covered clit in one short, teasing sweep.

A test.

You fail when you babble something wretched and nonsensical, straining against his hold.

"Shh shh," he reprimands tenderly. You take your lower lip behind your teeth in response. He nods approvingly.

The next press is firmer, more purposeful, like he's finding a way to make you crazier without killing you before you've gotten your release. You mouth his name, dropping your head back against the mattress. You tilt your chin back to catch a glimpse of the strong veins where he holds you down. You think there might be tears in your eyes from how close you already are.

When Garrett pushes the flimsy fabric to the side to coat another finger with your wetness, you know he's going to be successful in helping you break the curse.

"Did you wear these for me tonight?" he whispers, brushing his mouth over yours with another warm breath. "You wanted me to find them?"

A tear leaks out from the corner of your eye when you nod. Garrett stops without hesitation, bracing his weight above you instead of clutching your wrists. You whine at the loss of contact. Garrett puts it back as soon as you tell him you're fine.

One sure finger pushes into you, and you think maybe you're not fine - but something is building rapidly and you trust each other so much that Garrett is going to let you fall apart in his hands.

"That's it," he encourages gently, working his wrist in and out of you. His thumb moves in tight circles on your clit. "You're gonna come."

He doesn't have to say it: he's not going to stop until you do.

It's so much better than the scenarios you tried falling asleep to.

When your thighs start trembling, Garrett sweetly releases your hands and brings one down to hold his against your knee when he pushes you further apart. Your heartbeat thrums erratically on the side of your neck; Garrett almost loses his train of thought to kiss it.

This is the softest, quietest side he's ever seen from you.

"Not fighting," he murmurs when he adds another finger and finds your g-spot. "So good and nice for me."

That unravels you and puts some broken part of you back together. Garrett swallows your cry with his mouth, pulling every last drop from you until you've milked his hand. He holds you through it, smoothing your hair back when something too close to a relieved sob breaks through.

Garrett whispers a, "Hey, I always got you," when you manage a, "Oh, fuck."

He tugs you into his chest after pulling your panties back into place. They're wet against you. You're mumbling something about returning the favor, how friends don't let friends come without the other, and -

"No." Garrett's voice is final but infinitely tender with you as he nuzzles your neck. "We're not friends, actually, and you're going to let me do this properly after I take you out on a date."

The words sound foreign even to him, but they're there now, drifting over your sweaty skin and so right.

Shell-shocked and floating only a little, you mumble something against his chest.

He holds you tighter. "What was that, baby?"

It's not an argument; you press a kiss above his heart. "You might be the best not-friend I've ever had, Garrett Graham."

For once, Garrett doesn't hate the way his last name sounds. In this room, a party in full-swing downstairs and his dream girl perfectly encompassed in his arms, he accepts the fact.

An annoying, warm body slides next to yours Tuesday morning. You curl your fingers tighter around your pencil like the action might actually stop you from stabbing it into the tan hand now crowding yours.

“You seem tense,” is what tickles your ear seconds later. “Little man couldn’t take care of you this weekend?”

You stick your tongue into your cheek and say nothing, scribbling furiously into your notes. Neither of you mention that your chicken scratch handwriting no longer makes sense with what is happening at the front of the classroom. You barely hear the droning of the professor past Garrett’s woodsy cologne, the scent mixing in with the earthy rain he undoubtedly walked through. If you were to look at him, you’d see his damp curls and want to tug at them to incite pain.

“Come on,” he hums, mouth wet and warm beneath your earlobe. “Admit that was funny. I could barely see him past the puck bunnies.”

“That’s because your neanderthal brain short-circuits when you see anything you can nail,” you hiss under your breath.

Garrett only lets out a soft chuckle at that, finally leaning back into his seat. Your brain defogs only marginally. The fact he says nothing else at your poor argument irritates you worse than him showing up late. You hate when he doesn’t spar back.

“Seriously, Garrett?” You drop your pencil to your notebook with a thud and begin turning to him with heat in your mouth and on your ears. “You missed our presentation and you can’t even say sorry?”

The rest of the words leave to die somewhere when you catch the fresh bruising underneath his left eye. They revitalize deep in your chest when he licks at the dried blood on his bottom lip, all too aware of your gaze on him.

The brute in front of you shrugs nonchalantly. His hair is slicked back from the rain and perhaps a shower after morning practice, if that’s where the spurt of violence came from. “You were always better off alone.”

It’s hurtful in ways he surely can’t know, with enough force behind the words that you can’t help but think of Cole on Saturday night after the game when he, like so many others, failed to put you out.

You don’t let the feeling fester. “You were late because you started a fight,” you deadpan, and it’s not a question.

The darkness that clouds Garrett’s eyes lasts a beat too long; you catch every bit of the storm.

“Don’t pretend to be concerned on my behalf,” he grumbles.

“It’s my grade, too, Garrett.”

“Yeah? Daddy couldn’t buy your way through school?”

“That’s rich coming from a Graham.”

He snarls. “Don’t bring my father into this -”

You push. “ - how dare you mention mine -”

“Excuse me.” The professor slaps both hands onto her desk. You flinch, and Garrett’s jaw tightens like he’s equally annoyed that someone broke up your tiff and had the audacity to make you jump out of your skin at the same time.

Garrett hadn’t unpacked his bag because he’s the most impractical man you have ever met, so it only takes him seconds to push back from the desk he swallows whole with his size.

“Fuck this,” he mutters bitterly.

The rest of the class seems to shrink back when he rises to his full height. You do not; instead, you calculate every tense bunch of his shoulder blades and determine something is not quite right. While bickering with him has become a normal, almost welcomed routine, the darkness underneath his eyes has worsened.

He didn’t flash you that little competitive grin when something landed.

He hadn’t nodded encouragingly when you ribbed him back.

He couldn’t care less that he had let a teammate down, even if it was one that he begrudgingly accepted for a course credit.

He had bled. He didn’t clean it up. He wanted a reminder of the feeling.

You briefly close your eyes with the realization that you are worried about him. That feels worse than the guilt that spreads when a joke goes too far.

“Garrett,” you try, a private little whisper just between you and him. “Please sit down.”

Garrett’s neck flushes with something like shame, and he takes two of the stairs at a time. He slams the door behind him without a glance back.

He’s still not himself that evening.

“Dude,” Logan starts after a silent conversation with Dean above Garrett’s head. “What’s up with you today?”

Garrett goes hot, then cold, and then burns brighter than before. All he can see in front of him is the hockey house littered with red solo cups and short denim skirts despite the weather outside. He does not catch a glimpse of you, which fucking stings. He swallows the last bit of his beer and resentfully considers breaking his one drink rule.

Dean analyses his same sight line, nodding with understanding when he doesn’t see you either. “He’s like fucking Gatsby throwing these parties,” he tosses to Logan.

Logan’s brows furrow. “You actually read that book?”

“Fuck no, LoLo. I watched the movie. Daisy’s hot.”

Garrett would have normally laughed by now. He does not. Logan throws another bewildered look over to Dean, who catches it with his own grimace.

“G,” Logan tries again, a little softer than before. “Talk to us, man. Is this about bag skate? Coach isn’t mad at you. It was that fuckin’ freshman’s fault.”

That’s the thing - Garrett hadn’t swung first. He didn’t have to. He welcomed the pain like a punishment for seeing you with him Saturday night, and the self-inflicted wound only bled redder when you had assumed he was the rocket that went off.

Garrett brushes something invisible from his shirt and stands. The leggy blonde he finally gave into locking eyes with beckons him with a crook of her finger. He nods once at her, but the usual cocky smile he would give you instead doesn’t quite sit right on his face. He wonders if it’s the impending bruise.

“I’m fine,” he supplies to his friends.

Dean pulls a swig from his bottle to hide his frown. “Getting your dick wet with someone else won’t fix it, y’know.”

Something mean shifts over Garrett’s face before he blinks it away. “Nothing to fix,” he says, blasé. “But if there was, I wouldn’t take your advice.”

The next morning, the freshman with a nasty right hook skates towards Garrett sheepishly.

“Hey, Graham,” he mutters. Garrett fucking hates his last name. “Sorry again… for yesterday. I - sometimes something else gets to me and it only comes out during hockey. I’ll work on it this season. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

Garrett genetically understands that more than he admits aloud. He merely nods and offers a forgiving hand.

He throws another party that night. Your friends show up. You do not.

On Thursday morning, he’s in his seat before you get there. The ring around his eye is a pale blue, but he’s wearing his omnipresent smirk. You sit uncertainly slow, wondering if that can be considered a win.

Until he murmurs in that infuriatingly deep voice, “Good morning. Glad I got you a coffee. You look like -” He waves a hand over your appearance, drenched from head to toe from the rainfall. “- a wet rat.”

Something blossoms deep in your chest. It’s so much better than him frowning.

“Thank you,” you volley softly. “You look like shit, too.”

Garrett’s lips twitch. He pushes the steaming styrofoam towards you with two of his long fingers in a silent apology. You take it. Garrett doesn’t say anything when your fingers meet his rougher exterior, but he catalogues the softness of your skin to long-term memory.

He tries one more time that night. The rain hasn’t let up. You stumble into the hockey house five minutes before he gives up on watching the door completely. Dean and Logan notice how his thighs tense before he starts pushing himself up from the couch, gravitating towards you like fire and oxygen, only for every part of him to still like a waiting predator when he notices who peruses in after you like he owns the place. Garrett watches on, horrified and pissed and something even angrier, when those grubby hands start to slide over your waist.

He wonders which nearest kitchen utensil could be used as a weapon to get them off of you forever.

You quietly pull away from Cole without even noticing Garrett yet. Garrett only releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding when you head towards the kitchen without looking behind you to see if you’re being followed by legs much too short for you.

“G,” Logan says in quiet warning when the two of you are separated. “Don’t engage him.”

Dean, finally the voice of reason, eggs him on. Logan groans and puts his head in his hands when Garrett leaves the couch with purpose.

He catches the guy, still unnamed to him, before he can get access to you in the kitchen. He blocks the path easily with his body.

“Garrett Graham,” he breathes a little pathetically, eyes full of wonder and admiration for his last name, which Garrett hates even more than before. “Dude! I saw you play on Saturday. You won me a parlay.”

Garrett feigns civility for a moment while silently calculating how much taller he is than him. “Thanks, man. Hey, what’s your name? Do we know you around here?”

“Oh, um. I’m Cole. I’m here with a date, she, uh - you probably know her better. She’s your age.”

Garrett grasps Cole’s outstretched hand probably harder than he should. “Yeah? Good for you.”

Cole, mistaking Garrett’s attention as genuine and wanting to impress him, slides into what someone else might call locker room talk and what Garrett loathes entirely. “Between you and me, man, she’s hot, but she’s not an easy lay. Been making me work for it. But I’m not putting in all this effort for nothing.”

Garrett forces his grin wider. “Oh, yeah? What’s the game plan here?”

“Younger pussy is so much easier, man. She’ll give in eventually.”

“Right.” Garrett swallows unsteadily, the anger rising. “Then you can get rid of her and move onto the next. Maybe you’ll never have to see her again. I wouldn’t want to.”

“Fuck, yeah. You get it.”

Garrett lets that sit somewhere in his gut for a moment, rearing its ugly head. When he speaks a beat later, his voice is dangerous, deceptively low so only Cole hears. “Actually, why don’t you just fuck off right now?”

Cole’s smile vanishes instantly. Garrett fixes his posture so that he’s towering over him and hunched into his personal space at the same time, opening his mouth to defend you, when a “Garrett?” comes from behind him.

The voice is too small, too hurt. It’s not at all how you sound when you’re thinking of ways to get him back while stubbornly holding a laugh in while Garrett pretends not to notice.

Cole is the first to move, outstretching a hand towards you that Garrett glares down at. “Babe! Hey! We were, just - we were just talking about -”

Garrett can’t talk at all. He has suddenly lost access to his personal dictionary, because one glance at you betrays him entirely. You blink up at him with a wobble in your bottom lip you would much rather not talk about and tears that you will never admit to burning your eyes.

“You’re an asshole,” you whisper, and Garrett can’t be sure if you’re talking to him or Cole or everyone who watches on with comically wide eyes. “How dare you.”

Garrett murmurs your name in anguish, making an inaudible move to gather you. You raise a hand to stop him, hovering just above his chest before either of you can touch. You turn to Cole, one fat tear skidding off your cheekbone. No one mentions it, but Garrett feels it all the way to the floor.

“And you.” You point to Cole with an imperceptible tremble of your finger. Garrett is the only one who notices it. “I will never, ever, touch you with a ten-foot pole again, you dick. You didn’t even - you didn’t even - try to make me feel good.”

Even if Garrett is the one in trouble, he shoots a glower so dark to Cole that he simpers back without another word. You don’t thank him for being a hero; he isn’t one to you right now. You push past them both without grabbing your coat and Garrett’s heart folds faster than your tears.

Cole doesn’t flinch when the wind slams the door shut behind you, but Garrett does. He thinks about how cold it is out there.

Cole laughs something hideous under his breath, a comment about sluts that makes Garrett have to will his feet to stay planted to the floor after hearing, and Garrett doesn’t laugh. He thinks about your tears.

Garrett turns to Dean with a tilt of his head, a quiet Will you please take care of this for me? Dean stands with a crack of his knuckles without question. Logan looks up to the ceiling for guidance before taking the spot next to Dean.

The rain is frigid against Garrett’s back when he flies out the front door with your jacket gripped tightly in his fist. His stomps are louder than the clouds as he descends the slippery staircase, cursing loudly when he thinks back to your little heels and you walking in them against this storm. He sees them not even twenty feet away, barely illuminated in the dark, and his chest squeezes thinking about cars flying down the road and you struggling to see past the night and your crying.

He yells your name, elongating his stride. You throw your middle finger to him behind your shoulder, quickening your pace. You would both find it amusing if your heart wasn’t squeezing painfully and his wasn’t left somewhere inside.

A heel gets caught in a divot of the old pavement and your ankle feels every bit of it. You manage a weak protest to the universe before a strong arm wraps around your waist from behind you, easily hoisting you out of the ground. The band of steel is wet with water and sticks to your skin like a protective layer.

“Fuck,” Garrett grunts, turning you and simultaneously draping your coat over your shoulders with his other hand. His movements are rushed, panicked, and his curls are dripping rain.

You shove both hands into his chest when he starts to deposit you against a parked car for balance. You screech out a frustrated sound that’s muffled by the rain. Garrett stays stock-still when you push him again, then again, and again, not once reacting or budging to your fit of rage. He allows it, much like he allowed to be hit the other day, because at least you’re touching him.

He says your name in a plea. He brackets you against the car with his arms on either side of you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “So sorry. I didn’t mean it. I wanted him out of the fucking house, and I -”

“I get that we fight,” you cry. “I get it. It’s our thing. We say stupid shit. We piss each other off. That was - that was so much worse. I couldn’t even look at you.”

“I know. I know. I’m so sorry.”

“No, you don’t know! You let me be humiliated in front of everyone. We don’t - we don’t do that to each other, Garrett, we can’t.”

You make one more feeble attempt to create distance between you two, but you aren’t sure you really want it. Garrett doesn’t know if he could actually let it happen at this point. Your forehead falls to his chest and his hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, tingles of lightning shooting to your hippocampus from where you touch.

Behind your next whimper, you realize it feels better than any other touch any man has given you before him.

Garrett can barely hear your next words with how shyly you share them, but he feels them everywhere from where your lips are pressing into his pectoral over his hoodie. “I know you’ve been mad about something. I’m sorry. Please don’t take it out on me.”

If Garrett could go back in time and fight himself, he would.

“No,” he breathes, pushing his mouth into your drenched hair at the crown of your head. “I’m not mad. Never at you.”

You sniffle, burying your face further into him, and he shields you from the rain above by wrapping both arms around your shoulders and dropping his head on top of yours.

“Never at you,” he repeats softly. “I would never.”

“Logan told me.” You hiccup. “Logan found me after class today and I said something - Garrett, I said something so stupid and I’m so sorry but he told me you hadn’t fought, and I was so wrong to assume, but then I thought - what if it was me that upset you and set you off, and -”

Garrett braces you closer to the door when a car hurtles down the hill, sending a wave against his back. He absorbs it with a grunt. You grapple at his hips and pull him closer when it’s just you two again, shivering from the cold that seeps into you.

He rubs his hands over your arms, which are still not fully covered by your jacket. “Put that on,” he murmurs instead of answering you fully.

You listen without a fight or a jab and he almost smiles.

“I think my ankle is broken,” you whisper with another little hiccup a moment later. You’ll admit it’s a somewhat dramatic telling, but the noise still goes straight into his chest labeled as something he needs to fix immediately.

“Probably just a sprain, sweetheart.” The name comes out before he can stop it. “I’ll get you back so we can look at it.”

You peer up at him, embarrassed again, and Garrett hates every bit he contributed. “Do you think Cole will still be there?”

He’s shaking his head vehemently before you’re even done asking the question. “No. I’ll make sure of it.”

When he slips both arms underneath your knees, the rain has just begun to die down. He starts up the hill.

Not even an hour later, when everyone else has been cleared from the house, you’re propped up on Garrett’s bed with an ice pack on your ankle. Dean leans in the doorway with one bruised fist and a shit-eating grin. Logan can be heard cleaning up glass downstairs, every so often calling up to Garrett with another favor he’s cashing in for whatever Garrett asked him to do when you left in tears tonight.

“So,” Dean drawls. “You’re who the parties have been for. Pretty.”

Garrett, mid-fluffing the pillow beneath your foot, turns to scowl. “Dude.”

Dean shrugs. “What? It’s true. You’ve been a grump ever since you last saw her at the game. I’m a man with eyes. I get it now. I’d be mad, too.”

You still. Garrett feels it beneath his hand, which is warming your calf beneath the sweatpants you burrowed. He slowly turns to look at you with a blush crawling up his neck.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Dean doesn’t know it, but he has just handed you collateral to tease Garrett with for the rest of the semester.

Dean skims his nose along the column on your neck, bracketing your ass with his hips. You hide a smile but wordlessly tilt your body into his, letting his hands wander down your shoulders and land possessively on your sides. You flip the pancake, ignoring him and teasing him all at once, and he groans. 

“Smells so good,” he murmurs, but he’s not talking about the batter; his mouth opens along where your jaw meets your throat as he inhales you. 

“D,” you chastise. "You specifically told me, and I quote, you ‘cannot go again without sustenance.’ I know you’re not lying because that’s a big word for you.” 

Dean lands a slap somewhere near the apex of your thighs in retribution for your mouth. Said lips part on a sound between a gasp and a moan, the spatula teetering just slightly towards the pan. 

“I should spank you with that instead,” he grumbles against your skin, nudging his head and therefore yours towards the utensil. 

Your soft laughs fill the room a moment later, him dotting kisses into your neck as you turn towards him as much as you can in his hold. The angle is a little awkward, especially with his height, but he greedily meets you in the middle with his tongue leading the way before the rest of him can catch up. 

You find just enough space to whisper, “Let me feed you first,” tacking on a whimpering “please” when he bites your lip to coax you open. You can’t be sure if the plea comes from truly wanting to take care of him before anything else, or from needing to be consumed by him again. 

One big, warm hand cups the back of your head to dive into you deeper, the other fumbling with the knobs on the stove before Dean deems pancakes ruined forever. He dexterously flicks everything off in one smooth motion, simultaneously pushing you further to the left and into the counter with his hips without letting anything dig (too) painfully into your lower back. 

Both of you would agree that just enough of a sting can be promised in other ways. 

You push up against him, remnants of flour finding his flushing cheeks, his tousled hair, his squeezing hands. They are everywhere on you and still not enough, gripping and shoving impatiently until you’re on your tip toes with your back facing him again, bent over the counter with your hands struggling to find purchase of the granite on either side of you. 

Dean slides his shirt up to the small of your back, revealing those little black panties he had sweetly dressed you back in earlier. He deftly pushes them to the side, grabbing ahold of your left wrist and using it as leverage between your bodies, before he enters you in one hard thrust. 

You flutter so tightly around him he momentarily sags against you with a grunt. With one wet kiss to the top of your spine, he pries your legs further apart with his own and returns to fucking you in a brutal pace, trapping you tightly between him and the mess on the countertop. 

You moan a mixture of his name and a prayer. It’s still not enough for him. 

Dean pulls out all of the way, slamming back into your heat. Your knees buckle at the force, and your right hand goes to find something, anything that will stabilize you against his power. 

You cry out suddenly, the still too hot cast iron branding your palm. It immediately is not a noise Dean recognizes from you, and he steadies his hips instantly, releasing your other hand to take hold of your waist protectively instead. 

“Hey,” he manages, panic rising in his voice when you hunch forward without another sound. “Baby, baby, baby. Talk to me. What happened?” 

You stutter out a tearful, “Oh no,” and Dean doesn’t hesitate to tuck himself back into the waistband of his athletic shorts and cover up your modesty. 

“C’mere, come on. Let me get a good look at you,” he murmurs, flattening his touch over every crevice of you until he pauses at your red-hot hand. He hisses at the contact. “Sweetheart.” 

He turns you fully to him, letting you clutch your injury into your chest even though every hockey instinct screams at him to take it for himself. 

“I got you,” he’s saying against the ringing in your ears. “I’ll fix this. Gonna fix you up, sweet girl.” 

With all of the confidence and calmness in his voice, his actions are decidedly not. He almost stumbles to the kitchen sink with you in his arms, fumbling with the faucet until his shaking fingers are pulling you under the lukewarm stream. He grits his teeth at the same time you do, as if you are fused as one and he can feel every bit of pain you do. 

Dean wraps a clean kitchen towel around your damp palm, continuously speaking to you in that low, soothing tone. He wraps one arm over your shoulders and presses firmly into your hand with the other, steering you towards the island. He releases you barely for a second (and he's counting) to carefully hoist you up with one hand, only placing you down once he has impatiently pushed everything else aside with a clang.

“I’m fine,” you’re trying to reason with him, but you’re doing a shit job with the big, sloppy tears that are threatening to spill down your cheeks. Dean thinks he might hear a hiccup, and that’s even worse, so no - of course he’s not going to stop until you’re actually fine.

“You poor thing, that must’ve been so scary,” he pacifies otherwise, slamming every door open and shut until he can find the first aid kit Tucker stored away so many years ago. 

“Dean,” you insist. “Really, I’m a big girl, it just - it just hurts a little - "

He hits the pantry door a little louder than the rest, tugging at his hair. “Where the fuck - did the kitchen-designated first aid kit - go - " 

He is clearly panicking, and a part of you would find that so damn endearing if you weren’t worried about him suffering a cardiac episode before you had a chance to heal your fingers. 

You say nothing, sniveling a little less at the sheer hilarity of the situation and big, bad, sometimes downright mean Dean thinking the sky is going to fall on his girl if he doesn't act quickly enough.

He returns from the downstairs bathroom a few moments later, a tube of cream and gauzes in his hand. He still fumbles his hold on you but a little less than before, taking a deep, calming breath that somehow does wonders for both of your nervous systems. 

With extra precaution, he unfurls the cloth from your hand and presses the sweetest of kisses against your unmarked wrist. Through his eyelashes, he peers up at you, settling himself slowly inbetween your bare legs.

"Everything's alright," he whispers. You fail to hide a smirk at knowing he's saying this more to himself than just to you. "All better now."

Dean doesn't even get to see the watery grin on your face because he's inspecting a thin layer of ointment with surgical precision. The burn is undoubtedly going to scab over, perhaps even scar, and he presses a defeated sigh into your soft tummy when he rests his forehead against you.

You thread your good fingers at the base of his hair, transferring every bit of comfort he provided you back into him.

"Baby," you breathe. "I'm okay now. Just shocked me, s'all."

"I hurt you," Dean muffles into his own shirt. "I'm so sorry."

Your incredulous giggle bounces off the walls and buries itself directly into his heart. He shifts so that his chin is resting on your thigh, practically with his knees to the floor now. He leaves open-mouthed kisses against every part of your leg, moving up and up until he's back to the curve of your hips. His hand cuffs loosely around your ankle like he's afraid you might bolt.

"You didn't hurt me," you promise, scratching your fingernails at the light stubble at his chin.

His response isn't an acknowledgement, but rather, "I fucking hate pancakes."

"We'll toss them all."

"...actually, no, I still need nutrients."

The first ten minutes pace too quickly for him, but not cinematically. The story is easy enough to follow, but Garrett is more painfully aware that he only has less than two hours to keep you in this position. His back is propped against the couch cushions, but you're somewhere much lower, coiled into his lap with your head on his muscular thigh and your hands tucked underneath him and curled around his knee. The room is dark, you are warm beneath the blanket, and the beginning pattering of rain outside is mixing in with the sounds of birds chirping on the screen. He doesn't move an inch and he hardly breathes.

The bubble he has so carefully curated pops only a few minutes later when Logan enters the living room. You start to lift your head in greeting, but Garrett presses a strong, albeit gentle, hand to the back of your neck. You muffle out a content sound when his fingers slip into your hair, taking his bait to get you to stay still perfectly.

"Pride and Prejudice, nice," Logan whispers, like the hockey house has suddenly and fully transformed into a public movie theater.

You shake your head free from Garrett's grasp anyway, and he barely holds in his disappointed sigh. He reaches across your body for the remote and pauses the movie a moment later.

"G is totally Mr. Darcy," Logan is saying, toeing off his shoes before he lounges on the separate armchair as if you have personally invited him to stay. "Always grumpy."

Garrett starts to protest, whether about Logan's socks or his interrupting or the fact he no longer has you to himself, when he realizes he might actually be grumpy. A frown forms on his mouth and inbetween his eyebrows, which you carefully smooth away with your thumb. Everything inside him quietens.

"He's not grumpy," you murmur to no one in particular. "Reserved emotionally, maybe. Observing, always. Proud, too much of the time. He falls in love with someone and doesn't know how to express it properly."

Neither of the boys know who you are talking about anymore, but they don't say anything. Garrett swallows a lump in his throat that he didn't know was there; you track the movements with your eyes.

You deftly steal the remote from his hand without another word and tuck yourself back into him, hitting play. Logan steals a glance at the man wrapping his forearm around the top of you so that you can hang onto him a little tighter and feels his lips quirk before he turns back to the screen.

The three of you watch in silence. You're maybe thirty minutes in when the rain outside falls louder, Tucker stumbling in like thunder.

Garrett and Logan turn to shush him impatiently because Lizzie is at Netherfield and Mr. Darcy can't sit still around her and the suspense is killing them. The third man raises his hands in surrender, peaking over the back of the couch to see you still happily nuzzled into a surprisingly gentle Garrett Graham.

"Do you guys want popcorn?" he whispers.

That's how you end up filling Tucker in with the rest of the movie delayed again, now resting against Garrett's shoulder while he holds a warm aluminum bowl of salty goodness and you with his heart in the palm of your hands. Tucker asks all the right questions, never interrupting, always nodding along like everything you're saying makes perfect sense.

"Of course the audience would see the attraction before the characters do," he agrees.

Garrett's eye roll is cut off when you shove a kernel or six back into his mouth to shut him up.

The four of you have just gotten comfortable in the dark again when Dean trapezes down the staircase from his room. "I smelled butter."

He's stealing a handful from Logan's dish when Mr. Wickham is introduced on-screen. All sets of eyes bounce between the TV and Dean, back and forth again, until Logan starts laughing delightedly.

"Holy shit, Dean's Mr. Wickham!"

"Who the hell even is a Wickham?"

All hell breaks loose. Garrett smooths the blanket over your shoulders, laughing softly to himself while his best friends bicker, tracing the outline of your cheekbones in the soft yellow glow of the movie as you turn to look at him. The most peaceful expression is on your face, something sleepy and warm and mirroring the twinkle in his eyes exactly, and he quietly wonders what he needs to do to keep you like this forever.

Dean's indignation of being linked to the villain is only appeased when Tucker slides over for him and you softly ask if he'd like to restart the movie completely. It's unbearably sweet, too thoughtful and welcoming, and Garrett would be so unbelievably annoyed at having to repeat nearly another hour of film if you weren't so special to him.

There's a word for that on the tip of his tongue, but he can't quite place it yet.

So, you restart the movie. You settle back into the protection of Garrett's arms in your own little world. Logan chomps happily on his bowl of popcorn; Dean and Tucker grumble about personal space as they settle into the smaller couch themselves. Garrett is not unusually quiet, but he is still, the only indication of him being the careful rise and fall of his chest underneath your ear and the periodic kisses he brushes into your hair.

An hour in (or, rather, two plus hours since that first play), Mr. Darcy's hand tightens around Lizzie's much smaller one. The room feels it all over. Dean's mouth parts in a quiet gasp, Logan smiles knowingly like he's seen this scene too many times before, and you and Tucker share a giddy look because he finally, truly understands what's happening here. Impulsively, without any knowing, Garrett's own hand flexes at your waist like it might keep you tethered to him.

That vexing, damning word comes back to him. It hits him square in the chest, nearly knocking the next breath from him, full force and beautiful and ugly all at once.

He thinks of his mom. He misses her every day. She would tell him she loves him every night before bed and every morning over pancakes and every moment thereafter. He would say it back happily, loudly, proudly. He would not be scared of loving someone back so strongly.

You fall asleep sometime between the second and third act, letting the boys handle the onslaught of emotions alone for once. Tucker is nearly reduced to tears, Dean gets back on the dating apps to find his Mrs. Darcy, and Logan watches Garrett watch over you as the end credits roll on.

Logan somehow knows everything, so he only whispers, "Hey, G? I love you, man."

Garrett is only slightly taken aback by that. He glances up from where he was distracted by the eyelashes fanning across your cheekbones. He can't speak for a moment. Beneath him, you mumble something in your sleep and scratch your nose with the fabric of his sweatpants, only settling back into dreams when he combs his fingers into your hair.

You have woven yourself so deeply into Garrett's heart that he can no longer ignore you. It isn't just fascination anymore; he's not only trying to figure you out, but now he wants every part of you with him, both the discovered and the unknown. He wants every ounce of love you are willing to give him.

The lock on the door that guards his heart rattles one last time.

"Love you, too," Garrett says for the first time in a long time.

Somewhere in the darkness - and Garrett can't be sure if it's the cloud that has left his mind, body, and soul, if not only the light the physical room has been devoid of this whole time - Tucker sniffles.

Garrett smirks without any malice. He gingerly transfers all of his weight to his feet, his hands ever-so-gentle where they find you again. He gathers you and the blanket against his chest and whispers something softly to you as he begins carrying you up to bed.

One

It's freshman year and you are terrible at keeping your liquor down. It's a true party foul that has cockblocked Dean on more than one occasion (because he fucks anyone anywhere, the shared bathroom included), but Garrett made your family a promise that he would keep an eye on you if you two wound up at the same college together.

It's harder to keep than he thought - not because he doesn't want to, but because you keep physically disappearing on him.

His heart is in his throat after ten minutes of searching for you. The wind in the backyard doesn't carry your laugh with it. He walks in on Dean with his tongue shoved down the throat of another instead of finding you with your head in the toilet bowl. You aren't in the kitchen with Tucker, you're definitely not lounging on the couch next to Logan while he starts another game of NHL, and no one who attempts to stop him with congratulations has seen you.

It shouldn't be this hard to find you; you're yay tall and wear only the most egregiously yellow soft sweaters or his last name on the back of his jersey you wear to the games. You make a point to say hi to everyone at these parties, even those who sneer at you behind your back and beam at Garrett instead, and there's always a trail of your perfume wherever you go. If you were retching into a bush and wanted his hand firmly planted on your neck for support or needed a degree of separation between you and the guy from your English Lit class again, he would have known and he would have been there.

Which is why he fumbles with the handle on his bedroom door, because he knows his phone is charging in there, and maybe you would have texted him -

He flicks the lights on and sees a lump of you at the edge of the bed, awkwardly tangled in his sheets with your jeans still on.

"Sunshine," he hisses, already pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation as he foots the door closed behind him. "Have you seriously been in here this whole time?"

Your responding low moan is enough proof of life for him, so he carefully turns the lights back off and moves towards you, because he always gravitates to you like you are the sun no matter how much he tries to drag his feet.

"Hey." Garrett's voice is softer when he crouches down next to you, careful to keep his body off the mattress as his hand hovers over the crown of your head. "Talk to me. What are you doing in here?"

"Sleepy," you mumble, something citrusy and warm on your breath. He hears the rustle of the covers as you flop your arms to either side of your head. "Wanted you, couldn't find you, bed."

Garrett would snicker at your lack of full sentences if his blood wasn't thrumming in the side of his neck, his eyes adapting to the dark and taking stock of every inch of you like he's looking for one hair to be out of place.

Against his better judgement, he lets his palm sweep over your forehead and brush some tendrils back. "Don't do that without telling someone where you're going," he murmurs. "I couldn't find you, and I..."

"I know." You nod against his hand, nuzzling into it like a cat that has found warmth. "You always find me."

He swallows against the lump in his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do."

You blearily peek one eye open at him, everything about you twinkling even in the dark. A small pout plays at your lips. "Because they asked you to, right? I'm a liability?"

"No," he breathes out easily. "I just - I've been here for two years now and they expect me to watch after you, be a good influence." He pauses. "Not supply you cheap alcohol and just let you wander until Jackson, or Jake, or whatever his name is - "

You groan again. "Ugh, I hate that guy - "

" - asks you for more than your notes when I'm not there to do anything about it."

You both fall still, him now on his knees on the floor and you curling your hands under your chin as you turn to face him better. His fingers fall from your temple; he braces his hands against his thighs to stop himself from reaching out again.

"Just to be clear," you add, voice quiet and raspy with sleep, "he didn't tonight. I just came up here because I wanted somewhere to be comfortable."

Hearing that does something very dangerous to Garrett's psyche.

He nods once, twice, maybe a third time. "Good," he hears himself say after a moment. "You can always stay in here."

Your body seems to relax at that, sinking further into his mattress. He starts to roll back onto his heels, ready to stand and maybe guard the door the whole night like a fucking dog while you slumber peacefully in his bed, when your smaller fingers wrap gently around his forearm.

"Will you stay, too?"

Garrett can't hear anything else - not the sound of his ceiling fan, not the stumbling and giggling in the hallway. The only thing his traitorous ears pick up on is the quiver in your voice, like maybe you're just as unsure as him and yet you can't do anything about the gravitational pull, when you very quietly, so sweetly whisper only to him, "Please."

Garrett thinks back to all of the times in your childhood that you would have never, under any circumstances, shared a bed: camping trips, summer movie nights, when Phil's voice could be heard booming from next door and your parents prepared the guest room for Garrett as he fought back the tears in his eyes. You were always there to squeeze his hand goodnight, but then you were gone, and he would toss and turn all night.

He doesn't know why this time is different, but it takes him very little convincing to find you both a change of clothes and settle in beside you. There is no pillow divider, no separate sleeping bags, no children afraid of the dark; only a man fighting every instinct to pull you closer to him.

Many hours later, when he finally starts to fall asleep and you start migrating to his side of the bed, your hand scrunching at the waistband of his sweatpants, he tells himself it's because he made a promise.

He tells himself he's just watching the door.

He tells himself he's just taking precaution in case you need to throw up in the middle of the night.

He tells himself anyone would do this for a friend.

He falls asleep repeating that one word, and he wakes up to your head nestled underneath his chin with his body wrapped fully around you, and finally, silently, claims you to him.

-

Two

Garrett has a mildly bruised ribcage and an increasingly annoying throbbing in his head that won't go away.

Tucker has been fretting over him all night, adhering to the team doctor's orders without missing a beat. Garrett has barely had time to close his eyes and adjust in his own bed without the shrill reminder to take his meds when warm knuckles tickle the stubble at his jaw.

"It's just me," you shush him when he jerks back into his pillows. Your fingers trail up into his hair and scratch lightly at his scalp the way you've learned he likes; only then does he relax again.

He can barely hold the volume in his voice when he murmurs your name. "What are you doing here?" he rasps.

Your lips thin into an unamused line. "If you thought your best friend wasn't going to show up after watching you get obliterated on the line, you're more concussed than I thought."

Tucker, who took it upon himself to rearrange Garrett's pillows and fluff the covers over him despite everything already being in fine condition, scoffs. "I'm the best friend here."

Garrett almost smiles, but winces when he tries. "Didn't think people would be fighting over me with my concussion. Wonder how the other guy is doing."

"Stop talking," you toss back, but your voice doesn't harbor any heat in it. There's a waver of panic there, and Garrett's face drops into a frown despite the pain that he knows will come with it.

Before you can say anything else, Tuck backs off and dims the lights on his way out. "Don't forget to wake him up every few hours," he quietly adds before shutting the door behind him.

"You're staying?" Garrett hates that he perks up and can't blame it entirely on the pain pills.

You don't respond, rubbing at a spot on your sternum that hurts all of a sudden. Garrett tracks every movement of yours despite his loopiness, hating even more when he catches the moisture pooling in your eyes even though you think you're avoiding his gaze.

"Hey, hey," he starts, nearly forgetting his injuries to push himself up to grab you. You stop him with a gentle hand on his chest, feeling every pulse of his heat through his henley and into your bloodstream.

You wipe underneath your eyes and shake your head at him. "We really should be whispering," you warble weakly, "or not talking at all. Rest. You're hurt. I'm here to take care of you, not - "

"Sunshine."

"No, listen - "

"I'm okay," he soothes, and your shoulders drop, because - damn it - that's the tone you should be using with him instead. "Everything is okay."

A sigh shudders past your lips when his hand comes up to swallow yours where it rests over his heart. Before you know what you're doing, your thumb is moving back and forth along the fabric of his shirt and his is curling around yours.

Garrett finally settles back after you take a few calming breaths. He keeps your hand trapped beneath his grip, but closes his eyes and hums in contentment when you continue smoothing your fingers over the hard planes of his chest. It was only today when you realized that he is not as invincible as he looks.

"You scared me," you admit in a whisper. "Of course I was going to be here to make sure you were okay."

Garrett is numb enough that he can sort of raise his shoulder on the side of his body that isn't bruised in a shrug. "Jus' never had anyone take care of me after a game before, s'all."

Your sternum feels that burning sensation again. You ground yourself against the steady beat of him beneath your hand. You watch as his long eyelashes flutter open and closed, open and closed again - like he's fighting sleep just to get one more good look at you.

That decides everything for you then. "Lift your good arm up for me, Graham."

"Hmm?" is his sluggish response, but it's you asking, so of course he does it without much thought anyway.

You've already toed off your sneakers, leaving you in those fluffy socks he bought you so many years ago all because you had mentioned being cold once. You pull the covers up, careful not to jostle him where he lies perfectly in the middle, keeping both of your sides warm. You slide carefully into him, running your palm along his abdomen to press him closer to you as your toes dance along his shins. Your cheek finds his good shoulder. His arm slots perfectly around you. You both release a heavy breath that neither of you knew you were holding in.

The headache suddenly goes away. Garrett isn't sure if there were ever actually bruises marring his skin before.

"I got you," you murmur when his whole body falls lax into yours. You gingerly reach up and brush your lips against his cheek, and it ticks beneath your touch.

"Gonna be the longest four weeks of my life," he slurs. He nudges his nose into the top of your head and might press a kiss there, too. "But not if..." A huge yawn overtakes his face.

You stroke his shirt again, peering up at him. There's a soft smile gracing his features, and you know sleep is imminent.

"Not if what?" you whisper.

Garrett falls into a dream about you while mumbling, "Not if you're here."

-

Three

Allie and Dean are god-damn shit stirrers. They are no better than front desk hotel employees.

"...so, yeah," Allie is saying, ears gone a bit pink like she's been caught in an act that she typically performs without being betrayed by her poker face. "Or, um, the girls could room together..."

"Baby doll," Dean chides, slinging his arm around her shoulders. "They don't want to split up the other couples here. I'm sure they'll be just fine in this big bed. I mean, look at the view of the rolling hills, and the ocean! Oh, the ocean, Allie Cat. Isn't it just wonderful? I hear this part of California even has love birds, can you believe it?"

Allie momentarily gets caught up rolling her eyes at what Garrett can only assume is Dean's dramatic improvisation.

Garrett's jaw clenches. "I think I'll just take the living room, thanks."

You try - and fail - not to flinch at that. He pretends he doesn't notice it.

Dean is nodding like he was waiting for the counter. "Up to you, G, but we may keep you up pretty late."

A low, rumbly sound rolls off of him. Dean presses his lips together to stop from laughing at him.

"It's fine," you jump in, already setting your bags on the floor. "The bed is big enough."

"Your boyfriend would be okay with that?" is Garrett's sharp retort. He can't even look at you when he asks.

Two other pairs of eyes volley between you and Garrett in the deafening silence that follows.

"Ha!" You jab a finger into his chest accusatorially and scowl when it meets hard muscle. "I knew it. You were acting weird the whole drive over here."

Allie squeezes Dean's forearm in warning. Garrett glares down at you, shuffling his feet until they go head-to-head with yours, defiant and itching with frustration, suddenly forgetting you have an audience.

"I'm sorry I'm not comfortable with you dating the fourth line bench warming prick who makes a point to antagonize the entire team every time we play him."

"We went on one date, Garrett. A single date. We are not dating."

"Who gives a fuck! It's the principle!"

"Well, I do, because you've been acting like a petulant child for the past two weeks, and you're supposed to be my best friend, and I miss you, but you can't even look at me anymore, and all I wanted was a nice night, to be wined and dined, and he did that, and he was a gentleman and respectful to me, but that's not enough for you, and nothing I do anymore is enough for you, and - "

Both of your gazes swing to the door Allie and Dean retreat through. Your chest rises and falls rapidly with each angry intake and exhale. Garrett clenches and unclenches his fists by his side.

"Fuckin' assholes," he grumbles, only half-serious. The fight leaves him immediately, his shoulders dropping.

With the rest of your run-on sentence stuck in your throat, you deposit your bags onto the bed and angrily open and close drawers to put your clothes away. With your back now turned to him, Garrett is safe to watch you, and so he does, shamelessly; the rigidness of your shoulder blades, the flush on your neck, the hoodie he's been missing for two or three months now finding its way into the dresser. Even mad at him, yourself, Allie and Dean, that fucking guy who has no business knowing you, whoever, or maybe life itself, and he still thinks you're the prettiest thing he's ever seen.

He doesn't say anything to you the rest of the afternoon. You don't ask him to.

Allie at least has the decency to look chagrined when you come out to the backyard hours later. Dean offers you an awkward smile with a glass of sangria, like that'll fix everything - and maybe it will, after a few. Logan and Grace unceremoniously shove themselves into one wicker chair around the bonfire, sharing kisses and giggles and fruit-coated breaths that you can no longer look at. Tucker is leaning in close to Garrett, showing him something on his phone, and Garrett is...

There, across from you through the flames. Broad and huge, his powerful thighs spread wide. He's already sun-kissed without needing to bake all day. The beer bottle is loose in his hand between a few long fingers, and he's slouching and laughing like nothing is wrong.

But everything is wrong, and you're losing your best friend. He doesn't seem to care.

Which is why not too long later, you're shoving the blanket off you and saying your goodnights. Sabrina frowns subtly at you like she knows everything the others do not, catching your arm in her soft hand. You shake her off with a weak smile, and Garrett notices, because Garrett always notices, and yet he still does not say anything when you walk away from him once more.

It's much later after that, two or three in the morning, when the bed creaks beneath you. Your eyes fly open, your body pulling taut at the familiar scent of his cologne and the natural awareness you always have when he's around. You're in your tiniest sleep shorts and the softest of his hoodies, but you're still so mad, betrayal creeping in whenever you breathe too deep or think of him too long.

"I'm sorry," Garrett murmurs softly, mouth almost on the bare skin where your neck meets your shoulder. You fight back the shiver. "I have been mean, and unfair, and childish, and whatever else you were going to call me earlier."

You don't respond for a moment, calculating. Then, "I was going to call you a fourth line bench warming prick, actually."

You hear the pin drop. You feel his chest rise and fall steadily behind you. Then, without notice, his arm brandishes itself against your chest and hauls you back towards him.

"Hey - "

His palm seals over your mouth, forceful enough to take your next words but not tight enough that you couldn't wrench yourself free if you needed to - if you wanted to. Both of you think maybe you don't.

You make an unintelligible protest underneath him, fingers curling around his wrist at where his massive hand paws your jaw.

"I deserved that," is his quiet admission, "but you drive me insane."

If his arm were any lower, he would feel the unmistakable hardening of your nipples against his punishing hold. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the waves crash onto the shore. It might be your heart in your eardrums.

His fingers start to slacken against your cheek. "If I move my hand, do you promise to let me finish my apology?"

I've been waiting for you to talk all day, is what you so desperately want to retort, but your body is traitorous, even against you, always when it comes to him. You nod slowly instead.

With your mouth free, Garrett rearranges you so that you slot perfectly into him. You don't dare say anything, letting him fix your legs inbetween his and budging down when he beckons your head to be lower on his chest. He tightens around you almost protectively, like he's shielding you from himself.

You should be so, so, so mad. You're something entirely different.

"I'm sorry," he says again, tucking his head against yours. "I was wrong to be jealous." You feel his mouth open and close, maybe considering his next words. "I am jealous. You're my best friend."

You only exhale.

"I asked Dean if he thinks it's because you're my best friend and I don't want to share your time with someone else. He said yes."

"You talked to Dean?" you whisper in the dark.

Garrett chuckles with no humor. "Desperate times call for desperate measures." He pauses. "I don't think Dean is right."

"Oh."

"I think he said that to make me feel better for not knowing."

You relax further into his chest, warm and fuzzy all of a sudden. "What do you not know?"

Garrett's thumb has started doing that thing above your belly button. Your hips may push back into his involuntarily, the movement infinitely small. He feels it everywhere anyway.

"Why I'm jealous," he manages, the other hand braced against your waist to stop the next motion. The flex of his fingers, strong and sure against you, causes you to let out a quiet and bewildered moan, nearly heady.

It dissipates into the night.

"Go to sleep, sunshine," Garrett whispers. His arm tightens around you as imperceptibly as your hip movement. "Let me figure it out."

You want to tell him that you already have, that he doesn't need to worry anymore; but you have never felt so small, so securely tucked against someone else, safe and cozy, that your eyelids droop on their own accord. He presses the softest of kisses into your hair.

You sleep. He does not.

-

Four

Garrett does not have it all figured out. In fact, he's even more confused than two months ago in that bed with you, because you've gone on three more first dates since then. They have not been with him. He practically begs for the recaps from the girls and only gets them through osmosis from the guys, which is somehow worse because they have all the details wrong and can't even describe what you were wearing for someone who wasn't him, or if you kissed them.

How do they not know if you kissed them? Was no one else bothered by this?

Now he's desperate and he still doesn't know why. You've decided you can no longer wait around in agony to be wanted while he trapezes through an investigative journalism major.

The breakups hit harder for that reason.

None of them really landed as actual breakups, per se, and certainly not the kind that made you have to pack up your belongings through your heartbreak and leave the shared room or town - but they were enough. One texted you saying you were sweet, but not quite compatible enough to make the conversations worthwhile. Another fully admitted to still being in love with his ex.

The most recent date did not call you back last week. You didn't know why until his friends started snickering every time they saw you in the cafeteria. Today was the last straw. You took one look at him sitting there, welcoming the laughs at your expense, and slammed your tray back down so hard it rattled more than your bones.

Garrett hears about it, because Garrett always hears about it, and doesn't hesitate to drive to your apartment in lieu of finishing out his next two classes.

Unfortunately and understandably, your roommate has the same protective streak as him, blocking the entrance politely. "I don't think it's a good day for company," she tries.

"Please," he all but growls. She might be scared of him if she didn't already know how soft he gets around you, hearing so often how he would never raise his voice at anyone after his childhood.

"Fine," she concedes, "but you're doing my sociology homework for the rest of the semester."

He doesn't even blink. "Done."

She's taken aback by that. "I was just joking. Aren't you busy with hockey?"

"I'm not busy for this one thing."

"Oh... oh," is all she can choke out before he's gently shouldering past her and into your orbit.

Maybe the violence is still embedded beneath his skin, because he takes one look at you crumpled up on your bed and almost turns back to campus to find the asshole responsible.

"I'm going to kill him," Garrett seethes.

Your head jolts off the pillow. "What the hell, Garrett?"

He thinks you're referring to his murder plot, not the fact that he's standing in the middle of your room while your mascara tracks down your cheeks without any other announcement. He continues pacing.

"I'm going to need Tucker for this. Logan, too. Dean can't keep his mouth shut to save his life."

"Garrett, what the hell are you doing in my room?"

Garrett stops and takes one more look at you, awareness prickling at his skin. He can barely stand the sight of your red-rimmed eyes and puffy lips. He thinks he might be dying.

"I..." He shakes his head, incredulous. "What do you mean? Of course I'm here. You need me."

Your lip wobbles then. Hurt fills your eyes, followed by a fresh set of tears. He's definitely dying. "Need you?"

Garrett is still trying to figure out what was wrong with that sentence by the time you've blindly grasped the pillow next to you and soared it through the air at him. For a man who is planning to go professional in reaction time, he does not react fast enough; it hits him squarely where his heart might be if it wasn't already constricting at your crying. His breath whooshes out of him. They just keep coming after that.

"Needing you is the reason I'm in this predicament!" A pillow. "You" - a chuck - "are such" - another launched - "a selfish" - harder this time - "ass!"

"How many fuckin' pillows do you have?" he snaps.

The second to last throw narrowly misses the corner of his eye. You're gearing up to assault him with the final one - the one you were holding tightly to your chest like a lifeline - when he suddenly has enough of your nonsense and charges you. He rips the fabric free from your hands, and in one motion, pulls you back to the headboard, the place he sits up against while cradling the back of your head in one hand, the other placing you securely in his lap.

You hesitate against him so quickly he almost misses it, but then he murmurs something low and soft into your ear, and you melt into him. You sob harder.

"I just want," you gasp through the tears, clutching the front of his shirt tightly enough that your knuckles pale. "Want someone to want me. I want to be wanted, I want..."

"Shhh," Garrett soothes roughly, not to cut you off, but because your breath is hitching so much it's starting to worry him. "I know. I know, baby. Take a breath."

Somewhere through the fog, it is not fully lost on you that it's the first time he's ever called you that. You're not Sunshine right now, and maybe it's because the cloud of rain is so heavy and dark in your room, but you wonder if you could become that - baby - instead.

In the middle of holding you, Garrett decides you already are that to him.

"I know," he tuts again, but perhaps it's said to finally agree with himself on something rather than speaking it aloud to you.

Both of his hands swoop along the length of your back, moving your hair from your shoulders, up and down again in the loveliest rhythm. You rub your nose against his collarbone and take a calming breath of him, all smoky woods and soft lavender.

It takes another minute for your hiccups to subside. Once they're gone and Garrett doesn't quite feel like he's dying anymore, you peer up at him with the widest eyes you've ever made at him.

"You called me baby." You swallow. "Or did the emotional regulation make that up?"

Garrett hums nonchalantly, rubbing your cheek carefully like you might crack beneath his ministrations. He chooses his words carefully, too, and ultimately banks on - "Yeah, guess I did."

"Why?"

Garrett feels the most honest he has in a long time, maybe forever, like he accidentally leaned on a rusty switch that hasn't been turned on in years. "Felt right."

Your lips open in a purse at that. You blink down to where you're straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs, fallen open at some point when he was clutching you to him while your salty tears gave away all of your secrets.

"Hey, Graham?" you whisper. Garrett is too busy memorizing the shape of your lips and the crinkles at your eyes when you start to smile at him that he misses your words completely.

"Hmm?"

"Are you ever going to kiss me?"

His eyes flicker back up to yours then. There's need written all over him, but something else, too. You wonder how long that's been there; if both of you might have been blind to it.

He shifts underneath you slightly, dragging his hands down to your waist. "Not after you've been crying," he murmurs. "Breaks my heart to hear you cry."

Your lips twitch. His eyes go there one more time. "Making excuses again?"

"What if I did?"

"What, kiss me?"

"Yeah."

"I think I'd like that."

Garrett's eyes flare. "That wouldn't ruin anything? We'd still be best friends?"

"Is that what we've been afraid of this whole time?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

You shake your head at him and he tracks the movement. Unconsciously, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Your breath is warm against him. You shift further down onto your knees and press your weight fully into him, pelvises aligning. He lets out the groan he's been holding in for years and squeezes your lower back, throwing his head back against the headboard and chanting something about crying and best friends and waiting underneath his breath.

"Kiss me," you whisper, gently fisting dark tufts of his hair at the nape of his neck. You angle his chin up to yours. He prays to a god he doesn't fully believe in. "Want me."

That's the problem, he realizes; Garrett has wanted you for so long that a part of him turned on him and made him believe he didn't deserve it, didn't deserve you. That part of him is so quiet now that he thinks he might've killed it.

You're warm and pliant, coaxable beneath his touch when he lifts up and meets you in the middle. He kisses you like he plays hockey: hurried but controlled, with something to prove, tender but intense, worth every bruise to his mouth. He learns the playing field of your mouth first - how to drive you wild with a teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth and the peak of your cupid's bow - before his tongue, heavy and competitive, meets yours.

You moan something into his mouth, and he nods as if he's both heard and understood what you've said when neither is true. He holds you tighter at the base of your spine and then at your thighs and then at your face and jaw because he can't get enough of you and there's too much time to catch up on to touch you in only one place.

"This does not mean I forgive you for waiting so long," you mumble against his mouth as he lays you against your back, the pillows long gone to the floor.

"Baby, I won't forgive myself for that either."

-

Four & A Half

You realize it's a date before he says anything.

The boys aren't home.

There's a vase of fresh flowers on the kitchen island.

Garrett is wearing an apron, probably Tuck's, both too small and too big on him, and a nervous grin.

He pushes the brownie sundae towards you, because he's Garrett, and Garrett knows everything about his best friends, and right now all you want is dessert before dinner.

The cherry stem on top of the ice cream gets tied by his tongue at some point. The dinner moves to the couch in the living room, where you two laugh during storytelling and pretend to watch a movie, when really you are so intently focused on the other person that the picture-perfect couple in the movie is digitally offended.

You get sleepy at some point; Garrett offers to carry you up to his room.

"Carry me?" You rub at your eyes sleepily. He has already dimmed the lights because anything that hurts you hurts him. "You're promoting me to being carried to bed?"

Garrett tries not to smile and fails so terribly it's sickening. "It's not too much of a raise. We still have to share one bed."

Garrett gives you the shirt off his back and lets you pick whichever side you want. It feels semipermanent, being able to choose and potentially having it forever.

When you fall asleep that night, curled safely into his ribs on your side of the bed, you realize the dilemma comes from choosing him, potentially for forever.

-

Five

Your husband muffles a curse into the mattress. Little feet and hands continue balancing precariously on his lower back, which is still sore from last night's rivalry game against the Canadiens. He thinks he may be getting old.

"Daddy," your mini me scolds once and only once, no room for argument in her tone. "That's a bad word."

Garrett turns his head slowly towards you, sleep lines marring his skin, hair poking up in every direction. He should be getting at least another hour of sleep before he slips out of bed to make you your coffee, but duty calls, and he takes being a father very seriously.

The sleep leaves his voice immediately. "When did my little monkey get so big?"

A squeal of delight sounds from above you two when he twists to his back and catches her in the air. He tucks her back underneath his arm and turns to you, placing her in the middle of the bed between you two. You both lean in at the same time to cover her face in kisses.

Garrett's free hand finds you and strokes up and down your arm while you get an earful about waffles with chocolate chips. He closes his eyes briefly, soaking it all in.

You share a bed now. Your little girl climbs into it every morning he's home, sometimes too early to function properly. Garrett couldn't imagine life any other way.