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His hair was still damp at the edges from his post-game shower, curling slightly where he’d shoved his hand through it too many times, and the dark blue Briar letterman jacket had stayed on for maybe twelve minutes before the house got too hot and he dumped it over the back of a chair.

He was, by every reasonable standard, doing great. His girlfriend was not. His girlfriend had arrived at the party with Allie and a plan that had included one drink, maybe two, and absolutely no consideration for the fact that girls pouring vodka cranberries in hockey houses tended to treat measurements as a loose concept. 

Garrett had been across the living room when she’d taken the first one. He’d been in the kitchen with Tucker when she’d finished the second. By the time he saw her again, she was standing near the bottom of the stairs with one hand wrapped around a red cup, smiling at something Allie said with the bright, floaty concentration of a girl whose whole body had started operating on a two-second delay.

He could notice a winger drifting out of formation from half a rink away with two guys trying to take his head off. He could absolutely notice his girlfriend blinking too slowly under the hallway light, her cheeks warm from alcohol and the heat of too many bodies packed into the house, her mouth glossy and parted slightly like she kept forgetting whether she was meant to be talking or laughing. 

She looked happy, which helped. Loose and giggly and pleased. But she also kept shifting her weight like the floor had become more wobbly than usual, and Garrett had not fought for his life against Harvard’s second line that afternoon just to let his girlfriend get taken out by hardwood.

So he left Logan mid-sentence. Logan didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just followed Garrett’s line of sight, saw her trying to drink from the cup and missing her mouth by half an inch, and winced. “Oh, buddy.”

Garrett pointed at him without looking back. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was gonna say she looks graceful.”

“Die.”

Garrett crossed the room with the easy confidence of someone everyone automatically moved for, red cup of water in hand because Tucker, thank God, had seen the situation unfolding and passed it over like a medic on a battlefield. 

She didn’t see Garrett coming. She was too busy nodding very seriously at Allie, who was holding both her hands and saying something that involved the words no, babe, I’m so serious and eyebrow blindness.

Garrett stepped into her space, close enough that his knee brushed hers. “Hey, baby.”

She turned toward him. For one beautiful second, her face went blank. Then her entire expression rearranged itself into scandalised horror.

“Excuse you,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height, which was less effective than usual because she swayed slightly at the top and had to catch Allie’s wrist. “I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett blinked.

Allie made a noise like she’d swallowed a firework. Garrett looked at his girlfriend. His girlfriend looked back at him with genuine, drunken offence, like he’d approached her in a bar wearing a leather bracelet and too much confidence.

“Uh huh,” he said slowly, because there were moments in life that required leadership and moments that required not laughing directly in the face of the girl you loved while she was doing her best. “That’s great.”

“It is great,” she said, lifting her chin. “He’s very tall.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Good for him.”

“And he plays hockey.”

“No shit?”

“And he’s, like, really good at it.”

Allie had turned away now, one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Garrett refused to look at her because if he did, he was going to lose it, and that felt like the sort of thing his girlfriend would interpret as disrespect from a strange man at a party, which apparently he was now.

He held out the cup. “Can you drink some water for me?”

Her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. Wobbly. Deeply loyal to the absent boyfriend currently standing less than a foot in front of her. “Why?”

“Because you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Baby.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Don’t call me baby.”

“Right. Sorry.” He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, nodding with a level of solemnity he absolutely did not feel. “My bad.”

“My boyfriend calls me baby.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds annoying.”

“He’s not annoying.” She frowned at him with such force that it seemed to briefly take all her balance with it. Garrett’s free hand shot out to her waist before she could tip sideways into Allie. She looked down at it, then back up at him, appalled. “Don’t touch my waist.”

Garrett removed his hand at once, palms lifting. “Alright.”

Allie, still dying, leaned in and said, “Babe, maybe just drink the water.”

She looked betrayed. “You’re taking his side?”

“I’m taking hydration’s side.”

Garrett offered the cup again. “Just a couple sips.”

She stared at him for another second, clearly weighing the moral implications of accepting water from a man who looked suspiciously like her boyfriend but who she had, for reasons unclear to everyone except the vodka, decided was not. 

Finally, she took the cup with great caution, like he might use the transfer to propose something criminal, and drank.

Garrett watched her swallow three obedient little sips, then nodded. “Good girl.”

The look she gave him could have killed a weaker man. “Nope.”

“Right. Yep. Forgot.”

“My boyfriend says that.”

“Bet he does,” Garrett muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She handed the cup back, pleased with herself and still indignant, and then immediately turned toward Allie like the conversation had been handled.

Garrett stood there for half a second, holding the water, staring at the side of her face.

Dean appeared beside him like he had been summoned by humiliation itself. “Hey, man.”

Garrett didn’t look over. “Do not.”

Dean’s grin was audible. “She knows you’re her boyfriend, right?”

“She’s drunk.”

“She just told you she has a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, Dean, I was here.”

Dean leaned around him to look at her, delighted. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Garrett finally turned his head and gave him a flat look. “That’s sad.”

“No, what’s sad is getting rejected by your own girlfriend.” Dean clapped him once on the shoulder and immediately stepped out of reach. “Tough shift, captain.”

Garrett pointed at him. “I will put you through a wall.”

“Wow.” Dean called over his shoulder, already retreating. “Her boyfriend would never.”

Garrett took a slow breath through his nose and looked back at her. She was laughing at something Allie said now, one hand pressed to her own chest, head tipping forward so her hair fell around her face. 

She looked ridiculous. Beautiful and unsteady and way too warm in the cheeks, standing under the hallway light like the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy and she trusted it not to hurt her because she hadn’t yet noticed Garrett had been replaced by some guy bothering her with cups.

His annoyance softened before it could become anything real. Fine. He could work with this.

For the next twenty minutes, Garrett kept orbiting. That was the only word for it. He didn’t hover, because hovering would get him accused of being controlling by Dean, and probably by her if she remembered how to form an argument. 

He orbited. Close enough to keep an eye on her, far enough that she didn’t look up and accuse him of trying to steal girlfriend privileges from Garrett Graham, who was both beloved and missing.

She danced with Allie in the living room, mostly from the waist up because her coordination had started giving its two weeks’ notice. 

She complimented Tucker’s shirt with extreme sincerity even though Tucker was wearing the same plain black t-shirt he wore to every party. 

She told Logan he looked so tall tonight, which made Logan look down at himself like height might have happened recently and without his permission.

Garrett found her again near the back door, rubbing both hands over her bare arms.

The house was hot, but the door kept swinging open whenever someone stepped out to smoke or yell into the yard, letting in cold spring air that slipped over her skin and made her shoulders inch up toward her ears. 

Garrett saw the little shiver move through her before she did. He grabbed his letterman jacket off the chair and came up behind her, careful this time, no hands first. Just the jacket, warm from the room and heavy with him, settled over her shoulders.

“There,” he said, low near her ear. “You’re cold.”

She froze.

Garrett closed his eyes for one second. “Please don’t.”

She shrugged the jacket off so fast it nearly hit the floor. Garrett caught it by the collar.

“Nope,” she said.

“Baby.”

Her head snapped around. “I said no.”

Garrett looked at the ceiling. The ceiling offered no help. “You’re shivering.”

“I only wear my boyfriend’s jacket.”

“This is your boyfriend’s jacket.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It literally has my name on it.”

She squinted at the embroidered Graham on the chest like letters were a personal challenge. “Lots of people are named Graham.”

“Not on this team.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. I’m the captain.”

Her face twisted with immediate doubt, like that was exactly the sort of lie a jacket predator would tell at a party. “You’re the captain?”

Garrett stared at her. “Oh my God.”

From the couch, Logan made a strangled sound into his beer.

She pointed at Garrett’s chest, very serious now. “My boyfriend is the captain.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard great things.”

“He’s very hot.”

“Is he?”

“So hot,” she said, and then sighed, soft and dramatic and so genuinely fond that Garrett’s irritation had nowhere to land. “Like, stupid hot. It’s actually kind of annoying.”

Garrett’s face moved before he could stop it, warmth pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “And he has really nice hands.”

Logan choked.

Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Good hands are important.”

“They are,” she agreed solemnly. “And he’s not some random guy trying to give girls jackets.”

“Right.” He held up the jacket between them, helpless now. “Can I just–”

“No thank you.”

“You’re gonna freeze.”

“I’ll wait for Garrett.”

“You do that,” he said, because love was standing in a hockey house holding your own jacket while your drunk girlfriend faithfully rejected you on your own behalf. “Sounds like a plan.”

She smiled at him then, bright and polite. “Thank you for understanding.”

Garrett looked at her for a long moment, then at the jacket, then back at her. “Anytime.”

He walked away to the sound of Logan losing the fight against laughter so badly he had to bend over his own knees.

“You’re not helping,” Garrett said.

Logan wiped under one eye. “I’m sorry, man, but she’s loyal as hell.”

“She thinks I’m a stranger.”

“She thinks you’re a stranger with bad intentions. There’s a difference.”

“Great. That makes it better.”

Tucker came up beside them, looking far too amused for somebody usually committed to being the reasonable one. “You know, technically, this is a very good sign for your relationship.”

Garrett gave him a look. “Don’t start.”

“She’s hammered and still refusing men for you.”

“She refused me.”

“Exactly. Nobody is safe.”

Dean reappeared then, because joy, unfortunately, had a way of finding him. “I just heard she wouldn’t wear your jacket.”

Garrett’s jaw tightened. “You heard wrong.”

Dean grinned. “Did I?”

“I’m gonna kill you before playoffs.”

“No, you’re not. You’re too busy getting friend-zoned by your girlfriend.”

Garrett shoved him in the chest. Dean laughed all the way into the kitchen.

By the time Garrett found her again, she had somehow migrated to the old armchair near the stairs, sitting sideways with her knees tucked up and Dean perched on the arm like some kind of terrible emotional support animal. 

Her bare arms were folded tight over her chest now, because she was still cold and still deeply committed to jacket monogamy. Her face had changed too. Gone softer around the edges, bottom lip pushed out, all the earlier moral outrage curdled into something wounded and grumpy.

Garrett stopped a few feet away. Dean saw him first and his grin turned wicked. “Oh, thank God.”

She frowned up at Dean. “What?”

“Nothing.” Dean patted the top of the chair. “Your night’s about to improve.”

She slumped deeper into the cushion, still looking at Dean. “I haven’t seen Garrett all night.”

Garrett blinked.

Dean pressed his lips together so hard his whole face went strange.

She kept going, mournful now, eyes glossy from alcohol and the kind of drama that only really existed after midnight in a crowded house. “He’s, like, disappeared.”

Garrett slowly looked at Dean.

“He had a game,” she said, to no one in particular, or maybe to Dean’s knee. “And I wanted to tell him he played really good.”

“He knows,” Dean said, voice suspiciously tight.

“No, but I wanted to tell him.” She rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand, then stopped halfway as if remembering makeup existed. “And there’s this guy who keeps talking to me.”

Garrett’s eyebrows went up.

Dean made direct eye contact with him and looked like he might actually pass away.

“He keeps calling me baby,” she muttered. “And trying to make me drink water.”

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek.

“Sounds awful,” Dean managed.

“So annoying,” she said. “Like, okay, hydration police. I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett stepped closer then, because there were only so many times a man could be called the hydration police by the love of his life before he had to intervene. “Hey, baby.”

Her head lifted. The transformation was immediate and almost violent. Her whole face opened, bright and relieved and suddenly so happy to see him that it genuinely knocked the joke sideways in his chest. “Garrett!”

He froze. “Hi?”

“Baby!” She reached both arms out toward him from the chair, nearly tipping herself forward in the process. Garrett crossed the last step fast and caught her by the hands before she could slide off the cushion. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said again, slower this time, looking down at her. “You recognise me now?”

She frowned like he’d said something deeply strange. “What are you talking about?”

Dean made a sound that might have been a cough if he had not immediately turned away with his shoulders shaking.

Garrett stared at her. “Nothing.”

She squeezed his face, delighted and fully unaware of the damage she’d caused him tonight. “I missed you.”

His mouth softened despite himself. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” She tugged at him, needy and uncoordinated, until he stepped properly between her legs where she’d moved to sit properly in the chair. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt like now that she had found him, she intended to physically prevent further abandonment. “You were gone for so long.”

Garrett looked at her for one second, then over her head at Dean, who was wiping tears out of the corner of his eye. “I was around.”

She shook her head, very firm. “No.”

“No?”

“No. There was just this guy.”

Garrett nodded, face serious. “Right. The water guy.”

She gasped softly, looking up at him with genuine alarm. “You saw him?”

Dean slid off the arm of the chair. “I need to go tell Logan something immediately.”

Garrett didn’t even try to stop him. His hands had settled at her waist now, thumbs pressing lightly over the fabric of her top because she was still swaying in tiny increments even while sitting down. “Yeah, baby, I saw him.”

“You should talk to him.”

“Oh, I should?”

“Yes.” Her voice dropped into a whisper that wasn’t remotely quiet. “He was flirting with me.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face. “Was he?”

“He kept calling me baby.”

“That’s crazy.”

“And he tried to give me his jacket.”

“What a dick.”

She nodded, relieved that he understood the severity. “I know.”

Garrett’s grin finally broke free, slow and helpless. He stepped closer until her forehead could tip against his stomach, and when it did, she sighed like the entire night had been restored to its proper axis by the smell of his shirt. 

He looked down at the crown of her head, at the way her hands had found the hem of his t-shirt and held on loosely, and brushed his fingers once over the back of her hair.

She had rejected him all night. She had accused him of being a stranger, declined his water on principle, refused his jacket with the ferocity of a woman defending a sacred oath, and still somehow the inside of him went soft at the way she leaned into him now, trusting and warm and gone enough to be ridiculous but not gone enough to forget where she wanted to end up.

“Baby,” he murmured.

“Mhm?”

“You wanna get outta here?”

Her head lifted at once. “Yes, please.”

“Yeah?” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watching the way her eyes followed his face now with no suspicion at all. “You done?”

“So done.” She nodded, then winced faintly at the motion like her brain had moved one direction and her skull another. “Can we go home?”

“Yeah, we can go home.”

“And maybe get McDonald’s?”

Garrett laughed under his breath, and the sound made her smile like she’d won something. “Sure, baby.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But you gotta stand up first.”

She looked down at her own legs with sudden doubt. “Okay.”

“Confident.”

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.” He took both her hands and backed up half a step, giving her room. “Come on. Up we go.”

She stood with the intense focus of someone attempting a field sobriety test on a ship. Garrett’s hands went to her waist at once, steadying her as her knees straightened and her body tipped forward into his. 

He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t laugh when she grabbed his forearms and blinked hard at the room. He only held her until she found the floor again, fingers spread warm and firm at her sides.

“There we go,” he said softly. “You good?”

She nodded, then thought about it. “Mostly.”

“Mostly works.” He leaned around her just enough to grab his letterman jacket from the back of the chair “Can I put this on you now, or are we still being loyal to your boyfriend?”

She looked at the jacket. Then up at him. Then back at the jacket.

“That’s yours,” she said, like he was the one struggling to keep up.

Garrett pressed his lips together. “Yeah.”

She smiled, sweet and pleased. “Okay.”

He slid it over her shoulders. This time she pushed her arms into the sleeves with immediate enthusiasm, even though they swallowed her hands completely. 

Garrett zipped it halfway because she was too busy smelling the collar with a happy little hum that did absolutely nothing for his ability to remain normal.

“You smell good,” she told him.

“Thanks.”

“Like Garrett.”

“Crazy coincidence.”

She nodded, accepting that, and slipped her hand into his when he offered it. Her fingers were warm and clumsy between his, squeezing twice like she was checking he was real. He squeezed back once and started guiding her through the house.

The party kept moving around them. Someone called his name from the kitchen and Garrett lifted his free hand without stopping. Logan appeared near the doorway, took one look at them, and grinned.

“She found you,” he said.

Garrett pointed at him. “Not a word.”

She turned toward Logan, solemn and slightly off-balance. “There was a guy bothering me all night.”

Logan’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked at Garrett, then back at her. “No way.”

She nodded. “Way.”

Garrett kept walking. “Let’s go.”

Behind them, Logan said, “Hope your boyfriend handles that.”

She turned around while still moving, which forced Garrett to catch her by the waist and redirect her like a shopping cart with a bad wheel. “He will!”

“I’m sure he will,” Logan called, voice cracking around laughter.

Outside, the cold hit her properly. She shrank into the jacket at once, shoulders rising, Garrett’s hand still wrapped around hers while they moved down the front steps and along the path toward his car. 

The night was damp and dark around the edges, grass glittering faintly under the porch light, the music dulling behind the shut door until it became a pulse more than a song. She walked close to him, not quite straight, occasionally bumping into his side and then apologising to his arm.

“Baby,” she said halfway down the walk.

“Yeah?”

“That guy was so annoying.”

Garrett glanced down at her. “Still thinkin’ about him?”

“He was talking to me all night.”

“Sounds like a loser.”

“He was kind of hot, though.”

Garrett stopped walking.

She stopped too, delayed, then looked back at him with wide innocent eyes. “What?”

He stared at her. “Hot?”

She nodded, very serious. “But not as hot as you.”

“Uh huh.”

“And he had your jacket.”

“My jacket?”

“Yeah.” Her brows pulled together. “Actually, that was weird.”

Garrett looked up at the sky for patience. “So weird.”

“You should talk to him, baby. I’m serious.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Good.” She nodded once, satisfied, and started walking again. “Don’t fight him though. You had a game.”

His mouth twitched. “Right. Wouldn’t wanna overdo it.”

“And you already won.”

“I did.”

“You were really good,” she said, and the words came out softer now, slipping under the joke with no warning at all. Her fingers tightened around his. “I forgot to tell you.”

Garrett’s steps slowed by a fraction. He looked down at her, at her messy hair and flushed cheeks and his too-big jacket hanging off her shoulders, at the careful way she was watching the pavement. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. You did that thing.” She lifted their joined hands vaguely, as if the thing might be available in the air somewhere. “Where you went really fast and then the other guy was stupid.”

Garrett laughed, warm and surprised. “That was my favourite play.”

“It was good. I’m real proud of you.”

“Thanks, baby.”

She leaned into his arm, pleased. “You’re welcome.”

At the car, he opened the passenger door and turned her gently by the hips before she could attempt entry at a dangerous angle. “Alright. Watch your head.”

“I always watch my head.”

“You don’t.”

“I have one.”

“Having one and watching it are different.”

She ducked into the car with exaggerated care, one hand on the roof, one hand still gripping his. Garrett waited until she was seated, then crouched slightly and drew the seatbelt across her. 

She looked down at him while he clicked it into place, her expression suddenly soft and sleepy. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so glad I found you.”

His hand paused on the belt for half a second.

She sighed, sinking back into the seat, eyes half-lidded now that the car’s quiet had started wrapping around her. “I missed you tonight.”

Garrett looked at her in the blue dashboard glow, and something in his chest pulled tight and fond and a little ridiculous. “Missed you too.”

“There was this guy–”

“I heard.”

“–and he kept trying to give me water.”

“So rude.”

“Exactly.” Her head tipped against the seat, eyes closing for one beat before opening again. “Can you get me nuggets?”

Garrett smiled and brushed his thumb over her knee before standing. “Yeah, babe. I’ll get you nuggets.”

“And fries.”

“Obviously.”

“And a Sprite.”

“You need water.”

She made a face. “The guy said that too.”

Garrett leaned one arm on the open door and looked down at her, trying very hard not to smile too much because she would see it and accuse him of something. “The guy sounds smart.”

She frowned. “Don’t compliment him.”

“My bad.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“I am.”

“And I love you.”

The words came out simple and softened by vodka and sleepiness and the warm cocoon of his jacket around her, but real enough that Garrett felt them land under his ribs.

He bent and kissed her forehead. “I love you too.”

She smiled, eyes closed now. “Good.”

“Good,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face before shutting the door. 

He walked around the front of the car with a grin he couldn’t quite get rid of, hearing the muffled thump of the party behind him and the faint sound of her shifting around in the passenger seat like she was trying to get comfortable in sleeves three sizes too big. 

When he got in, she was already curled toward his side, cheek against the seat, looking at him with heavy eyes and total, trusting recognition.

Garrett started the car. She reached blindly for his hand. He gave it to her.

For a minute they sat there in the dim quiet before he pulled away from the curb, her fingers woven through his, his thumb moving once over her knuckles. Then she inhaled like she had remembered something important.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna talk to that guy, right?”

Garrett smiled at the road, the house falling behind them, McDonald’s glowing somewhere ahead like a drunken little lighthouse.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll give him a stern talking-to.”

“Good,” she mumbled, already drifting. “Tell him I have a boyfriend.”

His grin widened.

“Trust me, baby,” Garrett said, squeezing her hand once as he turned out onto the street. “He knows.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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He finds you in that very same resting place, except your head is on Allie’s lap while she holds the ice pack for you. Dean, who’s bandaging your ankle on the end of the couch, immediately stands up and walks over to Logan’s direction,

“Dude, I swear to god that it was an accident.”

Logan takes a look at you over Dean’s shoulder, “What the fuck happened?”

“Me and Garrett were playing soccer when she got here looking for you.” Dean starts talking, “Then she asked us if she could join and I obliged, of course, ‘cause– Well, I wouldn’t I? Can you imagine how misogynistic that sounds if–”

“Dean, get to the fucking point!”

“Right, sorry– She tripped on my foot while we were playing and hit her head. It wasn’t too bad, I managed to catch her. But–” Dean motions his head to you, awake and murmuring something to Allie neither the boys can hear. 

Logan moves in your direction, kneeling by the couch, “Hey, honey. How you feeling?”

You can’t see him, ice pack covering your eyes as well as your forehead. Still, your lips quiver up when you listen to his voice, “I’m good. They’re all being dramatic.”

He looks up at Allie, gesturing for him to take her place on the couch. Allie carefully holds your head as she moves from under you, letting his hands hold you instead before she let go. You lay your head on Logan’s thigh, nuzzling as he presses a gentle kiss on the corner of your mouth. There’s a small cut on your chin, covered by a pink band-aid. His hands move to your cheek, drawing circles as he caresses your face, “You hurt your chin?”

You hum, and Allie speaks up, “Her arms are a bit scratched too. But we already cleaned them, and Garrett is on his way to the rink with Hannah. He said you guys keep a full first aid kit in the locker room.”

Logan hums, “Did you eat anything?” he murmurs to you. 

“Tucker made me a smoothie.” You answer, then your hand moves to remove the ice pack. Logan sees a purple-tinted bump on your forehead, but your eyes are shiny and smiling, “Baby, I’m fine. Really. Don’t get too worried, handsome. Hannah and Allie patched me up, and Dean said he’s sorry a thousand times already.”

Your boyfriend looks up, watching Dean’s apologetic face turn into a pout. Logan rolls his eyes at him, a tiny smile on his lips as he feels disarmed. He’s a little ashamed now, being so ready to pick an argument with his friends a second ago for letting you get hurt, yet there you are, laying all pretty on his lap, tended and smiling as Logan’s heartstrings pull a little.

He gives you a grin, “Do you want paracetamol or something?”

Dean raises his hand and gives his most prideful look, “Already had her take one, boss.”

“Alright. You’re good, man.” Logan says before adjusting your ice pack back to its place, pressing a quick peck on your cheek, “And you keep icing your head, there’s a bump right under your hairline. Allie, take my place?”

You stir, “I can lay on the couch just fine by myself.”

“No, no. We’re keeping someone by your side for the next twenty four hours.” Allie says, already taking Logan’s seat, “We gotta make sure you don’t have a concussion and choke on your own vomit.”

“Geez,” you sneer, “So dramatic.”

He stands from the couch, moving in Dean’s direction, “And you are helping me make dinner,” he drops his arms over his friend’s shoulder, muttering, “Thanks for helping take care of her.”

Dean beams at his friend, “That was nothing. The least I could do for almost killing her, really.” He jokes, squeezing Logan’s shoulder, “She’s all yours now, dude. And I’d say a little TLC is much needed.”

He looks back at you, giggling with Allie on the couch, “I think she’s in good hands.”

“I meant for you.” Dean says, “I know you love when you get to fuss over her, you softie.”

“Well, yeah. Like you said,” Logan shrugs, “Who am I to deny some tender loving care over my oh so hurt and in need of care girlfriend?”

“I can hear that,” you shout from the couch.

“And I don’t hear you complaining, babe.”

notes: thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3

truly. the week was a mash of him restraining her wrists from touching, holding her ankle beneath the dinner table as she travelled to his cock, and bringing her up from her knees when she surprised him in the shower.

now, while he is a tad scared, he’s exactly where he wants to be. he usually hates leaving you at home to go and meet with his brothers, knowing he likes to keep you out of business, but wanting you around every second of the day. but now that you’re official? he loves the sound of your flip flops suddenly appearing on the concrete where the boys eat dinner. grabbing andrew’s hand and pulling him to his bedroom without a word other then a pouted, teary “andrew :(“

he loves turning to his brothers as you pull, shrugging his shoulders and holding up five fingers in a communication of “gimme 5 minutes to tucker her out and i’ll be back”

now when you actually get in the house, still clutching his wrist before letting go & stripping your shirt off as you walk to his room, the story changes. you turn to him with dark eyes, hands cupping your tits over your bra, “need you so bad, popey.” biting your lip, you turn to keep walking, swaying.

the message changes very quickly. andrew swallows, holding his cock through his jeans before turning to knock on the glass door next to his brothers. he holds up all ten fingers with a sure nod before stalking off.

You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."

"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"

"He labeled every container by protein count."

"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.

"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."

Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.

Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.

They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.

They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.

And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.

That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.

So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.

And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.

Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.

Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.

The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.

The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.

Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,

"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.

Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.

"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."

Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"

"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."

Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.

"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."

The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.

Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.

Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.

"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.

"Hello to you too."

"Did you eat?"

The room paused.

You looked midly defensive. "Yes."

"You're lying."

"I had crackers."

"That's not food."

Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.

You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."

"You're pregnant."

"And?"

"And you require actual nutrition."

Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.

Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.

The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.

Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"

You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."

"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.

You looked confused. "Brendon?"

The entire station froze at the first-name basis.

"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.

"That's his name."

"No one calls him Brendon."

"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."

After that, people started noticing things. Little things.

Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.

How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.

One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.

"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."

Dana laughed. "Six?"

"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't even want to know."

Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"

You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."

"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"

"Oh, that was ours."

Silence.

You blinked up. "What?"

Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"

"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."

Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.

"You're... close with him?"

You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."

Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.

You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.

And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.

Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.

The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.

And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.

Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.

"You can't have that much caffeine."

You looked offended. "It was half-caf."

"It was basically battery acid."

"You tasted it?"

"You left it on the counter this morning."

Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.

You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"

"You wanted fries."

"I mentioned fries once."

"You cried about it."

"I was emotional that time."

"You threatened divorce."

The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.

Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.

Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.

Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.

"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."

Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."

You looked at him. "I know."

"You forgot."

"I remembered eventually."

"You remembered because I reminded you."

The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.

Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.

The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.

The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.

"Oh my God."

You frowned. "What?"

He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"

You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"

"That man practically tucked you in!"

"He's just—"

"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"

"My husband!"

"Exactly!"

You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.

"Oh my god."

"So, you are!"

"No I'm not, Frank."

"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"

"Because he made it."

Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."

"He color-coded the whole calendar."

He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.

Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.

Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.

Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.

But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.

And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.

That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.

Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.

You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.

"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."

The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.

"No."

Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.

"Repeat what you said."

The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"

"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."

The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.

"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."

Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.

The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.

"You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.

It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.

And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

Dennis looked at her. "What?"

But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.

At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.

Not like a lover, like a husband.

"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.

You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.

Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."

You blinked. "Yeah?"

Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.

You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.

Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."

"You never said—"

"Well, nobody asked."

"You literally acted like you hated each other!"

You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."

Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.

Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.

Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.

And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.

The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.

The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.

And worst of all?

Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.

Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:

"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"

You two are divorced. Have been for about a year now. It ended civilly- no yelling, no arguing, no screaming matches. Just a civil agreement and a lot of tears cried in your marital bed on your final night together, the bed where you used to laugh and talk for hours, fantasise about your future and kids and growing old together. It all just ended one night. He came home late, you were already in bed. It had been building up for a long time and it definitely wasn't an impulsive decision. He knew it was coming too. Could feel it in the air. Knew you hadn't talked, or touched, or even fought in far too long.

You were both too tired to put in the effort needed to fix things. Had tried and tried and couldn't bring yourselves to do it anymore. Not when Frank was struggling with an addiction that he refused to admit to, even to you. Not when you had so much more life to live, and it felt like Frank was beginning to weigh you down. He was defensive, yelled, insisted he didn't have a problem. Until you just stopped fighting for him in the moment that he needed you to the most.

You were his wife. And you knew he needed you. But you couldn't do it. You knew he didn't want to change; couldn't change. It left you heartbroken, and yet you knew you had to leave. So you did.

And he knew that letting you go was the most selfless, most loving, thing he could do.

So he doesn't know why he's back here. The house you once shared. The one you decorated together, down to every trinket. Where you loved, learned, grew. Where your marriage began and where it ultimately ended.

He rings the doorbell, lets it play it's familiar little tune. Hears the metal of the peephole slide across, feels your eye looking through it and right at him, before the lock of the door clicks and it's opening wide to reveal you.

You look cosy wearing the pajamas he used to love you in, and he instantly remembers how he'd come home from work to you in those clothes, cuddled up on the couch. How he'd kiss you, and hug you, and tell you how much he missed you. How he used to tell you every detail of his day. Now he just comes home to silence and microwaveable meals. He used to love to cook, but what's the point when there's no one to share it with?

"Frank," you say. It's soft, gentle, like you're scared that he'll break and he thinks he actually might. The sight of you hurts too badly. The last time he saw you was in a blazer, drafting up the agreement for your divorce.

"What are you doing here, Frank?" you ask, but there's no malice in it. You're confused. And he hopes that you're even a little happy to see him.

He wrings his hands, they're suddenly far too clammy. Wipes them on his jeans. Plays with the brim of his hat. He feels dumb.

"I- I honestly don't know," he finally says, chuckling mirthlessly. "I don't know. I-I'm sorry. I'll just go, I don't know why I came, I'm so stupid-"

"Stay," you whisper, barely audible enough for him to hear.

"What?" he replies, heart squeezing at the thought that any part of you still wants to be near him.

"Stay. Just for a while. Have a cup of tea or something? I'm watching Love Island."

Your show. The one you used to watch together on most nights, wrapped up under blankets. Warm skin on skin, your head on his shoulder. Constant commentary and laughs that he used to pull out of you so easily. Kisses in between scenes and hands in places they probably didn't need to be. He hadn't watched it with you for months before you even asked for a divorce, and it was one of those silly things he missed so much.

"Okay," is all he can manage.

In your living room, on your sofa, he feels awkward. It's changed in small ways, but he used to know this place like the back of his hand- and so much is gone. Particularly, the way he used to leave his clothes on the backs of random chairs. His books, his things, his stethoscope that he used to hang up behind the door after work so he wouldn't lose it. His keys next to yours. A space for you two forced to become a house for one.

The TV buzzes in the background, a low hum. He hears the kettle finish boiling in the kitchen not too far away, hears a spoon clinking in a ceramic mug. Listens to your steps as you walk towards him. He straightens in his seat. You place the mug down in front of him and he looks up in surprise. You pretend you don't see.

It was his mug. The one he used every morning. The one you used to fill up with coffee while he showered so it was ready by the time he got out. The one you used to make hot chocolate in, with cream and marshmallows, every Christmas when you two would watch reruns of Home Alone and Elf. He's surprised you have it, and he's surprised you kept it. He searched for it in every box after he moved into his new apartment, wanted the memories that came with it. Had you been using it every morning? Thinking of him like he had been thinking of you in every waking moment of his new life?

He takes a slow sip. Sighs with his eyes closed. You always did know exactly how to make his tea, and it never tasted the same when he tried to make it himself.

"So," you start, holding your own cup to your chest, blanket around your legs. You're sat across the room from him, different from the way you used to huddle close on that very couch, and it makes him feel strange. "How have you been, Frank?"

"I'm fine. I'm doing... better." He gives you a tight-lipped smile. Choosing his words carefully.

"That's good."

"I went to rehab."

You're surprised. He can tell. He knows you like the back of his hand. You don't want to scare him off, make him feel pressured. "How did it go?"

"It was..." he pauses. Decides to tell you the truth. Open up to you the way you begged him to when you were still married and he was still in denial about his addiction. "It was horrible. It was so hard. Every second was painful. You know, with my back, it was agony. I didn't know if I'd get through it."

You sit, stiffly, but he can see the way your eyes glisten. The way your breathing deepens and your face goes all red the way it does when you're about to cry.

"Robby caught me," he continues. Wants to be honest with you even if it's embarassing. Even if his pride takes a massive hit. Wants another chance, desperately. "Robby caught me stealing from the ER. I was taking benzos to help me with the withdrawal symptoms from the opioids. The pain was too much, and it was the only thing that helped. Especially with how hectic it gets in the ER, I couldn't handle it. Robby caught me. He fired me."

"Oh."

"And that's why I went to rehab. I realised what I had done. The rift I caused between you and me. The way I hurt you because I couldn't tell you the truth."

You're tight lipped. Haven't said a thing since he started except for hums of agreement or question.

"I want you to know that I'm better. I'm trying. I'm back at work. I-I'm having random drug tests. I'm not taking anything. I-I had a patient who I stole drugs from and I admitted it to him, and he died, but I-I was honest. I've done my best. I'm 186 days clean. Today was my first day back, and I did a closed blind reduction of a cervical spine dislocation. I'm still good at what I do, and I'm proud of myself for it. I'm still shaking."

He holds his hands out, shows you the way his hands are quivering. Nervous. And your eyes catch on something gold still on his left ring finger. You bring a hand up to your mouth.

"Frank," is all you can muster, softly. Eyes brimming with tears. He follows your line of vision to his pathetic ring finger, where he still pathetically wears his wedding ring. His pathetic promise to you to love you till death do you apart. And he hasn't broken that. He hides his hand immediately.

"Fuck, I didn't mean for you to see that. I promise."

"Why are you still wearing your wedding ring?"

"I," he starts, but no words come out. "I don't know, baby. I mean, fuck, I don't know. I'm sorry-"

"It's okay, Frank." you sigh, voice breaking in a way that breaks his heart in two. "I'm really proud of you. I'm really happy for you. You've done so well for yourself."

"Thank you, I-"

"But I think you should go."

Frank can't do anything but nod. You're right. He doesn't even know what he's doing here with you, why he came to bother you. What he's doing in the house where you fell apart, with the person he hurt. The person who hurt him right back.

He gets up, picks up his things, and walks himself to the door. You follow behind him.

He turns around just to get one final look at you, in what was once his house too, "thank you."

"For what?"

"For the tea."

You just nod and watch him open the front door. But your heart hangs heavy with the weight of watching him walk away.

"Frank," you squeak, voice cracking along with your heart.

He turns immediately, hoping and begging that you'll ask him to stay again.

"Frank, I-" you can't finish the sentence. It all comes out at once. Relief that he's doing well, that he's working hard to overcome his addiction. That he's been clean for 186 days. Devastation that you had to let go of your relationship because he refused to get help, refused to take yours, just for him to end up doing the work anyway, merely months after your divorce. A sudden, useless, spark of hope that you two could be together again, because you still love him. More than you should. You just loved yourself more, and you couldn't handle the effects of his addiction and his denial.

You're choking through tears before you know it, hot cheeks and burning eyelids. He can't handle it. Hates seeing you like this, and because of him no less. He should never have come. Never should have rehashed the pain of your past.

But he's dropping his things on the floor anyway, scooping you up in his arms because he's wanted to hold you since you opened the door. He's warm, you feel protected, loved, you feel like you're finally home after a year. Pathetically, he's still your home. All you've ever wanted.

He strokes your hair and shushes you, rocking you back and forth while you heave and cry into him. He's blinking back the tears in his eyes himself. To finally feel you close to him, the only thing he's ever craved in his life. He can't help but to press a kiss into your hair, inhale the scent of your shampoo that he's missed so fucking much.

"It's okay, honey." he soothes. "It'll all be okay."

There's a million other things he wants to say. Wants to tell you that he's thought of you every single day since he moved out of your home together. That he still loves you; can't see himself with anyone else, refuses to even entertain the idea of a date with someone else. That it stings when he thinks of you being with anyone other than him- that the sight of you walking down the aisle again, beautiful as ever, giving another person the happy, teary, smile you gave him on your wedding day haunts him in his worst nightmares. That when everything hurt, when rehab felt like torture, you were the only thing that kept him going. And going home to an empty apartment, without your things, without your scent, without you, made him want to die.

"It's not okay, Frank. It'll never be okay. How can it be okay when you're not with me?"

Had you felt the same way as him all this time? Had you missed him like he missed you? Begged the universe, hoped for the stars to align, to give you two another chance?

He stares at you. Breathing heavily. He used to know exactly how to comfort you. Would listen to you talk for hours, holding you, never letting go. And when you had gotten everything out, there were no more words or tears to spill, you would ask him to help you feel better. Take it all away with his lips, his fingers, his tongue. His cock.

He doesn't know how to help you now. After almost a year apart, he's lost. Watching you like an idiot who doesn't know what boundaries he can or can't cross. If he can hold your hand, if he can kiss you.

But when you look up at him with those eyes, lips parted. When you take his hands in yours and guide it up to cup your face. He knows.

"Will you kiss me, Frank?" you say, quietly, embarassed. Exactly how you used to when you used to go to him with every problem, every inconvenience. When he was your rock. "Take the hurt away?"

He holds you. Rubs his thumb over your cheeks. Looks you in your eyes with a thousand thoughts and feelings swirling in his head, in his heart. Wondering what you're thinking. Is this really the best thing to do? Is this even really happening? Because it feels like a dream.

"Are you sure?" he asks, scared speaking too loudly will jostle him awake, that you'll get so startled that you'll dissipate into thin air.

"Yes," you nod. Press your face into the calloused, worked hands.

He licks his lips. Stares at yours. And slowly, giving you a chance to move away, to change your mind, he leans in, brushing his nose against yours like he always used to. You used to giggle every time. He moves at a snail's pace until his mouth is against yours. Soft, smooth, everything you've been missing and wanting, thinking you'd never have him like this again.

He kisses you hard, soft, tries to tell you all of the words he can't get out with every movement of his lips, every stroke of his tongue. Holds you tight because he knows this may be the last time, and fuck, he doesn't want to waste this opportunity to love you again.

The kiss deepens in time, rougher, harder, sloppier. You're breathing hard through your nose between wanton moans while Frank's hands wander everywhere, all over your body. The cup of his hands against your breasts remind you of how much he used to love them. Burying his face in them, nipping at them, sucking at your nipples. The feel of your hands in his hair, tugging between fingertips, the sting delicious against his scalp. He fucking loves it.

It's not long before you're pulling your shirt off, tugging at his too until he follows suite. You're desperate to feel him as close to you as possible- skin to skin, chest to chest. Heart to heart.

Both of your pants come off too, unbuckled, unbuttoned, thrown to the ground and forgotten as you lead him to the bedroom you once shared. Let him set you down in the middle of the bed in between your side and what used to be his, let him press kisses on your face, your neck, your décolletage. In between and all over those breasts he always loved. Down to your clothed pussy where he pulls aside your panties to lick and taste your juices again. You taste as fucking good as he remembers, and he can't help but to eat you out with more vigour. Hungry.

"Frank," you moan, hands tangled in his hair as he licks and sucks at your clit, palming himself through fabric. "I need you. I need to feel you now."

So he obeys. Pulls your sticky panties down to your ankles and off, then strips out of his own boxers. Comes back up to kiss you tenderly, grinding himself in between your legs to get you wet, though you don't really need it.

"Are you ready?" he asks when the feeling of you so close drives him so crazy that all he wants to do is plunge into your heat.

"Please," is all you can reply.

Frank pushes in slowly. Wants to savour the stretch of your pussy, the way it adapts to his size, wrapping around him. You haven't been with anyone since your divorce, so the stretch of a dick pushing inside of you feels foreign, and so fucking good. The same goes for Frank who's missed the wet, warm hug of your walls. The way you suck him in.

When he's fully seated inside of you, he starts to move. Thrusting slowly and languidly, savouring the moment of feeling you all against him. Kissing him, touching him, scratching at his skin.

"I've missed you," he whispers into the crook of your neck. Soothing the skin with a gentle kiss. "I've missed us."

You break down again, sob ugly and uninhibited as you pull him closer into you, hugging around his neck.

"Fuck, I missed you too."

He stops when he realises that you're cryinf, holds you, starts to pull himself out, "Fuck, baby, did I do something wrong-"

But you interrupt him, "Don't. Keep going, please."

So he does. With you still wrapped around him, skin to skin, chest to chest, heart to heart. He keeps thrusting into you, feeling every part of you until his skin feels like he's on fire. Tears wet his cheeks too as he lays with you for the first time in too long, listening to your sobs that mix with the obscene noises from the place you two connect, and choked out moans from how good he feels inside of you.

"Not gonna last much longer, baby." Frank admits when he feels his orgasm coming closer and closer. "Will you cum with me?"

You nod into his neck, press kisses to his face. Push your hips up against him to meet his thrusts, and wrap your legs around him. He's suddenly impossibly deep inside you, and each thrust has his tip rubbing against that spongy spot inside of you, until your orgasm takes over. And watching you only leads to his orgasm too, one that leaves the two of you shaking and moaning against one another. Holding each other like you always used to, as the aftershocks burst through you. Hoping your bodies and your mouths can speak for your hearts.

There's too much history. There's too much pain. A year apart, and for good reason too, and neither of you knows what the next step is. Can you two really be together again, the way you used to be?

But it's a question you ignore for now. Just for tonight, you're just you. Mr. and Mrs. Langdon. You're just two people who fell in love and loved, and grew together, and wanted, want, a future together. You're just two people, choosing to hold one another, kiss one another, relish in the warmth of the person you love more than anything in the world.

Just for tonight.