~*~

The first clue should have been the water damage on the ceiling in the lobby. The second was likely when the agent texted that she was running late to the showing. A nonnegotiable of “easily accessible via stairs” was mentioned once or twice early on but clearly had been ignored based on the luxury complex’s penthouse, which would have counted as strike number three if you and Garrett weren’t so damn excited to start your own life in Boston together.

Garrett looks down at his phone for guidance. “We can take…” His brows furrow. “...thirty-three flights of stairs.”

You look down at his calves, which you know are still fatigued from the Bruins’ conditioning sessions based on the miniscule limp he’s been sporting for the past few days. You also know he won’t ever admit it.

Garrett catches where you’re staring and scowls. “I feel like you’re going to say something deeply offensive about my manhood.”

“Let’s just take the elevator,” you offer coolly.

“I’m not asking my claustrophobic fiancé to get into a metal deathtrap for a lease we’re not going to sign,” he deadpans.

You roll your eyes, but your hand finds his forearm where he’s warm and safe; nothing bad ever happens to you there. “You take elevators every day.”

He softens underneath your touch. “Have you ever asked me to go home for Thanksgiving?”

“No.”

“Same thing.”

A resident takes that moment to brush past you two in the hallway, headed towards the elevator that undoubtedly only accepts one of those keycards that cost $150 to replace.

You purse your lips and try to sound confident. “What if the rooftop is really pretty? It’s better than waiting in the car at the next stop. Two elevator rides won’t kill me.”

Garrett’s eyes have slanted over to the rapidly retreating back. You start steering his arm in that direction.

“Come on,” you coax gently. “I know you want to see it.”

A small smile plays at his lips, and you know you’ve won him over like you always do. “Two rides,” he repeats. “Rooftop. We make out. We leave this place forever.”

“Who said anything about making out?”

“Are you in or not?”

You’re laughing by the time Garrett’s long strides catch the sliding doors. He slots his hand into the opening and greets the disgruntled occupant who smells stronger than cigarettes and fixes his sunken eyes onto you immediately.

“Rooftop, please,” you beam, although the first bead of sweat has started forming at your temple.

The man bares his yellowing teeth at you. Without looking away, he pushes the floor button with one long fingernail.

“Jesus,” Garrett huffs underneath his breath. He quietly fixes himself to your back and locks a protective arm around your waist. He stays that way - chin above your head, hand flexed at your hip, glare trained on the other man - until the doors open a few stops above the ground floor.

When it’s just you two again, you murmur, “See, this isn’t so bad,” while Garrett starts grumbling about firing the agent as soon as you're back in his Jeep.

The fourth red flag should have been the grating sound the doors made when they closed after an indefinite pause. The fifth would have been the way the lights flickered at the tenth and eleventh floor, but you’re too busy nervously picking underneath your fingernails while Garrett watches for any signs of distress on your face.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises gently, now facing you with his hands on either side of the railing behind you. The statement would flip your tummy for a very different reason if nausea wasn’t commandeering most of the space already.

His finger just grazes the band of your engagement ring when the elevator gives its first jerk. Before he even stills, the box rattles dramatically, quiets down in that deafening sort of way that makes you hyperaware of life itself, jerks once more, and then freezes completely, leaving you two suspended twenty plus floors midair while encased in metal.

Everything goes dark.

For a moment, all you hear is Garret’s sharp intake of breath - or maybe it’s yours. You can only feel the wetness gathering at the back of your neck. You think you might open your mouth to say something real and concealed by dark humor, but your tongue dries up. You can barely recognize the shapes in front of you when Garrett pulls back to search for the emergency button in the pitch black.

When nothing happens on the first press, he considers pushing it down six more times in frantic succession; instead, his ears perk up at your little whimper, and suddenly he’s the professional athlete who grounds himself through his body and box breathes through his nose.

“Hey.” Strong hands cup your face, so infinitely gentle where they hold you. “Hey, baby. You with me?”

Your chest starts to puff restlessly. You can barely see your own fingers where they grip Garret’s shoulders, let alone his longer ones when they come up to your hair and start pushing clammy tendrils back from your eyes.

“Hey,” he tries again, sounding both patient and panicked as he softens his tone. “Talk to me. I’m right here.”

“Bad,” you gasp out. “This is bad.”

Garrett is shaking his head before you’ve finished that sentence. “This happens,” he lies easily, finger fishing for the button once more when he blocks your view from seeing his silhouette move.

Your voice sounds far away. “Can I… can I sit down?”

Garrett’s heart drops to his stomach. “Yeah, baby, ‘course you can. C’mere.”

Carefully and without moving the elevator more, Garrett curls his hands over your shoulders and slowly eases you down. The floor is cool beneath you, a stark contrast to the temperature of your skin. You unsteadily curl your knees to your chest and plop your face into them. Garrett continues standing above you, unsure if he should punch open the electrical box or comfort you, and for a small, silly second, he reverts back to his younger self, helpless and frozen.

Fix it.

Fix it.

Fix it.

Before the fear gets the chance to embed itself in him too, he shakes his head and blinks it all away. He crouches down in front of you, so painstakingly aware of scaring you and the elevator into lurching.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs, mouth somewhere close to where the first bead of sweat was before it fell. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Your body tightens. Garrett makes a soft sound, finding your arms where they wrap too tightly around your legs. He rubs his hands along them, trying to loosen you. You don’t budge.

He switches tactics. “Through your nose and out your mouth, baby, come on. That’s it. Deep breaths.”

They wash over your legs in uneven spurts. Garrett grinds his molars but doesn’t squeeze you where he holds you. He clicks the button one more time, grimaces when the elevator rattles again, and uses the distraction to bring himself fully down to your level before he pulls you into his lap.

He tucks his legs on either side of you, cocooning you against his chest. His fingers return to your shoulders, kneading whatever tension lies there. You press your mouth into his throat, inhaling his woodsy scent that always seems to mix in with the fresh laundry of his soft shirt and remnants of this morning’s black coffee and protein shake.

Garrett hopes his breathing pattern convinces yours to do the same. He doesn’t mention the procedure again, now opting for the type of quiet comfort that comes only from being around the person who goes to sleep next to you and wakes up happily with your hair in their mouth.

When the air becomes stale and scary again, he starts to hum.

It’s a melody that’s muted but familiar, something his mom used to sing all the time. It used to annoy him when she didn’t realize she was singing it everywhere; he used to roll his eyes. Looking back on it now, with you tucked closely underneath his chin and your fingers clutching his shirt, it might be his favorite song ever.

Your next breath unfurls quietly into his throat. He breaks from the song momentarily for an encouraging noise, tightening his hand at the back of your neck.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good job, baby.”

When he hums the next verse, each vibration settles against your ear and moves deep into your chest. You try to press even closer to him and frown when you cannot in your current position. He notices, because he always notices, and curls one arm beneath your legs before you’re sideways in his lap, draped over his muscular thighs.

The power flickers above you; neither of you notice.

The song dies down quietly. Garrett repositions you against his shoulder and kisses your forehead, letting his mouth linger there.

“Guess what I learned recently?” he murmurs against the top of your head.

You barely register his new strategy to relax you - you just do so anyway against him like it’s basic nature. You wet your lips and try, “What?”

Garrett smiles into your hair at the first sign of your voice. “Hey, baby,” he says gently. “Good to have you back. I’m going to tell you facts until you tell me to shut up.”

You almost laugh, taken aback. “What?” you ask again, a little stronger this time.

“Yup. Octopuses have three hearts.”

You sit up against his shoulder, sniffling. “Okay…”

“Cows have best friends.”

Your next small laugh is full of water. “Have you been watching National Geographic again?”

He ignores that but rewards you with another kiss to your forehead. “Goats have really weird pupils.”

“That’s nice, honey.”

“Penguins propose with rocks.”

You press your nose into his neck. “You proposed with a rock.”

Garrett lightly taps your knee and then skims his fingers up and down the full length of your leg in a slow, tantalizing rhythm that calms you completely. “Exactly.”

“But you’re a Bruin.”

Garrett mock gasps. “Does Sidney know that?”

You groan into his skin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You are fully folded up into me right now,” he teases quietly, but he wouldn’t have you any other way.

You tighten for a moment before you relax once more. You turn to weave both of your arms around his neck, pulling him fully into you because the contact has become not enough again.

“You’re okay,” he repeats softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Both of you settle into silence at that, knowing he means it. He nuzzles his nose into your hair, moving his head back and forth with it every time he breathes. Your pattern matches his this time.

A few minutes later, the first crackle of the speaker in the elevator comes. “Is anyone in there?”

Garrett tightens his hold on you and tucks your face back into his neck. “Yes!” he calls back impatiently. “I think one of your residents hexed us.”

You giggle while the unknown presence pauses. “Sorry, repeat that?” it muffles through the box.

Garrett mumbles a “Nevermind,” and pats your hair down. “Any day now would be nice.”

You’re sweet even in stressful situations, so he presses his lips together when you shoot him a pointed look.

“So,” you whisper a few minutes later when the lights have come on and the firefighters are somewhere in the building. “Not this one, huh?”

Garrett nudges him when you walk into the hockey house that weekend, pulling the red cup up to his mouth to hide his whisper. Dean absorbs all relevant information, skipping past Garrett’s quiet groan when he notices how short that skirt is. Frankly, Dean had noticed your legs even before Garrett had pulled him aside. He had noticed your makeup, too, something dark and smokey that pulled your eyes back into a cat-like slant that had him wondering what you would look like atop him in something that scantily resembles Anne Hathaway’s latex suit from The Dark Knight Rises. He also categorizes your pouty mouth as mean and casual and something Garrett might not be able to handle after all.

Garrett is shaking his head before Dean has said anything. “No.”

Dean lifts his own cup to his lips. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I know that look.”

Dean feigns indifference even though he is now mentally calculating how he might be able to get your attention and shove Garrett elsewhere at the same time. “What look?”

“The one you get before you slam someone into the boards.” Garrett careens his eyes back to you. “The competitive one.”

Dean leans against the wall and considers that for a moment. “Competition is good for everyone.”

Garrett hates the biological part of him that agrees. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Are you?” Dean’s eyes flash with an unknown spark that Garrett will find the courage to label much, much later.

His lips twitch in response. “No. I guess I’m not.” He tilts his head imperceptibly towards you. “Make her comfortable.”

Dean swallows the rest of his vodka in one go and pats Garrett on the chest, admittedly more in condescension than anything else. “That’s always first on my list.”

On his way to you, he grabs an unopened can directly out of someone’s hand, eliciting a protest that he lets die down somewhere behind him, but not before you hear the noise. Your narrowed eyes find him when he’s only a few steps away from you, somehow still much taller than other girls have described him and broad enough that he takes most of your line of sight with him. With quiet interest, you acknowledge he somehow pulls back on his physical size so as to not corner you.

He offers the closed drink to you. “You look like you could use this.”

You steadily look him up and down, pausing on his outstretched hand without immediately taking it. “Is that your official opening line?”

“You want me to start with my name?”

You roll your eyes at that. “I know who you are, Dean.”

That inflates his ego and brushes against his dick quicker than he’d like to admit. “Great, that’s out of the way then. What’s your name?”

You ignore him completely, easily spotting Garrett yards away, pretending to look interested in what a football player is yelling over the music when you had just caught him staring at you. “Did your friend send you over here?”

Dean struggles to not close his eyes in disbelief, both of their covers blown simultaneously. “He’s that obvious, huh?”

“Not just him.” You take the drink from his hand finally, intentionally brushing your fingers against his palm. “You, too.”

His fingers curl around yours for a moment before they drop. “And what is it you think I’m being obvious about?”

You crack open the can and take a sip, wincing when the cheap beer hits your tongue. Dean catalogues that reaction and sifts through his personal inventory that he can offer you instead. “You're playing wingman.”

Dean lets his grin unfurl at that. “Maybe. Maybe not. What if I think you’re pretty, too?”

“You make me sound like an innocent little flower.”

“I can tell just by looking at you that you’re not.” He lets his eyes drop to your chest before he brings them back up to your face. “But I didn’t want to be disrespectful.”

You hum, taking another sip for the courage alone. “I don’t mind when guys who look like you are a little disrespectful.”

Dean suddenly decides you and him are going to get along just fine. His grin widens. “See? That’s what I mean. Garrett respects women too much. I don’t have to if you don’t want me to.”

Both of you are surprised when your little laugh shines through, but Dean lets his chest absorb the sound. Garrett’s eyes flicker over to you two again at the movement in your throat.

“Don’t throw him under the bus when he’s not here to defend himself,” you chastise without any real scolding. “He’s cute, too.”

Dean wishes he had another drink in his hand to salute you. “I’m joking, of course. Consent is key.”

Both of you pause for a moment, letting the statement linger between your bodies. Dean thinks he might see you angle yours closer to him; you think you might imagine his chin dipping closer to your head. Neither of you mention either puzzle piece.

“What, exactly,” you whisper, your lips impossibly pillowy and plump up close and enough to derail Dean’s stream of consciousness completely, “am I consenting to right now?”

Dean’s voice deepens to a baritone of a murmur that caresses somewhere deep below your waist. “This conversation. My best friend staring at us and arguably making things weird while I’m working. Me flirting with you without knowing your name.” He pauses. “That’s a little scandalous, don’t you think?”

“You not knowing my name?”

“Yeah.”

Your shrug brushes your bare shoulders against his chest; he feels the contact everywhere. “Garrett knows my name. Why didn’t he tell you?”

Of course he didn’t, that sneaky fuck, Dean realizes. He inhales softly through his nose. “He knew I would get it anyway.”

“Mmm. I’m not sure that’s the full truth.” You press one finger into his chest and he exhales, rougher this time. “Invite him over here.”

Dean’s hand, which moved without him knowing, slips where it resides against the wall by your head. “What?”

Your mouth, which sought him without you knowing, curves against his. “Invite him.” Your lips brush the corner. “Over here.”

“Baby doll.” Dean lets the name slip out because he doesn’t know your real one and also because his brain can no longer function, but someone still has to stay in control of the situation. “Do you know what you’re doing with this?”

“I do.” Your eyelashes flutter, coated dark and thick and too damn tempting for him to say no to. “I’m a consenting adult. Are you?”

Dean is going to bite your lip for that later. “Let me go find out if he is.”

“Don’t scare him too much. He seems sweet.”

He finally lets a chuckle loose because his chest is getting too tight and needs to release something before he blows completely in his pants from this wet dream.

“You’re gonna be in trouble. Stay here.” The hand that was beside your head now hovers at your waist and you let him. He tries to squeeze gently, but his fingers are too big and sure and you decide you don’t care. “You want something else to drink?”

“Please. Tequila.”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. He momentarily looks up and thanks whoever is watching over him. “Yeah, trouble. Stay.”

Garrett looks equal parts disappointed and seconds away from being provoked when Dean finds his path towards him on wobbly legs. “Dude, what the fuck was that?”

“Kitchen. Emergency meeting. Now,” Dean utters while barely moving his face.

Garrett promptly shuts up and follows him. Dean takes two steps into the kitchen before everyone else not invited into a threesome sees the madness in his eyes with Garrett grumbling darkly behind him. They smartly vacate the room entirely.

Dean starts checking the cabinets for booze that he would deem good enough for you while still not inhibiting everyone completely.

Meanwhile, Garrett fumes loudly. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“G.” Dean rests his forehead against one of the wooden doors, not quite looking at his best friend yet. “For reasons I do not care to unpack, the hottest woman I have ever seen in my entire life walked into our house and implied a threesome by inviting you. A ménage à trois, Graham.”

Garrett’s entire ecosystem reboots. “Her?” He repeats your real name and Dean’s head snaps up like he’s finally found god. “She asked for a threesome? With us?”

“Well.” Dean grimaces briefly. “Actually, I do need to get her to say that explicitly. But G, her mouth was right there, and she was looking at me with those eyes, and she didn’t even care you were watching us the whole time.”

Garrett guffaws offensively. “I was not - I was not watching you the whole time.”

Dean powers on, “Are you in or not? I can draft up a legal contract with ground rules, but tomorrow. She’s waiting.”

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” Garrett grits out, but his neck is flushing red and his hand is going up to rub at it like he’s considering it all and trying to funnel brain cells through touch alone.

Dean watches every movement and mutters a get the fuck out when one of their freshman teammates tries entering the sacred ground.

Garrett stays quiet another tedious moment before he takes the bottle out of Dean’s hands and uncorks it with his teeth.

“Ground rules,” he hisses. “No eye contact, no filming, we don’t tell anyone, and we go back to being friends tomorrow.”

Dean’s smirk appears as soon as the first wave of tequila hits Garrett’s mouth. He accepts the offering when he passes the bottle back to him and takes his own long swig.

“Deal.”

---

“Ground rules,” you start softly ten minutes later, lazily bracing yourself against Garrett’s mattress with your hands splayed behind you. “No back hole, no filming, no jealousy, and condoms always. You can stop whenever you want. I will stop whenever I want.”

Garrett thinks he’s died and gone to heaven but can’t quite find the words to continue the coordination. Dean clasps his hands safely in front of him and nods like he’s done this before.

When he asks politely, “Pain level? Choking? Any other hard stops? How do you feel about degradation?” Garrett realizes maybe he has.

You play with the hem of your skirt that already barely covers anything; Garrett’s eyes zero in on the new strip of skin anyway. “I’m good with light slapping and choking. Don’t spit in my mouth. You can tease me, but I draw the line at rude physical comments.”

“Nice,” Dean breathes out, nodding faster.

Garrett still doesn’t say anything. You notice this and frown at him like you did only earlier this week, trying to figure him out. “Are you good with that?”

His jaw clenches at the same time his eyes darken. Your eyebrows raise to your hairline. Maybe he can be mean and casual with all of this. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“So.” You alternate looking at either of them, pulling the competitive nerves out once more. “Who is going to kiss me first?”

Dean and Garrett had decided on his room because it’s cleaner and because he needs more familiarity than tequila can provide, so he offers an olive branch without looking at his friend. He swallows roughly and mutters, “Dean is.”

If Dean is surprised by that, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he takes one step towards you before his fingers lock around your ankle, expertly pulling you to the foot of the bed in a quiet display of strength. Garrett would roll his eyes if he wasn’t thinking about being knuckle deep in you at this very moment. When Dean grabbed you, your skirt hiked up further.

Dean settles himself above you, spreading his long fingers wide across your jaw. His mouth is wet and warm slotted against yours, teasing your tongue with his own every time your lips part on a soft gasp that fizzles right into his cock. His thumb presses down against the pulse in your neck, exploratory at first, then firmer when your hips meet his in response.

Garrett feels his heartbeat pick up. His hand goes to palm the tenting of his dick against his zipper. He stops completely when, without pulling away from you, Dean makes a noise from the back of his throat and motions to Garrett with his free hand. Garrett freezes altogether, but blinks himself out of it once that same hand disappears under your skirt and you moan the prettiest sound he has ever heard.

Garrett promised he wouldn’t get jealous, but fuck it, he is.

His feet move before his brain picks up on it. His knees hit the mattress, careful of your hair now fanned out across his comforter, and only sees soaked lace where Dean is rubbing you.

“Fuck, G, touch her,” Dean whispers, still not meeting his eyes as he teases one digit against your opening. “Wettest pussy I’ve ever felt. Isn’t that right, baby?”

You whine something muted and unintelligible at his praise, fighting with the hand that holds you down meticulously.

Dean and Garrett promised they wouldn’t look at each other, but fuck it, they do.

Dean grins wickedly. Garrett feels the thrum of contention that often makes him skate faster, push harder, and fuck louder.

He welcomes it this time.

When Dean’s hand presses down on your tummy to make room for Garrett’s, something inside him snaps. He pushes the sodden fabric to the side and coats two of his fingers with your slick, teasing your slit with a firmness that is there and then gone before you can egg him on.

If you and Dean are surprised by that, neither of you show it - except you’ve also lost your train of thought.

“Which one of us are you gonna call ‘daddy,’ baby doll?” Dean’s hand finds your windpipe and presses down lightly, tethering you to the bed. “Me or him?”

Garrett slips only the tip of his finger into your cunt the same time Dean asks his patronizing question, purposefully distracting you. They are teammates, after all.

You can barely think, but your mouth pulls from that meanness Garrett noticed first. “Neither of you,” you pant.

Dean tsks and Garrett pulls his hand back. You curse them both.

“That smart mouth,” Dean murmurs, tightening his fingers around you, “is going to get you into a lot of trouble.”

When you whimper again, he mutters something to Garrett that you can’t hear before he shuffles you back until you rest upright against the headboard. Garrett stays at the bottom, his eyes tracking your panties. He barely moves from his spot when all three of you hear the unmistakable clink of Dean’s buckle coming undone as he stands above you beside the bed.

The blonde cups your cheek, suddenly serious. “You want my cum down your throat, pretty girl? Or do you want me to pull out when I’m done fucking it?”

Your eyes might roll to the back of your head. You breathe harder into his hand. “Just fuck it, please.”

Dean hums. “You decide when you have such good manners, don’t you?”

Once he gets to the prong of his belt, Garrett slides up to you and finds your softness again. His thumb leads alone, and then he lowers his curls slowly, peering up at you from below. Your thighs clench around his head. You don’t know where to look.

“Yeah,” he whispers haughtily, almost to himself even though you hear it all against your clit. “There she is.”

Dean’s cock, long and hard and leaking precum, finds your parted lips the same moment Garrett pushes your panties to the side and latches onto you with his mouth. You muffle a moan into Dean’s warm skin before he catches the back of your throat, your fingers fighting to find purchase at his thigh and Garrett’s hair simultaneously.

Dean feels like being nice for the moment, so he lets you leave your hand there as he gives his first few thrusts, testing how far he can go before you gag and drool around him. Garrett’s hand closes around yours, and he sucks at your clit while his other hand crooks one finger into you until you start pulsating against him.

“Nice and quiet now, aren’t you?” Dean taunts, snapping his hips hard enough that you can only grip Garrett’s head in response. Garrett moans into your pussy, adding another finger, and Dean fixes his hand against your neck.

You start to feel your buildup at the same time Dean’s toes start pushing into the carpet, searching for anything to ground him. Garrett grinds himself down into his mattress, searching for any sort of release he can find while they work you towards yours. They match each other’s pace without verbally planning it, so much the same duo they are on the ice as they are in bed.

You start to babble around Dean’s cock, now looking down at where Garrett’s is begging to be touched. Dean smirks, broadening his caging grip to your chin.

“Round two?” he asks Garrett, ignoring your mumbles completely.

The grapes land by your folded arms on the table with a soft thud. You barely rouse from your protective position over your textbook.

"What are these?" you mumble in lieu of greeting, highlighting another line.

"Hi, baby." Garrett leans over and presses a kiss to your forehead. "Can you eat something for me before you get grouchy?"

You scowl, finally looking up to find him moving into the seat across from you, hair damp from tonight's practice, chest broad and covered by a big hoodie that still seems to stretch tightly across his shoulders. He's annoyingly handsome, even under the library's fluorescent lighting.

You look at the ziplock bag with offense. "I'm not grouchy," you grouch.

Garrett covers his laugh by unzipping his laptop case. His philosophy reading rivals the size of your own coursework, and your body softens instantly, knowing he's lugged himself over here after a long day.

"Hi," you murmur, covering his big hand with your own. He squeezes your fingers. "Thank you. How was practice?"

"Coach was a menace today." He hooks his ankle over the peg of your chair and pulls you closer to the table, meeting you in the middle with a kiss that tastes warmer and lasts longer than a campus should allow. "I'm okay now."

You hum into his mouth, kissing him once more. "Missed you."

A thinly veiled cough comes from behind you. Garrett rolls his eyes without shame, shooting a glare somewhere over your shoulder that promptly shuts said person up. He reluctantly pulls away from you after.

"Eat," he commands quietly. "I'll take you home in a bit."

You gratefully pop a grape into your mouth without combating him. He smiles down into his textbook.

The kiwi comes a few days later. Garrett sizes it up in the kitchen, twisting it in his palm with a degree of fascination typically only reserved for staring at you.

"Are yellow kiwis unripe?" he asks the general vicinity.

Dean grunts from where he's sprawled out on the couch. "Different variant."

"Do you eat the fuzz?"

"Always eat the fuzz, bro. Always."

Garrett sets the kiwi on the cutting board like it's precious. "Fucking pervert," he says under his breath, but he laughs anyway.

You come down the stairs a few minutes later, cozied up in a borrowed pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that slouches off one shoulder. You look pretty, sleepy, and so undeniably his.

When he slides the plate of cut up fruit to your spot at the island, Logan tries reaching over to steal a piece. Garrett slaps his hand away without a word directed at him.

"For you," he says softly, eyes locked with yours.

You are oddly amused and terribly delighted to see a sprinkle of sugar. Logan makes a noise of disgust at the sweetness all around. Both of you ignore him when Garrett claims your mouth with his as a proper good morning.

When the banana bunch is left unattended late that night, Garrett peruses the pantry for other ingredients. You stand there behind him, thoroughly fucked, your hair a genuine monstrosity from his roaming fingers, with your arms tucked tightly around his waist. You brace your face between his shoulder blades, muffling all words into the fabric of his soft shirt while the house remains quiet everywhere else.

"What are we making?"

"Peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwich," he murmurs, squeezing your hip.

You smile into his back. "That sounds good."

Garrett pulls away only to assemble everything, but never strays too far away from you. He beckons you back into his range of motion when he thinks you're becoming inaccessible, pressing one kiss to the underside of your jaw before he starts lathering a piece of bread. You stay leaning against the counter, accepting a wayward button of banana directly into your mouth by his gentle fingers or another kiss at any part of you he can get.

He cuts the bread diagonally. He doesn't let you take the smaller half.

"You keep feeding me," is your only unhelpful contribution.

He shakes his head and pushes the bigger piece back to you. "Let me."

"I am perfectly capable of feeding myself."

The grin that widens across his face at that moment is beautiful and so perfectly only ever for you. "Okay," he supplies gently, "but can you let me anyway?"

When you're sick a week or so later, Garrett doesn't hesitate to pluck the bag of lemons out of Beau's hands without much thanks.

This time, when Garrett starts a cup of steaming tea with fresh citrus back at your place, you don't worry that he's providing too much for you. He brushes his fingers against your forehead and frowns when he feels the fever as the tea bag steeps. You are too congested to complain about anything, and he finds you ridiculously adorable when you are incapable of fighting him.

"Did you buy a bag of lemons just for this?" you croak.

Garrett thinks of lying. He also considers telling the full truth. He lands on, "I panicked and didn't know how much you would need," which is just as genuine.

You nuzzle your cheek into his palm and close your eyes. With his free hand, he tucks the blankets closer to your chin. He hates the way he feels helpless when your body gives in to another round of shivers.

"Gonna take care of you," he whispers with his mouth hovered at the crown of your head, leaving a kiss there. "I'll make Dean run suicides for this."

You pout. "How come you never get sick so I can take care of you?"

"I'm made of steel, baby."

You grab enough energy to give his shoulder a weak nudge. He catches your arm carefully after, tucking that underneath the covers, too. You sigh contentedly and allow him to dote on you. You fall asleep somewhere between the few sips he holds up to your mouth and the back tickles he coasts against your sweaty skin when he's horizontal beside you. He doesn't let you think he finds you gross for even a second.

You and him eye the pineapple a few days after that.

"Hear me out: science experiment," he starts.

You groan. "You're a freak."

"Respectfully, of course."

"Garrett."

Tucker pops his head around the corner and points at you. "I'm making an upside-down pineapple cake. You staying for dinner?"

Garrett lightly connects his hip with your body in a boyfriend-shaped check. "Yeah, baby, are you?"

You rest your head against his shoulder, beaming at Tucker. "I'm staying for dinner."

Tucker smiles at that, too. "Cool. We like when you're here." He points a warning finger at Garrett now. "Keep it that way."

A tenderness Garrett isn't used to feeling zaps him in the chest suddenly. He rubs at the spot absentmindedly while you become all too aware of the blush on his cheeks.

Dean ruins the moment by waltzing into the kitchen with a watermelon that easily weighs thirty pounds. "Tuck," he croons. "Look what daddy brought you."

Tucker groans up to the ceiling as if it will suddenly collapse and give him an emergency exit. Garrett chuckles but says nothing, gathering you closer into his side. He holds on tighter than before.

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.