slut for the smut

Four days and one brutal hangover later, you were fine.

You were completely, totally, absolutely fine.

You were fine in the way that meant you'd gotten very good at performing fine, which was a skill you'd apparently had your whole life and had only recently begun to notice the cost of.

You were fine when Garrett texted you good morning with a photo of the dining hall's sad Tuesday breakfast spread. You were fine when Hannah checked in and you told her you were doing better. You were fine sitting in your 8 AM lecture not eating anything because you'd woken up twenty minutes late and told yourself you'd grab something after, and then after came and went, and now it was 11 and you were on your third coffee and the granola bar at the bottom of your bag had been there since Thursday.

The grade calculator was still open in a tab you kept minimizing and reopening. You knew the numbers by heart at this point, which maybe meant you should stop running them, but you kept running them anyway.

The bad exams - the ones you'd told yourself were just a rough patch, just a bad week, just temporary - hadn't been temporary. They'd compounded. Missed readings had turned into missed concepts had turned into two midterms where you'd sat in the exam room and felt the material slide sideways out of your grasp. The grades had come back and they were bad, and then the next ones had come back and they were worse.

You weren't on academic probation. Not yet. If your GPA slipped any lower - if you didn't ace everything left - then you would be.

You didn't let yourself think about it in full. You just ran the numbers. Over and over. You minimized the tab and reopened it and ran the numbers again.

You were, currently, on your third coffee and had eaten half a granola bar since yesterday afternoon.

Fine, you thought, clicking to a new tab. Absolutely fine.

---

You'd been in the library for four hours when Garrett found you.

You hadn't told him you were here. You'd silenced your phone at noon and tucked it face-down under your notebook, which you told yourself was for focus. The other part was that every time he texted you something sweet and normal, some small affectionate thing that cost him nothing, you felt the guilt accumulate in your chest.

He was being so careful. You could feel him being careful, the slightly-more-frequent check-ins, the way he phrased things as just wanted to say hi instead of how are you, giving you room without making it a production.

It was making you want to disappear.

So you were in the library, third floor, the section nobody used because it was all periodicals from 2003. Your notes were spread across most of the table. The grade calculator was open again. You'd been staring at it for twenty minutes without actually doing anything.

You didn't hear him until he was right there.

He didn't say anything. He just slid a paper bag onto the corner of the table - Malone's, your usual order - and sat down in the chair beside you like he'd been planning to be there all along.

You stared at the bag. Then at him.

He was already looking at his phone, one leg stretched out, the other pressed against yours under the table.

"How did you know I was here?"

"You have a library card tap on your student account." He didn't look up. "Hannah mentioned you'd gone out this morning."

"You're not supposed to be able to see that."

"I'm not." A pause. "Eat your wrap."

You looked at the bag. Your stomach did something complicated — hunger, shame, guilt — and you pulled it toward you without saying anything else.

The wrap was warm. You ate half of it before you remembered you'd been starving, and then ate the rest faster, and when you looked up Garrett still hadn't looked away from his phone.

He had, you noticed, the smallest smile.

You looked back at your notes. Minimized the grade calculator. Reopened it. Closed it for real this time.

For a while there was nothing but the quiet of the third floor and the scratch of your pen and the occasional scroll-sound from his phone, his leg steady and warm against yours.

It was the nicest thing anyone had done for you in weeks and it was also, quietly, eating you up inside.

You pulled your notes closer and tried to focus.

At some point - twenty minutes later, maybe thirty - you felt him shift, and then his chin was briefly at your shoulder as he looked at the page.

"Is that even English?"

You laughed.

It came out before you could stop it, and you put your hand over your mouth like you could take it back, and when you looked at him he was already looking back at his phone. The small smile still there.

"It's organic chemistry," you said.

"That's not what I asked."

"Garrett."

"I'm just saying. That looks like a cry for help written in highlighter."

"There's a color system."

He looked at the page again, at the four different colors of highlighting, at the margin notes that had started running up the sides because you'd run out of room. "Babe." He said it gently. "There are six colors."

"The orange is a subsystem."

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

"Okay," he said, in the voice of someone who had decided to love you exactly as you were, chaos color-coding and all, and went back to his phone.

He stayed for two hours. He didn't ask you what was wrong. He didn't ask why your phone was face-down or why you'd been in the library since noon or what the numbers on the top of the page meant - the ones you'd circled in red, the grades, the running average that kept coming out the same no matter how many times you recalculated it. He just stayed, leg resting against yours.

You thought about the grade calculator. About four weeks and what it would mean if you couldn't fix it all.

You pressed your knee harder against his, and he pressed back without looking up, and you didn't say any of it. You just worked. And he stayed.

When you finally packed up your notes - eyes burning from the hours of reading - he walked you back to your dorm with his hand warm around yours, and at your door he kissed you once, soft and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

"Get some sleep," he said, against your hair.

"I'm fine," you said, automatically.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. The look that said I know and I'm not going to push.

"Sleep," he said again, soft. And let you go.

You leaned against your closed door for a long time after.

---

Three days later, on a Thursday, you went to the hockey house to pick up Garrett and ended up waiting in the living room because he'd texted five more minutes roughly twenty minutes ago.

You sat on the couch with your laptop and your notes and your color-coded highlighters and tried to get something done.

"You're in my spot."

You didn't look up. "Your name isn't on it."

"My name is absolutely on it." Dean dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, feet swinging up onto the coffee table, with the energy of someone who had never once felt like an inconvenience in his life. You envied him sometimes. "Move over."

"There are three other cushions."

"I have a system."

You looked up. He pointed at the far left cushion with great seriousness. You sighed and shifted six inches. He immediately sprawled into the space like he'd claimed a country.

"Thank you," he said. "This is much better."

"You're a menace."

"I prefer force of nature." He looked at your screen. Made a face. "Is that the organic chemistry thing?"

"How do you know about my organic chemistry thing?"

"Garrett mentioned you've been doing something he described as 'color-coded suffering.'" He tilted his head at the screen. "He's not wrong."

You closed the laptop slightly. "He talked to you about my studying."

"He talks to me about everything. It's one of the great burdens of being his best friend. I know more about your coffee order than I know about my own family members." He said this completely without self-pity, in the flat tone of someone reciting facts. "You get oat milk even though you claim not to care about dairy. He thinks it's because you actually care about dairy but don't want to seem high maintenance at coffee shops."

You stared at him.

"He's not wrong, is he," Dean said.

"That's-" You stopped. "That's extremely specific."

"He pays attention to everything. It's genuinely concerning." Dean picked up the TV remote, looked at it, set it back down. "He skated into the boards yesterday, by the way. At practice."

"What? Is he okay?"

"Completely fine, thanks for asking, it was hilarious." Dean's expression was deeply satisfied. "You'd texted him. I watched it happen in real time. One second he's running a drill, next second he's checking his phone like a golden retriever who heard a treat bag, then-" He made a sound effect. "Boards. Full speed." A pause. "Coach made him skate laps."

"Oh my god."

"I have zero sympathy. For either of you." He pointed at you. "You made my best friend skate into a wall."

"I texted him about my chemistry notes-"

"And he skated into a wall. That's on you." He seemed genuinely pleased about this. Then, in a tone that was casual enough to be deliberate: "You eaten today?"

The shift was fast enough that you almost missed it. Almost.

"Yeah," you said. A beat too late.

Dean looked at you. Not for long. Just a second, just long enough for you to see it - and then he looked back at the TV like he'd never asked.

"Cool," he said.

"Dean-"

"There's leftover pasta in the fridge. Tucker made too much, as he always does, because he cooks like he's feeding a village." He picked up the remote again. "Just saying."

You looked at him. He was scrolling through channels with complete disinterest.

"You're not going to make it weird?" you said.

"I said there's pasta. I'm not giving you a TED talk." He landed on some sports recap show. "I do that once per crisis and I used mine at the party." He glanced at you sideways. "You're welcome, by the way."

"I thanked you."

"Not enough." But there was no real edge to it. Just Dean, comfortable in his own skin, watching sports highlights. "Garrett's probably another fifteen minutes."

You opened your laptop again.

You went and got the pasta five minutes later. You didn't say anything about it. Neither did he.

When you came back and sat down, he moved over exactly six inches without being asked, making just enough room. You ate. He watched his show.

It was the second nicest thing anyone had done for you all week.

---

The invitation came at 7 PM the next day, after a four-hour study session that had started to feel less like studying and more like sitting in front of words until they stopped meaning anything.

Garrett's name on your screen.

You picked up on the second ring.

"Malone's," he said, by way of greeting. "Everyone's going. Come."

You looked at your notes. At the grade calculator still open in a tab, the numbers you'd been rearranging all afternoon. If you aced the next two exams and the final paper came back strong, the math was possible. Barely.

"I don't know," you started.

"Y/N." His voice was warm and easy, no pressure in it. "You've been studying since noon. Come out for a couple hours. We don't have to stay late."

You thought about the grade calculator. About the math that only worked if everything went right.

You thought about how much you wanted, desperately, to just be normal for one night.

"Okay," you said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Give me twenty minutes."

He made a sound that was embarrassingly close to delighted, and you smiled into the phone before you could stop yourself. "See you soon," he said, like that was the best thing he'd heard all day.

You meant to eat something before you left.

You forgot.

---

Malone's was exactly the kind of loud that used to feel like relief.

The team was already at two pushed-together tables in the back, the particular chaos of hockey players who'd had a decent practice and were feeling it. Garrett found you at the door before you'd even gotten your coat off, hand finding the small of your back, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Hey," he said, into your hair.

"Hey," you said back.

He kept his arm around you as you made your way to the tables, and for a little while it worked - the normalcy you'd been chasing. Someone made a joke. You laughed at it. Hannah and Allie were there. Hannah caught your eye across the table and smiled and you smiled back, real, actual.

Garrett was pulled into a conversation about the upcoming game on your left, animated and certain the way he was when he talked about hockey, and you felt yourself lean into his shoulder a little even as he gestured.

You were going to order something to eat.

There was a menu in your hands and everything on it looked fine and you just needed a minute to look at it properly because the words were doing something slightly blurry and you'd been staring at text for six hours and it would all be clearer in a minute.

Someone asked you something across the table. You answered. You laughed when the response was funny. You were very good at this, the performing fine.

Tucker said something about the power play. Garrett leaned forward, and you set the menu down meaning to pick it up again in a second, and then the second passed and someone else said something and then Garrett's hand found your knee under the table, warm and absentminded, just there, and you thought -

After this drink, I'll order something.

After this.

An hour passed. Then close to two.

The accidently not-eating had stopped feeling like hunger around the ninety-minute mark and started feeling like something else. The edges of things felt slightly further away than they should have been, sounds arriving a half-second late, the overhead lights doing something they hadn't been doing when you'd walked in.

You told yourself it was the noise. You told yourself you just needed air.

You were fine.

In a minute, you thought. I'll get some air and then I'll be fine.

You touched Garrett's arm. "Bathroom," you said when he looked at you. "I'll be right back."

He nodded. His eyes moved over your face for a second and you did your best to keep your expression neutral, and he let you go.

You made it past the bar. Past the first set of tables.

The floor felt strange. The kind of strange that meant it was still there but you weren't entirely certain of it, your body suddenly very loud about several things it had been trying to say for a while. Your vision went static at the edges.

Oh, you thought, with a kind of exhausted clarity. Oh, that's not good.

You reached for the wall.

You didn't find it.

Dean caught you.

He'd been at the bar getting a refill. His hands caught your arms before you hit the ground and the next thing you were aware of was the floor, but not hitting it - sitting against it, the wall at your back, Dean crouched in front of you with an expression you'd never seen on him before.

"Hey." His voice was even. "I've got you. Look at me."

You looked at him. The static was still at the edges. "I'm-"

"Don't say fine." He had one hand at your shoulder, steady. His eyes were moving over you, assessing. "Someone get Garrett," he said, without raising his voice, to whoever was behind him. "Now, please."

Please. You'd never heard Dean say please like that.

"I just need a second," you tried.

"You just went down." His hand moved to your wrist, two fingers, checking your pulse like he'd done it before. "When did you last eat?"

The honest answer was the pasta Dean had made you eat at the hockey house, which had been lunch, which had been -

Yesterday.

His expression didn't change but his jaw did. "Okay," he said, and turned his head. "Tucker. Water. Bar, go."

Then there were footsteps, fast and heavy, and Garrett was there.

You watched it happen on his face. Couldn't look away from it even though you wanted to. The second he saw you on the floor, the split second before he got himself under control - something moved through him. The specific fear of someone who'd been halfway worried for weeks and had just found out he was right to be.

He crossed the distance in three steps and dropped to the floor beside you.

"Hey." His hands found your face. "Hey, look at me. Y/N."

"I'm okay," you said. Your voice came out unsteady.

"I know." He said it like it didn't matter whether it was true. His thumbs moved over your cheekbones. "I've got you."

Dean pressed a water bottle into Garrett's hand without being asked. The two of them moved around each other with an ease that meant they'd been friends a long time, no words needed. Garrett opened the bottle for you. You drank.

"She hasn't eaten since yesterday," Dean said, behind Garrett, in a tone that was quiet and not accusatory and somehow that made it worse.

You felt Garrett go very still.

"I meant to," you said, to neither of them.

"I know," Garrett said again. Still not angry. "Can you stand if I help you?"

You nodded.

He got you up like you weighed nothing, arm solid around your waist, and he didn't let go after you were standing. He just recalibrated, hand flat at the small of your back, body angled toward you.

"We're going to sit somewhere quiet," he said. "Okay?"

You nodded.

He looked back at Dean over his shoulder. Something passed between them - a look, brief and complete.

Dean nodded. "I'll handle it," he said, already turning back to the tables, already sliding back into the noise like he'd never left it. Covering. That easily.

Garrett found a booth in the back, half-hidden, away from the noise. He sat you down and then went and got food - actual food, something from the bar menu, not glamorous - and he put it in front of you without ceremony and sat across from you and waited.

"Eat first," he said. "Then we talk."

You looked at the plate. Your throat was tight.

"Garrett..."

"Please." It came out rough at the edges. "Just eat something. Please."

You ate.

He watched you the way he'd been watching you for weeks, that careful attention he thought he was hiding. He wasn't hiding it.

When the plate was half-empty and the static had fully cleared from your vision and you felt more like yourself than you had in hours, you looked up and found him looking back.

"I'm okay," you said.

"I know." He exhaled. "I need you to tell me what's going on."

Your hands were in your lap. You looked at them.

"Y/N."

"My GPA," you said, to your hands. "It's been... those exams at the start of the semester, the ones I told you were just rough patches? They weren't just rough patches. And then I was sick, and the readings kept piling up, and I thought I could catch up but I just kept falling further behind..." Your voice did something you hadn't authorized. You pressed your lips together.

Silence.

"How much do you need on your remaining work?" Garrett said carefully.

"Everything has to go right." You laughed, and it came out broken. "It's not impossible. Technically. If I ace everything left. But I'm so far behind, and every time I think I'm catching up there's something else, and I just-" The words came faster. "I didn't tell you because you have scouts and finals and I-"

You stopped. Started again. "I didn't want to be one more thing you had to manage..."

Garrett went very still.

"That's what she said," you said, before he could. "At the party. Kendall."

He closed his eyes for exactly one second.

"Of course it was." He said it quietly, not quite to you. Then he looked at you, and his expression had shifted into something more deliberate. "She said that to you."

"I wasn't supposed to hear it."

"That doesn't-" He stopped. Exhaled through his nose. "She wanted something she didn't get. With me, before you. And I handled that badly, and apparently she's still-" His jaw tightened. "That's not about you. That was never about you. That was about me, and she aimed it at you."

"Garrett-"

"I'm not done being annoyed about that." He said it flatly. "I'll be done in a second."

A beat. He looked at the table. Came back.

"Okay." He reached across and took both your hands. "I'm done. Keep going."

"...that's it? That's your processing time?"

"I'm a fast processor." His eyes were still a little flat. "Keep going."

"I just-" You exhaled. "I've been so behind, and every time you showed up I felt worse about it. Like you were going out of your way for someone who couldn't even keep it together enough to-" You stopped. Tried again. "You just showed up with food I didn't ask for and sat down like it was nothing. Like it cost you nothing. And I kept thinking, he's going to get tired of this. Of me being like this. And then you just kept showing up anyway."

"I've been showing up at the library," he said, "texting you constantly, bringing you food you didn't ask for - and you thought that was me managing you?"

"Yes," you said, quietly.

"I've been showing up at the library," he said, "texting you constantly, bringing you food you didn't ask for — and you thought that was me managing you."

It wasn't a question. His voice was even.

"Yes," you said, quietly.

"It wasn't." Simple. Flat. Like he was correcting a fact. "I was doing it because I like you." He said it like it was the most straightforward thing in the world. "I really, genuinely, a completely ridiculous amount - like you. Have you not noticed that? I've been making it extremely obvious."

"Garrett..."

"I skated into the boards at practice because you texted me about chemistry notes." He held up a hand. "I got laps for that. Actual laps. And I would do it again." He looked at you, completely serious. "That's where we are. That's how much I like you. I'm not showing up at the library because I feel obligated, I'm showing up at the library because you're there and I'd rather be wherever you are, even if wherever you are is a depressing corner full of fifteen-year-old magazines." His thumb moved over your knuckles. "I don't show up for things I don't want to show up for. You know that about me."

Your eyes were burning again.

"You got laps," you said, because it was the only thing you could manage.

"I got laps," he confirmed. "Completely worth it."

You looked at him for a second, this person who tracked your library card and brought you food and skated into walls over chemistry notes, and something in your chest did something complicated and enormous that you didn't have a word for yet.

"I don't know what to do with you," you said, very quietly.

"You don't have to do anything with me." He said it simply. "That's kind of the point."

You looked down at your hands in his.

"You scared me tonight," he said after a moment. "That's going to take me a minute to get over."

"I know. I'm sorry - I didn't mean to, I just got so caught up in everything. The studying, trying to catch up, and I just..." You shook your head. "I forgot."

He looked at you for a long second.

"Lucky for you that's not really a problem," he said.

"Garrett-"

"I like taking care of you." Simple. Like it was obvious. "So just let me. Okay?"

You looked at him. Thought about arguing. Decided you were too tired.

"Okay," you said quietly.

"Good." He tilted his head slightly. "Also, for the record - you are supposed to be the brains of this operation. It would be genuinely embarrassing for both of us if you ended up with a worse GPA than a hockey player."

You stared at him. "Are you serious right now."

"I'm just saying. I have a 3.1. The bar is right there."

"You have a 3.1?"

"Don't sound so surprised, that's rude."

"I'm not - I'm just-" You pressed your lips together. "You're unbelievable."

"And yet." He was watching you with that look, the one he thought he was hiding. He wasn't hiding it. "There it is."

"There what is."

"That." He nodded at your face. "You almost smiled."

"I did not."

"You did a little."

"Garrett."

"I'll take it." He squeezed your hands once. "You want to do something useful, talk to your advisor Monday. Figure out what your options are."

"I will."

"Good." A beat. "You're not high maintenance. You're just bad at asking for help. Those aren't the same thing." He squeezed your hands once.

Your eyes burned.

"I've got you," he said. Matter-of-fact.

You stayed like that for a while. The noise of Malone's carried on around you, oblivious. In your corner booth it was just this. Your hands finally, finally still.

Dean appeared at the edge of the booth twenty minutes later, hands in his pockets, expression carefully calibrated to neutral.

He looked at you and did a quick inventory the way he always did, fast and thorough.

"You look terrible," he announced.

"Thank you, Dean."

"Much better than twenty minutes ago, though." He leaned against the side of the booth. Looked at Garrett. Something passed between them. "Tucker's telling the thing about the chirp from the Eastwood game. Everyone's distracted. Nobody made it weird."

"Thank you," Garrett said.

Dean waved this off like it was nothing. Because for Dean, it was. He'd covered, he'd handled it.

He looked at you for a second. Then, with the gravity of someone making a formal announcement:

"For the record, I did not catch you because I like you."

You blinked. "...okay."

"It was reflex. Athletic instinct. I would have done it for anyone." He held up a finger. "The point is it wasn't personal."

"Noted."

"Also-" He pointed at the empty plate. "Eat like that every day or I'm going to have to start caring about you, and I have a very full schedule." He pushed off the booth, already turning. "I'm at capacity. Emotionally. No room."

"Dean-"

"Goodnight, Y/N." He walked away with a sly smile and a wink.

Your throat went tight again.

"He loves you," Garrett said. "He just can't say it like a normal person."

"Neither can you, half the time."

He made an offended sound. "I said it literally last week."

"You said, and I quote, 'you're very tolerable for someone who doesn't understand or appreciate the music of Warrant.'"

"That's a compliment."

"That is not a compliment, Garrett."

He laughed and squeezed your hands again.

"I love you," he said. "Like, a completely embarrassing amount. Dean can confirm, he thinks it's a problem."

Your eyes burned again. Different reason.

"I love you too," you said, quiet.

"I know." He held you tighter. "Now let me take you home."

He stayed.

He helped you change into something comfortable and found your water bottle and filled it and put it on your nightstand, and when you got into bed he sat on top of the covers beside you with his back against the headboard, his hand in your hair.

"I'm going to email my advisor tomorrow," you said, to the ceiling.

"Good."

"I don't know what she's going to say."

"That's what tomorrow's for."

"I'm nervous."

"Yeah." His hand stilled briefly, then kept moving. "I know. That's allowed."

You looked up at him.

"You're going to stop disappearing on me," he said. It wasn't a question.

"I'm going to try."

"Close enough." He brushed the hair from your face. "Sleep."

"Bossy."

"Always." He looked at you, soft. "I'm not going anywhere. You know that, right?"

You looked back at him.

"I know," you said.

Eight months in and you still hadn't figured out what to do with being someone's favorite thing.

Garrett wasn't subtle about it. That was the thing, he had absolutely no interest in being subtle about it. He'd find you across a dining hall full of people and his whole face would do something embarrassing. He'd mention you to his teammates with the casual frequency of someone who didn't realize he was doing it, which, according to Dean, he wasn't. He'd show up at your dorm with soup when you were sick, uninvited, unashamed, completely certain he was welcome. He was always welcome. That was the other thing.

Eight months. Long enough that his hoodie had more or less permanently become part of your wardrobe. Long enough that you knew exactly which toothpaste brand he preferred, and that he took his coffee wrong, and that he looked up at the stands exactly once per game - same moment every time, right after warm-ups - just to find you.

You were, by every reasonable metric, fine. Good, even. Happy.

You were also, quietly and without telling anyone, coming apart at the seams.

It hadn't started with anything dramatic. That was the part that made it hard to explain. There was no single thing to point to, no moment where it all went wrong. Just a bad exam grade, then another. Readings piling up in two classes, then three. A cold that moved into your chest three weeks ago and apparently liked it there, the kind of tired that sleep didn't touch.

You'd cancelled plans with Garrett twice. Both times he'd said it's okay, babe, seriously, without missing a beat, and both times something in you had gone slightly sideways, because of course he had. Of course he was fine about it. He was always fine about it, which somehow made it worse, because it meant he was noticing, and adjusting around you, and that meant you were someone who needed adjusting around.

He'd started checking in more. Texts a little more often. Soup you hadn't asked for, dropped off with a knock and a smile like it was nothing.

It was nothing. That was the problem. To him it was nothing, and to you it was accumulating into something you didn't have a word for yet.

Too much, something in the back of your head had started saying. Quietly at first. Then less quietly. You're too much right now.

You were good at ignoring things. You'd been ignoring this for three weeks. You were, it turned out, not as good at it as you'd thought.

The party was Garrett's idea. Well, it was everyone's idea. Briar had won the game 4-1, and the hockey house was the kind of loud that rattled inside your skull pleasantly, all bass and laughter and the clatter of the boys being celebratory and stupid. The living room smelled like beer and Axe and the particular chaos of hockey players who were very pleased with themselves.

You'd smiled through most of it. You were good at that, too.

Garrett had kept you close the whole first hour, arm slung around your shoulders, pressing a kiss to your temple every time someone stopped to talk to him, like punctuation. Hannah had found you at some point and the two of you had ended up in the kitchen with drinks you weren't really finishing, talking about nothing, which was nice.

But Garrett had gotten pulled away - something about Dean needing him, something about the highlight reel someone had pulled up on the TV - and you'd drifted. Which was fine. You were fine.

You'd ended up on the back porch without fully meaning to.

The night air was cold as you leaned against the railing, tipped your head back, and breathed.

You're okay. You're fine. You're at a party celebrating your boyfriend's win and everything is fine.

You heard them before you saw them. Two girls tucked into the corner of the porch, half-hidden by the shadows. You hadn't noticed them when you came out.

You recognized one of them.

Kendall. You'd heard the name in the careful, neutral way girls mentioned names when they meant something. She and Garrett had hooked up before. Before you. It wasn't a big deal. You knew it wasn't a big deal.

You turned slightly away, meaning to go back inside, meaning to just not be here for whatever this was.

But her voice carried.

"-no, I just mean, look at her. She's been off all night."

A murmur from the other girl. You went very still.

"I'm not being mean, I'm just - Garrett has a lot going on. He's got scouts looking at him, he's got finals coming up, and now he's got-" a pause, something that wasn't quite a laugh, "-one more thing to manage."

One more thing to manage.

The words landed somewhere below your sternum and just sat there.

"She seems kind of high maintenance," Kendall continued, quieter now. "I heard she's been sick, like, for weeks, and he's been running over there constantly. He doesn't have time for that. He doesn't have time for someone like- I mean, it's Garrett Graham. He could have-"

You stopped hearing the rest.

Not because they stopped talking, you just stopped being able to take anything in. The world narrowed down to the railing under your hands and the cold air in your lungs and the feeling of something fracturing very quietly behind your eyes.

One more thing to manage.

High maintenance.

He doesn't have time for someone like-

You turned around and went inside.

You went for the kitchen.

There was a handle of something on the counter - vodka, cheap, the kind that came in a plastic bottle - and you poured it into whatever cup was closest without really looking at what was already in it. You drank it faster than you should have. Poured another.

This was not something you did. You were not, by nature, a drink-until-it-goes-away person. You'd watched enough people use that particular coping mechanism to know better. You knew better.

You poured a third.

The thing was, and you understood this even as you were doing it, which somehow made it worse, that the words were just sitting there. One more thing to manage. Right in the center of your chest, perfectly placed, like Kendall had known exactly where to aim. And you needed them to move. You needed them to blur, or soften, or stop feeling so much like the thing you'd already been thinking at three in the morning for the past three weeks.

So you drank.

Hannah found you twenty minutes later, laughing too loudly at something a guy from the lacrosse team had said. She gave you a look, the kind that meant how many is that, and you smiled wide enough that she let it go. Or seemed to. You slipped away before she could ask a follow-up question.

The party had taken on that particular underwater quality that meant the alcohol was working. The edges of everything softened. The bass felt further away. You moved through the living room with the careful precision of someone who knew they were drunk and was trying very hard not to show it, which probably meant you were showing it completely.

Garrett was somewhere in this room. You could feel it the way you always could, that low awareness, like a compass needle swinging north. Normally you'd find him without thinking.

Tonight you turned the other direction.

You grabbed someone's abandoned drink off the end table. You didn't know whose, you didn't care, which was so unlike you that some distant sober part of your brain flinched, and made your way to the other side of the room. Someone pulled you into a conversation about something. You nodded. You laughed when they laughed. You were very good at performing fine, even now, even like this.

But Garrett kept appearing at the edges of things. You'd see his shoulder, the back of his head, catch a flash of his smile across the room, and something in your chest would do that terrible thing it always did.

So you kept moving.

You ended up in the hallway. Then near the stairs. Then, without fully deciding to, on the stairs themselves, sitting halfway up with your cup.

You sat for a while.

The alcohol had moved past the useful stage and into something messier, the kind of drunk where everything felt slightly too large and slightly too true at the same time. Your eyes were doing something embarrassing. You pressed the back of your wrist to them, hard.

You're fine. You're not going to do this here.

You stood up. Gripped the railing. Made it to the top of the stairs on the second try.

The upstairs hallway was dark enough that it felt like breathing room. You leaned against the wall and closed your eyes for a second, just long enough to get your legs back under you. Your dorm key was in your jacket pocket. Your jacket was downstairs. You needed to find it and leave before Garrett realized you'd been avoiding him for an hour, because if he looked at you right now with that face - the one he made when he was worried - you were going to fall apart in the middle of his own party, and you would not do that to him, you refused to do that to him tonight...

You pushed off the wall.

Misjudged the distance to the opposite side of the hallway by about four inches.

The door swung open before you could knock properly, or maybe you knocked wrong, and suddenly there was light and Dean Di Laurentis was right there, some girl half visible behind him, and all three of you stared at each other.

"Bathroom," you said, except it came out slightly sideways.

Dean blinked. Looked at you. Looked at the cup in your hand, mostly empty. Looked back at your face.

Something shifted in his expression, fast and uncharacteristically serious.

"Babe." Not to you. He was already half-turning to the girl, his voice dropped low. "I need a minute."

"You're kidding-"

"I'm really not." A beat. Something in his tone that left no room for argument. "Please."

The girl left in the precise way people left when they were furious and had decided to be graceful about it anyway. You watched her go down the hallway and felt vaguely guilty about it.

Dean stepped back from the doorway. "Get in here."

"I don't need-"

"You just walked into my door."

"I knocked."

"With your face, a little bit." He looked at you levelly. "Get in here."

You got in there.

He closed the door. The noise from downstairs dropped to a murmur.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"That's a weird opener."

"It's a normal question for someone who just almost fell through my door." He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, "How much."

You thought about lying. Decided it wasn't worth the effort. "Enough."

"Enough," he repeated, in the tone of someone doing math. His eyes moved over you, assessing. Quick and thorough the way athletes were sometimes, used to reading situations fast. "You don't drink like this."

"People drink at parties."

"Not you. Not like-" he gestured vaguely at the cup still in your hand, "-whatever this is." A pause. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I'm fine."

"Okay."

You stared at him. He stared back. He did not appear to be in any rush whatsoever.

You hated that. You hated the waiting.

"I overheard something," you said, and the words came out a little slurred at the edges. "On the porch. Kendall - you know who that is?"

Something crossed his face. "Yeah. I know who that is."

"She was talking about me." The cup in your hand felt very heavy suddenly. You set it down on the nearest surface. "She said I was one more thing Garrett had to manage." The words tasted exactly as bad coming out as they had going in. Worse, maybe, because you were saying them out loud now, making them real. "That I was high maintenance. That he didn't have time for someone like me."

Dean was quiet for exactly two seconds.

"She said that."

"She's not wrong, that's the thing." You laughed, and it came out wrong, too bright and too brittle. "I've been sick for like three weeks, and stressed, and he keeps showing up for it, and I keep letting him, and he has scouts and he has finals and I just-" You stopped. The room was doing something slightly unsteady. You pressed your fingertips to the dresser behind you. "I just didn't want to feel it. I didn't want to stand there in the middle of his party and feel like that, so I-" You gestured at nothing. At the cup. At yourself.

"So you drank a stranger's leftovers."

"I don't know whose cup it was."

"Yeah, that's the part I'm stuck on." Dean pushed off the wall and grabbed the desk chair, set it down in front of you, and sat in it backwards, arms folded over the top, looking up at you with an expression that was not quite his usual one. "Sit down before you fall down."

"I'm not going to fall-"

"You're leaning."

You looked down. You were, in fact, leaning slightly. You sat on the edge of his bed.

Dean watched you with the particular patience of someone who had decided they weren't going anywhere.

"She's not-" You exhaled, stared at your hands. "She's not some villain. She just said the thing I've already been thinking. And I couldn't-" Your throat tightened. "I couldn't stand there and keep smiling, so I thought if I just-"

"Drank enough that it blurred out?"

"I wasn't going to phrase it like that."

"But yeah?"

A beat.

"Yeah," you said, very quietly.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. Looked at the ceiling. Then back at you, and something in his face shifted into something more serious, more deliberate, the version of him he mostly kept underneath all the noise he usually made.

"Can I tell you something without you getting weird about it?"

You made a helpless gesture.

"Garrett talked about you at practice last week," he said. "Full cringe, by the way, I'm doing you a public service by telling you this. Tucker asked how you were doing - just like, making conversation - and Garrett stopped mid-drill to answer. Like, stopped skating. Coach blew the whistle. Garrett didn't even flinch, just full-on answeredTucker like they were at brunch." He paused. "It was genuinely awful. The guys made fun of him for four days."

You stared at him.

"He said - and I am going to say this exactly once and then never again - that being with you was the first time in his life that coming home from a game felt better than the game itself." Dean's expression was the one people made when they'd eaten something sour. "Verbatim. He said that. To the whole team. In the locker room. While wearing his pads."

Your eyes were burning again, for a completely different reason.

"He talks about you like-" Dean exhaled through his nose. "Look, I've lived with that guy for three years. I have never, not once, seen him like this. And I mean the whole team. We all, okay, this is going to sound really weird-"

"Just say it."

"We all kind of think of you as ours too. Like, you're around all the time, and you're funny, and you ate nachos with us during the game and didn't complain about the TV volume once-" A pause. "That matters more than you think."

A noise came out of you that was almost a laugh. Wasn't quite.

"Kendall doesn't know what she's talking about," Dean said, and his voice had gone flat again. "She's not a bad person, she's just... she wanted something she didn't get, and that makes people say stupid things. It doesn't make the stupid things true."

Your eyes burned. You pressed the heel of your hand against one of them, hard, like you could physically hold it back, and for a second you almost managed it. Then your breath hitched and you didn't.

You hated it. You hated this, you hated that you were sitting in Dean Di Laurentis' room at your boyfriend's party with someone else's alcohol in your bloodstream, falling apart. This was not you. This was so profoundly, embarrassingly not you - and yet here you were, doing it anyway.

"I hate this," you said, rough.

"The crying or the drinking?"

"Both." You dragged your wrist across your face. "I don't do this. Either of this. I keep it together, and I've been keeping it together for weeks, and then one person says one thing and I'm-" You gestured at yourself. At the whole situation. The cup on his dresser. Your face. "This."

"You can't hold it together forever and then wonder why it comes out somewhere inconvenient." Dean's voice was even. "That's not strength. That's just pressure building."

You looked at him.

"Real talk," he said. "You've been running on empty, you've been pretending you're fine, and tonight cracked it open. And instead of letting yourself feel it, you drank half a mystery cup and were about to walk home alone in the cold." He raised an eyebrow. "Which we are going to circle back to."

"I wasn't going to walk home."

"You were absolutely going to walk home."

You didn't answer.

"Also," he said, and the sarcasm slid back in like he genuinely couldn't help it, "if you tell anyone I said any of this, I will deny it completely. I have a reputation and I'd like to keep it."

A sound came out of you that was almost a laugh. Wasn't quite. But almost.

"Drink some water," he said, standing, already moving to the mini fridge in the corner. He tossed you a bottle without looking. "And hey-"

You looked up.

"He's been looking for you for twenty minutes. Downstairs, increasingly frantic. You should talk to him."

You found Garrett's room because it was the only one with the light on.

The door was cracked. You pushed it open and stood in the doorway for a second, holding onto the frame slightly. The water Dean had given you was helping. A little. The edges of things were still slightly wrong.

You made it to the bed. Sat down. Put your face in your hands.

You heard him on the stairs before the door opened - that particular weight and rhythm, two at a time the way he always took them. And then Garrett was there, filling the doorway, and he stopped.

Just for a second.

Long enough for you to see it, the relief flooding in so fast it almost looked like something else. And underneath it, the residue of the twenty minutes before. He'd been worried. Not panicked, not Garrett, but worried. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he exhaled.

Then his eyes moved over you and his expression shifted into something different.

"Hey," he said carefully. "How much did you drink?"

You laughed, and it came out wrong. "Dean already asked me that."

"Dean texted me that you'd had a lot and that you were upset and to be..." he paused, "gentle. His word."

"Dean used the word gentle?"

"I was also surprised." He crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of you, and it was such a Garrett thing to do - not sitting beside you, not keeping distance, just immediately down to your level, hands finding yours - that your throat tightened all over again. "Look at me."

You did.

He looked back, and he didn't rush it. Just looked at you the way he sometimes did when he thought you weren't paying attention. His thumb rubbed circles on your knuckles.

"I'm okay," you said. Force of habit.

"I know you're not." Not a judgment, just a fact. "Talk to me."

Your jaw worked. "I don't want to..." The words snagged. "I don't want to be something you have to manage, Garrett."

He went very still.

"I heard something tonight." Your voice came out thinner than you wanted, and you couldn't tell anymore how much of it was the alcohol and how much was just you: exhausted, hollowed out, finally out of room to hold it. "Someone saying I was... that I'm a lot right now. That you're running yourself into the ground for me, and you don't have time for someone like..." You stopped. "I've been thinking it for weeks. She just said it out loud."

"Who."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Garrett." You shook your head, and the room moved slightly with it. "That's not the point. The point is that I believed it. That I heard it and something in me just - yes, obviously, correct. And I hated that. So instead of finding you and telling you I was upset like a normal person, I-" You gestured vaguely at yourself. At the state of you. "This."

He looked at you for a long moment.

"You've been carrying this for weeks," he said. Not a question.

"I didn't want to make it your problem."

Something crossed his face. "You are not a problem."

"You have scouts. You have finals. You've been coming to my dorm every other day with food I didn't ask for-"

"Because I wanted to."

"-and I keep letting you, and I feel like I'm taking something, like I'm-"

"Stop." His hands tightened around yours. "Listen to me. I come over because I want to be there. I text you because I want to know how you are. That's not- it's not labor, it's not obligation, it's not me managing anything. It's me." He exhaled slowly. "You're it for me. You know that."

"You can't just say that."

"I say it constantly. The guys are sick of hearing it."

"Dean told me about the locker room thing."

"Of course he did." No heat in it. Just resignation, and something softer underneath. "It was embarrassing. I meant every word."

You looked at him, and your eyes were burning again, and this time you let them. You were too tired and too drunk and too emptied out to hold that back too.

Garrett rose off his knees and sat beside you on the bed and pulled you into him without any hesitation.

You leaned.

That was the hardest part, always. The leaning. Letting someone else take some of the weight.

You were so tired of holding yourself upright.

"You're not too much," he said, into your hair. "You have never been too much."

You didn't answer.

"I mean it."

"I know you do," you said, very quietly.

He held you tighter. The party carried on below, muffled and oblivious, bass thumping through the floor, and up here it was just this. His arms. The familiar smell of him. The particular exhaustion of something finally, finally spilling over after being held too long.

You didn't feel better.

Not exactly. Not the way you'd maybe hoped. The shame of the drinking wasn't gone - that would probably be worse in the morning, honestly.

But Garrett didn't let go.

He kept one hand moving, slow and steady, through your hair, the way he did when you were half-asleep and he thought you weren't noticing. Like this was something he wanted to do. Like you were something worth being careful with.

You didn't know how to explain what that did to you.

You weren't sure you had to. At least not tonight. Not to Garrett.

Tonight, you closed your eyes and let him hold you, and tried to remember how to just be here. Without managing, without performing.

The thing about Garrett Graham is that he pays attention.

People assume he doesn't, assume that the cocky grin and the easy confidence mean there's nothing running underneath, that he moves through rooms the way he moves through a crowd: loud, certain, taking up space. His teammates assume it. His professors definitely assume it. Even Hannah assumed it, once, before she knew him better.

But you figure it out early.

You figure it out the first time he shows up at your apartment door in October with coffee. Yours, specifically, the order you'd said out loud exactly once during a group hangout where there were six other people talking over you, and just sets it on the counter while he unpacks his calc notes like it's nothing.

"How did you even—"

"You said it last week," he says, not looking up. "At the Sig house thing."

Hannah is watching from the kitchen doorway with an expression you can only describe as I told you so, and you think: okay. Okay. So that's how it is.

It's how it is.

You've been dating since early September. Three weeks after Hannah dragged you to her tutoring session because her car was in the shop and she didn't want to go alone, and Garrett showed up ten minutes late with his hair still damp from practice and made fun of her notes and somehow that turned into all three of you getting food after, and then somehow that turned into him texting you at midnight about a meme he saw that reminded him of something you said, and then somehow that turned into this.

Two months in. Still new enough that sometimes you catch him looking at you like he's surprised you're real. New enough that you still get a little breathless when he reaches for your hand in public, casual, like it's nothing, like you haven't spent most of your life around people who treat softness like a liability.

But new enough that there are still questions neither of you has asked yet.

The first time he notices, really notices, is at a home game in mid-October.

You're in the student section with Hannah and Allie, squeezed in close because the rink is packed and everyone is loud and happy and drunk on the particular electricity of a team. You've got Garrett's number on your back - a fact that made him smile so wide it looked like it hurt when he saw you in the tunnel before warm-ups - and you're holding your plastic cup of terrible beer and watching the ice.

Logan scores in the second period and the section erupts.

You flinch.

It's barely anything. It's the kind of flinch most people wouldn't even register. A quick tightening of the shoulders, a slight lean away from the noise.

Garrett is on the bench when it happens, but he looks up into the crowd the way he always does, scanning for you without meaning to, and he sees it. He sees the way your body moves before you catch yourself.

He doesn't say anything.

He files it away.

It happens again at the post-game party.

Dean cranks the music up without warning and someone behind you lets out a whoop right next to your ear and your whole body jerks. Just for a second, just a small intake of breath and a slight step sideways, away from the sound. You recover instantly. You smile at whatever Hannah is saying and nobody else even blinks.

But Garrett is watching you from across the room with a red cup halfway to his mouth and something tight forming behind his eyes.

He doesn't bring it up.

He thinks about it all night.

He thinks about it lying next to you afterward when the party has thinned out and you've ended up back at his place, half-asleep in his bed, your breathing slow and even against his shoulder.

He decides not to push. He decides to wait until you're ready.

He also decides that from now on, he's going to notice. Really notice. Keep cataloguing the small things the way he catalogues play patterns on the ice: quietly, carefully, building a picture.

The way you scrunch your nose after a shot.

The way you twist a strand of hair around your finger when you're anxious.

The way you go a little still when someone raises their voice, even in laughter.

He notices everything. He keeps all of it.

---

It's a Wednesday night in late October when you finally say it.

You're both in his bed, the lamp on the nightstand casting everything amber. You're on your stomach, his shirt barely covering you, scrolling through your phone with the kind of boneless satisfaction that follows a very good hour. Garrett is on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting warm across the small of your back.

"Okay but Dean," you say, without looking up.

Garrett laughs - the real one, low and easy. "I know."

"He threw the cup."

"He didn't throw it, it slipped—"

"He launched it, Garrett. There was arc. There was follow-through."

"He was drunk and it was plastic and it went like four feet—"

"The point is the energy," you say. "The point is that he was losing at a drinking game and decided the appropriate response was to throw something."

Garrett is still laughing. "He was fine. He wasn't even actually mad."

"He was a little mad."

"He was a little drunk."

"Both," you say. "Both can be true."

He concedes that with a hum. His thumb moves, absently, back and forth across the small of your back.

You look at your phone. Scroll without reading anything.

"My dad used to throw shit when he got mad," you say.

You say it casually. The way you might say I had a weird dream or I think we're out of coffee. Like it's a small fact, a footnote, something that doesn't require a particular response.

Garrett goes very still.

"Throw shit," he says, slowly.

"Like. Plates sometimes. His keys. Whatever was near him." You don't look up from your phone. Your voice is even. "He had this temper. Not - it wasn't like he was scary all the time. Just when he got really wound up."

Silence.

"At you?" Garrett asks.

There is a pause.

It lasts about three seconds longer than it should.

You don't answer.

Garrett feels something cold settle in his chest. He looks at the side of your face - the way you're looking at your phone but not really looking at it, the slight tension in your jaw, the careful way you're holding yourself.

"Y/N."

"I'm fine," you say. "It was a long time ago."

He doesn't push. He is very, very good at knowing when not to push.

But he moves his hand on your back. Slowly, deliberately, just pressing warm and steady there, and you exhale.

"I know," he says quietly.

He doesn't say: that's fucked up. He doesn't say: I'm sorry. He doesn't perform anything. He just keeps his hand on your back and stays.

Later, after you've fallen asleep, he lies awake for a long time.

He thinks about the flinching.

He thinks about the way your body knows things before your brain admits them.

He thinks about you, small and too young, in a room with someone who threw things.

He doesn't sleep well.

---

November comes in cold and relentless.

The thing about the back half of the semester is that it doesn't ask nicely, it just arrives. The midterms and the papers and the looming weight of finals building on the horizon, plus practice ramping up because playoffs aren't that far off and Coach is running them into the ground trying to get the power play where it needs to be. Plus Garrett's dad has been calling more, which always means something, and that something is never good.

Garrett doesn't talk about his dad. Not really. Not to most people.

He talks to John Logan sometimes. Late nights, half a beer in, when the walls come down a little. But to you, he hasn't gone there yet. There's a part of him that doesn't want to. That wants to be the version of himself he is with you: the guy who brings you coffee because he remembered your order, the guy who makes you laugh, the guy who holds you steady.

He's not sure he can be that and also this. This thing that gets wound tight and snaps at Logan and stares at his phone for ten minutes after his dad's number lights up without answering.

He compartmentalizes. He's always been good at it.

But you notice.

You've been noticing for three weeks.

The way he's quieter after practice. The way the easy grin doesn't come as fast. The way he laughed at your joke last Tuesday but the laugh didn't reach his eyes.

You don't say anything at first. You give him room. You show up and make yourself comfortable in his space the way you always do, and you don't ask, because you know what it feels like to not want to be asked.

But it gets worse.

By the second week of November, it's bad enough that Logan is making faces at you behind Garrett's back, the universal sign for I don't know what's going on either but something is.

And then there's the Thursday night.

You're at the hockey house when he comes back from practice. You've been there for an hour doing readings at his kitchen table and patiently waiting for him to come home.

He comes in at nine-thirty, and you know from the sound of the door that it's bad.

"Hey," you say, not looking up immediately. Testing the temperature.

"Hey." Flat.

You look up then. He's dropping his bag, his jaw set, not looking at you. There's a bruise forming along his cheekbone from whatever happened on the ice. He moves to the fridge, grabs a water, drinks half of it standing over the sink.

"Rough practice?"

"I'm fine."

You go back to your reading.

Thirty seconds pass.

"You don't have to stay," he says. Still not looking at you.

You put your pen down.

"I know I don't have to."

"I just- I'm not good company right now."

"That's okay. I'm not here for company. I'm here because I want to be here."

He doesn't respond to that. He refills his water and moves to the couch and picks up his phone, and you can see from across the room that he's not actually looking at anything on it. He's just holding it. Staring at the screen.

You give it ten minutes. You try to read. You get through one paragraph three times without absorbing any of it.

"Garrett."

"I'm fine."

"You keep saying that."

"Because I am."

"You're not. You've been somewhere else for three weeks and I've been trying to give you space but-"

"Y/N." His voice has an edge to it. "I said I'm fine."

Something sharpens in you. Not anger, exactly, more like a refusal. A refusal to be managed.

"You're shutting me out," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "I'm your girlfriend. I'm sitting right here. You can talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"That's not-" You close your textbook. "That's not true and we both know it. Your dad's been calling. Playoffs are coming. You're running on no sleep and you're carrying all of it alone and I'm right here and you just keep-"

"I don't need you to fix it."

"I'm not trying to fix it! I'm trying to be here-"

"You being here doesn't actually help." He says it fast, like he didn't mean to say it, but it's out now.

The room goes quiet.

You stare at him.

He's sitting on the couch with his phone in his hand and his jaw tight and there's something in his expression that's half anger and half guilt, and for a moment neither of you moves.

"Okay," you say, quietly. "That was a shitty thing to say."

"Y/N-"

"No, I know you didn't mean it like that, but it came out like that and it landed like that and I'm telling you, that was-"

"I know." His voice is rough. "I know. I'm sorry."

"I don't want an apology, I want you to talk to me-"

"I can't." It comes out frustrated, strangled. "I can't right now, I don't - I can't do the whole talking thing right now, I just need-"

"What? What do you need? Because I keep trying to figure that out and you won't let me close enough to-"

"I need you to stop pushing!" His voice rises sharply. "Jesus Christ, Y/N, I said I'm fine, I said I need a minute, why can't you just-"

"Because you're not fine and someone has to say it—"

"WOULD YOU JUST-"

The sound is very loud in the small room.

There is the crack of something hard against something hard, his phone, face-down onto the coffee table. Not thrown, just slammed. One sharp motion.

The room goes silent so fast it feels like a held breath.

Garrett breathes.

The room breathes.

He turns back to you.

And sees it.

The flinch.

Not dramatic. Not a cowering, not a cry. Just your body doing what your body learned to do, sometime between the first time a door slammed and the first time something broke near your feet on a kitchen floor. Your shoulders up. Your chin down. Your weight shifted back, one small step, heel finding the floor behind you.

Your face.

He will never, for the rest of his life, forget your face in that moment.

It is not scared of him, exactly. It is something worse. It is a face that has already run the calculation. Already moved through the sequence. Already folded itself into something smaller, something unthreatening, something that does not make the moment worse.

It is the face of someone who has done this before.

It is automatic. It is not about him. And somehow that makes it worse.

Because it doesn't matter that it's not about him. It doesn't matter that you already know, intellectually, in the three seconds it takes you to recover, already straightening, already blinking, already pulling yourself back up to full height, that he is not your father. That he is not that.

It doesn't matter.

Because he still did it.

And your body still knew what to do.

The silence that follows is the loudest thing Garrett has ever heard.

He doesn't move.

He is standing with his hands at his sides now, not touching anything, not doing anything, and he is staring at you with an expression that is very pale and very still and completely hollow.

You are looking back at him. You have straightened. Your arms are at your sides. You are breathing.

Neither of you speaks.

Garrett's eyes drop to the phone on the table. Then back to you.

"I—" he starts.

His voice breaks.

He steps back. Away from you, putting space between you and him like that's the thing that matters right now.

His throat moves.

"I'm sorry," he says. It is very quiet.

You open your mouth.

"Y/N, I am so-" He stops. Swallows. "I am so sorry. I shouldn't have - I didn't - I'm not going to-" He runs a hand over his face, pressing hard. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Garrett-"

"You should go." He says it without looking at you. "Please."

"I don't think that-"

"Please." His voice cracks on the word. "Please."

You look at him for a long moment.

He is looking at the floor. His hands are at his sides. He looks like something is eating him from the inside, quietly, with his permission.

You pick up your bag, your jacket, and let yourself out.

The door closes behind you.

The house is very still.

Garrett stands in the middle of it for a long time.

---

Logan finds him at eleven-thirty.

He comes back from a late night repair job to the house being dark except for the kitchen light, and Garrett is sitting on the couch with an open beer bottle, not drinking, just holding it. Staring at the middle distance.

He stops in the doorway.

"Hey," he says carefully.

Garrett doesn't respond.

Logan takes off his jacket. Gets a glass of water. Sits on the other end of the couch, leaving space.

Five minutes pass.

"She looked scared of me," Garrett says.

His voice is flat. Empty. Like he's reported something from very far away.

Logan is quiet for a second. "What happened?"

"I lost it." Garrett sets the bottle down on the coffee table, right next to the phone he'd slammed there earlier. "I was frustrated and she kept pushing and I just- I slammed my phone down. And I yelled. And she-" He breathes. "She flinched."

Logan says nothing.

"You yelled," he says, after a moment. "You were pissed. You slammed something down. That's - look, that's not great, but it's not-"

"That's not the fucking point." Garrett's jaw tightens. "That's not - Logan, her dad-" He stops himself. That's not his to say. He shakes his head. "She has a thing. About loud-"

"You didn't know you were going to do it."

"That doesn't matter."

"Garrett-"

"It doesn't matter." He finally looks at his friend, and his eyes are red-rimmed. "I don't get to say I didn't mean to and have that fix it. I did it. It happened. She was standing in my house and she flinched because of me and there's no-" He exhales roughly. "There's no walking that back."

Logan sits with that.

"You're not him," he says, eventually.

Garrett looks away.

"I did the same thing."

"You didn't hurt her."

"I scared her." He says it quietly. "That's enough..."

He was so tired. Tired of himself right now.

"I love her," Garrett says.

"I know," Logan says.

"I don't know what to do with that right now."

Logan doesn't answer, because sometimes there isn't an answer, and Logan is smart enough to know which moments those are.

---

You, meanwhile, are not wallowing.

You are sitting on the edge of Hannah's bed at midnight, and you are furious.

Not at Garrett. Or, not only at Garrett.

That's the complicated part. That's the part that would take a therapist and probably a lot of time to fully untangle, and right now you don't have either, so instead you have your knees pulled up to your chest and Hannah sitting across from you cross-legged and patient besides Allie, because they both know you well enough to wait.

"He scared me," you say.

"I know."

"For like two seconds. I knew it wasn't - I knew it was different, I knew he wasn't going to-" You make a frustrated gesture. "But my body didn't get the memo. And then I looked at his face and I felt guilty-"

"You don't get to feel guilty for-"

"I know that, Allie, I know that, I'm not saying it's rational." You press your fingers against your eyes. "I'm saying that's what happened. I looked at his face and he already looked gutted and I thought oh god, now I've done that to him and that is so fucked up."

"It's not fucked up."

"It is a little bit."

"It's complicated."

You all sit with that for a moment.

"He's going to spiral," you say.

"You don't know that."

"Hannah. You know him. He's going to spiral."

She doesn't argue.

"And then what?" you continue. "He gets to have the breakdown and I get to feel like the reason for it and none of this is-" You stop. Breathe. "I wasn't made of glass before tonight. I'm not made of glass now. I hate the idea that this is the thing that defines the whole-"

You stop again.

You think about the coffee order. The way he remembered.

You think about the nights he made you feel like the most noticed person in the world.

You think about the flinch, and the look on his face afterward.

You're angry. You're scared. You're exhausted. You're grieving something that isn't quite gone yet but that you can feel shifting.

You don't know.

And not knowing is the part that is actually, genuinely unbearable.

---

Two days pass.

They are the worst kind of days. You go to class. You do your readings. You text Hannah and Allie too much and your phone is quiet otherwise and you don't let yourself check it more than twice an hour, which still feels like too much.

Garrett texts once, on day two.

I'm sorry. I know that doesn't fix it. I'm sorry.

You read it six times and don't respond, not because you don't want to, but because you don't know what to say.

On day three, Allie appears in your doorway and says, "We're going to Malone's," with a tone that doesn't accept alternatives.

You go because the walls of your room have started to feel like they're listening.

Malone's on a Friday is comfortable and loud in the way of a place that has hosted a thousand Friday nights, worn into its own shape by it. You slide into a corner booth with Hannah and Allie and order a beer you're not sure you want and try to be present, which mostly works. Hannah doesn't mention Garrett. Allie mentions him once and gets a look from Hannah and drops it. You talk about Allie's audition nightmare and Hannah's research paper and the fact that the dining hall has been inexplicably serving breakfast food at dinner three times this week, and it's almost normal.

Almost.

You see him when he comes in.

Garrett, with Dean and Tucker, half-past nine. He doesn't see you immediately. He's saying something to Dean, nodding toward the bar, and you have about six seconds to decide what to do with your face.

You decide: nothing. Neutral. You're not going to perform anything.

Hannah has seen him too. Her hand finds your knee under the table. Brief. You okay?

You nod.

He spots you on the way to the bar.

The moment is small and enormous. He goes still for just a second, a slight check-step, and then he keeps moving, but his eyes stay on you for a beat longer than is casual. You hold his gaze. You don't look away.

He looks like he hasn't slept.

He looks like he's been carrying something very heavy for three days, which tracks, because you know him well enough now to know that he carries things heavily.

Dean notices the exchange. He steers Garrett toward the bar and away from your line of sight.

You turn back to Allie's story.

An hour passes.

It's Garrett who ends up outside first. You see him slip toward the door, shoulders tight, probably needing air or a moment or both. You give it three minutes and then you look at Hannah.

"I'm going to go talk to him."

Hannah holds your eyes. "You don't have to."

"I know."

"You're allowed to be angry."

"I know that too."

You slide out of the booth.

He's standing at the side of the building, away from the small cluster of smokers near the door. His hands are in his jacket pockets and he's looking at the street, and you watch him for a second before he hears your footsteps and turns.

His face does the thing - the opening, the complicated hope - and then goes careful. Reining something in.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey."

You stop a few feet away. Not the distance of strangers, not the distance of people who have slept tangled together for two months. Somewhere in the middle.

"How are you?" he asks.

"I've been better." You look at him. "You?"

He lets out a breath that might, in another version of this conversation, have been a laugh. "Yeah."

Silence. The street hums. Someone comes out of Malone's and moves past you and the door swings shut again.

"I'm angry," you say, because you decided on the way out here that you weren't going to start anywhere else.

"Okay." He says it carefully.

"Not- it's not a simple anger. It's not just at you." You watch his face. "I'm angry because you scared me. I'm angry because my body did that stupid thing and I hate it. I'm angry because-" You stop. Breathe. "Because you get to spiral about this and I'm the one managing my trauma response and worrying about you at the same time and that's a lot to be in charge of."

His jaw moves. "I know. You shouldn't have to-"

"I know I shouldn't. I'm telling you how it felt, not asking you to fix it."

He nods. He's looking at you very carefully, like he's translating, making sure he hears the right thing.

"I've been thinking," he says, after a moment.

"Tell me."

He looks away. Down the street, at nothing. His jaw works.

"I've been thinking that - I saw your face." His voice is rough. "That night. After I... You stepped back and I saw your face and I can't-" He stops. Swallows. "I know why. I know what that look means and what you learned to do with that look and the fact that I made you do it, that I was the reason-"

"Garrett-"

"Let me say it." He looks at you. "Please."

You go quiet.

"If I can do it once," he says, "I can do it again."

The words land like stones in water.

You watch him.

"That's not-" you start.

"It is." His voice is very flat. Not performative. Just... certain. Like he's made up his mind about something and he's telling you the result. "That's just- that's what it means, Y/N. I have his temper. I've always known I have his temper. I thought I had it controlled but I didn't, and if I couldn't keep it then, when things got bad-" He breathes. "What happens when things get worse? What happens in two years, five years, when there are more things to be bad? What happens the first time something really falls apart and you're standing in front of me and I-"

"Stop."

"-I can't make that promise. I can't look you in the eye and say that won't happen again-"

"Stop." Your voice is harder now. "Stop narrating my future for me."

He goes quiet.

"I'm not a child," you say. "I get to decide what I can and can't handle."

"That's not-"

"You doing this, deciding for me what's too much, deciding I'm too breakable, deciding that you get to make the call about what I walk away from, that's not protection. That's just a different way of taking away my choice."

He looks stricken.

"I know what my dad was," you say, very quietly. "I know what it looks like when it's bad. I've been in a room where bad was the whole atmosphere. That's not-" You gesture, frustrated. "What happened was not that."

"It could be-"

"Stop." You step closer, close enough that you can see the exhaustion in his face, the way he's held himself apart for three days and it's cost him. "You scared me for two seconds. I've been scared before. I survived." You hold his gaze. "And then I looked at your face and saw what it did to you and that was..." Your voice wavers slightly, just once. "That was different than what I grew up with. You understand? That look on your face was different."

Garrett's eyes are wet.

"That's not enough," he says.

"That's not your call."

"Y/N..."

"It's not." You are shaking slightly, not from cold. "You don't get to love me and then decide you're protecting me by leaving. That's not-" You laugh, short and humorless. "That's not how any of this works."

He is quiet for a long time.

The street keeps going. Car lights sweep past the mouth of the alley. Music from inside Malone's bumps through the wall, muffled and warm.

"So what now?" you ask.

Garrett doesn't answer.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. He looks at you with the kind of look that holds an entire argument inside it, every angle, every possibility, all the ways this could go. He looks at you like you're everything and like you're the most dangerous thing in the room.

If he forgives himself, there's a part of him that believes he's telling himself it's okay. That it's acceptable, that the first time is a free pass, that he can do it again with a story ready.

If he doesn't, if he holds this and holds himself responsible and carries it permanently...

He loses you.

He already knows he loses you.

And standing here, in the cold, looking at you in the light spilling out from Malone's, with your arms crossed and your eyes tired and something in your face that is sad and angry and still so impossibly here - he thinks he might deserve to lose you.

He thinks: I am my father's son.

And that thought is so old and so ugly that it's almost a relief to finally be looking at it directly.

"I don't know," he says.

His voice is barely above a whisper.

"You don't know," you repeat.

"I don't know," he says again. "I don't know if I can..." He stops. "I don't know how to do this right. I don't know if there is a right."

You look at him for a long time.

Then you say: "You're not your father."

"You don't know that," he says.

"I know you remember my coffee order," you say. "I know you moved slow every time you saw me flinch at loud sounds. I know you've had three days to be angry at me for pushing you and instead you've been punishing yourself." You hold his gaze. "Your father didn't do any of those things."

Garrett closes his eyes.

"That's not..."

"It's not nothing," you say. "I'm not saying it fixes anything. I'm not saying you're perfect. I'm saying those are two different things and you're flattening them into one because it's easier to decide you're a monster than to actually do the work."

He opens his eyes.

He looks wrecked. Genuinely, quietly, terribly wrecked.

"I scared you," he says.

"Yes." You don't flinch from it. "You did."

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are."

"I can't promise..."

"Then promise something smaller," you say. "Promise therapy. Promise that when you're wound that tight you tell me instead of letting me walk into the middle of it. Promise that you stop making decisions about my life without consulting me." Your voice is very steady, and you are very tired, and you are also, despite all of it, still here. Still standing in front of him. "Promise the next thing. Not the whole future. Just the next thing."

He is looking at you like you've said something in a language he's still learning.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because you remembered my coffee order," you say quietly. "Because you went slow. Because the second it happened you looked sick with yourself before I even had time to react." You swallow. "Because I'm angry and I don't want to leave."

The street is quiet.

Garrett breathes.

He reaches out, very slowly, and the question is obvious - is this okay? - and you step forward instead of back.

He pulls you in.

He holds on like you might disappear if he isn't careful, like you're the most breakable thing in the world and also the most solid, and he presses his mouth against the top of your head and says your name.

Not I love you. Not I'm sorry again. Just your name.

Y/N.

Like it means you are real.

You are here.

I will try to deserve it.

You stand there until the cold gets to be too much.

Until Hannah appears in the doorway looking for you and takes in the scene and disappears back inside without a word.

Until Garrett's breathing evens out against your hair and you feel the tension start to leave his shoulders, slowly, by degrees.

The work isn't done. You both know that. But his arms are around you and you haven't pulled away, and for tonight, that's the only answer either of you has.

You learn quickly that Boston doesn’t sleep.

The city hums at night, streetlights bleeding into wet pavement, late trains rattling underground, the distant roar of traffic that never quite fades. It’s nothing like home.

But here, in this city, you’ve found something close to peace.

The rink.

You’re a year younger than most of the elite skaters you admire, but young doesn’t mean unready. You didn’t uproot your entire life for nothing. You moved to Boston with one purpose: to skate. To train under a renowned coach whose name alone could open Olympic doors.

Your apartment is small. Too quiet. You don’t have friends yet, not really. Most nights, you eat alone, stretch alone, fall asleep with sore muscles and the weight of expectation pressing into your chest.

So you stay late.

The rink becomes your refuge. A place without decisions. A place where the world narrows to edges and timing and breath.

The Boston Raiders practice earlier in the evenings, their presence loud even before they take the ice. Laughter echoing, blades clacking, voices bouncing off the rafters. You wait patiently, lacing your skates on the bench, stretching, zoning in.

And every night, like clockwork, there’s him.

Ilya Rozanov.

You don’t mean to notice him. Not at first. But it’s hard not to. He skates like he owns the ice - powerful, sharp, effortless. There’s something restless about him, like he’s always holding back, even when he’s moving faster than everyone else.

You see him most clearly at the transition moment.

The Raiders file off the ice, sweat-soaked and buzzing from drills, and you step forward, heart already syncing to the rhythm of your routine.

That’s when it happens.

Your eyes meet.

It’s never intentional. Never prolonged. Just a beat too long to be accidental. His blue gaze catches yours, curious, unreadable, and something sharp curls low in your stomach.

You tell yourself it’s the cold.

But the shiver that runs down your spine feels nothing like it.

A month passes like this.

Then one night, everything shifts.

You’re exhausted, but you push through one last run-through of your routine. The music echoes through the empty arena, haunting and full, your blades carving clean lines into the ice. You lose yourself in it, in the spin, the jump, the landing that finally feels right.

When you step off the ice, breathless and flushed, the silence hits you.

You’re not alone.

Ilya is sitting on the bench near your bag, long legs stretched out, elbows resting casually on his knees. He looks unfairly good like this - hair still damp, practice jersey clinging to his frame.

“You skate late,” he says, voice low, accented, amused.

You blink. “Funny. I was about to say the same.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “I was impressed. That routine, very clean.”

You scoff lightly, grabbing your towel. “Didn’t know hockey players doubled as critics.”

“Only when something is worth watching,” he replies smoothly.

There it is.

You arch a brow. “So tell me, do you always hang around rinks at night to watch girls you think are cute?”

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “No. Usually I ask them out for a drink first. But you…” His eyes flick over you, unapologetic. “You never gave me chance.”

Your heart stutters.

“Maybe I just don’t trust men who lurk in empty arenas,” you shoot back.

“Fair,” he says. Then, softer, “But I am not so bad, yeah?”

You hesitate only a second. “Fine. One drink.”

The grin he gives you is slow, victorious. “Tomorrow. After game.”

You don’t realize how excited you are until the next evening sneaks up on you.

You pretend you’re calm as you get ready, phone propped on the counter, the game versus Montreal playing quietly. You half-listen, catching commentary about a fight - Rozanov involved, of course -something about a guy named Hollander.

You roll your eyes. “Short fuse,” you mutter.

Boston wins.

You text him: On my way.

He likes the message.

Your Uber drops you behind the club, bass thudding through the brick walls. The bouncer checks the list, nods when he sees your name, and waves you inside.

The club is dark and alive, lights pulsing, bodies moving as one. The music slides under your skin, pulling you in.

You’re debating calling Ilya when a hand glides along your lower back.

You jump, spinning around.

“There you are,” Ilya says, amused. “Very easy to scare.”

Your breath catches.

His hair is still damp, skin warm, cologne intoxicating. His eyes are impossibly blue, focused entirely on you.

“You look…” He pauses, then smirks. “Different from rink.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“I am used to seeing you in very little clothing,” he says casually. “But this-” His gaze flickers. “This is dangerous.”

You blush despite yourself.

He leads you to the dance floor, hands light but confident on your hips. You move together easily, bodies syncing, the music dissolving the walls you didn’t realize you’d built.

He buys you drinks. One becomes two.

You feel free, lighter than you’ve felt in weeks.

Almost like flying.

His forehead dips closer, breath warm against your cheek. Vodka and something undeniably him. Your lips hover inches apart-

Then a hand grabs his shoulder.

“Now I understand why you don’t answer my texts!”

A man - dark-haired, broad, angry - glares at Ilya.

“Shane,” Ilya snaps, stepping in front of you. “Leave it. You are drunk.”

“Oh, like you care,” Shane scoffs, drawing eyes.

Your stomach drops.

“I’ll go,” you say quickly, tugging Ilya’s hand.

He shakes his head. “It is fine. I handle this.”

Shane swings.

Everything explodes. Voices, movement, bodies colliding. Bouncers rush in. Raiders. Montreal players.

You step back, heart pounding.

And then you’re gone, your better judgment finally cutting through the haze. You remind yourself that this is a strange city, that you barely know these people, that whatever just ignited on that dance floor is not worth getting caught in the fallout of someone else’s temper.

Before you can second-guess yourself, the Uber door shuts with a heavy thud.

The city streaks past the window in fractured neon and headlights, your reflection staring back at you, still buzzing with adrenaline. Your heart won’t slow down. Your body keeps replaying the moment his breath hovered near your mouth, the way it felt like something was almost about to happen after weeks of stolen glances....

Almosts hurt more than nos.

Your phone buzzes in your lap.

A message from Ilya.

I am sorry. I hope you got home safe.

It’s simple, and somehow that makes your chest ache worse. You read it again, wondering what he’s not saying.

You type. Delete. Type again. Delete.

Outside, Boston keeps moving, indifferent and loud, while inside you feel suspended, caught between caution and curiosity.

You lock your phone and lean your head against the glass, exhaling slowly.

This wasn’t supposed to matter. He wasn’t supposed to matter.

And yet, deep down, you know this isn’t finished.

You’re not supposed to be this close to the glass.

You know that. You’ve known it all season. Press access ends two rows back, where the suits sit and the cameras don’t catch reactions that matter. But tonight the arena is too loud, and you drift forward without thinking. Until you’re right there, fingers curling into the edge of the boards like they could anchor you to something solid.

Ilya is on the ice.

He’s always on the ice, untouchable in that way that made you fall for him quietly, stupidly, months ago.

Until he isn’t.

It happens so fast it barely registers as a moment. A collision at center ice. A sickening crack of shoulder into head. His skates tangle, fail him, and suddenly he’s not upright anymore, he’s falling. Wrong. Limp before he hits the ice.

The sound he makes doesn’t carry. The crowd roars anyway.

You stand before you realize you’re moving.

“Ilya.”

Your voice cuts through the noise, sharp and unguarded. You hear it echo off the glass. You feel heads turn in your direction. Someone grabs your arm, security maybe, but you shake them off because none of that matters when Ilya isn’t getting up.

He’s on his side. Then his stomach. Then still.

The trainers are too slow. The refs are arguing. Seconds stretch and snap.

You press your palm flat against the glass, breath stuttering. “Get up,” you whisper, “Please.”

When the medics finally reach him, you’re already crying.

You don’t remember deciding to leave your seat. You don’t remember pushing past the usher, the credentials flashing uselessly at your chest. You only remember the tunnel swallowing you whole and the ice-level cold hitting your lungs.

They’re lifting his helmet when you reach him in the medical room.

Blood streaks his hairline, dark against pale skin. His eyes are half-open, unfocused, blinking too slow. Someone is asking him questions - his name, the date, the score - but his mouth doesn’t move.

“Ilya,” you say again, closer now.

His gaze shifts.

It lands on you and stops.

His brow furrows, confusion giving way to something softer, frighteningly familiar. His fingers twitch against the ice. “You,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Why are you-”

The medic glances back at you, sharp and assessing. “You know them?”

Ilya doesn’t answer. He’s still looking at you like you’re the only solid thing in the room.

“I’m here,” you say, because you don’t know how to do anything else. “I’m right here.”

His hand finds yours.

It’s weak, clumsy, but it’s enough. He squeezes once, grounding himself like he always does with you when the world spins too fast. His eyes flutter. “Don’t go,” he says, barely audible. “Please.”

Every rational thought you’ve ever had evaporates. You nod, tears blurring everything. “I won’t.”

The door opens before you can say anything else.

“Okay,” a voice says gently but firmly, a hand already at your elbow. “We need some space.”

“I’m not in the way,” you insist, panic sharpening your words. “I can stand back, I-”

“I know,” the doctor says, not unkindly. “But we need the room.”

You look at Ilya once more.

His eyes find yours immediately. There’s a flicker of protest there, but he’s already fading again.

“I’ll be right outside,” you promise, voice breaking.

The door shuts behind you with a soft, final click, and the quiet that follows is worse than the noise ever was.

You barely make it three steps down the hallway before it hits you.

Cameras. Lights. Voices overlapping, too loud, too close.

“Hey- excuse me!”

“Can we get a comment?”

“Are you and Rozanov-”

The first flash goes off and your heart lurches violently. You turn, instinctively shielding your face, but it’s useless. They’ve already seen you.

You don’t answer. You don’t stop. You push through the crowd with your head down, pulse roaring in your ears.

Ilya didn’t want this.

You know that. You’ve always known that. The careful way he kept you out of public sight, the quiet entrances and exits, the shared looks instead of shared statements. This was never supposed to be how it came out.

By the time you reach the parking garage, your phone is vibrating nonstop.

Missed calls. Texts. Notifications lighting up your screen like a warning flare.

ROZANOV’S SECRET PARTNER?

WHO WAS WITH ILYA AFTER THE INJURY?

INTIMATE MOMENT CAUGHT ON CAMERA-

You unlock your car with shaking hands and pull out before you can read any more. The drive back to the apartment is a blur of red lights and spiraling thoughts.

You should be with him.

That’s the only thought that matters. That and the hollow ache of knowing you can’t be.

Your phone rings again. This time you answer without looking.

“Shane,” you say, already tired.

“Oh my god,” he says, words tumbling over each other. “You and Ilya? This whole time? How did I not know? Is he okay? Are you okay? I saw the photos and-”

“I’m fine,” you cut in, sharper than you mean to. “I don’t- I just need to know if he’s okay.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then Shane exhales, grounding himself. “Okay. Okay. I get it.”

He softens. “Let me make some calls, Y/N. I’m pretty close with the trainers at that arena. I’ll see if they can give me any updates.”

Relief hits you so hard it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. “Thank you,” you whisper. “Really. Thank you.”

You hang up and sit there for a moment before going inside, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, breathing through the anxiety clawing at your ribs.

The apartment feels too big without him.

You pace the kitchen, hands twisting together, checking your phone every thirty seconds. Minutes stretch into something unbearable.

Then it rings.

Not Shane.

Ilya.

You answer instantly. “Ilya.”

“Hi, baby,” he says, voice rough with exhaustion, his accent thicker than usual. Just hearing him makes your knees weak.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “I didn’t want to leave- I swear, they pushed me out and then the press saw me and I tried to get away and-”

“I am okay,” he interrupts gently. “Maybe bit of headache. But okay.”

You sag against the counter, tears finally spilling over. He explains: Hollander calling the medic, pulling strings, convincing them to let Ilya make one call. To you.

“Ilya,” you whisper, voice shaking. “There are photos... The press is going crazy. I’m so sorry...”

“Do not apologize,” he says immediately, firmer now. “What happened, happened.”

You nod even though he can’t see it, fingers tightening around your phone.

After a moment, you ask the question you’ve been avoiding. “What do we do now?”

There’s a pause on the line.

“I should have been more careful.”

You tense. “Ilya-”

“I will handle the press,” he continues. “You don’t need to be involved.”

The words land heavier than you expect.

There’s another pause before you ask, quieter this time, “And us?”

Silence stretches.

You’ve learned how to read Ilya’s body the way some people read sheet music.

The hitch in his stride when his ribs are taped too tight. The way his shoulders lock when he’s bracing for impact instead of dodging it. The reckless angle of his hits when he’s no longer protecting himself, just throwing everything he has into the boards and whoever’s unlucky enough to be there.

From the stands, it’s agony.

You sit with your hands laced together so tightly your fingers ache, eyes never leaving the ice. He’s been like this all game. Charging too hard, staying out too long, taking hits that make your stomach flip. You know he’s already hurt. Bruised ribs don’t heal because you want them to. They heal because you rest.

He isn’t resting.

Every time he crashes into the boards, you feel it in your chest like a phantom pain. This isn’t hunger. This isn’t playoff fire. This is something uglier. Desperate.

You’ve felt it for weeks now. The distance. The clipped answers. The way he kisses you like it’s a habit instead of a want. You told yourself it was the playoffs. Pressure. Stress.

Now, watching him practically invite injury, you know better.

The buzzer sounds. Final score flashes overhead.

3–1. Loss.

The Boston Raiders skate off, shoulders slumped. You’re already moving, threading through the corridors toward the locker room exit. One by one, his teammates file out, quiet and exhausted.

Ilya doesn’t come.

Minutes pass.

When he finally emerges, showered and dressed, hair still damp at the nape of his neck, he looks devastating in the way he always does. Broad shoulders. Sharp jaw. Eyes dark with something closed off and unreachable.

He doesn’t smile when he sees you.

The walk to the car is silent. You take the keys without asking. He doesn’t argue. Streetlights blur past as you drive, knuckles white on the steering wheel. He stares out the window like he’s somewhere else entirely.

Inside his apartment, the door clicks shut behind you.

You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath all night.

“What the hell is going on with you?”

He blinks, slow and blank, like he doesn’t understand the language you’re speaking.

“What?”

“You’ve been dismissive for weeks,” you say, voice tight. “Cold. Distant. I thought it was the playoffs, I really did, but tonight? Ilya, you were begging to get hurt out there.”

He turns away, heading for the kitchen.

“You know what could’ve happened,” you follow, words spilling faster now. “You’re playing with compromised ribs, your core stability is off, one bad hit and you’re looking at torn intercostals, an ACL if your mechanics are off-”

“Enough,” he mutters, grabbing a glass and pouring himself a drink.

“Don’t,” you say, frustration burning behind your eyes. “I can see what you’re doing to your body and-”

“I said enough.”

He’s so cold it feels unreal. Like someone flipped a switch.

You swallow. “This isn’t you.”

That’s when he finally looks at you.

Something sharp flashes across his face. Then he snaps.

“I cannot do this anymore,” he says, voice rising, accent thickening as his control slips. “All of it. Hockey. Pressure. Everyone wants something from me.” He drags a hand through his hair.

Your heart twists. “Ilya-”

“And then you,” he cuts in sharply. “Always watching me. Telling me what is wrong. What I do to my body.” His voice breaks, then turns cold. “I am tired of being managed.”

“I’m not managing you,” you whisper. “I’m caring about you.”

“I don’t want care,” he snaps. “Not like this.”

He steps closer, anger burning in his eyes. “I just want nothing. To not think. To not feel like I am failing at everything.”

He glares at you, eyes wet but sharp, voice dropping to a final, cold edge.

“Go. I need air… I need silence… I need you out of my head.”

Your vision blurs. You nod once, because if you speak, you’ll shatter. You grab your jacket, hands shaking so badly it takes two tries.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, though you don’t know why.

He doesn’t stop you.

The hallway feels endless. The night air burns your lungs.

Your hands fumble for your phone. You don’t think. You just tap the first name that feels safe.

Shane.

When he answers, sleepy and confused, your voice comes out broken.

The last thing you expected to see today was him.

Conrad Fisher.

In Paris.

The city was loud and golden, morning light slipping between stone buildings as you clutched the back of Benito’s scooter. Your laughter still hung in the air from the reckless way he swerved around a corner, the wind tugging at your hair. By the time he pulled up in front of your building, your heart was still racing - half from adrenaline, half from the way Paris always felt like it was moving faster than you could keep up.

“Always dramatic, always late,” Benito teased, pulling off his helmet. His smile was easy, warm, familiar in a way Paris had made you crave. He hopped down first, steadying the scooter as you slid off, your legs shaky from the ride.

“You drive like you’re trying to kill me,” you shot back, laughing.

“That’s the Parisian way,” he grinned, leaning down to kiss your cheek. It was quick, European, effortless. Still, you felt the brush of his lips linger longer than necessary.

“À ce soir,” he said, tugging his helmet back on before kicking the scooter to life. The hum of the engine faded as he pulled away, leaving you with the smell of exhaust.

And then you froze.

Because standing on the sidewalk, not ten feet away, was Conrad.

Hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his khakis, hair a little too long, eyes fixed right on you like he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming. Your chest stuttered with disbelief, the world shrinking down to the span of cobblestones between you.

“Conrad?” you breathed. His name felt foreign in your mouth, sharp and tender all at once.

“Y/N,” His voice was quiet, careful. He shifted his weight, almost wincing. “I- sorry. I didn’t mean to just… show up like this.”

Your heartbeat was thunder. “What are you doing here?”

He exhaled like he’d been holding the breath for weeks. “There’s a conference in Brussels. With Dr. Namazy. It was a last-minute thing.” His eyes flicked toward your building, then back to you, full of nerves you hadn’t seen since you were kids. “And I thought… since it’s Belly’s birthday…” He trailed off, the words collapsing under the weight of his own doubt. “I can leave, though. If you’re busy.”

The old Conrad - the one who always pulled away before you could reach for him - was right there in front of you, already retreating.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, heart stuttering with too many things at once. The right thing would be to let him go, let him disappear back into the Paris crowd like a ghost you’d only imagined. But he was here, real, standing in front of you with that lost look in his eyes. And you couldn’t quite bring yourself to send him away.

“We… we have plans at eight. Belly and I,” you said finally, your voice softer than you meant it to be. “But until then…” You hesitated, fumbling for something that wouldn’t sound like an invitation but also wouldn’t be a rejection. “Let me drop your bag upstairs, at least. Before we go out. Play tourist for a little while.”

The words felt like a compromise, though you weren’t sure who you were trying to protect - him, or yourself.

Relief touched his face, small and fleeting, but enough. He shifted the strap of the bag on his shoulder, nodding. “Yeah. Okay.”

Inside your apartment, you left his bag neatly by the wall, needing a second to process the impossible reality that Conrad Fisher had just materialized on your street.

You splashed cool water over your wrists, staring at your reflection. Your head was swimming - shock, confusion, something else you refused to name. This didn’t have to be anything. Just a few hours of playing tour guide before sending him on his way. That was all.

When you came back, he was taking in the view of your street, staring down at the road where Benito’s scooter had disappeared.

“Ready?” you asked, slinging your purse over your shoulder before he could ask questions you weren’t ready to answer.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Conrad?” Belly's voice had you both turning to face her. Her eyes darted from you to Conrad and back again, disbelief flashing sharp and clear. "What are you doing here?" Her tone was fiery, unkind.

“Hey, Belly.” He straightened, shifting under her gaze. “I, uh- I had a conference in Brussels. Thought I’d stop in.” The words were identical to what he told you, but even shakier now.

Belly’s brows lifted, skeptical, though she didn’t press. Instead, she turned her gaze to you, a silent question in her eyes. You felt it like a current between you- big sister, little sister telepathy. Is this okay? Are you okay?

You forced a smile, heart hammering. “I’m taking him out to see Paris before dinner. Do you want to come?”

For a beat, she just studied you, like she could see straight through the calm mask you’d thrown on. Then Belly shook her head, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I think I’ll rest. Big night tonight. Don’t forget we have plans at eight.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you promised.

And then you had no choice but to step into the streets of Paris together.

---

Paris opened itself to you like it always did, cobblestone streets unfolding into wide boulevards, cafés spilling laughter and cigarette smoke onto the sidewalks. You walked a step ahead of Conrad, pointing out the things you loved.

He listened, mostly quiet, his gaze more on you than the city. You could feel it, the way his eyes traced the slope of your shoulder when you turned, the curve of your mouth when you spoke. It rattled you, made you hyperaware of every gesture, every step.

At Versailles, you slowed, brushing past him as you pointed toward a fountain. His hand grazed yours, barely, but the spark of it rippled through you both. Neither of you pulled away.

Conrad’s voice was low when he finally spoke. “I’ve imagined this,” he said. You glanced up at him, startled. His eyes were on the skyline, but his words were for you. “What your life would look like here," He breathed out a shaky laugh. “I wish I could see Paris the way you do.”

Something in your chest tightened. Without thinking, you said, “I know where to take you.”

The rooftop was one of your secrets. The city glowed in the distance, and below, the streets buzzed with life.

Conrad’s breath caught audibly. “God.” His voice broke into a whisper. “You seem… very comfortable here. In Paris.”

You leaned against the low wall, staring out at the city that had taken everything from you and, slowly, given it back. “It took me a year to feel that way,” you admitted. The truth lodged like glass in your throat. “But I got here.”

Conrad turned, his face lit by the shimmer of the lights, and you couldn’t tell if it was the night or his expression that made your stomach lurch. “I always knew you could.”

The air between you thickened, charged - like the rooftop was its own small universe where anything could happen. His fingers brushed yours again, deliberate this time, lingering just long enough to make your heart stutter.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself back into motion before you drowned in it. “Listen… there’s a pre-birthday dinner tonight. For Belly. My friends are throwing it.” You risked a glance at him. “You could come. Catch a later train to Brussels.”

His mouth curved, soft and unsure. “You want me there?”

You hated how much you did. “It’s for Belly,” you said, and your voice was almost steady.

But when he nodded, eyes holding yours too long, you knew he saw straight through you.

---

Back in your apartment, you tried to keep your hands from shaking as you put on your finishing touches. The black dress felt like armor, the red lipstick a shield, but when you glanced at your reflection, your heart still stumbled. Because no matter how much you told yourself this night was for Belly, you knew Conrad would be watching.

You left him with her in the bedroom, bracing yourself for tension -sharp words, cold silence, maybe worse. But when you emerged, smoothing down your dress, you froze in the doorway. Belly was laughing, her face soft in a way you hadn’t seen in months. Conrad was grinning faintly, like he’d been waiting years just to hear that sound again.

For the first time, relief eased something tight in your chest. Maybe they could still find their way back to each other, in their own way.

Conrad’s gaze flicked up then, landing on you. His expression stilled, and you felt the heat rise before he even opened his mouth.

“You look…” His voice caught, then steadied. “Beautiful.”

You looked away, cheeks burning. “We should go,” you murmured.

Hugs were exchanged as soon as you and Belly walked through the door. The room was crowded with your friends, wine glasses clinking, laughter spilling into the night air. Belly glowed under the attention.

Introductions circled, your friends offering curious and impressed eyebrows when they saw your arm candy. You were thankful Conrad didn't know a lick of French.

Benito was the last to say hello, giving you a kiss on the cheek that lingered just a bit too long. Grinning at Conrad with sharp curiosity, they exchanged introductions. “We’ve heard everything about you,” he said. “You’re like a legend in Paris.”

Conrad’s brow arched, amused but wary. Before he could answer, Benito tugged Belly aside, insisting on giving her her gift.

Before long, the group found themselves sitting around the table, wine glasses filled for the second and even third round.

“So tell us,” Benito said, tilting his glass. “Why are you really here?” His question to Conrad laced with condescension.

Belly jumped in quickly. “He’s here for work. A conference in Brussels.”

Benito didn’t buy it. His smile was tight. “Funny. Brussels is far from here, surely there would've been an option for a direct flight, no?”

The air shifted, every pair of eyes on Conrad. He hesitated - just long enough for your pulse to quicken - then spoke quietly, his gaze flicking to yours.

“I changed my flight,” he admitted. “Because I wanted to see Y/N.”

A hush lingered, broken only by the clink of someone’s fork against a plate. Then one of the girls laughed, waving a hand. “Ignore Benito. He’s still bitter Y/N shot him down. And Belly didn’t exactly want to get her sister's sloppy seconds.”

The irony bit deep, but you only smiled faintly, turning to Benito. “Don't worry, you’ll always be the boy who taught me how to ride a scooter.”

Conrad’s voice cut in, “And I’ll always be the one who taught her how to ride a bike.”

The table erupted into teasing oohs and laughter, but you caught the flicker in his eyes.

Later, as Belly opened gifts, Conrad leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. His voice dropped to a murmur only you could hear.

“So, Benito. Not your boyfriend?”

You kept your gaze on Belly, lips curling into a small, steady smile. “I never said he was.”

Conrad didn’t reply, but when you dared to glance at him, the look in his eyes made it impossible to breathe.

Conrad cleared his throat. “I, uh- actually got you something.”

Belly blinked, surprised. “For me?”

He nodded, reaching into his bag. What he set on the table wasn’t wrapped, but somehow that made it more intimate: a small glass vial, filled with pale sand.

“This is from a Fourth of July,” Conrad explained softly. “A few summers ago. I started keeping it with me whenever I felt homesick. Having a little piece of Cousins… it makes me feel connected to everyone. I thought maybe, if you missed home too - you’d want to have it.”

Belly’s eyes shimmered in the candlelight. She leaned forward and pressed a quick, tender kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Conrad.”

Something in your chest swelled so painfully you almost had to look away. No matter what, he was always looking out for her - for her heart. That part of him never changed.

Later, after dinner, Belly insisted on staying out with her friends to ring in her twenty-second year. She called it the perfect birthday. Which left you and Conrad walking alone beneath the amber glow of Paris streetlamps, the city’s hum softened by the lateness of the hour.

“I’ll be honest,” Conrad said, hands tucked in his pockets. “Before I came here, I thought… maybe you were hiding out. Punishing yourself for everything that happened.” He glanced at you, expression gentle. “But now? I see you’ve made this incredible life for yourself. And I’m glad I got to see it.”

You gave a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’re not wrong. At first, I was hiding out. I felt lonely. I put everything into making sure Belly was okay and forgot about myself.” A pause. The words scraped their way out. “And… I know I was the villain in all of it. I reacted irrationally-”

“Don’t,” Conrad cut in quickly, firm. “Don’t think of yourself like that.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of things unsaid. Then Conrad exhaled. “Jere knows I’m here. He told me… ‘good luck.’”

That tugged a startled laugh out of you, your chest warm and aching all at once.

Conrad tipped his head back, staring at the Paris sky. “I like being under the same moon as you again.”

Something trembled in the air, like he was about to add more, but you stopped him. “Come on. There’s one more place I want to show you.”

The Seine glittered under the lamps, the city’s reflection rippling across dark water. A sweet melody played softly from a radio nearby. Conrad slowed, then turned to face you fully. “Dance with me.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Here? Now?”

“Why not?” His hand reached for yours.

You took it. His palm was warm, grounding, even as your heart knocked against your ribs.

“Do you remember the last time we danced?” you asked quietly.

He thought for a moment. “Summer house. We were kids. Must’ve been.”

“That feels like a million years ago.” You swallowed hard. “For a while… your letters kept me going. When I was lonely, when I missed home... I’d read them. Over and over.”

His eyes darkened, searching yours. “Then why did it take you so long to write me back?”

The ache of that question lingered. “Because I had to move on. And I couldn’t do that if I was still holding on to you.”

The night seemed to still around you, waiting. Conrad’s voice broke the quiet. “Have you?” His gaze held yours, unflinching. “Moved on?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you surged forward, rising onto your toes and kissing him like you’d been waiting your whole life for this.

It wasn’t soft or tentative. It was every swallowed word, every letter left unanswered, every summer night you’d lain awake thinking of him. His mouth crashed against yours with the same ferocity, like he’d been starving and only now allowed to taste.

The world fell away. Paris, the Seine, the years between you - all of it blurred, inconsequential compared to the electric pull of his lips on yours. His hands framed your face, trembling as though he couldn’t believe you were real, and you fisted his shirt like if you let go, he might disappear.

“Come home with me,” you breathed, your lips brushing his, desperate, pleading.

Conrad didn’t hesitate. The kiss deepened, urgent, greedy, as though you were trying to memorize each other in one night. You barely registered the taxi ride, too caught in the press of his forehead to yours, the quiet hitch in his breath every time your mouths met again.

By the time you stumbled through your front door, you were still kissing, still pulling at each other like gravity itself demanded it. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing the two of you inside, and suddenly it didn’t matter how much time had passed. His shirt fell forgotten on the floor, your hands sliding into his hair, tugging him closer.

The years apart, the misunderstandings, the silence - they all funneled into this one moment, this frantic need to make up for everything you had lost. The city outside went on without you, but in here, it was only him.

And when your lips finally slowed, when the frantic urgency gave way to something softer, steadier, you realized with bone-deep certainty: this was the kiss you’d been waiting for all along.

His forehead rested against yours, his breath unsteady, his hands still trembling where they held you. In the quiet between heartbeats, he whispered, raw and unguarded,

“I’ve been dreaming of this. You.”

---

The room was dark except for the faint glow of the city bleeding in through the curtains. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, his arm draped heavy and warm across your back. For a fleeting moment, it felt like you could stay there forever.

Then your gaze caught the red digits on the clock. 4:02 a.m.

“You missed your train,” you murmured.

Conrad shifted slightly, eyes half-lidded, a sleepy smile tugging at his mouth. “I’ve been thinking about skipping the first day of the conference. Leaving tomorrow night instead.”

Your stomach tightened. “You shouldn’t change your plans for me.”

He lifted his head, brows knitting. “Why not?”

“Because I wouldn’t change mine for you,” you said quietly. “I have a life here.”

The weight of the night pressed down then - the heat of skin on skin, the kiss that had cracked you open, the way his love always felt too big, too dangerous. It reminded you of that morning when Belly told you she was engaged, and suddenly the air felt too thin, the room too small.

“The next train’s at five,” you whispered, pulling back from him. “You should go.”

Conrad sat up, watching you closely. “Or… we could get breakfast. Just us.”

You shook your head, voice sharp with panic. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

His expression flickered, wounded. “Is everything okay? Did I do something?”

Your throat burned. “Conrad… what do you think is happening here? You show up at my door, unannounced. What even was your plan?”

“I didn’t have one,” he admitted, raw and unflinching. “I just knew I wanted to see you. To tell you that I love you. To ask if any part of you still loves me.”

The silence after that was unbearable.

“You don’t love me anymore?” he asked, his voice breaking on the word anymore.

Your chest cracked. “Of course I do. I always have. That’s the problem.”

He blinked at you, confused.

“Maybe the only reason we were ever together was because of Susannah,” you confessed. “Maybe there’s a reason life kept pulling us apart. A reason you kept leaving. If your mom had never gotten sick, would I have been there to hold you up? Would you have even looked at me that way? Or was it always about Belly - that she didn’t want you, so you came to me instead?”

“That is not why I love you.” His voice was low, fierce. He leaned forward, eyes burning into yours. “I have tried everything not to love you - for Jere’s sake, for your sister’s, for mine. I didn’t want to drag you down into my grief. But I couldn’t stop. I felt it way before that summer, before my mom got sick, before all the mistakes with Belly. You’ve always been a precious person to me. At some point, I started to see you differently, and it terrified me. Because I didn’t want things between us to change.”

Your breath shuddered out, but he wasn’t done.

“If I met you for the first time tonight,” Conrad said, voice trembling, “I would still love you.”

You shook your head, tears pricking your eyes. “How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve changed everything about myself,” he said. “And the only thing I haven’t been able to change is how I love you.” He was crying now, tears reflecting gently in the glow from the light outside.

Your heart split clean down the middle. “Conrad, I wish I could be as sure as you. But I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He held your gaze for a long, unbearable moment. Then he nodded, just once, and reached for his bag.

“I’m not sorry,” he said softly. And then, quieter still: “I’m going to try to catch the 5 a.m. train.”

And just like that day at the dedication, the world became suffocatingly small.

---

You watch him go before you really understand you’re watching him go.

The apartment hums with the residue of skin and breath and the quiet aftermath of everything you let happen. You tell yourself you’re practical; of course he has to catch the train. It’s 5 a.m. and the world is doing the tidy thing it always does: moving on.

But the thing about feeling like you’ve been stitched together only moments before is that the thread can catch and pull again.

You stand on the balcony, bare feet on cold concrete, and you think of the way he held you like he was making up for years. You think of the way his voice trembled when he said he’d tried not to love you. You think of how light the city seemed when he kissed you, like someone had opened a window and let the sun in.

You want to believe you’re different now. You want to be the grown version of yourself who can hold a life in Paris without ghosts wrecking the corners.

But the truth is steadier and harder:

you are still her -the girl who loved too loudly and followed her heart until it bled.

Was that girl so bad? She made mistakes, yes. She hurt people. She also kept going. She kept loving. You inch your hand to your mouth and the thought surfaces like a breath you can’t hold down.

I still love her, you tell yourself - meaning the version of you that kept trying, that still deserved a chance.

And then: I still love him. I will always love Conrad Fisher.

The realization is both a surrender and a lit fuse.

He’s not there. The silence pushes back like a tide.

You don’t think. You move.

You throw on jeans, a sweater, anything. Your fingers are clumsy with urgency; you fumble for your phone, for your keys. The taxi ride is a blur of brake lights and breath that fogs the window.

The train station is bright with a million signs. You run because there is no other movement that matches the speed of what your chest has become. People surge past you, sleep-slick and indifferent. A woman with a stroller throws you a look. A man in a suit curses when you clip his heel. Everything minor in the world sharpens into something urgent and incandescent: him.

You step into the carriage of the 5 a.m. headed to Brussels, and everything hushes. The scrape of fabric, the puff of your own breath loud in your ears as you frantically search through the rows.

The wave of relief you feel when you spot him is indescribable.

“Is this seat taken?” you ask, and your voice sounds like it belongs to someone who has been underwater.

He looks up slowly. Surprise softens into something stunned and then, impossibly, an incandescent smile that makes the world tilt right.

“Conrad,” you say, and it is the most ordinary thing you could possibly say to him, but it carries everything. “I choose you - of my own free will. If there are infinite worlds, every version of me chooses you in every one of them.”

Silence drops like a curtain. For an absurd, suspended second you wonder if the motion of the train has stopped the rest of time from breathing.

He stands then, like something answered that had been waiting long enough to be prayer. His palms are warm as he takes your face gently, two hands cupping both sides as if he needed to check that you were actually there.

“I love you, Y/N,” he says - the words tumbling out with the weight of everything that came before them. It’s not reckless. It’s not careless. It’s a confession matured in the kind of earnestness you’ve watched hide behind his usual reserve.

The words land in the hollow of your ribs and set you on fire.

You answer before you can measure the consequences because measuring felt cowardly and because you want this truth to be solid and ongoing, not some promise stolen in the dark.

“I love you too,” you whisper, and the sound of it is both surrender and triumphant claiming.

He leans in and kisses you like the world is ending and beginning at the same time.

His mouth is warm and steady, the press of his forehead against yours a punctuation that feels like home.

Around you, the carriage rocks and people sleep and announcements scrape over the loudspeaker like far-off rain. But inside your chest, it’s a storm breaking open - thunder rolling through your veins, lightning sparking where his hands hold you steady.

You let out a laugh that is half sob, joy strangled with years of waiting. He smiles into the curve of your face, and it feels like standing in the eye of something once dangerous, now finally calm.

When he pulls back, his voice is raw and certain:

Reader's POV

Following Belly’s AirTag led you to more than just her stolen backpack.

The next few months blurred like spilled paint. You and Belly found a dingy flat with too many roommates and paper-thin walls. Rent was cheap, the bathroom sink never stopped dripping, and the kitchen smelled faintly of garlic no matter what anyone cooked. But it was yours.

You both found work. You bartended in a smoky bar where the floors stuck to your shoes. Belly handed out tickets and swept aisles at a neighborhood theater. Neither job was glamorous, but they paid enough.

Belly started taking online classes, chipping away at her degree. Watching her inspired you. So between shifts that stretched until dawn, you re-enrolled too. Your laptop perched on the rickety kitchen table, essays lit by the glow of a bare bulb.

Little by little, it started to feel like life was stitching itself back together. The chaos had rhythm. The city became yours.

But as November bled into December, homesickness crept in like frost. You missed the hum of the Cousins house, your mom’s dry humor, Steven’s easy warmth. Worst of all, you missed him. Conrad.

You hated admitting it, but it was true. No matter how far you ran, no matter how many crowded metros you pushed through or pastries you devoured on cobblestone corners, he lingered. His absence had a shape, sharp and unbearable.

And then, as if he’d read your mind, his letter arrived.

He imagined what your days must look like here: you with a bitter coffee in one hand, a flaky croissant in the other. He guessed at which bars you might haunt, which streets you might get lost in. He wrote about Paris like he’d walked it beside you, like he knew. And at the end, he wished you a Merry Christmas. Said he hoped Paris was everything you dreamed it would be.

You read it three times. Then you folded it away.

Belly was glowing, though. She’d met a boy, Benito. He had dimples that made her blush and the kind of easy charm that pulled her into laughter. For the first time in months, her eyes lit up again. You were grateful for that.

Christmas Eve came and went. Belly was swept away by Benito, and you spent it alone. The streets outside glittered with lights, voices spilling from bars and cafés. But inside your apartment, you sat curled by the frosted window, aching for home, aching for everything you’d left behind.

New Year’s brought Taylor. She breezed into Paris with her big laugh and bigger opinions, and suddenly your cramped apartment transformed into a party. Music thumped, your new friends crowded the space, bottles passed hand to hand. For one night, the heaviness lifted.

Benito arrived late, knocking at the door with a crooked grin and a package in his arms. “This was downstairs for you,” he said, pressing it into your hands.

Your chest tightened when you saw the handwriting. Conrad’s.

Inside was another letter. And a stuffed animal. The one he’d won for you on the boardwalk years ago.

Belly’s eyes softened. Taylor’s narrowed knowingly.

“Is this why?” Taylor asked. “Why you won’t let yourself try with anyone here?”

You shook your head quickly. “That's not it. It’s me. I don’t want to hurt anyone else...”

Taylor arched a brow. “Newsflash, Y/N - hurting people is inevitable. You can’t live your whole life avoiding it.”

Her words clung like smoke.

When midnight struck, you forced yourself to be brave - or maybe reckless. A stranger with kind eyes stood nearby, and you leaned in, kissed him as fireworks thundered outside. His lips were warm, steady.

But the moment it ended, a hollow ache spread in your chest. It felt wrong. Off.

Because no matter how many strangers you kissed, you knew the truth: you would never be able to get Conrad out of your system.

---

Conrad's Pov

The months since you’d left blurred into a kind of gray. On the surface, I functioned. Classes, work, study. I smiled when people expected it, nodded when they spoke.

But underneath, everything hurt.

I was happy for you. At least, that’s what I told myself when Taylor mentioned Paris, when she dropped hints that you were settling in, that you and Belly were okay. I wanted to be glad. And some part of me was. But the other part - the louder, uglier part - ached with the knowledge that I’d almost had you back that summer. And then I lost you all over again.

And Jeremiah.

The guilt of both cut sharper than anything else.

I called Laurel a few days before Christmas. “Would it be okay if I came? Even with Jere there?” My voice caught. “And… would it be okay with Y/N?”

Silence, then: “They’re not coming home this year. Belly and Y/N are staying in Paris.”

The relief and ache tangled until I couldn’t tell them apart.

“I was thinking of reaching out,” I admitted quietly.

“Take the risk,” Laurel said gently. “If you’re thinking about her, let her know.”

So I wrote.

When Christmas came, I found myself in Cousins anyway, at your family’s house. The rooms felt hollow, like they were waiting for you. Even the air seemed different, missing something essential.

Steven sat on the couch, a controller in his hands. The sounds of his video game filled the silence, but neither of us really cared about the game.

I sat on the edge of the armchair, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. The words came before I could stop them.

“Does everyone still hate me?”

Steven’s hands stilled on the controller. He didn’t look at me right away, just let out a long sigh. “No,” he said finally, voice quiet but firm. “They don’t. I just… I wanted to protect my sisters. You don’t always make it easy.”

His words hit something deep. My throat tightened, but I forced myself to speak. “I know. And I’m sorry. For everything. For Belly. For Y/N. For… all of it. I never meant to make it harder on anyone, I just…” My voice cracked, and I had to swallow hard before continuing. “I thought I was protecting them too. And maybe I was wrong. No- I was wrong.”

Steven set the controller down, finally turning to look at me. His gaze was softer than I expected.

“I know you’re sorry,” he said after a beat. “That’s the thing. You carry it around like a backpack full of bricks. But Conrad…” He shook his head. “Sometimes saying sorry isn’t the point. Sometimes it’s about being the guy they can actually count on, not the guy who decides for them.”

The words landed heavy, but not cruel. Honest. Exactly like Steven always was.

“I want to be that guy,” I said, my voice low, almost a whisper. “For them. For her. I just don’t know if I can ever make it right.”

Steven leaned back against the couch cushions, blowing out a breath. “Look, you’ve put them through a lot. You’ve put yourself through a lot. But you’re here, right? That counts for something. Belly knows you care. Y/N knows it too, even if she won’t admit it right now. Time has a way of softening things.”

I blinked hard, relief stinging the back of my eyes.

And then Steven smirked, picking the controller back up. “Besides, if I can forgive you, anyone can. I mean, you did used to steal all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms and blame it on me.”

A laugh broke out of me before I could stop it, sharp and almost painful with how much it loosened in my chest. “They were Y/N's favorite part," the memory brought a small smile across my lips, "You still holding onto that?”

“Damn right I am,” Steven said, eyes back on the screen, but the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “But I guess I’ll let it slide. This time.”

Later, wandering upstairs, I found myself in your room. Empty bed. Books stacked on the desk. And there, shoved up in the corner of your closet, the stuffed animal I’d won for you years ago.

I picked it up, thumb tracing its worn fur. And I knew what I had to do. I boxed it carefully, wrote another letter, and sent it across the ocean.

---

It was April now, and the cemetery smelled like wet earth and lilies. Five years since Mom. I carried flowers to her grave, but stopped short when I saw Jeremiah already there, hands shoved in his pockets, head bowed.

For a while, neither of us spoke. Just the wind and the faint rustle of leaves.

Finally, I forced the words out, almost a whisper. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

His shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t look at me. “You pretended to help with the wedding while you were trying to ruin it. And you did.”

The accusation landed like a blow. I lowered my eyes, “I know.”

He turned then, finally, and his face was hard- like every ounce of pain had crystallized into anger. “Do you get it, Con? You destroyed the one thing I thought I could hold on to. You made me believe you were on my side, and then you ripped the floor out from under me.” His voice cracked, sharp and ragged. “You think I don’t already hate myself for Cabo? For what happened with Y/N?”

My chest caved at her name.

Jeremiah shook his head, eyes glassy. “I only did that because I felt like everything was crumbling. Like I had to beat you at something, even if it made no sense. Even if it meant…” He trailed off, jaw tight, and I knew what he wasn’t saying.

“I tried to stop loving her,” I whispered, my throat raw. “I tried to keep my promise to Mom - to put you first, always. But I couldn’t. I failed you, Jere. I failed her. And I failed Mom too.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Until finally, he looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in months. His eyes weren’t just angry. They were hollowed out with grief.

“I promised her too,” he said hoarsely. “That I wouldn’t let anything come between us as brothers. And I broke it.”

We stood there, two broken halves of the same family, the weight of Mom between us. The weight of her absence.

Then, almost without thinking, we stepped forward and embraced. It was rough, like we were clinging to something that might slip away again. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But something.

When we pulled apart, Jeremiah’s voice was softer. “I don’t think Belly and I will ever work, don't think she'll ever forgive me. And…” His mouth trembled before he steadied it. “and if Y/N ever forgives me, she deserves to be with someone who really loves her. Not someone who just needed to win.”

The words gutted me. Not a blessing. Not entirely. But the closest thing to one I’d ever get.

And for the first time in months, I let myself breathe.

---

Later, I wrote you again. Told you Jere and I had made up, or at least started to. And then: “In case I haven’t made it clear, I think about you a lot. You’re pretty much all I think about.”

Weeks passed. And then it came.

A postcard. From Paris.

Your handwriting.

You thanked me for the stuffed animal, for the letters. Said you and Belly had found a permanent place. Ended with: “I hope you’re well.”

The words were brief. But to me, they were everything. Proof you hadn’t erased me, hadn't shut me out forever. Proof I still mattered, even in some small way.

I read it until the ink blurred, until the edges wore soft beneath my hands. I folded it up into my wallet to keep it close.

It was the postcard, and also a bit of encouragement from Agnes, that convinced me to go. I was already scheduled to be in Brussels for a conference with Dr. Namazy.

So I changed my flight.

Not Brussels.

Paris.

Reader's POV

You almost let your legs do it. Almost let yourself run straight to him the second you saw him sitting there in that awful chair at the airport gate. His hair fell into his eyes, his duffel slouched at his feet like he’d been waiting for hours.

It took every ounce of restraint you had not to cross that polished floor, not to say his name. You could already imagine how it would go - his head snapping up, that startled, wrecked look he always wore when he was trying too hard not to fall apart in front of you. Maybe he’d stand. Maybe you’d let yourself fall into his arms.

But before you could even lean forward, before your lungs could draw in the breath to call out, Belly’s hand was around your wrist, tugging.

“Come on,” she whispered.

And then you were moving, her pulling you down the jetway, boarding the plane, away from him.

You told yourself not to look back. That was the rule. Don’t look back.

But the heat in your chest felt unbearable, like you’d swallowed fire, and when the plane lifted off the ground you almost believed you’d left your heart behind at the gate.

You pressed your forehead to the cool oval of the window and told yourself this was what you wanted - space, distance, silence. But your mind wouldn’t stop circling back to the words he’d left you with.

“I’m sorry for screwing everything up." His voice had cracked.

You’d called him a runner before. Told him he always found a way out when things got too close. But now here you were, running too. Thousands of miles away from Cousins, from him, from all of it. Hypocrite, you thought bitterly, digging your nails into the armrest.

The plane was loud but also suffocatingly quiet. Belly beside you tried to distract herself with a magazine, flipping pages without reading them, biting the inside of her cheek. Eventually she nudged your arm.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

"I should be the one asking you that question," you gave her the most sympathetic smile you could muster, "I saw him at the gate...”

Her shoulders sagged. “I know. I did too. That’s why I pulled you.”

A humorless laugh slipped out. “Thanks for saving me, I guess.”

Her hand stilled on the crumpled magazine. “No. Thanks for saving me.”

You turned toward her, surprised by the rawness in her voice. For a moment she looked so small, like the little sister who used to trail behind you with scraped knees and sticky hands, begging you to wait up. You leaned your head against hers, and she let out the breath she’d been holding.

The city greeted you with gray skies and the smell of roasted chestnuts drifting from a vendor cart. It was overwhelming - foreign signs, different rhythm, the kind of beauty that only reminded you how far you were from home.

By the time you and Belly found a small café, your bodies felt heavy with exhaustion. You slid into a table by the entryway.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Belly mindlessly stirred the drink she bought. Finally, she whispered, “You’ve always been here. For me. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Especially then.”

You blinked at her, throat tight.

“I’m sorry,” she added. Her voice trembled. “For what I said at the wedding. For all of it. You were right.”

The air between you shifted. You reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “You’re my sister,” you said. “That’s never going to change.”

Her shoulders sagged with relief, a small smile pulling at her lips. For the first time since you’d boarded the plane, you felt something other than regret.

But then reality hit. “We should call Mom,” Belly said softly. “She’s probably worried sick.”

You dialed, your heart pounding, and Laurel picked up on the first ring. The sound of her exhale was sharp, almost desperate.

“Tell me where you are,” she demanded. “I’ll come get you.”

You hesitated. “We’re… in Paris.”

Silence. Then: “Paris?”

Belly leaned close to the phone, speaking quickly. She explained how everything had been too much, how she just needed time and space, how you’d come to keep her safe.

After some convincing, Laurel’s voice softened. “Whatever you need to heal, Belly. I trust you.”

Her words landed heavy. She hadn’t asked about you. Not once.

When the call ended, you both stood to pay, Belly digging for her wallet, then freezing. “My bag,” she whispered. “Y/N, my backpack’s gone.”

Your eyes darted around the café. Empty chairs. A couple by the door. No backpack.

“Oh my god,” Belly’s voice pitched higher, panicked. “My passport-my- my ring-”

You rolled your eyes, already unlocking your own phone. “Relax. AirTag, remember?”

Her face lit with frantic hope as you opened the tracking app. A blinking dot appeared a few streets over.

“Come on!” you urged, grabbing her hand.

And then you were both running through the Paris streets, weaving between startled pedestrians, chasing the little dot that might lead you back to her bag.

---

Conrad's POV

The airport was too bright. Too loud. Announcements kept splitting the air, one after the other, voices echoing through speakers that crackled. I sat hunched in a chair, duffle bag slouched against my foot, staring at the scuffed tile floor. My flight wasn’t for another hour, but I couldn’t sit still. My leg bounced; my fingers curled and uncurled.

When my phone buzzed, I almost didn’t answer. But it was Dad.

“Hey, bud,” Adam said, his voice steady, almost casual. “Listen. I need you to check on Jere. He must feel horrible with the wedding getting called off.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut.

“The… what?” I kept my voice even, though my throat tightened.

“The wedding. It’s not happening. Look, I'm going to be stuck here for awhile cleaning up...” Dad kept talking, something about Jeremiah needing someone, but my brain wouldn’t focus. The wedding’s off.

“Yeah,” I said finally, my voice hoarse. “I’ll go.”

A laugh tried to claw its way out of my chest, ugly and wrong. Instead, I shut my eyes. The relief came fast, like a wave, but it made me sick. Because yes, I was glad it was over. I was glad Belly wasn’t going to marry Jeremiah, and that made me the worst brother alive.

But beneath all that, a flicker of something almost unbearable: hope. Hope that maybe, without that wedding between us, Y/N and I weren’t doomed after all.

Except I’d ruined it. I’d betrayed her. I’d told her sister what she had trusted me to keep. And now she was gone.

The bar glowed warm through the window when I pulled into the gravel lot. Denise, Redbird, a handful of others were inside. My eyes caught on Jeremiah immediately - slumped forward on a stool, his face dim under the hanging lights.

I froze. The last time I’d seen him, he’d made it clear he never wanted to see me again. My hand tightened around the steering wheel, even though the car was already in park.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel. Taylor, Steven just behind her. They intercepted me before I could make it to the door.

Taylor crossed her arms, her glare sharp enough to cut. “Congrats. You must be thrilled.”

I didn’t bother defending myself. “I messed up,” I said, the words flat. “Completely.”

“Half,” she snapped back. “The other half’s on them. Jere and Belly.”

The distinction didn’t lighten the weight in my chest.

I glanced toward the bar window again, at the blur of my brother hunched inside. “I just want to help him,” I murmured. “He’s my brother.”

Taylor studied me for a beat, then her expression softened just slightly. I hesitated, then asked, quieter than before, “Have you heard from Y/N?”

Taylor shook her head. “No. Not yet.”

I nodded once, but the answer landed hard. My stomach twisted. If Taylor didn’t know, it meant nobody knew. Which meant you could be anywhere. Alone. Upset.

“She probably just needs some space,” Taylor said. “If I hear from her or Belly, I’ll let you know. But right now? Jere doesn’t need you in there. Not like this.”

Her tone wasn’t cruel, but it left no room for argument.

I swallowed down the urge to press further, to ask if she was sure, if she’d keep her promise. My chest ached with the kind of worry I couldn’t say out loud - the kind that made me picture you in every worst-case scenario. But I kept my face even, the way I always did.

“Okay,” I said.

Turning back toward my car, I caught one last glimpse through the window: Jeremiah bent low, shoulders curved in on himself. Y/N somewhere I couldn’t reach. Both of you hurting, and me on the outside.

---

The Cousins house was too quiet when I got there. Too still. Every room felt swollen with memory, like the walls themselves remembered more than I could bear.

I couldn’t sit still. My body carried me in circles. From the living room to the kitchen, back again. My footsteps echoed against the floorboards Mom used to scold us for scratching up. She’d hated when we dragged furniture across them. Now every creak sounded like a reminder: she wasn’t here to scold, to laugh, to tell me I wasn’t as terrible as I felt.

I couldn’t get your face out of my head. The way your eyes had widened when I told you I loved you - like you didn’t quite believe it, but maybe you wanted to. The flicker of hope I saw there before I destroyed it. Before I proved that loving you didn’t mean I could protect you. That I could still be the one to hurt you worse than anyone.

And then there was Belly. My mouth opening, words spilling, every wrong choice burning itself into my chest. I wanted to fix everything, but all I’d managed to do was light another fire.

My chest felt hollow. If Mom were here, she’d know what to say. She’d know how to stop me from ruining everything. But the house was empty, and all I had was the sound of my shoes pacing grooves into the floor.

The next morning, I grabbed for a duffel bag in the hall closet, hands moving on autopilot. Jere’s clothes. Red Gatorade. I could at least bring him something clean, something normal, something to help with his no doubt ruthless hangover. It was the smallest gesture, but it was something.

The front door creaked. Steven stepped inside, his face tightening the moment he saw me.

“I’m grabbing stuff for Jere,” he said flatly. His eyes flicked to the duffel in my hand. “Don’t bother. I’ll take care of it.”

I froze, my hand still hooked on the strap. “I was just going to drop this off -”

“Stay out of it, Conrad.” His voice cut sharp through the quiet.

The words landed heavy, but he didn’t stop there. He stepped closer, his glare steady. “There’s no problem for you to fix. You are the problem.”

It hit harder than I expected. I opened my mouth, but nothing came.

Steven’s jaw clenched. “Do you get it? He doesn’t want to see you. You made your choice, and it blew up in everyone’s face. Don’t drag Jere through it again. And don’t drag my sisters through it either.”

My sisters. The words pierced deeper than any insult. Belly. Y/N. His tone was sharp, protective, and I hated how much it stung - because he was right to protect them. From me.

“I never meant to hurt her...” I said quietly, my throat tight. The words felt pathetic even as they left me.

Steven shook his head, disappointment written in every line of his face. “ Just- stay away. From Jere. From Belly. From Y/N."

His voice dropped at your name, like he knew it was the one that would land deepest. And it did.

I stood there in the half-light of the hallway long after he left, duffel bag still clutched in my hand, the weight of it pulling at my arm. My chest felt like the floor was falling away beneath me, like no matter how hard I tried, I would keep losing the people I loved most.

--

The house was dark when I came downstairs, except for the faint glow spilling out from the kitchen. I thought I’d be alone again, but then I saw him.

Jeremiah.

He was standing by the counter, hands planted firm against it, Mom’s painting laid out. I’d pulled it from the garage as a wedding gift, dusted it off. A piece of her, a reminder of what we’d almost had.

His eyes flicked to mine, cold and unyielding.

“Shit,” I started, my throat dry. “I-”

“Don’t.” His voice was sharp enough to cut. “You’ve done enough.”

I swallowed hard. “I just wanted to say-"

“Say what?” He spun on me, anger finally spilling over. “That you’re sorry? That it wasn’t what it looked like? That somehow, for once in your life, this isn’t your fault?”

The words landed like blows.

“I never wanted to hurt you,... I managed.

He laughed, bitter and humorless. “That’s the thing, Conrad. You don’t even have to try. You ruin things without even meaning to. You always have.”

My chest burned.

He stepped closer, eyes flashing. “She called me. Belly. She told me she and Y/N are in Paris.”

The ground tilted beneath me. My stomach dropped.

“She called me. Not you.” His voice shook, but it was steady enough to slice through me. “That has to mean something, right? That you weren’t the one she needed. They’re staying there. She’s not coming back.”

The words carved through me, but I kept my face still.

Jeremiah’s mouth twisted into something colder than I’d ever seen on him. “She didn’t choose me. But she sure as hell didn’t pick you either. And neither did Y/N.” His voice rose, sharp with finality. “So why don’t you get the fuck out, go back to California, and never come back?”

The kitchen went silent except for the blood pounding in my ears. I wanted to argue, to beg, to explain. But nothing came.

I just stood there, feeling the weight of his words sink like stones into my chest, knowing he meant every one.

---

Later, I sat across from Adam by the fire pit outside a bar, the flames throwing shadows across his face. The night smelled like smoke and salt, and the crackle of wood filled the silence between us. My whole body felt numb, but my chest burned like something had caved in.

“It wasn’t Jere who ruined anything,” I said finally, my voice low, raw. “It was me.”

Adam’s eyes flicked up from the flames, cautious.

“I told her I loved her. Y/N...” The name nearly broke me. “After I told Belly not to marry him. That he wasn’t good for her.”

Adam's face tightened. “Why would you do that?”

“Because it was the truth.” My breath shook. “But the way I said it, the way it all came out - I destroyed everything. I ruined the wedding. I ruined him. I broke her. And the worst part?” My voice cracked. “The worst part is I wanted to. Some part of me wanted it to all fall apart...”

The confession sat like acid in my chest. My hands trembled against my knees.

“I hate that he’s hurting,” I whispered. “But I can’t fix it. He’ll never forgive me. And maybe he shouldn’t...”

Adam was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, almost gently, “Give him space. That’s what I had to do with you, after your mom died. I trusted you’d lean on the people who loved you. And you did. He will too.”

I nodded, but the words barely reached me. The truth was unshakable, simple, brutal:

I’d only ever wanted you. Not Belly. Not anyone else. Just you.

I didn’t stop the wedding for me. I stopped it because Jeremiah wasn’t right for Belly. And because I knew you would never survive watching your little sister walk into a life that wasn’t hers. Not after everything you’d already carried.

So I burned it all down. For you. For your peace. For your future.

But as I sat there with Adam, the weight of it pressed so heavy I could barely breathe. Because maybe I’d saved your peace. Maybe. But I’d lost you in the process.

And I didn’t think I’d ever get you back.

We finally stood, said a quiet goodbye, and then I drifted toward the street. The night air was cool, heavy with ocean mist. My steps felt hollow against the pavement until my ride slowed to the curb, headlights sweeping over me.

I slid into the back seat, the leather sticking to my palms, duffle bag at my feet.

As the car pulled away, the firelight, the ocean, the whole of Cousins blurred in the rearview mirror. My chest ached with the cruelest truth of all-

I was always the one to run.

But this time, it wasn’t just running. This time, I was leaving everything behind.

The girl I loved, the brother I’d broken, the home that had swallowed me whole.

And I knew, with a kind of finality that hollowed me out from the inside, that once I left,

You barely slept.

When you finally pried yourself out of bed, it felt like you were dragging the weight of last night with you, every thought crashing like waves against your ribs. Conrad’s words - his confession, his betrayal - played over and over in your head until you could hardly separate them anymore.

He told Belly. He told her what Jeremiah had almost done to you. And he told you he loved you.

How dare he do both in the same night? How dare he rip your trust out from under you and then try to hand you his heart like it was some kind of consolation prize? You had never felt so split apart, so raw. And yet, a part of you, the smallest and cruelest part, couldn’t stop replaying it. His voice, breaking when he said he’d never stop loving you.

Maybe you did understand Jeremiah more than you ever wanted to admit.

Your feet dragged against the hardwood as you padded downstairs in search of coffee. The kitchen was quiet, sun pooling in through the windows, when you reached for a mug.

And then the sound of footsteps.

Conrad.

Your breath caught in your throat as he stepped into view. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat.

“You’re supposed to be on the boat,” you said, voice stiff, trying to sound casual even as your chest caved in.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, leaning against the doorway like he hadn’t just detonated your world last night. “Something told me being stuck out on the ocean all day with my brother was a bad idea.”

You blinked, unsure if Jeremiah knew yet, if Belly had told him, praying for everyone’s sake that she hadn’t.

The silence stretched too long before he finally sighed, running a hand down his face. “About last night,” he said, voice low. “Forget it ever happened. I was drunk. Way out of line.”

Your jaw tightened, anger flooding your veins. “You weren’t drunk.”

His eyes flickered to you, a flash of something vulnerable before he straightened.

“You haven’t changed at all,” you said, shaking your head. “Dragging all of this up, the week of Belly’s wedding? You think you’re protecting her? You’re not. You’re ruining everything.”

Something snapped in him then. His voice rose, sharp enough to make you flinch.

“What do you want from me?” he yelled. “I laid myself fucking bare last night, I put it all out there, and you shut me down. Now here I am, trying to let you off the hook, trying to come out of this with a little piece of pride, and you won’t let me have that.”

The words cracked like a whip.

“You broke my heart last night, Y/N. Is that what you want to hear?”

You froze, throat burning. “You’re heartless.”

His chest rose and fell, eyes blazing. “No. You’re the one who’s heartless.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. You wanted to scream at him, to run from him, to collapse in his arms all at once. But before you could decide, he said it. The words you weren’t ready for.

“I love you. I will never not love you. I think you know that. I think you’ve known all along...”

Your breath hitched, but no words came.

“I’m not pretending for you anymore,” he said, and then he was gone. Just like that.

You stood there in the kitchen, coffee forgotten, the sound of his voice echoing in your ears until it almost didn’t feel real.

---

Upstairs, you found Belly perched on her bed, her face blotchy and pale, her eyes swollen from crying.

She didn’t look up when you stepped inside.

“Belly…” You hesitated before sitting down beside her, the mattress dipping under your weight. “I need to tell you something.”

Her silence was crushing, but you forced yourself to keep going, your voice rambling, uneven.

“I should have told you sooner, and I didn’t. That night… with Jeremiah. I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Not with you, not with anyone. I told myself it was to protect you, and maybe part of it was, but-” Your throat closed. “The truth is, I was embarrassed. Confused. I didn’t even know how to put it into words for myself.”

Her eyes flicked up to you, shimmering, and your stomach twisted.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I never wanted to keep it from you. I just... I couldn’t face it.”

The silence stretched until her lip trembled. “He… he did something like that before. In Cabo.”

Your breath caught. “What?"

Her shoulders sagged. “I never told anyone. And I still-” She pressed her palms to her eyes, voice breaking. “I’m still marrying him.”

The shock lodged deep in your chest. “Belly...”

“I haven’t told him yet,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “But I will. I will.”

You wanted to scream, to shake her, to beg her not to do this, but the lie on her face told you everything. She was already in too deep. And so you just nodded, biting your tongue as she plastered on a smile and said she was fine.

By the time the rehearsal rolled around, you had painted yourself back together. Floor-length black dress, heels, light makeup. You told yourself that if you looked composed maybe you could trick yourself into feeling it too.

You had almost forgotten what the rehearsal entailed. Almost managed to block out the fact that you would be walking down that aisle, taking your place, pretending to be steady while your insides trembled. What you hadn’t managed to forget was Conrad. That he would be there. That you would have to see him again, up close, side by side.

When Paige’s instructions carried over the murmurs of conversation, you stiffened. The pairings. The walk. The aisle. And then suddenly he was there. At your side. Silent. Waiting.

For one terrible, suspended moment, you thought you might actually be sick. His presence was so close, so consuming, it made the room feel smaller, the air thinner. He didn’t say a word, and neither did you.

You looped your arm through his, trying to make it look effortless, like it was nothing more than following directions. But your skin brushed the fabric of his sleeve, and you swore you felt him tense. Swore you caught the smallest hitch in his breath.

The aisle stretched impossibly long. Every step echoed in your ears, heavy, deliberate. Beside you, Conrad’s warmth seared through the barrier of your dress and his suit jacket, like a low-burning fire pressed too close.

By the time you reached the altar, your lungs burned from holding your breath. You let go of him like your hand had been scorched, exhaling sharp, but the ache didn’t leave. If anything, it deepened.

Dinner afterward blurred into a haze of clinking glasses and forced laughter. Belly and Jeremiah raised toasts, their smiles bright, voices carrying high above the low hum of conversation.

Across the room, you caught his eyes. Just once. Just long enough to steal your air again. Then again. And again. Each glance, brief as it was, threaded like a needle into your chest, stitching you tighter, pulling you apart all at once. It wasn’t fair, how much it hurt to look at him, and how impossible it was to look away.

This weekend couldn't end soon enough.

---

Morning came too quickly. The wedding day.

You tugged your sage bridesmaid gown into place, makeup minimal, hair pinned. The chaos swirled around you - Anika brushing her teeth, Redbird searching for socks, Steven adjusting his suit. You made a snide comment about how decent he looked, but the words fell flat as soon as you opened Belly’s door.

Her face said it all.

“Jere’s missing,” she whispered, biting her nails. “No one’s seen him all morning.”

Steven tried to soothe her, but your blood ran cold when she admitted she’d confronted him last night.

It all clicked. Conrad.

You stormed to the sunroom and found him there, suit already on, devastating in navy. Your chest ached just looking at him.

“Jere’s gone,” you snapped. “Happy now?”

Confusion flickered across his face, but you didn’t let him speak.

“You couldn’t keep your mouth shut. You couldn’t let them be happy for five fucking seconds. This is on you. Fix what you broke. Find Jere.”

For once, he didn’t argue. He just left.

---

Later, in the bridal suite, the air felt suffocating, too much like a fairytale that was cracking at the edges. Belly paced in front of the mirror, twisting her engagement ring around and around like it might anchor her.

“He’ll come back,” she said suddenly, almost like she was talking to herself. Her voice trembled, brittle. “Jeremiah always comes back.”

You almost laughed. Instead, the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing if he didn’t.”

Belly froze. Her reflection snapped to yours in the mirror, her eyes flashing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t look away. “It means I don’t think you really want to marry him.”

“Yes, I do.” Her response was too quick, too sharp, like she’d rehearsed it a hundred times and still couldn’t make it sound true.

You shook your head, your chest aching. “No, you don’t.”

Her breath hitched. You could feel her unraveling, even as she tried to hold herself together. The sight of her - the little sister you’d spent a lifetime protecting - made your throat tighten, but you pressed on. “I’ve watched you choose him over Paris. Over Mom. Over me.” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t stop. “That’s not love, Belly. That’s losing yourself. That’s… that’s codependency. And it’s going to destroy you.”

Her face hardened, but you saw the tears pooling, ready to spill. She shook her head like a child refusing to hear, but her bottom lip betrayed her, trembling.

“If my maid of honor can’t support me,” she whispered, her voice breaking even as she tried to sound fierce, “then maybe you shouldn’t be here at all.”

The words sliced clean through you. For a moment, all you could hear was the thundering of your own pulse.

But you didn’t move. You stood your ground, even though your heart was breaking. You wanted to reach for her, to shake her, to pull her into your arms and remind her who she was before all of this. But she was already pushing you away, tears streaking down her face as she shoved you toward the door.

You stumbled back, the finality of it echoing in your chest.

When the door slammed, it wasn’t just wood and glass between you. It was everything you’d lost.

You stumbled into the hall, tears blurring your vision, chest caving in on itself. You barely registered the solid weight you collided with until strong hands steadied you.

Conrad.

He looked wrecked. His cheek was shadowed with a bruise, and yet it was his eyes that gutted you - dark, hollow, as if they’d been drained of everything except grief.

“I need to say something,” he rasped, voice shredded, like it hurt just to force the words out.

Your stomach dropped. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to run, to hide, because you knew what was coming.

“I’m sorry for screwing everything up.” His breath shook. “I hurt you, and for that, I am so-” his voice cracked, and he dragged a hand through his hair, like if he didn’t keep moving, he’d collapse right there in front of you. “I am so sorry. I don’t want to do that anymore. I can’t. So… I’m not gonna stay for the wedding.”

Your lips parted, a protest clawing up your throat, but he didn’t let you speak. His words poured faster now, as though if he stopped, he’d shatter.

“I’m just gonna take off now. I won’t see you for a long time, and that’s probably for the best.”

“No.” Your voice was hoarse, desperate, but he wouldn’t look at you. His gaze was fixed somewhere just past your shoulder, as though it hurt too much to hold your eyes.

“It hurts,” he said, finally meeting your gaze, and the rawness in his tone carved you open. “Being near you like this. And Belly... she’s the one who needs you right now. Not me. I’m just... a distraction. I need you to know that whatever happens-” his voice broke again, softer this time, “it was worth it to me.”

You could barely breathe. Every word sank like a stone in your chest, dragging you down, down, until your knees nearly buckled beneath you.

Then he leaned in, just enough for his lips to brush your forehead. Barely a touch, right above that now faded scar that seemed like it happened years ago, and yet it set your entire body alight.

You gasped, choking on the silence between you. The day Belly had announced her engagement surged back like a tidal wave - the same suffocating air, the same helpless shrinking. Except then, Conrad had been the one to anchor you, to save you from drowning.

“I feel alone.”

He swallowed.

“You’re not alone.”

You stared at him. “Then why do you keep leaving me?”

Now he was the one walking away. Again.

And all you could do was watch, rooted to the spot, as the boy you loved turned his back and left you in the dark.

You crumpled into the corner of the hall, sobs tearing through you until strong arms pulled you in. Steven.

He held you like an anchor, no questions asked, just quiet strength. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Jere’s back. Him and Belly are talking now.”

You clung tighter, grateful for his steadiness.

Then Laurel appeared, frantic, searching for answers. Her eyes softened the moment she saw your face, but you shook your head.

“Right now, we just need to be here for Belly.”

Together, you entered Belly’s room. She turned at the sound of the door, tears streaming. Her lips trembled before she whispered, “lemon jelly belly.”

And then she broke. You and Laurel caught her at once, holding her through the sobs, through the heartbreak.

---

Hours later, your bags were packed, your whole life zipped into seams that felt too weak to hold it. The airport pulsed with motion - voices, wheels, overhead announcements- but it all blurred.

The only thing anchoring you was Belly’s hand in yours. Her grip was shaky, nervous, and you squeezed back, steady, promising without words that you’d follow wherever she led.

Paris. That was her escape plan. You didn’t care about Paris - the lights, the distance, the reinvention it promised. You just cared about her. If she needed to put an ocean between herself and the summer that had broken her, then you’d be there, no questions asked.

But beneath the resolve, dread coiled tight in your ribs. You knew running never truly worked, you’d tried before. The hurt always found its way across oceans, through time zones, into your chest.

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, eyes wandering over the rows of chairs, the blur of strangers...

And then your heart stopped.

Because there, not even ten feet away, sat Conrad.

The terminal tilted. Your stomach dropped, knees threatening to buckle. Air caught sharp in your lungs, like you’d forgotten how to breathe. The chatter, the rolling suitcases, even Belly’s fingers gripping yours - it all vanished, reduced to static.

It was just him. Conrad. Here.

Your pulse roared in your ears. Heat rushed to your eyes. Because it wasn’t Paris you were afraid of losing yourself in - it was him. Him, here, inescapable.

And suddenly, you weren’t sure if you were running toward Paris.

And just like that, it was like nothing happened. Or almost happened.

The memory of it kept creeping back when you least expected it. The bathroom. His leg bleeding. Your hands shaking as you pressed a cloth to the gash. His head resting on your shoulder, whispering your name like it meant something. Like you meant something.

And then… nothing.

Just a thank you. Just Conrad standing up and leaving you there with your heart in pieces and the sound of his voice still echoing in your ribs.

You didn’t have time to unravel it. You barely had time to breathe.

Because suddenly, it was here: the wedding weekend.

You and Belly went full homemaker mode - vacuuming, wiping down counters, scrubbing the windows like the house itself needed to reflect something shiny and clean, even if no one inside it felt that way.

Conrad kept himself busy too. You could hear him outside fixing loose railings, checking lights, replacing bulbs that had flickered too long. You wondered if he was doing it to help or just to keep his hands moving, to distract himself the way you were.

Before you knew it, Jeremiah had arrived.

“Hey,” he said with an awkward smile, pulling you into a hug that barely lasted a second too long. Your arms stiffened.

“Hey,” you answered shortly, stepping back before he could say anything else.

You hadn’t spoken since that night, the one where he’d tried to kiss you, where everything between you had shifted. But this weekend wasn’t about you. It was about Belly. And for her sake, you bit your tongue and kept your distance.

Soon after, the rest of the guests poured in like a wave crashing over the house. Jeremiah’s friends, all loud and vaguely sweaty from travel, arrived with enough beer to throw a proper frat party. Then Taylor and Anika with their overnight bags and beachy dresses. Steven and Denise showed up last.

The house felt full again, alive in the way summer houses should. You wanted to let yourself enjoy it.

So you made yourself a margarita.

Outside, the sun blazed and the group gathered by the pool. Music thumped from a speaker someone had set up. Beer pong was already underway. Laughter spilled across the patio.

You sat back in a lounge chair and let the sun kiss your skin. For a moment, it felt good - like the version of summer you remembered from years ago. Easy. Golden. Soft.

Your gaze wandered to Conrad across the yard. His damp hair stuck to his forehead, his shirt clinging to his chest from the heat. He looked unfairly good. You weren’t the only one who noticed.

You were just about to turn away when you saw him look at you. Really look. His eyes lingered just long enough to make your stomach flip.

You pretended not to see.

Later, you found yourself sitting on the edge of the pool with Taylor, Anika, and Belly, sipping from plastic cups and laughing about some inside joke that was probably five years old. At some point, Anika leaned in and nodded across the pool.

“Okay but like… no one told me Conrad was so hot,” she said, grinning. "Too bad he’s off-limits,” Anika added, sipping her drink. “Wasn’t he, like, your first love?” she asked Belly casually.

You froze. The words hit your chest like a slap, but you didn’t say anything.

Belly shrugged, smiling a little too tightly. “Yeah. A long time ago.”

You looked down at your drink. Swallowed hard.

Eventually, the sun dipped low behind the trees, casting the house in warm, amber light. You showered, towel-dried your hair, and pulled on a black dress that made you feel like yourself again. Confident. Dangerous. A little untouchable.

You were heading downstairs when you turned the corner and nearly collided with someone in the hall.

Conrad.

He was in a navy blue button-down, his tan skin glowed under the dim light, and his khakis sat just right on his hips. Your breath caught.

“Sorry,” you muttered.

He stepped back slightly, gaze raking over you just once. “You look... nice,” he said, awkward and low.

You let out a soft laugh, brushing past him. “You too.”

The tension sat thick between you, heavy as ever.

The groups split for the night - guys one way, girls the other. You were the designated driver, the responsible one. No drinks for you. But the girls didn’t hold back. THC gummies passed from hand to hand, shots lined up on the bar, laughter echoing into the sticky summer air.

Eventually, the dancing started.

The music was loud, the bass vibrating through the soles of your sandals. You let the rhythm guide you, your hips swaying, your hands in your hair. You felt good. Free, finally, in a way you hadn’t been in weeks.

Until you saw Belly.

She was standing near the edge of the dance floor, her eyes wide, her breathing uneven.

“Hey,” you said, grabbing her hand. “You okay?”

“I just- I just need air,” she yelled over the music.

You pulled her toward the bathroom, away from the noise, the lights, the heat.

In the mirror, she looked pale. Shaky.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said suddenly. “I think I’m freaking out. I just- he loves me. And I love him, but it’s like... what if that’s not enough?”

You froze.

She kept rambling - something about not having a dream wedding, not knowing if this was what she wanted. You held her hand and listened, nodding, trying to ground her.

And for a second, you almost said it. Almost told her everything.

That Jeremiah wasn’t who she thought. That he had tried to kiss you. That he had crossed a line he could never uncross.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew her. And you knew that right now, in this fragile, terrified state, hearing something like that would destroy her.

She deserved peace. At least for one more night.

Eventually, she calmed. Said she was ready to go home.

Back at the Cousins house, Belly grabbed a water and said she was going down to the beach to meet Jeremiah.

“You sure you’re okay?” you asked.

She nodded. “I’m fine.”

But a few minutes later, Jeremiah came stumbling through the door - drunk off his ass, practically falling over himself.

“He’s supposed to be meeting Belly,” you said, staring at him in disbelief.

Redbird groaned. “Dude’s about to puke for the third time.”

Your heart dropped.

You scanned the room. Conrad was missing.

Without another word, you turned and made your way outside, the sand still warm beneath your feet.

You walked toward the lifeguard stand.

That’s when you heard them.

“Don’t be with him,” Conrad’s voice was hoarse, broken. “Don’t marry him…”

Your heart seized.

“He’s my best friend,” Belly’s voice cracked. “And he loves me no matter what.”

You stepped closer, hiding just beyond the edge of the stand, the shadows cloaking you.

There was silence. And then-

Belly appeared, her eyes bloodshot, her cheeks wet with tears. She stopped when she saw you.

“Belly-” you started.

“Don’t.” She brushed past you, her shoulder slamming into yours. Her anger radiated off her in waves.

You stood frozen, heart in your throat.

She knew.

She knew what you hadn’t told her.

But she couldn’t have heard it from Jeremiah.

You looked up.

Conrad was stepping down from the stand, his face pale, eyes glassy.

“You told her,” you said. The words tasted bitter.

He swallowed. “She deserved to know.”

“Why now?” Your voice cracked. “Why right before the wedding?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t meet your eyes.

“She’s already spiraling,” you whispered. “She’s terrified, Conrad.”

“I know,” he said, almost like he hated himself for it.

“Do you still love her?”

Silence.

That same silence he’d given you before.

And it felt like the final nail in the coffin.

“You had no right,” you said, tears burning your throat now. “She’s my sister. You hurt her. And you hurt me. Again.”

“I didn’t tell her to hurt you,” he said, stepping forward.

“Then why did you?” you demanded. “What the hell do you want from me?”

“I want you.”

The words landed like a sucker punch.

“I love you,” he said, chest heaving. “I don’t think I’ll ever get you out of my system.”

Your breath hitched. You shook your head.

“No. No, Conrad. You don’t get to say that now...”

“It’s the truth.”

“It’s too late.”

He reached for you. “It doesn’t have to be-”

“You don’t know what you want,” you said. “You never have. And I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be your in-between. I can’t be your maybe.”

The tears fell freely now.

He looked at you like the world was ending.

And maybe, in some small way, it was.

“We were never anything,” you said, quietly but firmly. “You made sure of that.”

He flinched. You turned before you could see anything else.

I had been avoiding her. Not because I wanted to - God, I wanted to be anywhere near her - but because every time I saw her, my chest threatened to explode with everything I couldn’t say. Every glance, every movement of hers was a reminder of what I’d let slip through my fingers.

And after last week… after what Jere had tried to do? I was fuming. Not just at him for what he did to Belly, though that alone was enough to make my blood boil. No. I was furious that he’d even tried to get with her, the one person he knew was untouchable. I didn’t know if it was some pathetic ego thing for him, a need to prove he could, or just a horrible mistake. I didn’t care. I was done.

But avoiding her felt like cowardice. Every time I watched her move through the house - the way she barely slept, how she skipped meals, how the corners of her eyes were lined with exhaustion - I wanted to throw myself into helping her pick up the pieces. I wanted to hold her and make all of it stop. But I didn’t know if she’d want that. After everything I’d done, after everything I’d left her to handle alone, would she even let me?

Belly had returned to the Cousins house. With Adam’s support, the wedding prep was a whirlwind. I noticed the falter in her smile after the venue visit, the way her footsteps dragged up the stairs. I noticed it, but so did Y/N.

That evening, I found myself on the porch, leaning against the railing, staring at the ocean like it could answer anything.

“She’s upset,” she said softly.

I didn’t look at her. My knuckles whitened on the railing. “I know,” I said, my voice flat, though my chest ached. She needs me to fix this, and I don’t know how.

“I’m here for her.”

“Not enough.” I finally turned, and my eyes met hers. God, I hated myself for letting it come out like that. I didn’t mean it to sting. I just… I needed her to understand, needed someone to fight for her.

“Excuse me?” she snapped, and I felt the heat in her words like a slap.

“She’s your sister, Y/N. And you’ve been… distant. Avoiding her. Avoiding me,” I admitted, the words tasting like guilt. I missed her. I missed everything about her.

Her voice cut through the evening air. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to avoid you if you didn’t make everything so-” she stopped herself, sharp and pointed. “God, do you even hear yourself? You’re acting like you don’t still have feelings for her.”

I flinched. Because I do. I do, in a way that’s stupid and complicated and childish. But this isn’t about that. It’s never been about that. Not really. I wanted to tell her, to scream it, to beg her to believe me, but what if it hurt her more? What if it ruined everything? So I said nothing.

Her laugh was bitter, and it cut deeper than I expected. “Right. That’s what I thought.”

“Don’t twist this into something it’s not,” I said, my voice low, steadying myself. “This isn’t about me.”

“It’s always about you, Conrad…” The words hit me, just the smallest flinch crossing my chest, and I wanted to vanish. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and never let go, but I knew if I did, we’d both break.

So we stood there. Silent. Taut. Dangerous. Until she turned away, leaving me to stare at the fading sun and feel the weight of all the things I couldn’t say.

---

The next day, I had to be out with Jere and dad for the suit fittings. I didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to deal with Jere’s smug grins or Adam talking about bringing Kaleigh to the wedding. I could see it all playing out - their laughter, the ease between them - and my chest twisted with rage. But I had a job to do. I kept my face neutral, my movements precise, while every fiber of me wanted to be back at the house with her, making sure she was okay, making sure she knew she wasn’t alone.

---

The next morning, I limped into the kitchen. I could see the weight in her posture before she even looked up. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Just a wipeout,” I muttered. A lie. My jaw was tight. My leg stung. And worse, the ache inside me was a reminder of how much I needed her. I could feel the crimson trail up the stairs, and I hated that she’d see it - hated that she was already moving toward me before I could stop her.

In the bathroom, I perched on the tub’s edge, trying to make the pain look casual, but I was already undone. She knelt between my legs, hands warm on my thigh, pressing the cloth to the wound. I inhaled sharply when her hair brushed my arm, when her shoulder rested against my temple.

I wanted to reach up, to close the last inch of space, to kiss her and tell her everything. But my chest was raw with fear. Fear of what she’d think. Fear of what I’d do. Fear of ruining her when all I wanted was to protect her.

“Sorry,” she murmured. Her voice steadied me, and yet it drove me insane.

“It’s fine,” I rasped, more than just pain in my voice. My hands trembled, my wet hair sticking to her arm. Every shallow breath she took made it worse. I could feel her heartbeat. I could feel the pull of gravity, of proximity, of something I’d spent too long denying.

“Y/N…” I whispered. The sound of her name caught somewhere between longing and warning. Dangerous.

I almost moved. Almost closed that space. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. My hands twitched, aching to touch her, my heart hammering in a rhythm that threatened to betray me.

“Thank you,” I said instead, voice low, broken. I pushed myself upright, wincing at my leg and at the ache in my chest.

And then I left.

Every step away from her was agony, every distance measured in heartbeats I wanted to give her. I walked away from the tub, from her warmth, from everything I wanted, because I was terrified. Terrified I’d do something I’d regret, something that might destroy the fragile threads we were clinging to.

You’d been avoiding Conrad. He’d been avoiding you. And you were fine with that - mostly.

The truth was, you could barely stand to be in the same room without wanting to demand answers you weren’t ready to hear.

It was easier this way, easier to pretend the distance was mutual and intentional, and not just the cowardice you felt sitting in your chest.

Belly had returned to the Cousins house, and with Adam’s support, the wedding prep was suddenly running full steam ahead. But you could tell something was off with her. You saw it in the way her smile faltered after the venue visit, the way she slipped upstairs earlier than usual, her footsteps quiet and heavy on the stairs.

Conrad could see it too.

And you knew why.

After what had happened with Jeremiah the other night, you were even less thrilled about his proposal than you had been before, which was saying something.

You found Conrad leaning against the porch railing that evening, the last of the sun spilling over him, gilding the sharp line of his jaw. His arms were crossed, his shoulders set in that stubborn way you knew too well. The ocean behind him was calm, but the air between you already felt like a storm.

“She’s upset,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he replied without looking at you. His voice was flat, but his knuckles tightened on the railing. “She needs you right now.”

“I'm here for her.”

“Not enough.” He turned finally, his eyes pinning you in place.

That stung more than you wanted to admit. “Excuse me?”

“She’s your sister, Y/N. And you’ve been… distant. Avoiding her. Avoiding me...”

You bristled. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to avoid you if you didn’t make everything so—” You cut yourself off, your voice sharper than you meant it to be. “God, do you even hear yourself? You’re acting like you don’t still have feelings for her.”

His expression flickered, just for a heartbeat, and it was enough to tell you that you’d hit something real. But he didn’t answer. That silence was somehow worse than hearing him say yes.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right. That’s what I thought.”

“Don’t twist this into something it’s not,” he said, low and tense, his gaze unwavering. “This isn’t about me.”

“It’s always about you, Conrad…”

The words hung in the air like a slap. You saw it hit him, just a small flinch, but it was enough to make your stomach twist with guilt. Still, you didn’t take it back. Neither of you spoke again, the silence stretching taut, dangerous, until you turned away before either of you broke completely.

---

The next day, you made your choice - not because Conrad told you to, but because Belly was your sister.

You were surprised to see your mother, Laurel, walk through the door. Even more surprising was hearing her casually mention that Conrad had convinced her to come.

She gave you a look, one that seemed to see too much. “He cares more than he lets on, you know.”

The day unfolded in laughter and games, pictures passed around the table, and clinking glasses of cocktails. Your heart felt full in a way it hadn’t in years - Steven, Laurel, Belly, and you, all together again like the fractures had never formed.

After they’d made amends, Belly decided to stay the night at home with Laurel. You, on the other hand, went back to the Cousins house, your chest still heavy from all the emotions that had been stirred up.

---

The next morning, you were at the kitchen table, hunched over a spread of scholarship applications, when you heard uneven footsteps.

Conrad limped in.

You froze. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a wipeout,” he muttered, brushing it off. “Fin caught me. It’s nothing.”

But the way his jaw was locked, the tight hitch in his breath - and the drops of red trailing up the stairs - told a different story.

You followed him without thinking.

In the bathroom, he was sitting on the edge of the tub, his swim trunks darkened at the thigh where blood ran freely down into the drain.

“Oh my god, Conrad.” You were already pulling open the cabinet for supplies.

He smirked faintly, though it was tight with pain. “You know I’m the med student, right? I can handle this.”

“Yeah? Well, right now you’re the idiot bleeding all over the place, so sit still.”

You knelt between his legs, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. The smell of saltwater and something metallic hung between you. His thigh twitched under your hands as you pressed a clean cloth to the gash.

He inhaled sharply, his damp hair falling forward until his temple rested against your shoulder.

“I feel pathetic.”

“You’re not.”

“I feel alone.”

He swallowed.

“You’re not alone.”

You stared at him. “Then why do you keep leaving me?”

The memory of that day was playing through your mind. The closeness, the vulnerability.

Your pulse was a drumbeat in your ears. You could feel every shallow breath he took, the way his fingers curled faintly against the porcelain edge of the tub.

He hissed under the pressure of your hand.

“Sorry,” you murmured, your hands steady even as your chest tightened, mind snapping back to the present.

“It’s fine,” he said quietly, voice rough with more than just pain.

When you finally looked up, you were caught, completely, by the weight of his gaze. Dark, unreadable, but raw in a way that made it hard to breathe.

“Y/N…” he whispered, like the word itself was dangerous.

The sound of your name on his lips felt like the start of something irreversible.

For a moment, you thought he might close that distance. That the air between you might finally give way.

But instead, he broke it.

“Thank you,” he said, breathlessly, pushing himself upright with a wince.

The Cousins beach house smelled like garlic and rosemary, the sun bleeding amber through the kitchen windows as you stood at the counter, carefully slicing zucchini for dinner.

Your shoulders were tense. Not from the cooking, but from the storm pacing in front of you.

Conrad was silent, his arms crossed and jaw clenched so tightly you could hear his teeth grind.

You spoke first, not looking up.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor if you keep pacing like that.”

“I just don’t get why you think it’s a good idea,” Conrad snapped. “They’re rushing it. Jere doesn’t even know what he wants half the time, and Belly…. she's not ready.”

You exhaled slowly, trying to stay calm. “I never said I thought it was a good idea, I just said it’s not your wedding, Conrad.”

“Yeah, but it affects me. It affects everyone.”

You turned around, holding the knife loosely in your hand. “Why? Because you still have feelings for her?”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m just asking.”

“No,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “You’re accusing.”

“And you’re being impossible,” you shot back. “God, why can’t you just be happy for them? Or at least pretend for one night?”

“I don’t pretend,” he said coldly. “That’s your thing.”

That stung. You turned sharply, blinking hard against the burn behind your eyes, and went back to the cutting board, faster now, angrier.

You didn’t realize how aggressively your hands were moving until the blade slipped.

The pain was sharp and immediate.

“Shit,” you gasped, dropping the knife. Blood was already welling up along the cut in your palm.

“Hey-“ Conrad was at your side in an instant, all argument forgotten. “Let me see.”

You tried to pull your hand away, but he caught it gently, his brows furrowed with that look he always wore when he was scared but pretending not to be.

“This is deep,” he muttered, inspecting the wound. “It might need stitches. We need the first aid kit. Stay here. Don’t move.”

You were still reeling from the pain - not just in your hand, but in your chest. “Conrad-”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, brushing hair out of his face before darting upstairs.

You stared at the blood pooling in your hand, suddenly overwhelmed. The sharpness of his words, the sting of the cut- it was too much.

When he returned, he was all business.

“Here, sit down.” He pulled out the chair with one hand, the kit in the other. “This’ll sting, okay?”

You nodded numbly. He cleaned the wound, hands steady but lips pressed tight, like he was trying not to say something.

After wrapping your hand, he didn’t let go. He held it gently in his lap and stared at it like it was some fragile thing he'd broken.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he murmured. “What I said earlier. About pretending.”

You swallowed hard, staring at the clean gauze. “You meant it, though.”

“No. I was angry. And scared. And I lashed out.” He paused. “You’re… you’re the only thing in this house that makes sense to me right now. I don’t want to screw that up.”

“You kind of did,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“I know.” He looked at you, eyes full of regret. “And I’m so sorry.”

The quiet between you wasn’t awkward, it was thick with things unsaid, but it didn’t feel heavy anymore. It felt like space. Like room to breathe again. Conrad still hadn’t let go of your hand, his thumb tracing lazy, careful circles over the bandage.

You broke the silence first, your voice soft. “So… dinner’s ruined.”

He gave a huff of a laugh, his head dropping for a second. “Yeah. But honestly, screw the zucchini.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s slander. I was making something good.”

“I believe you,” he said, leaning back just enough to look at you, still close. His voice dropped an octave. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded.

“Why does it scare you so much? The idea of me still having feelings for her?”

You looked down, a little embarrassed. “Because I know what you two were. And I’ve seen the way you look at her sometimes… like the past is still playing on repeat.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then he stood, walked over to the sink, and washed his hands: methodical, almost anxious. Then he turned back to you.

“I used to think Belly was the person I’d love forever,” he said honestly. “But she never felt… steady. It was like trying to hold on to something that kept slipping through my fingers.”

He walked back toward you, voice gentler now.

“But you- you don’t slip away. You stay. Even when I’m being an idiot.”

“You were being an idiot,” you muttered.

“Still am,” he smirked. “But I’m yours. Not hers. Not anyone else's. Just yours.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening in that awful, good way. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” he repeated, stepping between your knees as you sat on the chair. “If you’ll have me.”

You reached up with your good hand, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt to pull him closer.

“I’ll always have you. That’s the problem. I’ve wanted you for so long, Conrad. God….”

He tilted your chin up, searching your face. “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart stuttered. “You’re really asking?”

“I just made you cry and bleed in the same hour. Thought it was polite,” he whispered.

You didn’t answer with words, just leaned in and kissed him like you’d been waiting months, years. His hands found your waist, then slid up your back like he was memorizing the shape you.

Eventually, breathless, you pulled back, forehead pressed to his. “That doctor voice you slipped into earlier? Kinda hot.”

He laughed quietly. “Don’t even start with me. You’re injured.”

“And whose fault is that?” you teased.

“I’m making it up to you,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, then your temple, then the edge of your mouth. “One inch at a time.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop him. “Maybe after you clean the rest of this kitchen.”

“And what do I get if I do?” His eyes were locked on yours, his voice practically dripping with hunger.

His gaze dropped to your lips again, slower this time, like he wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere but still couldn’t resist imagining the way. His hand moved, careful not to touch your injured one, and brushed your hair back, fingers lingering at your jaw, then lower.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t have to. The air between you was already shifting: pulling tighter, charged like the seconds before a summer storm.

He leaned in again, this time slower, deeper. And when his lips met yours, something gave way inside you, not pain, not tension, just surrender.

The chair creaked beneath you as you shifted forward, closing the last bit of space, and he caught you by the hips like instinct.

Steady. Certain. Like he’d been waiting for this moment, and maybe you had too.

“You sure you’re okay?” he murmured against your mouth, breath warm.

“Just shut up and kiss me,” you breathed into him, fingers curling in his shirt, tugging him closer.

His eyes flickered, dark and hungry and sweet all at once.

You didn’t realize how close you were to unraveling until his hands were on your waist like he meant to hold you together.

“Come upstairs,” Conrad said, voice low - not a suggestion, not a tease. A need.

Your breath hitched, and you nodded, heart pounding hard enough to echo in your ears. He laced your fingers with his, careful with your bandaged hand, and pulled you gently toward the stairs, but there was nothing gentle about the way his jaw was set, or the way he didn’t look back.

The second you crossed the threshold into his room, something shifted.

The door shut behind you with a quiet click, and then it was just you and him and the tension you’d been swallowing for months finally breaking loose.

He turned to you, and the look in his eyes - hungry, conflicted, like he was two seconds from losing control - made your knees weak.

“You drive me crazy,” he said, almost like it hurt. His hands found your hips again, firmer this time. “You know that?”

You barely had time to respond before his mouth was on yours, all heat and teeth and desperation.

It wasn’t soft anymore, it was months of holding back, of arguments and almosts and nights pretending you didn’t want this.

You gripped the front of his shirt like a lifeline, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you. He groaned against your lips, the sound low and rough, like he’d been trying not to let it out.

“Jesus…” he murmured against your skin, the word hitting low in your stomach. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I don’t,” you said instantly, breathless, already backing toward the bed. “I really, really don’t.”

He kissed you again like he believed it - like he needed to - hands roaming, grip tightening like he wasn’t sure how else to say what he felt.

The room was getting hot, full of heavy breaths. “Take off your dress.” It wasn’t a suggestion, it was a demand.

Anxiety began to pool in your stomach now. You’d wanted this, wanted Conrad, for years. Why now was the thought of being so close scaring you so much?

He must have seen the hesitation on your face, pulling away slightly and meeting your eyes.

“Hey… hey…. We can stop whenever you want, okay? But let me help you…”

His words were so sweet, but his eyes never lost their hunger.

He started slowly, kissing gently across your chin. The air in the room was still thick, but a shiver went down your spine.

He kissed his way down your jaw, your neck, sucking gently and prompting a soft moan to escape your lips.

His lips were on your shoulder now, and you felt his fingers slowly slide the strap of your sundress off, then the other. With a gentle tug, you felt the cloth fall to the floor around your feet, leaving you there in nothing but your panties.

Conrad stepped back and looked at you, really looked at you.

“Fuck, (Y/N)… I mean… fuck.” He was breathless.

Before you could respond, his lips were already on your nipples. He pushed you back onto the bed, taking no time to remove his own shirt before he crawled on top of you.

Now it was your turn to feel breathless. You’d seen him shirtless a million times. But here, now, so close, the ripples of his muscles were enough to make you feel weak.

He went to work on your breasts, nipping and sucking in just the right ways that had your toes curling and your fingers digging into his hair. He moaned in response, the vibration shooting pleasure between your legs.

He kissed his way back up your neck, his lips meeting yours desperately. His hand was trailing lines around your chest, then your stomach, until finally he reached the hem of your underwear.

His callused fingers ran along the edge teasingly, hands doing one last pass across your stomach.

“Take these off.” Not a suggestion. A command.

So you did just that, pulling your panties off and tossing them to the side.

Your breathing was deep. Conrad dared a look down.

“God… I’ve wanted you like this for so long…,” He said, kissing down your neck again, “You are so fucking beautiful, (Y/N).”

You felt his hands grab your inner thigh, breath hitching.

“Open your legs,” You obliged. Suddenly the heat of the room had escaped, replaced by a chill running over your exposed body, “Good girl.”

All you could do was whimper as his fingers touched you, eyes rolling back in your head as he pushed inside you.

Conrad moaned against your neck, “You’re so wet, baby.”

He started to move faster, pumping in and out of you as whined in pleasure.

“Connie…” You let out breathlessly, the sound of your voice bringing him close to the edge.

He removed his hand abruptly, shocking you out of your dizzied pleasure as you watched him fumble to take off his belt and pants. He dropped his underwear, his member now fully on display.

“Jesus-“ You sucked a breath in, not expecting Conrad to be so huge. So ready.

He crawled back on top of you, hands pinning your wrists down, careful to avoid the bandage across your palm. His eyes were staring intensely into yours.

“You’re on the pill, right?”

“Yes, Con, you already knew-“

But before you could finish your sentence, he was in you, the shock of his size knocking the wind out of your chest.

He hissed in pleasure. Your ears rang, feeling every inch of him in you. He started rocking gently, giving you time to adjust to his pace.

He peppered kisses on your neck, your breasts, your chin. His increased his pace, and you matched it, raising your hips to meet him. Every movement sent pleasure down your spine.

“You take me so well, baby.” You moaned in response.

The two of you become messy breaths, sloppy kisses, and roaming hands as you worked your way towards climaxing.

His hand found his way to your clit, rubbing circles that had you seeing stars. You whined out his name.

“That’s it baby,” The sound of his voice was enough to send you over the edge.

You screamed his name, nails digging into his back as you shook with pleasure. The feeling of your walls closing was enough to send Conrad over the edge, feeling his warmth spill into your stomach.

He practically collapsed next to you, the sound of both of your breathing filling up the room.

After a moment, air finally settling and bodies feeling drained, he turned to you, resting his forehead against yours, hand on your cheek like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Still mad at me?” he whispered.

You gave a breathless laugh, too spent to answer properly. “Ask me again in the morning.”