~*~

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.

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.