~*~

One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will you stay, too?"

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

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

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

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

He tells himself he's just watching the door.

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

He tells himself anyone would do this for a friend.

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

-

Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sunshine."

"No, listen - "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not if what?" you whisper.

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

-

Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey - "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You only exhale.

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

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

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

"Oh."

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

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

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

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

It dissipates into the night.

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

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

You sleep. He does not.

-

Four

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

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

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

The breakups hit harder for that reason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't even blink. "Done."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

"Hmm?"

"Are you ever going to kiss me?"

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

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

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

"What if I did?"

"What, kiss me?"

"Yeah."

"I think I'd like that."

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

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

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

Four & A Half

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

The boys aren't home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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