bitters-n-sweets

There were the obvious things—the comments about your appearance, the assumption that you didn't know the sports as well as your male counterparts, the fans who thought your job was to stand on the sideline and look pretty. But it was the subtle stuff that got under your skin more. It was the way some coaches wouldn't make eye contact during interviews. It was the locker room access you had to fight for. It was the producer who suggested you smile more during game analysis. It was the constant need to prove you belonged in the booth.

It had not been an easy road. You graduated from college and paid your dues in the minor leagues first. Small-market radio stations where you'd do play-by-play for high school football games on Friday nights, then drive two hours to cover a college basketball game Saturday. You worked the overnight shift at a regional sports network, editing highlight reels at 2 AM and writing copy that nobody would read. You freelanced for websites that didn't pay, just to build a portfolio. You covered local teams for newspapers that were hemorrhaging money, knowing that one good story might get noticed.

Then came the regional gigs—cable sports networks in mid-sized markets where you finally got on camera. You would anchor the 10 PM sportscast, conduct sideline interviews at minor league baseball games, and file reports from high school state tournaments. You would pitch story ideas constantly and were networking at every press event.

And then, finally, you got the call last year. ESPN wanted you as a sideline reporter.

You cried in your car in the parking lot.

A few weeks later, you were still settling into your new Manhattan apartment when your boss handed you a major assignment: cover a critical post-game hockey segment with Garrett Graham. Hockey wasn't a beat you covered often. You spent so much time beforehand digging through tape, studying his nuances, and preparing harder than you'd ever prepared for anything. Partly because you were still trying to establish credibility at ESPN, and because you wanted to show you could handle any assignment thrown your way.

Garrett had a brutal game against Tampa Bay. Sloppy passes, missed assignments, looked like he was playing in slow motion. The kind of game that makes a forward want to disappear into the locker room and avoid the cameras entirely.

The arena air hung thick with the bite of ice shavings and the sour bite of spilled sports drinks on concrete. You elbowed past the pack of reporters, mic in hand, and zeroed in on Garrett just as he tugged off his helmet. Damp strands of dark curls clung to his forehead, and the sharp tang of his sweat mixed with the faint metallic scent of his gear. His brown eyes flicked up, narrowing as he clocked you pushing closer.

"That wasn't the Garrett Graham we usually see out there tonight," you said, voice even despite the way your heart thudded against your ribs. "You missed what—four, five passes in the first two periods alone? Weak coverage on their second-line wingers, zero offensive drive when you had possession. What happened out there?"

Garrett's eyebrows shot up. He blinked once, slow, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh that didn't reach his eyes. His shoulders stayed rigid under the soaked jersey, but something in his posture shifted—like you had just body-checked him.

"Jesus," he muttered, dragging a gloved hand over his mouth. The leather smelled like old sweat and tape. "Damn, straight for the jugular, huh? You actually sound like you watched the entire game."

You caught the way his nostrils flared on the exhale, the low rumble of his chuckle vibrating through the space between you. The crowd noise pressed in, but his focus stayed pinned on your face.

"I did watch. You looked checked out after the second period. Was it the physical play wearing you down, or something else pulling your focus?"

He shifted his weight, skates scraping the floor. "Wearing me down? Nah. I thrive on that. Tonight was just... off. Legs felt heavy, reads were slow."

"Yeah, you were a half-second behind on every play."

He arched an eyebrow at you.

"And heavy legs after a few shifts?" Your fingers tightened around the mic as you stepped closer. "That's your excuse for not dominating the boards like you usually do? You were letting Tampa push you around. What's the real reason you couldn't find your game?" Garrett's smirk widened, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, not wandering down your body like the way other players had done in the past.

"I guess… I got in my own head after that first bad turnover," his gloved fingers started tapping his stick. "Kept trying to force plays instead of playing simple."

The ice shavings crunched under shifting feet around you, the cold air biting your cheeks while you pressed on. "Forcing plays because you were rattled? That doesn't sound like the captain who leads this team. How do you shake that when there's still time on the clock?"

He dragged a hand over his jaw, the leather creaking, and a genuine warmth crept into his expression. "Shake it? You don't always. Sometimes you eat the mistake and keep skating."

You held his gaze, noting the way his posture softened just a fraction. "Whatever's weighing on you, it showed."

Garrett's mouth curved into a small, sincere smile, the cocky edge fading as he met your intensity head-on.

"That was—" you lowered the mic, voice sharpening, "—one of the worst performances of your entire career. You might want to fix that before it drags the team down with you."

Garrett's eyes lit with something appreciative and smiled with all of his teeth. He turned directly toward the camera, and said:

"You heard her. I gotta get my shit together."

The clip went viral. See…Garrett was notoriously private. Guys around the Bruins organization knew it. The media knew it too. He didn't love the press—never had. Short answers were his specialty. A grunt here, a grunt there. But after a loss? Forget about it. He gave you nothing. Just stare at his skates and wait for you to get the hint that the interview was over.

So naturally… social media exploded.

Your boss called you into his office the next morning, and you braced for something—a complaint from the Bruins' coach, maybe, or a lecture about "maintaining relationships." Instead, he grinned so wide you could see his molars. The takes of your interview multiplied overnight. Sports podcasts ran the footage in slow motion, analyzing every micro-expression. Morning shows replayed it on repeat. Your mentions went from a few hundred per week to thousands per day.

The consensus crystallized fast: you were a reporter with a backbone. Most of your peers tiptoed around Garrett Graham, terrified of getting iced out. You didn't let his reputation dictate your questions. You treated him like a professional who owed the fans accountability—not a fragile ego who needed coddling just because of who his father was. The other thing they couldn't stop talking about:

He smiled in the interview.

He even agreed with you on camera.

You'd gotten a version of Garrett Graham that no one else ever had.

You had managed to score tickets from a coworker to an exclusive club—a treat for Kayla, your best friend who you had known since you were kids. She was visiting from Chicago. The night was already off to a great start: dinner at Carbone and grabbing cocktails at Lovers of Today. You two were now sitting in your VIP booth, your laughter filling the air as she shared her most recent 'sex gone wrong' story with some one-night stand. Candles had been involved, and they almost set his apartment on fire. As you doubled over, tears streaming down your face, and sipped on your Piña colada, a familiar melody began to filter through the speakers, causing you to pause mid-sentence.

Your eyes widened in excitement as you wiped away your tears. "No way, is that what I think it is?"

"Yes!" she screamed, as she recognized the opening notes of your favorite song—Dancing On My Own.

Somebody said you got a new friend Does she love you better than I can? And there's a big black sky over my town I know where you're at, I bet she's around

Without missing a beat, Kayla grinned and reached for your hand, pulling you up from your seat. As the song continued to play, a rush of memories flooded back to you, and you were instantly transformed back to being younger, having carefree fun, and not paying any bills.

I'm in the corner, watching you kiss her, oh I'm right over here, why can't you see me? Oh And I'm giving it my all I'm not the guy you're taking home, ooh I keep dancing on my own, ah

You confidently swayed your hips to the catchy beat, and put on your karaoke voice, intertwining with Robyn. Your body moved fluidly as you ran your fingers through your hair, your eyes closed as you belted out every note.

I just wanna dance all night And I'm all messed up, I'm so out of line, yeah Stilettos and broken bottles I'm spinning around in circles

Kayla's movements become bolder and more seductive, drawing the attention of onlookers due to her uninhibited display. Some chuckled amusedly, while some others cheered her on, and she playfully winked at the audience, inviting them to join in on the fun.

And I'm in the corner, watching you kiss her, oh And I'm right over here, why can't you see me? Oh And I'm giving it my all But I'm not the guy you're taking home, ooh I keep dancing on my own And oh, nah

You twirled and spun as you let yourself be consumed by the music. You and Kayla threw your hands up in the air, grinning from ear to ear as you danced with abandon as you got closer to the end of the song.

So far away, but still so near The lights come on, the music dies But you don't see me standing here

Your audience erupted into applause, cheering and clapping once you both sang the final notes of the song.

You bowed dramatically, both giggling at all the whistles, and then started walking back to your table. "Damn girl, you looked good out there shaking that ass," Kayla said while adjusting her top to make sure her tits didn't spill out and accidentally flash the entire club.

You snorted as you started to take your seat. Kayla's eyes suddenly went wide, her drink nearly slipping from her grip as she froze mid-adjustment of her top.

"Holy shit," she hissed, voice low but frantic. "Look—over there. That's Dean Di Laurentis. John Logan. John Tucker, too. And—fuck—Garrett Graham. They're right there."

Her gaze locked on the VIP booth diagonally away from you (probably 100 feet away), where suddenly four Bruins players lounged in leather seats, a parade of bottle girls swarming their table. Crystal decanters clinked, ice rattled, and the sharp tang of expensive liquor mixed with perfume and cologne hung thick in the air. Music pulsed through the floor, vibrating up through your white sneakers.

The girls leaned in close, laughing too loud, fingers brushing biceps and shoulders as they poured. Logan grinned wide, accepting the attention with an easy tilt of his head. Tucker smirked, letting one girl trace the line of his jaw. Di Laurentis leaned back with that cocky half-smile, eyes roaming every curve the servers offered. But Garrett stayed still, posture straight, jaw set. He ordered with clipped precision, fingers drumming once against the table before he accepted his glass without a single flirtatious glance.

Kayla's breathing hitched. "Please. You have to introduce me. Especially to him." She nodded toward Di Laurentis, cheeks flushed, thighs pressed tight together under the table.

You shook your head. "I don't know them."

She grabbed your wrist. "You know Garrett. Oh my god, introduce me."

"I interviewed him almost a year ago." A laugh escaped you. "That's it."

"Yeah, and he was giving you fuck-me eyes the entire time."

You hesitated, watching the way Di Laurentis's broad shoulders shifted as he accepted another pour, his laugh carrying across the space. Kayla's fingers dug in harder. You sighed, realizing you couldn't say no to that face.

When the bottle service girl approached your table, you leaned close and whispered something quick into her ear. She nodded, tray balanced, and crossed to the players' booth. A moment later she pointed directly at the two of you.

Garrett's head snapped around so fast his dark hair shifted. His gaze found yours across the distance. A slow, knowing smirk curved his mouth. You lifted your hand in a shy wave, fingers trembling just slightly. The club's bass thumped against your ribs. His stare held, steady and heated, and for the first time, you really looked at him: the sharp line of his jaw, the way his shirt stretched over solid muscle, the quiet power in the way he sat completely still while chaos swirled around him.

Damn. He was hot.

The four hockey players crossed the space between booths with that easy swagger. Logan and Tucker slid in first, flashing grins already ordering another round before the conversation even got started. Dean claimed the seat beside Kayla, already leaning close, his hand brushing her thigh as she laughed too loud at something he said. Garrett lowered himself next to you, his massive frame making the seat creak. He kept a respectful distance at first, one arm draped along the back of the booth, the other resting on his knee.

"So, how do you two know each other?" Logan asked.

Kayla smiled. "We grew up playing tennis together. We were on the USTA Junior Team."

"I didn't realize you were a college athlete," Dean said, eyebrows raising in surprise while he looked at you.

You shook your head, a little shy. "I wasn't. I tore my ACL my senior year…"

The table fell into sympathetic silence, everyone giving you that "that sucks" look. You shrugged, trying to brush it off. But then you caught Garrett's eyes, and something about his gaze made you pause. While the others looked at you with the familiar weight of pity (that practiced sympathy reserved for fallen athletes). Garrett was looking at you differently. He was looking at you with complete respect. Like you were still standing, still strong, and still someone. Like your story didn't end when your ACL tore—it just changed direction.

"She was definitely the way better player, though," Kayla added.

"Not true," you rolled your eyes. "Kayla actually got a full-ride and played at Florida."

Dean, intrigued, started talking to her about tennis, asking about her college matches and favorite players.

Meanwhile, Tucker and Logan quickly excused themselves to head to the bar when they recognized someone. "Be right back," Tucker said, waving as they made their way through the crowd.

You sipped your Piña Colada, the rum and coconut coating your tongue while the bass from the club thumped through the floor. The air smelled like expensive cologne, spilled liquor, and warm skin.

"Long time no see," Garrett said in the kind of tone that vibrated straight down your spine.

"Uh… yeah," you answered, teeth catching your lower lip.

His mouth curved, slow and knowing. "I figured I'd run into you eventually. You seem to be everywhere these days, covering something."

"Occupational hazard."

"Well… you make it look easy."

You arched a brow. "Thank you, but trust me, it's fucking insanity behind the scenes."

Garrett chuckled, the sound warm and surprisingly soft for a man his size. "Fair enough."

The banter flowed easily, his eyes never leaving your face. Then his gaze dipped, slow and deliberate, tracing the way the blue spaghetti-strap mini dress hugged every curve. "I like your dress."

"I bet you do," you teased, tilting your head.

"I liked watching you dance," he added, and the eye contact turned molten. Heat crawled up your neck.

"You saw that?" you shifted, suddenly self-conscious. "God, I'm such a terrible dancer."

Garrett's expression softened, the MVP edge melting into something gentler. "You looked happy. That's all I saw." Before you could answer, a gorgeous woman appeared at the edge of the booth. Massive tits strained against her tiny top, and she flashed Garrett a dazzling smile.

"Oh my god, you're Garrett Graham. I'm your biggest fan. Can I get a picture?"

"I appreciate that, but I'm actually here with friends," Garrett said. He didn't gesture at anyone or make a show of it. "I'm trying to keep a low profile tonight."

You could tell the second the words left his mouth that he meant it. His shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, the way they did in post‑game scrums when too many cameras angled his way. It wasn't annoyance…more like resignation. Like this was the part of his life he tolerated, and didn't enjoy.

"Oh my god, I won't tag you or anything. It's just for me," she said quickly, her smile turning almost pleading.

You watched the desperation flicker across her face—the way her fingers fidgeted with her phone, how her eyes had gone a little too bright. She wasn't trying to be malicious. She was just a fan...or maybe a puck bunny.

You stood, smoothing your dress. "I was just heading to the restroom anyway."

Garrett's jaw tightened, clearly unhappy you were leaving, but he offered the girl a brief, polite smile and leaned in for the quick photo (no flash) and then signed a napkin for her. You slipped away through the crowd, the music pulsing against your skin.

Inside the private bathroom, cool marble met your palms as you washed your hands. The door suddenly rattled with hard, impatient knocks.

"Hold on," you called.

The banging continued.

"What the fuck," you muttered, drying your hands and yanking the door open.

Garrett stood there, eyes dark. He pushed inside, kicked the door shut, locked it, and backed you against the wall in one fluid motion. His huge hands caught both of yours and pinned them above your head. Then his mouth crashed down on yours. His tongue pushed past your lips, stroking deep, tasting every corner of your mouth while he groaned low in his throat. You tasted whiskey and mint on him, felt the hard press of his body pinning you in place.

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, breath ragged. "Baby," he whispered, voice rough with need. "Missed you so fucking much."

His free hand slid down your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before cupping your ass and squeezing. He nipped at your bottom lip, then soothed it with another slow, tongue-heavy kiss that left you dizzy.

Your phone had lit up two days after the interview went viral.

A DM on Instagram from garrettg.44: Looks like you're a hit, Ace.

SheSpeaksSports: Didn't realize hockey players checked their own press.

garrettg.44: Only when the sports commentator makes me look good. You free for a drink when I'm in New York next week?

Your stomach did something stupid. You ignored it.

SheSpeaksSports: I don't date athletes.

It wasn't just a rule; it was self-preservation. You had seen a few colleagues over the years blur the lines between objectivity and attraction, had seen the fallout when a relationship imploded. Your credibility was everything.

garrettg.44: Good thing I'm not asking you out. This is a 'thanks for getting my ass in gear' drink. I would never ask a woman out like this. What kind of men have you been dating? A real gentleman always asks in person. Trust me—you'll know when I'm asking you out on a date.

SheSpeaksSports: Still don't date athletes.

Athletes meant groupies, road trips, and a lifestyle built on constant external validation. You had covered enough locker rooms to know how that went. The temptation wasn't even the problem—it was that they didn't see it as temptation. It was just... there. Available. Hockey players specifically. Weren't they notoriously the worst? Actually, no—that was unfair. All athletes were notoriously the worst. The sport didn't matter. The infrastructure was the same: travel, adoration, and zero consequences for bad behavior as long as they could still score.

garrettg.44: Then I'll just have to change your mind in person.

You stared at that message for a long time. The confidence in it. The certainty. It was like he had already decided how this would go.

Back in the bathroom, Garrett's thumb stroked your wrist where he still held you pinned.

Clearly, you had broken your 'no-dating-athletes' rule.

"Ace, this dress is killing me," he murmured against your mouth, kissing you again, slower this time. You loved the way his body curved protectively around yours. His fingers traced the hem of your dress, teasing higher, and he smiled against your lips.

Garrett's mouth curved into that slow, crooked smirk as he leaned back against the locked bathroom door. "Are you stalking me?" you teased, voice light even though your pulse still hammered from the kiss.

"You wish," he smirked. "Dean wanted to come here. This is a happy coincidence."

The secrecy still felt surreal sometimes. Keeping Garrett at arm's length in public, pretending nothing was there when you wanted to touch and kiss him. The team was currently taking some time off after the Cup Win. Garrett deserved this break. Garrett had been staying with you since the celebration, which had been perfect. The Cup win had been everything a few weeks ago—watching him hoist it, knowing what he had poured into this season.

The way he fucked you that night was like nothing you had ever experienced.

But now Kayla was visiting this weekend, and so Garrett booked a hotel to keep up appearances and pretend he was here for some endorsement meeting. He was hanging out with the boys this weekend. You almost told Kayla once months ago (almost let it slip), but she shut that down fast. Kayla had seen the risk immediately and understood how it could complicate things for you as a sports commentator when you told her you had fallen for an athlete.

Don't say anything

So, you and Garrett kept your relationship private. There were only two other people who absolutely needed to know: the Bruins coach and your boss. You both were upfront with them once things got serious, and they had been surprisingly understanding and agreed that you should keep things discreet for now.

The rule was simple: You couldn't cover any Bruins games. Which wasn't the end of the world because hockey wasn't your usual segment. But it sucked that you couldn't formally support your man on the air.

You pushed Garrett's chest until he dropped onto the closed toilet seat. The porcelain creaked under his weight. You climbed into his lap, knees bracketing his thick thighs, the hem of your blue dress riding high. Garrett groaned, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest and straight between your legs.

A thin strap slipped off your shoulder. His eyes darkened. "Fuck, baby," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Look at you." His hand cupped the bare skin, thumb stroking slow circles. "So fucking beautiful."

Your head tipped back, a wrecked moan shuddering through you under his attentive care. You rocked forward, grinding down against his cock straining inside his pants.

"God, Garrett. You're so... fucking big."

He hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking up.

"Christ," he rasped, and mouthed at your breast through your dress. "Dirty fucking girl,"

You shuddered, a low, needy whine escaping your throat. "Only for you."

His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. Those big brown eyes locked onto yours, soft and open and completely unguarded. "Ace," he breathed. "I love you."

"I love you too," you whispered back.

You kissed down the column of his throat, tongue flicking over his pulse point. He tasted like salt and expensive aftershave. His head tipped back, and a broken groan slipped free. But then his body suddenly went still beneath you.

"What's wrong?" you asked, pulling back.

Garrett's jaw flexed. "Ace, you deserve better than me fucking you in here.

"It's not like it's the first time we've have sex in a public bathroom," you teased.

"I think it's time… It's time we announce our relationship."

The words hit like ice water. You slid off his lap so fast the room tilted. Cool marble met your palms as you braced against the mirror. Your reflection stared back—kinda wild hair, kiss-swollen lips, wide eyes. Behind you, Garrett's massive frame filled the space, shoulders tense, brows drawn together in worry.

"Garrett, we've talked about this," you mumbled.

He stepped forward so your back pressed to his chest. His arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. You could feel every hard plane of muscle through his shirt, the steady thump of his heart against your spine. His reflection met yours in the mirror—eyes soft, mouth set in a determined line.

"We've been doing this for nearly a year," he murmured. "I'm tired of hiding and pretending I don't have a girlfriend."

Your stomach twisted. "When people find out, I'm going to be ridiculed."

"You're not," he said, rolling his eyes but keeping his tone gentle. He spun you so you faced him, leaning back against the counter and pulling you between his spread thighs. His hands rested warm and steady on your hips. "You got to ESPN before we ever met."

"But you know how it is for a woman in this industry. One rumor, and suddenly I'm the girl who slept her way to interviews instead of earning them. I've fought for every single segment, every on-air opportunity. I've had to be twice as prepared as my male colleagues just to get half the respect."

Garrett's eyebrows furrowed. "I know I'll never get it. Not really, since men don't go through this bullshit. But I hate watching you shrink yourself for other people's opinions."

"It's not just about shrinking," I said, my voice trembling slightly with frustration. "Do you understand what's going to happen? My colleagues—the ones I've worked alongside, who've finally started seeing me as a serious commentator—they're going to look at me differently. They're already skeptical of women in sports media. Now I'm dating a player? Suddenly every good interview I've gotten, every story I've broken, it all becomes suspect. He helped her. He knew someone. She's only on air because—"

"Because you're talented as hell," he interrupted firmly.

"That won't matter," I said, pulling away slightly. "Not to everyone. And the worst part? Some of them will be nice about it. They'll smile and congratulate us, but in meetings, they'll wonder if I can be objective. They'll second-guess my analysis. They might even pull me off covering certain teams or players. This just wouldn't be a good look."

"Do you not—" Garrett's shoulders hunched slightly, suddenly self-conscious. His big hands flexed on your hips, "—want to be public because it's specifically me?"

"Of course not," you said quickly, reaching up to cup his jaw. Stubble rasped against your palms. "God, no. I love you. But…I've worked so hard to be taken seriously. "We've been in this beautiful private bubble. When it goes public, everyone's opinions is going to get inside our relationship. I know it has to happen eventually, but I'm terrified." You hesitated, hating how vulnerable this made you feel. "Not because it's you—never. I'm terrified of what it means for us. And I hate that I even have to think about that."

He watched the way your lower lip trembled and leaned in, pressing soft kisses across your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose.

"What if people don't react the way you think?"

You almost laughed. "Garrett, come on. You know how this works. You've dealt with people calling you a nepo baby because of your father. You’re objectively one of the best hockey players in the league right now, better than your father ever was. But people still say it."

"Yeah… they do. And here's what I finally figured out after years of letting it get under my skin. It's just noise. Who fucking cares? Anyone who matters will see what I see—a brilliant, driven woman who earned her place through hard work. The rest? Fuck 'em."

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to

"I don't want to take separate flights when we go on vacation. I don't want date nights limited to our apartments. I don't want to pretend we just 'ran into each other' at restaurants my team booked out in advance." Garrett pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. "I don't want to leave events in staggered cars or walk into hotels through service entrances. I don't want to hide behind tinted windows, PR-approved alibis, or carefully timed exits. I want to hold your hand in daylight," He watched the corners of your mouth twitch. "I want to sit next to you at an event instead of three seats away. I want to post a picture without cropping you out. I want to kiss you without worrying about who's watching," He swallowed thickly. "I want the whole fucking world to know you're mine."

Your fingers curled into his shirt. "Trust me, I want that too."

"Ace," he said, voice dropping even lower, "the ESPY awards are next month. I want you on my arm that night."

Your breath caught. "That's such a public event."

"Yes," he said simply, still kissing every inch of your face he could reach. "Promise me you'll think about it?"

A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. "I guess it would be nice if people knew, so girls would stop pawing at you."

Garrett huffed a laugh. "That's not gonna stop."

You slapped his arm, the sound sharp in the small room. "I promise I'll think about it."

He grinned, pulling you closer until your bodies aligned perfectly, the heat of him seeping into your skin. His fingers traced slow circles on your lower back while his gaze stayed locked on yours—steady, patient, and so full of love it made your chest ache. The muffled bass from the club vibrated through the walls, but in here it was just the two of you.

And that felt perfect.

SECRET RELATIONHIP!!! (one of my fav tropes lol)

Maybe a part 2?

Jack Abbot has the nicest lips you’ve ever kissed. 

And yes, maybe that would sound more profound if you had a wider frame of reference.

What you do have to compare him to amounts to a few teenage makeouts under splintered bleachers, some smattering of questionable judgment calls at frat parties, and then essentially nothing once medical school dragged your life into an alley and shot it dead.

Still. Even a limited sample can yield a clear, uncontestable result, and the result is Jack. 

Jack, whose kisses arrive so confidently, like he has never once doubted where his mouth belongs, golden and fizzing, like champagne left to bloom in the heat of summer while your whole body hitches in open-mouthed amazement just to feel it.

Even now, even when the cool air whispers in through the balcony door and skims over your legs beneath tangled sheets, raising goosebumps in delicate lines along your thighs. 

Jack notices instantly, the faintest smile warning against your lips as he shifts closer, chasing off the chill and dimming everything else until he is all you know.

When he kisses you again, it’s slower, lush and lazy, every nerve in you waking and stretching toward him, and when he pulls back, it’s only far enough that his lips barely graze the corner of your mouth.

Waiting, poised, always right there if you need more.

And you always seem to need more.

“C’mon,” he urges, his voice raspy from sleep, infused with a smugness you’d like to resent — because he knows he’s won this round. “Tell me again how much better I am than everyone else.”

You laugh before he can kiss it back out of you, a warm burst of affection filling in the little space between you.

“Such an ego trip,” you mutter softly. “But, unfortunately for literally every other man on earth, you are kind of ruining the curve here, Dr. Abbot.” 

“That’s what I thought.” 

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling anyway. “See, that confidence really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is —especially since you spent all last night watching Victoria and Samira scout alternatives for me.”

His fingers tense slightly against your waist, pulling you that much closer as his brows lift with genuine offense. “Should I have been worried?”

“Maybe a little,” you tease, unable to help yourself. “They were getting ambitious by the end there.”

He exhales, voice husky and low. “Let them get ambitious. They’ll just have to get used to being disappointed.”

You cant your head to the side and let your lips skim the sharp, firm line of his jaw, feeling the small catch in his breath as it happens.

That tiny lovely moment that reminds you all that swagger is something wonderfully human, something you can touch and affect and undo a little.

“They just don’t know the position’s already been monopolized.” 

“And it’s a position I’m extremely attached to, baby.” His lips twitch as his thumb keeps tracing small circles into your skin. “Although,” he murmurs, “there are a few other positions I’m equally invested in exploring with you.”

“Cheeky.”

The accusation loses most of its force when you can feel the tips of your ears burning.

You don’t wait for him to answer. That would only give him room to keep going, and he is very good at that, good at pressing exactly where you are weakest until you dissolve on contact. 

So you put a hand to him instead and guide him back, trading positions until his shoulders are against the mattress and he is looking up from the pillows.

He lets you do it without a fight (the only way you could manage it), only smiling as he runs his hands along your naked sides in long idle strokes until his palms settle against the valet of your chest.

After that you have to look away. Or rather, down. It’s easier to fold yourself against him than to hold his gaze when it gets like that, open and intent and almost too knowing.

Better to focus on the terrain of him. The freckles and beauty marks and scattered dark points across his skin that your fingers can follow and reorder into something legible. A constellation, naturally. Andromeda before they put her back up in the night sky where everyone could stare and nobody could touch. 

A sudden knock at the door jolts both of you apart, but you barely make it half an inch away from Jack before the door swings open anyway, accompanied by a voice you would recognize in any state of consciousness. 

“Babe, please tell me you’re awake, because we’ve all been dying to hear if you liked that guy from last night. Also, we found his Instagram and —” Victoria’s voice dies on the spot.

You make a tiny, strangled sound of pure horror.

Thankfully, Jack reacts for you, rolling you back into the mattress and yanking the sheet up over your head like that is somehow going to undo the last ten seconds instead of simply turning you into a very obvious person-shaped lump.

Which also doesn’t solve the larger issue, namely that there is a very naked senior attending what is meant to be your bed, in your room.

So much for plausible deniability.

“Oh,” Victoria says. Then, apparently finding that insufficiently expansive: “oh my god.” Beneath the sheet your face goes so hot it feels chemical. “Wow. This is —” She breaks off. You can practically hear the competing impulses at work: decorum on one side, unrestrained glee on the other. “I mean, congratulations, but also wow.”

Jack does not even have the decency to sound flustered. “Thanks.”

You sigh. At this point you’re not sure there’s really anything left to do but surrender gracefully to the smoking ruin of your secret. 

“Would you believe he’s just here for a really, really thorough rounds update?” you ask, peeking out from the sheets with what you feel is a very convincing amount of innocence. 

“On vacation?” she asks flatly. “Wow. Healthcare workers are getting more and more dedicated.”

Jack settles further back against the pillows. “Patient care never stops.”

Victoria presses her lips together tightly. It’s obvious she is fighting for her life not to laugh, and maybe not even fighting that hard.

“Right. Message received. I’m gonna give you two your privacy. Samira owes me forty bucks, so I need to go collect on that anyway.”

She slams the door shut behind her. 

You drop the sheet at last and look up at the ceiling, momentarily unable to imagine a more useful direction in which to direct your face.

“So,” you say, sitting up and giving Jack what you mean to be a stern glare, “I think the secret aspect of this relationship may be over.” 

He glances at you. “Did we even have a secret, really?”

“Maybe for like, a week.”

He kisses you again. The thesis remains intact. Jack Abbot has the nicest lips you’ve ever kissed, and now, apparently, that is no longer private research.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

“I can’t believe you got hit, dumbass!” You hiss at Dean as you clamber into Garret’s car to drive him to the ER

Truthfully it wasn’t his fault, it was a nasty hit that was clearly a foul but apparently the ref was blind or concussed because the fucking loser got sent off without a warning.

Dean looks like he’s been battered halfway to hell and you’re concerned enough that you’ve forced Garret to drive you to the closest ER.

Garret would complain if he didn’t also look concerned about the current state of one of his closest friends.

That alone lets you know that Dean shouldn’t still be groaning and hunched over the way that he is.

“It’s like you’re blaming me for getting beat to shit.” The blonde whines and you inhale sharply, trying not to stress him out more.

“It’s a stress response, can’t help that you’re an idiot that chirps guys twice the size of you,” you mumble back, rubbing his back soothingly as you hear him struggle to inhale.

“This car go any faster Graham?” You hiss to the brunette who whips his head to look at you in bewilderment.

“I’m driving the speed limit!” He says defensively.

“Rowan is not twice my size, you take that back.” Dean groans as he throws himself back against the car seat and tilts his head to the ceiling.

You scoff, “That’s the part you’re choosing to focus on? Not the fact that your smartass comments got you—“

“You love my smartass comments.”

You fight the urge to strangle the already injured man.

You and Dean are…complicated.

You’re friends at best and fuck buddies at worst.

You’re well aware you’d never be the one to lock him down, and you’d made your peace with that.

But you’d be lying if you said that the two of you didn’t occasionally toe the line between situationship and…more.

You knew for starters that you were the only girl friend Dean called to hang out with platonically, without the slightest assumption of sex.

You also knew that Dean had a set of Avengers boxers that he wore to sleep.

Either way, you knew things that other girls didn’t, that was a fact.

Unfortunately for you, that also meant you obtained the less favored girlfriend duties.

Like making sure he took care of himself and didn’t suffer some form of internal bleeding because he decided to shit talk on the ice.

“We’re 5 minutes away.” Garret remarks from the front.

Dean limply lifts one hand to give a fragile thumbs up with a wobbly smile.

“You look like you’re about to be sick,” Dean says groggily, somehow still managing a sleazy smirk on his face despite his injury.

You glower, “Sorry that I’m worried my friend is seriously hurt.”

“Friend? Ouch. Got demoted that easily?”

You can’t help it, you snort. “Shut up Di Laurentis.”

“Last name, Damn. Think I got myself in the dog house.”

You roll your eyes, stiffening when the lights of the Pittsburgh Trauma and Medical Centre flash across your window.

As Garrett parks, you open the door and tug on Deans arm to get him moving.

“Can you walk?” You ask concernedly, watching as he stumbles slightly as he gets out of the car.

He nods, looking pale in the face. You motion for Garrett to hurry up and flank Dean’s other side so the both of you can get him through the doors.

With a shaky hand and little fanfare you sign a bunch of forms before you’re called into the ED with blinding white lights and groups of nurses and doctors floating around the three of you.

You’re ushered to a room by a lovely woman called Princess and as you settle in you can’t help but bounce your legs, watching Dean and the door anxiously waiting for someone to arrive.

Garrett watches you in poorly veiled amusement, “You look like you’re about to shit yourself.” He huffs a laugh.

Dean snorts, “That’s not a look, she just does that.”

You slap his thigh with a petulant frown which has him theatrically wailing and you rushing to muffle his mouth with your hand lest he cause a scene.

Of course, that’s when the door opens as one of the doctors walk in.

Your jaw slackens in horror almost simultaneously as the two of you catch sight of each other.

“Dennis?!” You gasp out in shock.

Dennis’ eyes widen, his mouth forming your name is almost childlike wonder.

“Holy shit!” You laugh, moving your hand off of a suddenly quiet Dean’s mouth as you move towards your childhood friend.

“You’re a long way away from Nebraska Denny!” You say happily, throwing your arms around him and catching him off guard as he stumbles back before the familiar feeling of his arms wrap around your waist.

You feel him laugh into your neck, squeezing you tighter and forcing a hysterical giggle out of your chest.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs into you as he pulls away slightly, hands still on your waist but meeting your eyes.

You soften, your bottom lip wobbling slowly as you swat at his chest half heartedly, “Don’t make me emotional now, it’s good to see you too.”

You’re too invested in the sight of the little blonde you knew from high school to notice Dean’s glowering and the shared look of perplexed nature that Garrett and him share.

“Denny?” Garrett mouths at Dean, and to much of his amusement watches as the blonde’s face scrunches up in distaste.

Denny. What kind of a nickname is “Denny” anyways. You’ve never given him a nickname, what’s so special about this guy that he gets one and Dean doesn’t?

“Anyways!” You clap your hands as you stand back, moving backwards to stand next to Dean’s bed as you sway on your toes.

“You’re Mr Di Laurentis?” Dennis checks with him and Dean nods, trying not to growl as he watches you stare at the doctor with excitement.

He’s starting to hate this dude.

“Can any of you tell me what happened?” Dennis asks, catching sight of Dean clutching his left side and grimacing in pain.

“He got hit while playing, some guy body checked him into the boards and his elbow connected pretty hard with his ribs.” You remark bitterly, staring at Dean with a frown.

Dean sniffs, nodding in agreement and Dennis makes a note on his chart.

“Alright, I’ll do a physical just to feel around and see if anything’s broken before we take some blood and do some scans just to make sure nothing serious is going on, okay?” He asks.

Dean bites back a growl again as you refuse to turn to look at him, instead nodding at Dennis like he’s the first coming of Christ.

He makes fast work of it, slowly pressing down on the readily forming bruises on Dean’s abdomen and apologizing softly when it’s sensitive to force a breath of air or a slight whimper out of Dean’s mouth.

You chew on your nails anxiously as you watch Dennis work with a sharp eye.

“What can we do about pain meds? He’s been groaning since we got in the car.” Garrett remarks this time, his arms crossed as he leans against the wall.

Dennis flicks his eyes up with a look of surprise, as if he’d forgotten there was someone else there at all.

“Yeah—yeah, we can totally do that. Do you have any known allergies I should know about?”

Dean frowns, thinking. “No, I don’t—”

“He’s allergic to penicillin.” You but in and Dean turns to stare at you in disbelief.

How do you know that?

Dennis shares an uneasy look between the two of you before nodding and turning to leave.

“Alright; good to know. I will keep you guys update but come and get me or someone else if your pain gets worse or you start to feel worse.” He mentions.

You nod hastily, turning to look at Dean with a bright smile as soon as Dennis walks out.

Deans face softens. It’s not right to be mad at you, it’s not like you did anything.

And it’s not like he has any right to be jealous, he’s the one who said this whole thing was casual.

“So…you and the cute doctor huh?” Garret smirks, forcing you both to break eye contact.

Your face warms and you groan, placing your hands over your face.

“Was I weird? Was that weird?” You stress, looking embarrassed.

Dean frowns, “How do you know him?” He demands.

You look confused, “I uh—we used to go to school together in Nebraska, before I transferred to Briar.”

Garrett hums in acknowledgment, “you guys didn’t keep in contact?”

Deans whips his head to stare at his friend with an incredulous expression. He doesn’t want to hear about that.

It’s enough having the guy as his doctor and having to watch you fluster yourself whenever he’s around.

“I mean,” you shrug. “Broken Bow’s a small place and when most people get the chance to leave—they’re not really too sad about what they’re leaving behind.”

Garrett nods, sharing a small smile with you.

Dean scoffs though, “yeah he seems real beat up that he’s seeing you again.”

You frown, “you think he doesn’t like me?” You look worried, like you’re afraid that you’ve overstepped and imposed yourself where you’re unwanted.

Garrett rolls his eyes, leaning forward to swat at Dean’s shoulder in reprimand.

“Don’t say that,” he chastises the blond.

“He means that he looks like he’s into you.” Garret tells you kindly.

You switch your gaze from Dean who’s scowling to Garrett who’s offering you a comforting expression.

“And that’s…bad?” You hedge slowly.

“Of course it’s bad!” Dean snaps.

Garrett closes his eyes slowly, blowing out a breath, “I am going to check what they’ve got in the vending machine’s round here—you two—”Garret gestures largely at the two of you as he walks out of the room.

You sigh, “You have a problem with Dennis?”

Dean attempts to cross his arms but hisses when it pulls on his injury, letting them flop uselessly next to him.

“Should I have a problem with Dennis?” Dean asks mockingly.

You growl exasperated, “ I don’t know Dean! Not that I know of? He’s been perfectly nice and I’m sure you guys would get along if you got to know him more—“

“I don’t want to get along with him!” Dean bursts out, red in the face as he scowls.

You falter, “What? Why?”

Dean hesitates, “Because I—it doesn’t matter.”

Your expression hardens, “it obviously does if you’re about to chew my head off for suggesting it.”

Dean slumps in his bed, toying idly at the loose threads on the sheet.

“I just—“ he blows out a breath “I don’t like the idea of you going out with him”

“Why?” You press.

Dean grimaces, “Because I—I like you.” He mutters lowly.

You blink slowly.

“I like you too? Dean what? we‘ve been sleeping together for months of course I like you—”

Dean looks like he wants to bash himself over the head with the bedpan, “No.” He stresses.

“I like you as in, I want to be with you—exclusively.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Dean laughs incredulously. “C’mon babe, you gotta give me something more.”

You blink faster, “I just—I didn’t think—you said you don’t date!” You hiss

Dean shrugs, an innocent yet nervous expression on his face, “I didn’t.” He confirms.

“Until you.”

You roll your eyes, “Egregious line, Di Laurentis.”

“Did it work?”

Your gaze washes over his nervous expression and you soften.

You’re leaning over the bed before you know it, pressing a soft kiss to his lips with a smile.

“You’re something else.” You murmur softly against his lips, both of you grinning into each other’s mouths as your eyes meet.