BucksOfSunshine

You had a deal with your dad. If Garrett made it into Briar, he would pull every string he could to get you there. Garrett also researched ahead of time and found that they had amazing student disability services, including student ASL interpreters, assignment excuses (for you, such as doing a speech for a class), and extra time on exams. Phil also felt more comfortable sending you somewhere with Garrett cause then at least one person would know ASL or look out for you. Before you came to Briar, Garrett had told his teammates about you. Only his close friends were aware that you were mute, and he taught them basic ASL signs to prepare when you visited. 

Now, as an incoming freshman at Briar, you were nervous because most people don’t know ASL, so you sometimes opted for text-to-speech as well. At the beginning of the semester, Garrett made an effort for the guys to watch out for you and not be afraid to step in if other first-year students made fun of you. After your calculus class, Garrett insisted you visit his house and meet his roommates. He assured you that they knew you were mute and that they knew some ASL. All you knew was that these were the guys Garrett played hockey with and that they were good. 

“Hey, guys! Come meet my sister!”

You see a guy with curly hair behind the kitchen, cooking something that smells like a stew. You then see another guy with wavy brown hair and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, holding a hammer. They both wave at you. 

“Hey, I’m Tucker, this is Logan.” the one with the pink apron mentioned. 

“Hi, I’m Y/N.” You replied. 

“Dude, I thought you said she was mute.” Logan spoke up.

“It’s called speech therapy, dumbasses. She can say basic words but not a full conversation.” Garrett shot back. 

You rolled your eyes. 

“My apologies, Y/N,” Logan meekly replied. 

It’s okay. I get it a lot.

“I remember that’s the sign for ok, so I think I’m in the clear.” Logan cheered.

You sighed at his sentiment. You then hear the door open behind you. It's a tall blonde with a wide frame and bright blue eyes. 

“Yo Graham! And baby Graham, you look just like your brother.” Dean bent down to look at you. 

Gross

“What does that one mean?” Dean looked perplexed

“She said, gross dude.” Tucker chirped. 

“How did you know that?!” Dean shot his head up at Tucker.

“It’s called reading, I wanted to know the important words in case she tried my cooking. Did you not look over the basic ASL language Garrett sent us?”

“Not going to lie, I glanced over it for a few seconds.”

“Seriously, dude?” Garrett looked at Dean, pissed.

“What? I thought I had more time to study.”

What’s the loud blonde dude’s name? 

Logan squinted at you again, trying to think. “I think she’s asking your name dude.”

Dean looked back at you and pulled his hand back. “Dean. Dean Di Laurentis. Don’t you forget it,” and then Dean winked at you. You looked disgusted. 

“Damn harsh crowd, I’ve never been rejected so subtly before. And what’s your name baby Graham?”

“Y/N.” You quietly replied. 

“So she speaks. Nice to meet you, Y/N.” Dean smiled before heading towards the kitchen. While they all sat, you turned to Garrett, already annoyed by this whole interaction. 

You told me they knew ASL, but they barely know anything, especially that blonde one. You signed. 

“They’re trying their best, ok? They didn’t have 18 years with it. They had, at most, probably had two weeks.” Garrett whispered low so they couldn’t hear. 

Should I just do the text-to-speech thing? It’s probably easier for them to understand.

“No, Y/N, just do what makes you feel comfortable, worst case I’ll be here to translate.” Garrett rubbed your shoulder in reassurance. 

Good, cause honestly, whatever the curly-haired one was making smelled good.

“Tucker’s a great cook, you can always come over for a free dinner if the dining hall food isn’t up to par.”

Last week, they had undercooked chicken, and I almost gagged.

Garrett laughed as he brought you back to the group. 

“She’s staying for dinner, guys!” Garrett cheered. 

·༻𐫱༺·

When Dean walked over after meeting you, he was debriefing with Tucker and Logan. 

“So that’s Garrett’s sister?” Logan inquired

“Yeah, dude, can’t you see the resemblance? They both got dark curly hair, and she also has his Angry Bird eyebrows.” Dean responded.  

“She’s just as expressive as him for sure.” Tucker added while stirring his chicken and dumpling soup. 

“How can you even tell? She can barely talk.” Dean, perplexed. 

“You can tell a lot from a person by just their face, unlike you, talking your ear off to someone any chance you get.” Tucker rolled his eyes. 

Dean looked over at you and Garrett talking, even though you were signing, he looked at your face, which looked a little concerned as your eyebrows furrowed. A part of Dean wished he knew what you were saying. He turned back to Tucker and Logan in the kitchen.

“How long do you think it takes to learn ASL?” Dean spoke out of the blue.

“My guess is probably one or two semesters, they have classes on campus for it.” Logan responded before heading upstairs to fix something in the bathroom. 

“Do you think it’s too late to register?” Dean frantically pulled out his phone to see if it fit in his schedule. 

“I’m sure you can email someone, I don’t think people are fighting over a spot in that class.” Tucker started tasting his broth before adding salt and other spices.

Garrett then walked over with Y/N and cheered, “She’s staying for dinner!” 

“I hope she likes chicken and dumplings.”

“What is that?” Garrret asked. 

“Its like a creamy chicken soup with bits of dough in it, its my mom’s recipe.”

Sounds delicious.

Tucker looked excited, “I know she just said delicious, and trust it will be!”

Garrett smiled, seeing how much effort he had put into communicating with you, unlike Dean, who still looked confused. 

“Yo G!” Logan had come back downstairs. “Dean was interested in taking some ASL classes. Do you know of any?”

“Oh? Already trying to make up embarrassing me in front of my sister?” Garrett patted Dean’s shoulder. 

“I just thought it’d be cool since I’m taking less credits this semester.” 

“Well, congrats Dean, you just won yourself a ticket to be my sister’s personal body guard. She’s taking an ASL course, you can join her class.”

Garrett, are you out of your mind? He’s going to bother me all semester. I’ve only met him for a few minutes, and he’s already on my nerves.

Garrett signed back, so Dean or the other guys wouldn't hear his response. I don’t want you wandering campus alone, plus Dean is intimidating enough that no one will bother you. 

What if the person bothering me is going to be around me almost every day? You signed at Garrett and rolled your eyes. 

Just stick it out for two weeks. If he’s really bothering you, I’ll tell him to fuck off, and I’ll drive you to school. 

You sighed, agreeing to Garrett's pleas and putting on a fake smile, excited that Dean would be joining your ASL class. 

Tucker looked up at both of you before serving dinner. “You guys good?”

“Yeah, she’s totally excited to show Dean the wonders of ASL,” Garrett smiled. 

You fake-smiled with two thumbs up, looking at Dean. Everyone eventually transitioned to the dining room table to enjoy the chicken and dumplings Tucker made. Despite never having it before, you found it delicious. When Tucker asked how it was, you said it was good, and then Tucker started to dance with excitement at your compliment. 

You had wished you could just enjoy your food and your brother's company, but unfortunately, there was a certain blonde who wouldn’t stop bothering you. 

“So, Y/N, what’s your major?”

Graphic Design

“What’s your favorite color?” Purple

“What’s your favorite food?”

Mac and Cheese

“What’s your favorite animal?”

Whale shark

“What do you do in your free time?”

Draw or paint.

Dean looked up at Garrett in anticipation. “I got none of that. What did she say G?”

“She said she's a graphic design major, purple, mac and cheese, whale shark, and draw or paint. If you’re going to ask her all these things, you'd better pay attention in your ASL class.”  

You looked down at your soup, hoping the blonde would give up on trying to talk to you, but he kept trying to get you to speak. You got up abruptly to refill a bowl of soup, and, like a puppy dog, Dean followed. 

“Allow me,” Dean grabbed the ladle. You rolled your eyes. Dean poured you a bowl and noticed it was mostly made of broth. There was barely any chicken, vegetables, or dough in your bowl. Your eyebrows furrowed. Dean noticed your annoyed expression and realized there was nothing in your bowl. He grabbed it out of your hands, dumped the soup, and dug deeper into the pot to get you more solids. 

“Thank you.” You quietly replied before scurrying off back to the table. Garrett asked if everything was ok and you nodded, continuing to eat. Dean came back shortly with another bowl, busy eating it this time, figuring you enjoyed some silence. You had finished the last drops of water in your glass before Garrett and Dean awkwardly got up at the same time to grab the pitcher from the fridge to refill it. You can hear them whispering and bickering by the fridge. 

“Dude, why are you also grabbing the pitcher?”

“I wanted to refill Y/N’s water.”

“Why are you being so nice all of a sudden to my baby sister? I swear to god if you even try to pull one of your stupid flirty moves, I will personally slam you across the table. I bet it won’t even work on her”

“Watch me.”

Dean came back with the pitcher and accidentally spilled some water on your shirt while trying to refill your cup. You groaned before noticing Dean take off his shirt and wipe the table down with it. Dean looked over, hoping to see you blush at his figure, but was only met with a disgusted look and you turning to say something to Garrett. Dean didn’t even get to the part where he offered you one of his shirts to use in his room before you stormed upstairs towards Garrett's room.

“Nice one Dean. I bet she’s going to toss up her dinner after seeing that one.” Garrett laughed. Now Dean was the embarrassed one. Upstairs in Garrett's room, you grabbed one of his Briar U Hawks shirts and, without thinking, started changing with the door open. 

·༻𐫱༺·

Dean went upstairs to toss his shirt in the laundry and get a new one when he froze, noticing you in just a bra, mid-change. Without a word, he saw you rush and slam the door in his face. You were on the verge of feeling overwhelmed, sitting on the floor behind the slammed door. Why wouldn’t stupid Dean leave you alone? Garrett, hearing the slam, nervously rushed upstairs before knocking on the door. 

“Y/N? Are you alright?” Garrett sounded worried, so you slowly opened the door, letting Garrett into his room before closing it again. 

“What’s going on? Are you okay? I heard the door slam.”

Dean is just too much right now. The questions. Spilling water on me. He also saw me in my bra.

“He did what?!” You grabbed Garrett’s arm before he could think about storming to kill Dean. 

It was an accident. It’s mostly my fault for not closing your door while I was changing. I’m sorry. 

“Y/N, there is nothing to be sorry about. I know my friends can be a lot but trust me they have good hearts.”

Is it just hard, you know? To keep up with all that energy.

“I know you’re trying your best. I’ll tell Dean to tone it down, especially since it’s going to be harder to draw a conversation out of you.”

Thank you.

Garrett pulled you in for a hug. It was one of the best things about Garrett. He was always understanding, not just about your disability, but also that you tended to be more introverted than he was. Garrett didn’t realize how extraverted all his friends were, and Dean was the king of it. He regretted suggesting that you put Dean in your ASL courses and probably should’ve tried to convince Logan or Tucker instead. Garrett then decided to take you home since it was getting dark out. You said your goodbyes to Logan and Tucker, and you assumed Dean stayed in his room after your interaction. Garrett dropped you off at your dorm before heading back to his house. Dean was still nowhere to be found before Garrett knocked on his door. 

“Yo Dean! My sister left, can I talk to you?”

Dean, now freshly showered in clean clothes, slowly opened his door. 

“For the record, G, it was a complete accident.”

“I know, she told me. But don’t get too comfortable now, cause that’s the last time you’re ever seeing that again. Am I clear?” Garrett 

“Crystal.”

“Also, I gotta ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Look, man, I know you love talking and socializing, but do you mind toning it down a bit around my sister?” Dean looked up, confused

“What do you mean?”

“She’s more of the introverted, artsy type, and we’re all outgoing jocks, you can probably guess how those two things don’t mix well.”

“Well how do you tone it down? I’ve never seen you more gentle with someone than her.”

“The first thing I do is listen. I let her do the talking so I can figure out how much she wants to socialize. Sometimes she ices me out, and I leave her alone.”

“But how do people just operate like that? I feel like I can’t go a few minutes without needing to speak to someone.”

“Believe it or not, Dean, people’s brains have different levels of social battery. I think yours never runs out. Just try to not pry or force conversation out of her, you have all semester to talk to her.” 

Garrett patted him on the back before going to bed. That was the one problem with Dean. He wanted to talk to you all semester, get to know everything about you. He was fascinated by you. Besides ignoring every attempt at flirting, he couldn’t believe you weren’t attracted to him. Every girl on campus wanted him, so why didn’t you?

·༻𐫱༺·

You returned to your dorm, and thankfully, the disability services gave you a single with your own bathroom. You set your backpack down from class before hopping into a quick shower. To take your mind off things, you decided to draw a little. You keep a small sketchbook of all your favorite foods you’ve eaten. Whether it was restaurants, home-cooked meals, or fun things you’d bake, you added them to it. You took out your phone and sketched the photo of Tucker’s chicken and dumplings. Despite trying to reminisce about how good the dinner was, you kept thinking about Dean. His stupid blue eyes were on you when you were disappointed with your soup. Without even saying anything, he knew exactly what you wanted. You thought Garrett could only do that. How could a random guy I just met know what was wrong even though I didn’t say anything? You figured it was just a coincidence and continued sketching. 

You realized it was getting late and also remembered that your ASL class was tomorrow with the loud blonde. You sighed, finishing up your sketch and finishing your nighttime routine before setting your alarm and going to bed. Tomorrow’s definitely going to be a disaster. 

You walked into your ASL class expecting Dean to skip or back out. But surprisingly, he was there early, reading an ASL textbook. Unfortunately, he noticed you, waved, and called your name, excited to see you. You had been avoiding the stares from some of your classmates before you sat down next to him. You pulled out your laptop to work on some designs for another class. Shortly after, Dean peeked over your shoulder and couldn’t help but talk to you. 

“Woah! That’s so cool what class is that for?”

You opted to use a text box in the corner to type your responses. “It’s for 2D Design, I have to align some shapes.”

“It looks fun”

Then your professor walked in. They spoke while signing. Even though Dean missed the first week, they were going over the alphabet and the history of ASL. Dean surprisingly took out his own laptop, writing notes and pulling up visuals of hand signs. You, still focused on your design, weren’t paying attention. You already knew ASL, but the course was mandatory for students who utilize it daily or student interpreters. 

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be paying attention?”

“I already know ASL, if you didn’t know.”

“Some of this stuff is interesting you know, like how it can have different variations.”

“It is a language you know, not everyone has a thick New York accent.”

“Hey! I’m from Connecticut. Not everyone can be from Boston.” Dean fired back, placing heavy emphasis on saying "Boston" in an exaggerated Bostonian accent. You rolled your eyes as you finished up on your designs, which you planned to print later. You still had about 45 minutes of class left and opted to pull out your food sketchbook. You turned to the chicken-and-dumpling drawing to finish coloring it in and add some shading. Dean naturally couldn’t keep his mouth shut. 

“Woah, is that Tucker’s dinner from last night?” You nodded.

“How do you get the soup to look like that cream color?”

You sighed, and then Dean caught himself for thinking what Garrett said. He realized he was probably talking too much and let you continue drawing in peace. Eventually, class ended, and you had finished the final picture. Dean, not wanting to bother you, started packing his bag and heading out. You tugged at his shirt, and he looked down at you. You showed him the final picture, and he looked at you in awe. 

“Y/N, this looks awesome! Do you mind if I take a photo of it to send to Tucker?” You nodded as he quickly grabbed his phone to snap a photo. He smiled at you before you both walked out of the classroom. The moment you stepped out, a group of girls walked over to Dean to talk to him. They didn’t even notice you, and one girl shoved past you, causing you to trip and drop your sketchbook. Some pages were falling out and getting trampled. You had tried to call out to Dean, but you couldn’t really scream or even say the word “Dean” yet.  You then opted to wave your hands in the air to where Dean saw your eyeline. Knowing Dean only knew the alphabet, you spelled it out simply. 

DEAN HELP

Dean squinted, trying to read the words you were spelling out, before he realized you were signing “help”. He excused all the girls out of the way to find you on the ground, trying to pick up your trampled sketches. 

“Everyone back up! You’re stepping on her things!” Dean shouted. Before all the girls cleared out to let Dean help you, they made comments about who this nobody is or why Dean is helping you. You ignored it and focused on making sure your sketches are ok. You realized the page you just finished had gotten crinkled, and there was mud and dirt all over it. You looked at it in disappointment and felt like crying. Dean saw your disappointed face and turned to face you. 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok, I took a photo of it, I can text it to you!” Dean handed you his phone. You typed in your number, and he made your contact name “Baby Graham”. He texted it to you, and you thanked him, changing his contact name to “Loud Blonde.” He apologized to the group of girls, saying it won't happen again. Maybe Dean wasn’t the most annoying for now. He escorted you outside the building, where Garrett was waiting. Dean had to head to another class, and he said his goodbyes. 

·༻𐫱༺·

“So, how was he?”

He was ok, still talked a little too much, but he left me alone when I was drawing. 

“That’s good, I told you he could tone it down.”

Can I ask you something, Garrett?

“Of course.”

Is Dean popular with girls?

Garrett reached behind his neck. “Unfortunately, the whole hockey team is flooded by girls. But Dean gets around, if you get what I mean. Why did something happen?”

Some girls just trampled us after class, and some stepped on some art I just finished. 

“You better believe I will be having another talk with him.”

It's ok, Garrett. He helped me and told them to go away. He said it won’t happen again.

“So, it wasn’t the end of the world having him around?”

I’d say he was tolerable. I still don’t hate him.

“I’ll take it as a win. If he continues to bother you, you let me know ok?”

You nodded as you headed to Garrett’s car. Garrett dropped you off at your dorm before heading back to his house. You worked on some homework for your typography class. A text from Dean pulled you out of your zone for a second. 

Loud Blonde: Hey, I just wanted to apologize again for earlier. The boys want to frame your drawing in the house lol. 

Baby Graham: It’s ok, I still have plenty of sketches in my book. 

You thought about how difficult it is not knowing how to say Dean’s name, and about how he’s going to be around you all semester. You probably should at least know how to say it in case something happens again. You call Garrett to ask for help and whip out a notebook to take phonetic notes. 

“What’s up, sis?”

You texted him, “Can you teach me how to say Dean?”

“Oh, sure. You’d take the de- from door. And you remember what you’d say when I’d take away your Barbies?”

“Mean.”

“Yeah, so the end -ean part and you put those two together.”

“Doorean.”

“Oh, just the D part, -duh” 

“Duh-ean”

“Better, but it’s one syllable. I texted how it's pronounced phonetically to you.”

“Deen?” 

“Yup, you got it. Just keep practicing it. Is there anything else you need from me?”

“Nope.”

“Alright, goodnight sis, don’t stay up too late!”

·༻𐫱༺·

You kept practicing by saying it to yourself and looking up videos on how people pronounce it. After a few tries, you got it mostly down. You finished up the rest of your work before heading to bed. You woke up, packed your bags, and headed to the campus cafe before your classes. You got a quick coffee before putting your headphones in, listening to music, and walking to your class. As you're looking at your phone, you hear someone calling your name over your music. You paused it and turned to see Garrett’s curly-haired friend. 

“Hey! Y/N!”

“Oh, hi.”

“My name's Tucker, in case you forgot. Are you also heading to a pre-calculus class?”

You nodded. 

“Nice, I’m also in that class. Sorry if you’re confused, but I’m also a Freshman here at Briar. I just got an off-campus living exemption for being on the hockey team. Do you want to head to class together?”

You agreed as you both quietly strolled to class. You also gave Tucker your number so you could easily communicate with him. He wasn’t as loud as Dean and enjoyed being in the moment, enjoying the weather. It was nice. You both sat together as you brought out your tablet for notes, while Tucker was busy on his laptop watching some hockey highlights. You texted him, nosy about what he was doing. 

Y/N Graham: Why are you watching Harvard’s hockey highlights?

Tucker: We have a game this weekend, Gar is drilling all the freshman on studying how they play. He really wants us to win.

Y/N Graham: Sounds like my brother alright.

Tucker: There’s a lot of extra pressure since they’re our rivals. The whole team is kind of on edge.

Y/N Graham: If my brother gives you guys a hard time, you let me know. I’ll knock some sense into him. 

Tucker laughed as you both went back to each other’s work. You took notes and practice problems, while Tucker wrote down formations and potential strategies. You compared this experience to Dean. It was calm, no forced conversation, just both of you in your own worlds. Even though you appreciated how much quieter Tucker was, a small part of you wished someone would text or tap your shoulder every 10 minutes. Time had passed so quickly that the lecture was over, and both of you stepped out to see Garrett, Hannah, Logan, and Dean waiting for Tucker. 

“There he is. Did you see the new videos I sent you?” Garrett motioned to Tucker. 

“Yeah, I also tried to come up with some ideas to try on the ice.”

Garrett then turned to you. “I hope he didn’t distract you in class.”

Nope. Unlike him, I actually took notes on our pre-calculus lecture. 

Garrett turned back to Tucker. “So, what do you know about the unit circle?" Tucker looked dumbfounded. Ashamed about being caught for not paying attention in class, Tucker kindly asked if he could have your notes. You smiled, motioning that you’d text it to him. You then saw Hannah pop up behind Garrett. She signed 

Hello, my name is Hannah. I’m Garrett’s girlfriend.

I know, he really likes you.

Hannah smiled at your response. You appreciated that at least his girlfriend is trying better than Dean did. Speak of the devil, the annoying blonde couldn't help but chirp up at you. He looked excited to show you something. 

Hello, Y/N.

Hello, Dean.

How was class?

Good.

“Did you see that? Was that good?” Dean looked down at you in anticipation. You nodded, and Dean excitedly cheered. “He practiced that conversation a hundred times with Garrett. Your name alone took thirty minutes.” Logan jumped in, putting his arm around Dean. 

You were impressed. Maybe the blonde wasn’t as dumb as you thought. 

“Yo, are we all heading back to the house? Y/N, you’re always invited.” Tucker motioned. 

Garrett quickly looked, counting that not everyone could fit in his car. 

“Logan, Dean, did either of you bring your car?”

Dean pulled his keys from his pocket, jingling them. “Who’s riding with me?”

Logan and Tucker were fighting, playing rock, paper, scissors to see who’d get to ride in Dean’s car. Unfortunately, Tucker lost. You all started to walk towards the parking lot when you opened the car door to a strong smell of stinky hockey gear and saw one of the seats down to fit Garrett’s hockey sticks. 

“Oh shoot, I forgot I had my gear in here.” Garrett put his hand on his forehead. 

Logan was about to offer you his seat when you stopped him, insisting he could go. Garrett translated that you mentioned that Logan fought for that seat fair and square and you’d go with Dean. Before you went with them, Garrett pulled Dean aside.

“If anything happens to my baby sister, you are dead, Di Laurentis.” 

Dean assured Garrett nothing would happen before walking off to Dean’s car. It was a silver BMW sports car. You could tell it was expensive. Tucker, being the gentleman, let you sit in the passenger seat while he sat in the back. Thankfully, his car just smelled like musk and whatever cologne Dean wears. He had leather seats and fancy buttons all over the car. 

“Better than Garrett’s car right?” Dean smirked.

“No.”

“C’mon, his smelly Jeep is not better than mine.” Dean pouted. 

You huffed and looked away from him. 

“I’ll prove it to you.”

Dean turned his car on, and it let out a roar. That didn’t really impress you, but his phone automatically connected and started to play “Party Monster” by The Weeknd. You turned your head to stare at it. 

“Oh? You like The Weeknd? He’s one of my favorite artists.” 

You nodded when you saw that Dean’s backup camera was extra special, with overhead, rear, and side views. You noticed the lights in his car bounced to the beats of the song, and there was basically a huge tablet as his control panel. During the quick 10-minute drive, you took the time to watch Dean as a driver. He was smooth, driving with one hand, and was very fluid. You had never seen him so focused. He drove surprisingly safely. You were sure he would speed or try to race Garrett home. But it was anticlimactic to say the least. You all made it to the house before getting out of his car, thanking him for driving. Tucker opened the house door for you and let you in first.

·༻𐫱༺·

You walked in to see Hannah sprawled out with her legs on Garrett as he had now transitioned to putting the hockey highlights on their TV. Tucker and Dean groaned at the sight of it. 

“G, seriously, we’ve been at this all day let’s take a break.” Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“If we want to beat this guys, we have to study their new freshman, too.” Garrett showed a 20+ video playlist of highlights from all the players. You all looked in horror. You tapped Garrett on the shoulder.

Give them a break, you guys will be fine. Don’t get all stressed because Dad’s coming.

Dean noticed parts of what you said. Specifically, you mentioned that Garrett’s dad will be coming. It made him understand why Garrett was so intense about this game.

“Fine, everyone do their homework. But after dinner we’re watching this!” 

The group sighed in relief before they all split off. Before Garrett went into his room with Hannah, you had asked him if he had any scissors at the house because you needed them for a project.

“Yo, do any of you guys have scissors?”

“I have some kitchen scissors if that works?” Tucker asked. You shook your head, not wanting food or to ruin his blades with your materials. 

“I have a pair in my room, you can come with me.” Dean noted. You reluctantly followed him to his room. Unlike Garrett, he was a little messier. The bed wasn’t made, a basket full of laundry was on the floor, and his desk was covered in books. Even though it was messy, it smelled nice like cedarwood and pepper. You noticed an “ASL For Beginners” Book on there and smiled. Dean rummaged through his desk, found it, and handed it to you. You thanked him before heading downstairs. Dean, being curious, followed you down and watched your every step. Seeing you pull out the designs you worked on the other day, along with some other construction paper. He asked you about each step in the process, but you reluctantly replied in basic ASL or via text. 

It was strange that everything you told Dean fascinated him. It was like you were from another world and he was just born yesterday. You never thought you’d be sitting at the kitchen counter teaching a 6-foot-2 blonde how negative space works. He’d look at you with those innocent blue eyes, eager to find out what you’d say next. You noticed he would hold back more than the first time you met him, offering to help or bringing down his own work to leave you alone to do your project. He’d occasionally chime in to ask if you wanted a glass of water, snacks, or something to complement your progress. Unlike Tucker, it was nice to have someone who constantly cheered you on and checked in on you. Even though you were listening to your music, Dean would always find some way to get your attention. At one point, he found himself cutting out shapes for you. He’d ask you if it was right before handing it to you, looking in anticipation each time. 

·༻𐫱༺·

Garrett walked down with Hannah, commenting on the sight. 

“Interesting, I’ve never seen Dean be so gentle with…construction paper?” Hannah turned to Garrett for a reaction. Garrett had a confused and angry look. 

“What is he doing?”

“Aw c’mon Gar, they look cute.”

“Don’t you dare, if Dean makes a move-”

“Relax, he’s just helping her. I’m sure it's harmless. I mean you know Dean, he’s definitely busy with a bunch of puck bunnies. Plus, if she was annoyed I’m sure she’d text you to rescue her.”

Garrett and Hannah joined Tucker and Logan on the couch, who were fighting over a video game. It was strange to see Dean get along with you, let alone with a few words. Usually, when a girl came over, Dean would be all over her, or you could hear loud laughter from upstairs. It was eerily quiet to see both of you quietly working without much noise. Logan turned to notice Garrett had come back downstairs.

“Hey G? When are we heading to Malone’s? The team’s asking for an informal meeting.” 

“We’ll go in a few, depends on if Dean’s done playing arts and crafts.”

Dean’s head perked up. “Hey! I’m learning the importance of color theory!”

You smiled at his comment and turned your head to look at Garrett, worried.

What’s wrong, Garrett?

Nothing. Is Dean bothering you?

No, he’s helping me. I’ll be done in 10 minutes. 

“Do you want to join us at Malone’s? You can meet the rest of the team.” Dean interjected.

You were scared Dean understood your and Garrett’s conversation and nodded. 

“Great! I can’t wait to watch you draw a Malone’s burger.” 

·༻𐫱༺·

You and the group piled into the same groups, and you all pulled up to Malone’s. The group walked in as a giant roar of cheers came from a group of men that you assumed was the hockey team. Dean floated over and looked like he was his usual loud self. You, wanting to avoid dealing with a bunch of hockey jocks, drifted over to the bar and sat on a stool. You pulled out your sketchbook, intrigued by the food and atmosphere. 

“Hey! You’re Garrett’s sister right?” A girl with brown wavy hair asked you. 

You nodded, “Yeah, Y/N.”

“It’s nice to meet you Y/N! I’m Allie, Hannah’s roommate, can I get you anything?”

You pointed at a glass of water. Allie nodded as she poured you one. You then noticed a flood of girls come in. They squealed, pointed at the hockey team, and immediately went over to flirt with them. You saw various girls fawn all over Dean. Garrett wasn’t kidding. Girls love the hockey boys. You watched as Dean smiled, wrapping his arms around them. For some reason, you felt a twang against your heart. Watching Dean flirt and banter so easily. You wish you could match his energy as those girls did. From far away, it looked like they were a well-oiled machine, never losing steam every chance they opened their stupid mouths. Shit. Why did you care? He’s your brother’s best friend. He probably would want someone who could talk back anyway. 

You had always found it hard to date, which was why you never did. You believed no one could ever be understanding enough to learn ASL for you or be patient when you’d type out a response. The only person who would do that is. You thought Dean would be a refreshing change of heart, but he seemed to prefer the company of those girls anyway. As long as they were around, you were invisible, just like the other day after class.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” Allie perked behind you. You swiveled in your bar stool to face her. You tipped your head towards the crowd.

“Ah, the puck bunnies? They’re a bunch of girls who are obsessed with hockey and hockey players. Don’t worry about Garrett though, he’s very loyal to Hannah.”

If only that’s what you were worried about. Whatever, at least Dean won’t be bothering you tonight. You sipped on your water as you sketched out the interior of Malone’s. A few minutes later, you felt a small tap on your shoulder. You anticipated Dean, but were surprised to see Logan. 

“Hey, how are you holding up? G sent me over to check on you.”

You gave him a thumbs up. 

“You want something? I promise I won’t tell G.”

“No thank you.” You quickly replied before focusing on your drawing. 

“That looks sick, G always mentioned you were a talented artist. I’ll see you around.”

Allie served Logan a beer before nodding to you and heading back to the crowd. You then watched Logan report to Garrett as he smiled and texted you. 

Garrett: If you ever want to leave, just text me, and we’ll go.

You gave him a smile before focusing back on your sketch, starting to outline it in pen.

·༻𐫱༺·

You then heard a larger crowd enter. You assumed there were more students before you heard whispers and rustling. It was a group of guys who looked similar in build to the hockey team. You figured they were on the football or lacrosse team. You felt their presence come up behind you. 

“Who’s this pretty girl?” A guy started.

Another yanked your sketchbook out of your hands and dangled it in the air. “Look, she’s a little Picasso with all these drawings. Why don’t you focus on me instead?”

You were completely flustered. You weren’t sure whether you should punch one of them or scream loud enough to break their eardrums. 

“Hey, you’re Garrett Graham’s sister, right? The one who can’t talk? I’ve always wanted to date a girl who can’t talk back.” Another guy leaned, laughing very close to your face. You had had enough and threw your glass of water at his face.

“Asshole.” You slapped him in the face. 

The whole room then focused its attention on the scene you just caused.

“Why, you little bitch, I’ll teach you to shut up for good.” One started to charge at you before you felt a large set of arms pull you behind him. You, thinking it was Garrett, instinctively hugged the back of him, bracing for what would happen. 

“You bastards need to leave her alone. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Dean threatened. Wait a minute. Dean? Shit. You were holding onto Dean for dear life. Dean could sense your arms shaking. 

“She slapped me and threw the water at me first! We were just messing with her.”

“You think it’s funny to mess with someone who can’t easily speak up for herself? Imagine if someone was beating you down and you couldn’t scream for help, then what?” 

“C’mon Di Laurentis, she’s just a quiet, weird, art nerd, is she really worth your time?” That comment made your eyes burn. Sure, you were more of the artsy type, but the dumb lacrosse meathead was right. Why is Dean wasting his time on you?

“She is. She is a million times kinder, gentler, and better yet, quieter than your annoying loud mouth.” You peeled yourself off Dean before tugging on his shirt to have him look down at you. He flashed you a bright smile before turning back to the other loudmouth. 

“So either get the fuck out of Malone’s or I’ll make you.” Dean got closer to the guy’s face. He huffed and gestured for the rest of the team to leave, cursing Dean as he went. Dean turned back to you and crouched down to your level. 

“Are you ok? Did he touch you or anything?”

“No.” 

“Good.” Dean brought you in for a brief hug. 

A girl floated by to gush over Dean. She put a hand on his shoulder and brushed his bicep and explained how manly and sexy it was to see him go to bat to defend someone. You meekly turned your head away, jumping back to reality. Dean probably only sees you as your brother’s sister. Swooping in to protect you because he promised Garrett he would. Not because he had any feelings for you. Why in the world would Dean Di Laurentiis even go out with someone like you? You’re complete opposites. 

·༻𐫱༺·

Garrett quickly got up to check on you. You assured him you were okay, and he insisted on taking you home. Hannah insisted she’d just get a ride from Logan or Dean, so you and Garrett left to drop her off at her dorm. Shortly after you got back, you decompressed what just happened. Slightly overwhelmed, you began to cry, upset at yourself for putting yourself in that dangerous situation. You were also angry at Dean for coming in to help you when you wished it were Garrett. It would help your head stop spiraling as you replay what Dean said about you. You heard a knock on your door. It was probably the RA coming to do room checks, but you opened the door to see Dean. 

“Hey, you left your sketchbook at Malone’s, I thought you’d want it back.”

“Thanks, Duh-ean”

“Duh-ean, I like it,” Dean laughed to himself. 

You wanted to slap yourself for saying that in front of him. 

“It’s ok, don’t be so hard on yourself about it.” Dean noticed your puffy eyes and red nose. 

“Have you been crying?” Dean asked. 

You were quiet. 

“Do you mind if I come in? You could use a friend if you want to talk about it.” You debated the idea before looking up at his eyes. They had genuine concern. Not wanting him to report back to Garrett and have Garrett pester you all night, you let him in. 

You both sat on your floor against the wall next to your shoe rack. 

“So, what’s going on?”

I’m overwhelmed

“I know.” Dean put his arm around you and pulled you into his chest.

“I’m sorry I jumped in like that, I know you can handle yourself. Nice move with the water though.”

“Thanks.” You giggled.

“I was worried about you. Trust me they won’t be bothering you anymore.”

You smiled.

“I went through your sketches. You really are talented.” Dean turned to a page, and it was a sketch of a purple orchid.

"This one is my favorite." Dean noted.

“Mom.”

“Mom? Is this your mother’s favorite flower?”

“Yeah. Orchids.”

“It’s beautiful.” 

You both had a moment looking at it. Dean could notice every small stroke you made and the little details in each petal. After seeing your sketch, Dean was at a loss for words for the first time. You hadn’t seen this sketch in a while. It was one of the things you drew when you missed your mom. A tear lightly rolled down your cheek. Dean noticed, cupped your cheek, and wiped it away with his thumb. You looked beautiful, your skin glowing from the galaxy projector you turned on at night. Dean lightly pulled away and apologized. 

“Sorry, I know you’ve had a rough night. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Dean removed his arm from you. You two just sat in silence. Dean wanted to say something so badly to break the silence, but held back, not trying to ruin the moment. You were so different than the girls Dean would usually go for. They'd always want to talk or gush about him, it was refreshing to just sit in silence and enjoy each other's presence. You slowly reached out to hold Dean’s hand. 

“Thanks, Dean.” You spoke.

Dean turned to you. “Hey, you got it right this time, good job, Y/N.” Dean reached to pat your head. “And don’t mention it. You Graham’s can easily hold your own.” Dean continued to stroke your hair.

A few minutes had passed, and Dean was about to say something before he heard light snoring against his shoulder. You had passed out from dozing off at your projector, with Dean's warmth next to you. Dean smiled as he gently lifted you off of him and carried you bridal style towards your bed. You were half asleep as he placed you down. He brushed hair out of your face before Dean tucked you in. He had turned to leave when you grabbed his arm. You gestured to him to come closer to you. He bent down to meet you at eye level. You kissed him on the forehead. 

“Sweet. Dean. Thank you.” 

You couldn’t see it, but Dean felt a light blush rush to his ears. If he had a tail, it would be wagging, patting against the floor. 

Dean smiled, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

Dean left quietly, closing the door behind you, this was the first time Dean didn’t want to leave a girl’s room. But you’re Garrett’s sister. What’s he thinking?

Dean got back to the house to find Garrett waiting for him, anticipating his sister. 

“How is she? Is she alright?”

“She’s fine Gar, she’s strong-willed, just like her big brother.” Dean patted his side as they both went up to their rooms.

Dean didn’t even notice his phone had blown up from a bunch of puck bunnies, the team, and the roommates texting him. When he was with you, he was in another world, ignoring all the noise from the outside. Dean ignored the text from Puck Bunnies and was torn about whether to admit he had feelings for you. For one, Garrett would murder him, and for two, he didn’t want to hurt you. He hated seeing you sad. The night you met, he felt it. He didn’t know that one simple look could give his heart a small poke. Seeing you with those puffy eyes made him only want to beat up the entire lacrosse team. As Dean lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, he pondered what in the world he should do. 

·༻𐫱༺·

By the end of the week, it was finally the day of the hockey game. It was a weekend, so you got to sleep in a bit for once. Your mind kept drifting to that night with Dean. Even so, your dreams were flooded with him, always ending with you kissing him, causing you to wake up as if it were a nightmare. But it wasn’t. You were more worried about the idea of Garrett finding out. Fuck, you like Dean Di Laurentis. The game went just as planned. Briar nearly won, 3-2 in overtime. Garrett and Logan scored goals, and you saw Dean body nearly half of Harvard’s bench. As you were walking towards the locker room to congratulate them, right outside the door, you heard some familiar voices.

“Well, aren’t we lucky boys? It's the little water tossing bitch from Malone’s”

“Stop.” You warned.

“Or what? You’re going to throw water at me again? Oh wait, I don't see any.” The cocky lacrosse player laughed.

You backed up towards the wall until you felt a large cup of ice-cold water fall on your head. You screeched out at how cold it was, and now you were drenched in water.

“Wow, for a girl who’s mute, you surely can scream.” 

Garrett immediately recognized your scream and ran out, fresh out of a shower. He almost broke the door off with how hard he slammed it open. Naturally, his teammates, including Dean, ran out to see you, crying and drenched in water. 

“You motherfuckers.” Garrett noted before punching one of the guys on the lacrosse team. All the other teammates jumped in to punch some other guys before the staff and coaches broke them up. Garrett and Dean got pretty beaten up. Hannah pulled Garrett off and walked him towards the medical area. You helped Dean up and noticed him wincing against his chest and arms. Dean thanked you as he looked up at you. 

“You’re wet, we should get you to the medical team, they can warm you up.”

“Dean.” 

“What?”

“Chest. Arm. Pain?”

“I’m f-fine, I promise.” 

“Liar.”

“Fine, I’ll go if you go.”

You agreed, holding onto him as he hobbled towards one of the medical rooms they typically use for PT. They gave you a towel and blankets as they propped Dean up on the examiner’s table. The athletic trainer motioned for Dean to take off his shirt, and he obliged, catching you off guard as you looked away, lightly blushing. You could see the various black-and-blue bruises on Dean’s body out of the corner of your eye. You knew what he did was taxing on his body, but seeing it only made you feel pain. Dean hissed as the trainer stretched him out and asked if various places hurt. 

“Good work, Di Laurentis, you didn’t fracture anything. Just ice your face tonight. Your girlfriend can help you hold it up for you.” 

You waved your arms, trying to deny it.

Dean laughed and thanked him as the trainer left the two of you alone. Dean tried to get up and winced before you walked up to help him. You were still a little cold, so you clung to Dean’s warmth. 

“Warm.”

“Gee thanks, for a second there I thought you were trying to help me.”

You hit him on the arm, causing him to drop his ice pack. You picked it up and handed it back to him. A little hurt, he pouted. 

“Wow, my ‘girlfriend’ is already trying to kill me.”

You wanted to punch him again, but he’s lucky he’s beaten up and needs your help. Garrett and Hannah catch up with both of you walking in the hallway. Garrett runs up to you. 

“Y/N! My sweet baby sister, are you alright, they didn’t hit you did they?”

“No, only water.” 

Garrett gave out a relieved sigh, mentioning that he and Hannah are heading out soon. Dean offered to drive you home, and Garrett didn’t argue. He trusted Dean. Plus, it looked like he needed someone to help him to his car. You helped Dean into the locker room, helping him pack his hockey bag as he lugged it over his shoulder. You were still on his other side, helping him walk. Even though he was limping, he reached to open the passenger side door for you. He slowly but surely got into the driver’s side, still wincing at his pain. 

Are you sure you’re ok to drive?

“Yes, I don’t want my ‘girlfriend’ to worry.” You were shocked at how much ASL Dean could comprehend in a week. 

Why do you keep saying that?

“I like it because I think it suits you.” 

You went quiet, staring at him. 

“U-Unless you don’t like it, I’ll stop saying it. You know what? Just forget about that whole thing together. It was a really funny joke? Haha?”

You kept staring at the bumbling idiot. 

“You don’t like it. Or do you like it? Just give me a sign Y/N!” Dean put his face into the wheel, causing the car to let out a small beep. 

“I like you, Dean.” 

Dean pulled his head up and pulled you in for a hug. 

“Are you sure? Did I say it too soon? I wasn’t sure how you felt.” Dean held the sides of your shoulders. You leaned into him for a gentle kiss. 

“I don’t hate you.”

“But…you like me right?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“What about Garrett?”

How about we just keep this our secret, for now? You winked. 

“Now we need our own secret language to flirt around Garrett, is there a Pig Latin version of ASL?”

You laughed as you both drove off to the house, then arrived and helped Dean up the stairs. You gave him one more kiss before going inside. 

“Boyfriend.” You spoke.

“Girlfriend.” Dean replied, smiling brighter than he had ever before. He’d been waiting for you to say those words and can’t wait to hear them again. 

A/N: This fic was so fun to write! I hope you guys enjoyed! Sorry that this one took a little longer, I just kept adding and adding more to it! Next fic will also be about Dean so stay tuned!

Garrett is shoved backward as a swarm of people in scrubs and high-visibility jackets descends on the back of the ambulance. He trips over his own heavy boots, his shoulder colliding hard with the metal frame of the door, but he barely feels the impact.

He is completely numb.

He watches, trapped in a terrifying, out-of-body disassociation, as they pull the stretcher out into the freezing night.

You are entirely swallowed by the chaos. The yellow backboard, the rigid plastic brace locked around your neck, the tangle of IV lines and monitor wires — it all looks so incredibly wrong. You are small. You are fragile. You are supposed to be safe in his kitchen, laughing at Dean and stealing Logan’s hoodies.

You are not supposed to be bleeding out on a gurney.

“Sir, step back!” A voice yells, but it sounds like it’s underwater.

Garrett stumbles out of the ambulance, his boots hitting the pavement of the ambulance bay. He blindly follows the chaotic rush of medical personnel pushing your stretcher through the automatic sliding glass doors.

The emergency room is a madhouse. Phones are ringing, people are shouting, monitors are beeping in a discordant, terrifying symphony.

“Trauma Bay One is prepped!” A male nurse shouts, jogging backward as he helps guide your stretcher down the wide linoleum hallway. “What’s her status?”

“She’s tachycardic, GCS is a seven and dropping,” the paramedic barks, practically running to keep up with the rolling bed. “She briefly regained consciousness on the scene but she’s been unresponsive for the last eight minutes.”

They wheel you past the triage desk. They wheel you past the crowded waiting room.

And then, it happens.

A young nurse, wearing the same standard-issue hospital blue scrubs you usually hate, is walking out of a supply closet with a stack of clean towels. She glances casually at the incoming trauma rushing past her.

Her eyes lock onto the stretcher.

The stack of towels slips from her hands, hitting the floor with a soft, muffled thud.

“Oh my god,” the young nurse gasps, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. Her eyes go completely wide, pure, unadulterated horror stripping the color from her face. “Is that … is that Y/N?”

The question cuts through the noise of the ER like a knife.

The male nurse pushing the foot of your stretcher looks down. He really looks. The heavy blood, the swelling, the terrifying distortion of your features makes it hard, but underneath the violence, the recognition clicks into place.

“Fuck,” the male nurse curses loudly, his voice cracking with panic. “It’s Y/N! Hey! It’s one of ours! It’s Y/N!”

The shift in the room is instantaneous and absolute.

A hospital emergency room is trained to handle trauma. They deal with tragedy objectively, separating their emotions from the physical mechanics of saving a life.

But not this time.

The objective professionalism shatters into a million pieces. The name echoes down the hallway, passed from nurse to doctor to orderly like a devastating electric shock.

It’s Y/N. The pediatric nurse. The girl with the patterned scrubs who stays late to hold the preemie babies.

“Get Dr. Gardner down here right fucking now!” A voice screams from down the hall.

“Page trauma surgery! Page neuro!”

Garrett trails behind the stretcher like a ghost. People are running past him, sprinting toward Trauma Bay One. The urgency has multiplied tenfold. This isn’t just a patient anymore. This is their family.

They push the stretcher into the large, glass-walled room of Trauma Bay One. The doors slide shut, but the chaos inside only amplifies.

Garrett hits the glass.

He slaps both of his hands flat against the cold pane, his face pressing close, his dark eyes wide and terrified as he watches them transfer you from the stretcher to the hospital bed.

There are at least ten people crowded around you.

“On my count!” Dr. Gardner, the same doctor who stitched Garrett’s forehead a month ago, yells over the din. He looks completely frantic, his usual calm demeanor entirely gone. “One, two, three!”

They lift the backboard and slide you over. Your arm flops limply off the side of the bed. A nurse immediately catches it, her own hands shaking as she secures the IV line.

“Someone get me the portable ultrasound!” Dr. Gardner barks, grabbing a pair of trauma shears from the counter. “We need to check for internal bleeding. Her abdomen is rigid. I need two units of O-negative blood, stat!”

Garrett presses his forehead against the glass. He is trapped on the outside, a helpless, useless spectator to the most terrifying moment of his entire life.

He feels a heavy hand land firmly on his shoulder.

Garrett flinches violently, spinning around with his fists instantly raised, ready to fight, ready to destroy whoever is touching him.

But it’s not a threat.

Standing in front of him is a short, stocky older woman in dark blue scrubs. Her silver hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and her name tag reads Helen - Charge Nurse. Her face is lined with years of exhaustion and ER stress, but right now, her eyes are blazing with a fierce, terrifying intensity.

“Lower your hands, son,” Helen says. Her voice is calm, gravelly, and brooks absolute zero argument.

Garrett slowly lowers his fists, his chest heaving as he fights for air that doesn’t seem to exist. “I-I have to …”

“You have to stay out of their way,” Helen says firmly, stepping directly into his line of sight, forcing him to look at her instead of the bloody scene behind the glass. “They are doing everything they can. You being in there will only distract them, and she needs every single ounce of their focus right now.”

Garrett’s jaw trembles. He looks down at his hands.

They are coated in your blood. It has dried into the creases of his knuckles, stained the cuffs of his black Henley, and smeared across his palms. The sight of it sends a fresh, violent wave of nausea rolling through his stomach.

“Come here,” Helen murmurs, her tone softening marginally.

She grabs him by the bicep. For a woman half his size, she has a grip like a vise. She pulls him a few feet away from the glass window, steering him toward a small alcove near the nurses’ station that offers a sliver of privacy.

She pushes him down into a plastic chair.

“Sit,” she orders.

Garrett collapses into the chair, his elbows coming to rest on his knees. He buries his face in his bloodstained hands, a ragged, broken sob tearing its way up his throat. He can’t hold it back anymore. The adrenaline is crashing, leaving behind nothing but the agonizing, crushing reality of what just happened.

Helen doesn’t offer him empty platitudes. She doesn’t pat his back or tell him everything is going to be okay. She’s an ER nurse; she knows better than to make promises she can’t keep.

Instead, she turns to a nearby sink, wets a thick stack of brown paper towels with warm water, and walks back over to him.

“Give me your hands,” Helen says.

Garrett slowly lifts his head. He drops his hands to his lap.

Helen kneels in front of him, entirely uncaring about the linoleum floor. She takes his massive, shaking hands in her own and begins to methodically wipe the drying blood from his skin.

“You were in here a month ago,” Helen says quietly, her eyes focused entirely on the task of cleaning his knuckles. “I remember you. The hockey player with the concussion.”

“Yeah,” Garrett rasps, his throat burning.

“She was terrified that night,” Helen continues, scrubbing a stubborn patch of crimson from his palm. “I’ve been a nurse for forty years. I know what a victim of domestic abuse looks like. I knew what she was going home to. I tried to get her to talk to me, but she wouldn’t. She protected him.”

Garrett closes his eyes, the memory of that night in the exam room flashing vividly behind his eyelids.

“She left with you,” Helen says, tossing the bloody paper towels into a nearby biohazard bin and grabbing a fresh, wet stack. “I watched her walk out of those sliding doors with you, and for the first time since she started working here, she looked like she had a sliver of hope.”

“I told her I’d protect her,” Garrett chokes out, the guilt a physical, crushing weight on his chest. “I promised her she was safe. I moved her into my house. We were careful. We were so fucking careful.”

“Careful doesn’t matter when you’re dealing with a monster,” Helen says bluntly.

She finishes wiping his hands, tossing the last of the towels away. She doesn’t stand up. She stays kneeling in front of him, forcing him to meet her steely, hardened gaze.

“What’s the story?” Helen asks, her voice dropping to a dangerous, deadly whisper. “And don’t you dare lie to me. Who did this to my girl?”

Garrett looks at her. He sees the absolute, uncompromising love this woman has for you. He sees the fury vibrating in her jaw.

“My father,” Garrett says, the words tasting like poison on his tongue. “Phil Graham.”

Helen’s eyebrows twitch, a brief flash of recognition crossing her face, but she doesn’t seem to care that the man is a famous athlete. She only cares that he is a monster.

“He tracked her down,” Garrett continues, the words pouring out of him in a disjointed, frantic rush. “She went to the grocery store after her shift. He must have been waiting. He must have followed her. We found her in the alley out back. He beat her, Helen. He beat her until she couldn’t stand, and then he just left her there to die.”

Helen’s expression hardens into something akin to carved stone. She slowly stands up, smoothing down the front of her scrubs.

“The police are already on their way,” Helen says, her voice cold and absolute. “Protocol for assault victims. They’ll be here any minute to take a statement.”

She steps closer to him, leaning down slightly so her face is inches from his.

“You tell them everything,” Helen orders, pointing a stern finger at his chest. “You tell them about tonight. You tell them about the bruises you saw a month ago. You give them his name, his address, and the make of his car if you know it.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Garrett whispers, the terrifying, homicidal calm returning to his blood. It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.

“No, you are not,” Helen snaps, her voice cracking like a whip. “You are not going to throw your life away for a piece of garbage like that. You are going to let the police arrest him, and you are going to make damn sure that whoever did this to sweet Y/N never sees the light of day again. You bury him with the law. You don’t let him ruin your life too.”

Garrett stares at her, his jaw locked tight. He doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue.

“I need to get back to my floor,” Helen says, stepping back. Her eyes flick toward the glass window of Trauma Bay One, a flash of profound sadness breaking through her tough exterior. “You sit right here. You don’t move until the doctors come out to speak with you.”

“Is she …” Garrett swallows hard, terrified to even ask the question. “Is she going to make it?”

Helen looks at him, her eyes softening with a deep, tragic sympathy. “She’s young. She’s strong. And she has the best trauma team in the state working on her right now. But Garrett … it’s bad. Prepare yourself.”

Helen turns and walks away, disappearing back into the chaotic flow of the emergency room.

Garrett is left alone in the plastic chair.

He turns his head, his eyes immediately locking back onto the glass wall of the trauma bay.

It looks like a warzone inside.

Dr. Gardner is standing on one side of the bed, his white coat stained with your blood, shouting orders. Two nurses are frantically hanging bags of blood and clear fluids, the plastic lines tangling together in their rush.

Someone is cutting away your dark jeans, exposing the pale skin of your legs.

“We have fluid in the abdomen!” Dr. Gardner yells, staring at the screen of a portable ultrasound machine. “She’s bleeding internally. We need an OR prepped right now! Call the surgical team, tell them we’re coming up!”

Garrett stands up, drawn magnetically toward the glass.

He watches as a respiratory therapist pushes through the crowd, holding a terrifying array of plastic tubes and a metal laryngoscope.

“Her airway is swelling!” The therapist shouts. “She’s not getting enough oxygen. I need to intubate!”

“Do it!” Dr. Gardner barks. “Push the propofol and rocuronium. Get her under.”

Garrett presses his hands against the glass again. He watches in pure, unadulterated agony as they tilt your head back. He watches them slip the metal blade into your mouth, forcing your jaw open, slipping a plastic tube down your throat to breathe for you because your broken body can no longer do it on its own.

It is the most violated, terrifying thing he has ever witnessed.

He feels like his heart is being slowly, methodically crushed in a vise. Every time the monitor beeps — a frantic, irregular sound — he flinches. Every time a new drop of blood hits the white hospital floor, a piece of his soul breaks off.

This is his fault.

The thought is a toxic, pervasive cancer in his mind. He brought you into his world. He challenged a man he knew was a volatile, violent psychopath, and he arrogant enough to believe he could just walk away. He thought a locked door and three college hockey players were enough to stop a monster with decades of experience in terrorizing people.

He underestimated Phil. And you are paying the ultimate, agonizing price for his mistake.

“Garrett!”

The frantic shout cuts through the noise of the ER.

Garrett turns his head.

Bursting through the main sliding glass doors are Logan, Dean, and Tucker. They look entirely unhinged. Dean’s face is stained with tears, Logan’s eyes are wild and frantic, and Tucker is deathly pale, his jaw locked tight.

They spot him standing by the glass and immediately sprint across the waiting room, completely ignoring the protests of the security guard at the desk.

“Where is she?” Logan demands, grabbing Garrett’s shoulder. “Is she okay? What are they saying?”

Garrett doesn’t answer. He just turns his head back toward the glass window.

The boys follow his gaze.

They freeze. All three of them, these massive, imposing athletes who fear absolutely nothing on the ice, stop dead in their tracks.

Dean lets out a broken, horrifying sob, covering his mouth with his hand. He turns away instantly, unable to look at you with the tube down your throat, your face a swollen, bloody mess. He leans against the wall, his shoulders shaking violently.

Tucker closes his eyes, a tear escaping to run down his cheek. He reaches out and grips Garrett’s shoulder, a silent, desperate attempt at grounding them both in a reality that feels completely surreal.

Logan doesn’t look away. He stares through the glass, his eyes tracking the frantic movements of the doctors, the blood on the floor, the terrifying array of machines keeping you alive.

“He’s dead,” Logan whispers. The words are utterly devoid of emotion. They are a statement of fact. “Phil Graham is a dead man.”

“Get in line,” Garrett rasps, his voice hollow.

Suddenly, the doors to Trauma Bay One slide violently open.

“Move! We’re moving!” Dr. Gardner yells, running alongside the bed as two orderlies push the stretcher out into the hallway. “Clear a path to the elevators! OR 4 is waiting!”

Garrett steps forward automatically, trying to get to you, trying to grab your hand one more time.

“Stay back!” Dr. Gardner shouts, not unkindly, but with absolute urgency. “She’s bleeding internally. Her spleen is ruptured and we suspect a severe traumatic brain injury. We are taking her to surgery right now.”

“Can I …” Garrett chokes on the words. “Can I come up?”

“You wait in the surgical waiting room on the third floor,” Dr. Gardner says, the stretcher already moving rapidly down the hall. “We will find you when we know more. Just pray, boys. Just pray.”

And then, they are gone.

The stretcher rounds the corner toward the surgical elevators, disappearing from sight, leaving behind nothing but a smeared trail of blood on the linoleum floor and a terrifying, ringing silence in Garrett’s ears.

Garrett stands in the middle of the hallway, staring at the empty space where you just were. He feels completely hollowed out. There is nothing left inside him but a cold, desolate wasteland of terror and guilt.

“Garrett Graham?”

A deep, authoritative voice echoes from behind them.

Garrett turns slowly.

Standing a few feet away are two uniformed police officers. They look grim, their hands resting on their utility belts, their eyes scanning the four massive hockey players standing in the middle of the trauma wing.

“I’m Garrett,” he says, his voice flat.

The older of the two officers, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a heavy mustache, steps forward and pulls a small notebook from his breast pocket.

“I’m Officer Miller, this is Officer Davis,” he says, his tone strictly professional but carrying a weight of understanding. “We were called in regarding the assault victim that just came through here. Y/N. The charge nurse said you were the one who found her.”

“I found her,” Garrett confirms.

“We need to ask you some questions, son,” Officer Miller says gently. “Can you tell us exactly what happened tonight? And do you have any idea who might have done this to her?”

Garrett looks at the officer. He thinks about Helen’s words. You bury him with the law. You make damn sure he never sees the light of day again.

He thinks about the way you looked in that alleyway, curled into a ball, apologizing to him while your face bled onto the asphalt. He thinks about the violent, terrifying reality of his father.

Logan steps up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Garrett, a silent, imposing wall of support. Tucker moves to his other side. Dean wipes his face and steps up right behind them.

They are a united front. They are your family.

“I don’t just have an idea,” Garrett says, his voice ringing with a terrifying, absolute clarity that echoes in the quiet emergency room. He locks eyes with the police officer. “I know exactly who did it.”

Officer Miller clicks his pen. “Who?”

“Phil Graham,” Garrett says, the name echoing like a death sentence. “He’s my father. And I want him put in a cage for the rest of his miserable life.”

***

“I want to make sure I have this entirely straight, son,” Officer Miller says, his pen hovering over the small spiral notebook. The harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room hallway cast deep, exhausted shadows under the cop’s eyes. “You are accusing your father, Philip Graham, former professional hockey player, of this assault.”

“I’m not just accusing him,” Garrett says. His voice is dangerously calm. He sits rigidly in the plastic waiting room chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “I’m telling you it was him.”

Officer Davis, the younger cop, shifts his weight. “And you said you witnessed him abuse her previously?”

“Thanksgiving,” Garrett answers without missing a beat. “I went to his house in Connecticut for dinner. It was the first time I met her. She reached across the table, and her sleeve slid up. She had finger-shaped bruises all over her bicep. The exact same size and shape as the bruises I just saw on her arm in the ambulance.”

Officer Miller frowns, jotting down the notes rapidly. “Did you report the abuse then?”

“No,” Garrett grits out, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “She begged me not to. She was terrified. She told me it was her fault for dropping a glass. I got in my face with him, told her to run, and I left. But three weeks later, she ended up in this ER as my nurse. He had beaten her again because my exit embarrassed him. So I took her home with me.”

“She’s been living with us for almost a month,” Tucker interjects. He is standing right behind Garrett’s chair, a solid, immovable presence. “In our off-campus house. We’ve been keeping the doors locked. She bought a burner phone so he couldn’t track her GPS. She was terrified he would find her.”

“But he did,” Logan adds, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his blue eyes hard as ice. “She texted us at 6:05 PM that she was clocking out and going to the Market Basket down the street. When she wasn’t home by 7:15, Garrett tried to call. It went to voicemail. So we tracked her Life360 location to the parking lot.”

Officer Davis looks up from his own notepad. “You found the car first?”

“Row G,” Dean says. His voice is shaky, completely lacking its usual arrogant bravado. He looks sick to his stomach. “Driver’s side door was wide open. Groceries all over the ground. Her phone was smashed on the pavement. Garrett told us to split up.”

“I took the back alley,” Garrett takes over, staring blankly at the far wall. “Behind the hardware store and the loading docks. That’s where I found her.”

“Did you see anyone else in the alley?” Miller asks. “A vehicle leaving the scene? Anyone fleeing on foot?”

“No,” Garrett says. “It was empty. He was already gone. But I’m telling you, it was him. Check the security cameras at the grocery store. Check the traffic cams at the intersection. You’ll see his car. He drives a black BMW.”

Officer Miller closes his notebook with a definitive snap. “We have units at the Market Basket securing the scene right now. They’re pulling the surveillance footage as we speak. We’re also dispatching state troopers to Phil Graham’s residence to bring him in for questioning.”

“Questioning isn’t going to be enough,” Garrett says, finally looking up to meet the officer’s eyes. The dark, lethal promise in Garrett’s gaze makes the older cop pause. “He nearly beat her to death. He left her in an alley to die. If you don’t lock him up, I will handle him myself.”

“Garrett,” Tucker warns quietly, his hand squeezing Garrett’s shoulder.

Officer Miller exhales a long, heavy breath. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, son. Let us do our jobs. If what you’re saying lines up with the evidence at the scene, Philip Graham won’t be seeing the outside of a jail cell for a very, very long time. Attempted murder is a heavy charge.”

The words ring in the air, echoing violently in Garrett’s skull.

“We’ll be in touch,” Officer Davis says gently. “Don’t leave the hospital without letting the front desk know. We might need a formal written statement later tonight.”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Logan says flatly.

The two officers turn and walk away, their heavy boots squeaking against the polished linoleum.

As soon as they are out of earshot, the last of Garrett’s adrenaline completely evaporates. It leaves behind a crushing, suffocating exhaustion that makes his bones ache. He leans forward, burying his face in his hands, his fingers tangling roughly in his dark hair.

“This is my fault,” Dean whispers from a few feet away.

Garrett lifts his head. Dean is pacing a tight circle near the vending machines, his hands tugging at the roots of his blonde hair.

“Dean, stop,” Logan says tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

“No, think about it,” Dean insists, his voice cracking. He looks at the three of them, completely devastated. “She asked if we needed anything. I asked for the damn Bagel Bites. If I had just kept my mouth shut, she would have driven straight home. She wouldn’t have stopped. He wouldn’t have caught her.”

“Don’t do that,” Tucker says firmly, stepping away from Garrett’s chair to intercept Dean. He grabs Dean by the shoulders, forcing the pacing to stop. “Listen to me. Do not do that. Phil Graham is a predator. If he found her at the grocery store, it means he was already watching her. He probably followed her from the hospital. If she hadn’t stopped at the store, he might have tried to pull her out of her car at a stoplight, or ambushed her in our driveway.”

“Tuck’s right,” Logan agrees, stepping up beside them. “This isn’t on you, Dean. It’s on Phil. And we are going to make sure he pays for it.”

Garrett listens to his friends, but the words just wash over him. Dean can blame himself for the grocery list all he wants, but Garrett knows the real truth.

It’s his fault.

He is the one who dragged you into this mess. He is the one who provoked Phil. He is the one who arrogantly assumed he could play the hero and save you from the dragon, without realizing the dragon would simply burn the whole castle down in retaliation.

The waiting room clock ticks loudly on the wall.

It’s 11:42 PM.

You have been in surgery for over three hours.

The surgical waiting room on the third floor is suffocatingly quiet. The ER was loud, chaotic, and terrifying. But this room is worse. It’s just beige walls, uncomfortable chairs, old magazines, and the agonizing, stretching silence of not knowing.

“I’m getting coffee,” Logan announces, pushing himself up from the stiff couch. “Garrett? You want anything?”

Garrett shakes his head silently. He hasn’t moved from his chair in hours. He hasn’t washed his hands again. There is still a faint smear of your blood on his left cuff. He can’t bring himself to scrub it out. It feels like throwing away a piece of you.

“Get him a black coffee,” Tucker tells Logan. “And get Dean some water.”

Logan nods and slips out the door.

Dean drops onto the couch across from Garrett, staring blankly at his phone screen. “How long does a surgery take? It’s been hours.”

“As long as she needs,” Tucker says softly, taking the seat next to Garrett.

Silence falls over the room again.

Garrett closes his eyes. Every time he does, he is trapped in a horrific highlight reel.

He sees your open car door. He sees the shattered marinara sauce. He sees you lying in the dirt, curled into a ball, your face beaten beyond recognition.

He said you couldn’t keep me. He said I belonged to him.

Your weak, agonizing whisper tears through his mind, shredding his sanity.

Garrett leans his head back against the wall, his jaw clenching so tight his teeth ache. He doesn’t just want you to survive. He needs you to survive. He needs you to wake up so he can look you in the eyes and tell you everything he’s been too cowardly to say for the last month.

He wants to tell you that the house feels empty when you aren’t in it. That he purposefully sits on the edge of the couch just so his leg can brush against yours. That the sound of your laugh when Dean makes a stupid joke is the only thing that actually settles the dark, anxious noise in his brain.

He is falling in love with you.

He knows it with a terrifying, absolute certainty. He has been falling since the night you walked into his exam room in those ridiculous pink scrubs and touched his face with hands so gentle they made him want to cry.

“Garrett Graham?”

Garrett’s eyes snap open.

Standing in the doorway of the waiting room is Dr. Gardner.

The surgeon looks entirely exhausted. He has changed out of his blood-stained white coat and is wearing fresh green surgical scrubs. A blue surgical cap is still tied around his head, and his face is deeply lined with fatigue.

Garrett shoots up from his chair so fast it tips backward, crashing loudly against the floor.

Tucker and Dean are on their feet a split second later. Logan jogs back into the room, holding a cardboard tray of coffees, freezing in his tracks at the sight of the doctor.

None of them speak. The air is completely sucked out of the room. Garrett feels his heart climb directly into his throat, beating a frantic, terrifying rhythm.

Dr. Gardner looks at the four massive hockey players. He lets out a slow, measured breath.

“Before I say anything,” Dr. Gardner starts, his voice low and serious, “I need you to understand that legally, I am not supposed to give you this information. You aren’t family. You aren’t her emergency contacts.”

Garrett’s chest caves in. “Please.”

It’s the only word he can manage. It’s a broken, desperate plea.

Dr. Gardner holds up a hand, his expression softening into profound empathy. “However. I have worked with her for over a year. And for the last three and a half weeks, she has not shut up about the four hockey players she lives with. She talks about how Tucker cooks better than a five-star chef. How Dean is a menace but means well. How Logan is secretly a giant softie.”

The doctor turns his gaze directly to Garrett.

“And she talks about you,” Dr. Gardner says softly. “She talks about how you saved her life. So, as far as I’m concerned, you boys are her family. And you deserve to know what’s going on.”

“Is she alive?” Garrett asks, his voice trembling so violently he barely recognizes it.

“She is alive,” Dr. Gardner confirms immediately.

The collective exhale in the room is staggering. Dean literally sags against the wall, burying his face in his hands. Tucker grips the back of a chair, his eyes dropping to the ceiling in silent prayer. Logan sets the tray of coffees down on a side table with shaking hands.

Garrett feels his knees threaten to buckle, but he forces himself to stay standing. “What happened? How bad is it?”

Dr. Gardner rubs the back of his neck, shifting into his clinical, professional mode. “It’s bad, Garrett. I won’t sugarcoat it. The blunt force trauma she sustained was severe.”

Garrett braces himself. “Tell me.”

“When she arrived, her blood pressure was plummeting due to internal bleeding,” Dr. Gardner explains, keeping his voice steady. “We rushed her into surgery and discovered a Grade 4 laceration to her spleen. It was ruptured beyond repair. We had to perform a full splenectomy to stop the bleeding. She’ll have a compromised immune system moving forward, but she can live a full life without it.”

“Okay,” Garrett nods rapidly, processing the information. “Okay, what else?”

“She has three broken ribs on her left side, and two cracked on the right,” the surgeon continues. “The defensive bruising on her forearms is extensive, but luckily, there are no fractures in her arms or wrists.”

“And her face?” Logan asks, his voice thick with anger. “She was completely unrecognizable.”

Dr. Gardner’s jaw tightens. “The facial trauma was significant. She has a severe orbital blowout fracture on her left side — the bone underneath the eye socket was crushed. We had an oral and maxillofacial surgeon come in to set a titanium plate to rebuild the floor of the socket and save her vision. Her nose is broken in two places, we reset it in the OR.”

Garrett feels a fresh wave of violent nausea wash over him. The visual of his father taking his massive, heavy fists and crushing the delicate bones of your face is enough to make him want to put his fist through the waiting room drywall.

“What about her brain?” Tucker asks gently. “She was unconscious when the paramedics took her.”

“That is our primary concern right now,” Dr. Gardner says, his expression turning grave. “She suffered a severe concussion. We did a CT scan before taking her up to the OR. There is no active brain bleed, which is a massive relief, but there is significant swelling. A traumatic brain injury.”

“So what does that mean?” Garrett demands, stepping closer to the doctor. “When does she wake up?”

“Right now, she is heavily sedated and intubated in the ICU,” Dr. Gardner explains. “We are keeping her on a ventilator to protect her airway while the facial swelling goes down, and to keep her brain resting. We will slowly wean her off the paralytics and sedation over the next twenty-four hours to see how she responds.”

“But she’s stable?” Garrett pleads.

“She is in critical but stable condition,” Dr. Gardner corrects carefully. “She made it through the surgery. That was the hardest part. Now, we just have to wait for her body to heal.”

“Can I see her?” Garrett asks instantly. He doesn’t care about ICU rules or visiting hours. If Dr. Gardner tells him no, he will tear this hospital apart barehanded to find you.

Dr. Gardner looks at Garrett, taking in the bloodstained clothes, the wild, desperate exhaustion in his dark eyes.

“ICU protocol says immediate family only,” Dr. Gardner says quietly. He reaches into his scrub pocket and pulls out a visitor pass. “But like I said. As far as I’m concerned, you’re family. Just you, Garrett. The rest of the boys can come in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Garrett breathes, taking the pass. “Doc, I … thank you.”

“Room 219,” Dr. Gardner says. “She looks worse than she did down in the alley, Garrett. The swelling from the surgery is peaking. Brace yourself.”

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. He turns to the guys.

“Go home,” Garrett tells them. “Get some sleep. Bring some fresh clothes tomorrow.”

“We’re not leaving, G,” Logan says firmly, already walking over to the waiting room couch and throwing his jacket down like a blanket. “We’ll sleep right here.”

“I’m not leaving without seeing her,” Dean adds stubbornly, crossing his arms.

Garrett looks at his best friends. He doesn’t have the energy to argue, and honestly, knowing they are right outside the ICU doors brings him a strange sort of comfort.

“Okay,” Garrett whispers.

He turns and walks out of the waiting room.

The Intensive Care Unit is a completely different world from the emergency room. The lights are dimmed, casting a quiet, clinical hush over the wide hallways. There is no shouting, no running. Just the rhythmic, terrifyingly steady beeping of heart monitors and the mechanical whoosh of ventilators keeping people alive.

Garrett walks down the hall, his boots silent against the floor.

He stops outside Room 219.

The door is made of heavy glass. He can see right inside.

He puts his hand on the metal handle, but for a second, he can’t bring himself to push it down. Dr. Gardner warned him. But nothing could have prepared him for the reality of seeing you like this.

He pushes the door open and steps inside.

The room is freezing cold, designed to keep bacteria at bay. It smells like sharp antiseptic and iodine.

You are lying in the center of the room, completely surrounded by machines.

Garrett walks slowly to the side of your bed, his heart breaking into a million jagged pieces.

You look incredibly small. The heavy hospital blankets are pulled up to your chest, hiding the bandages from your surgery and the wrap around your broken ribs. But he can’t hide from your face.

Dr. Gardner was right. The swelling is horrific. Your entire face is bruised, puffed, and distorted. Your left eye is completely swollen shut, covered by a white sterile patch protecting the newly placed titanium plate. A heavy plastic brace encompasses your neck, keeping your spine perfectly still.

And sticking out of your mouth, taped securely to your cheek, is the thick, ribbed plastic tube of the ventilator.

The machine beside your bed hisses and clicks, forcing air into your lungs, making your chest rise and fall in a harsh, mechanical rhythm.

“Y/N,” Garrett whispers.

He reaches the side of the bed. He wants to touch your face, to stroke your hair, but he is terrified of hurting you. He is terrified of adding even a fraction of an ounce of pain to what you are already enduring.

He looks down at your right hand. It rests on top of the blue hospital blanket. There is an IV port taped to the back of your hand, wires running from your fingertips to the monitor above your head.

But your palm is open.

Garrett sinks into the hard plastic chair beside your bed. He slowly, carefully reaches out and slides his large, calloused hand under yours.

Your skin is cold. The contrast to the vibrant, warm girl who was teasing him about grocery shopping just six hours ago is devastating.

He gently wraps his fingers around yours, securing your small hand safely within his grip. He avoids the IV lines, mindful of the bruises painting your forearm.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and brings your knuckles to his lips.

He presses a long, agonizingly gentle kiss to your bruised skin.

He closes his eyes, letting the tears fall freely now. They slip down his cheeks and soak into the fabric of the hospital blanket.

“I’m so sorry,” Garrett cries softly, his voice breaking in the quiet room. “I should have gone with you. I should have made sure you were safe. I promised you he wouldn’t get near you again, and I broke my promise.”

The ventilator hisses. The heart monitor beeps. You don’t respond.

Garrett keeps your hand pressed tightly against his mouth. He breathes in the faint scent of the surgical soap they used to wash you, desperate to find even a trace of the vanilla shampoo he knows so well.

“But I’m making a new promise,” Garrett whispers into the quiet room. He lifts his head, his eyes locking onto your battered face.

The homicidal rage from the alleyway is still there, burning like a low, hot coal in his chest, but right now, it is entirely eclipsed by his love for you.

“I’m not leaving,” Garrett vows, his voice steadying, hardening with absolute resolve. “I am going to sit in this chair until you wake up. I don’t care if it takes a day, or a week, or a month. I’m right here.”

He gently runs his thumb over the unbruised patch of skin on the back of your hand.

“And when you wake up,” Garrett says, fresh tears filling his eyes, “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never look over your shoulder again. You hear me? You’re mine now. And nobody touches what’s mine.”

He leans forward again, pressing another soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Just come back to me,” he pleads. “Please, Y/N. Just come back.”

Garrett settles back into the uncomfortable plastic chair. He doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his thumb brushing back and forth over your skin, his eyes locked on the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Outside the glass doors, the hospital continues its chaotic rush. Outside the building, the police are hunting down the monster who did this.

But inside Room 219, there is only the quiet, desperate vigil of a boy who finally realizes what he has to lose, and the slow, mechanical breathing of the girl he intends to save.

***

Time in the Intensive Care Unit does not exist.

There is no day, no night. There is only the harsh, unnatural glow of fluorescent lights, the rhythmic, hissing plunge of the ventilator, and the agonizingly slow crawl of the digital clock on the wall.

It has been forty-eight hours since the paramedics wheeled you through the sliding glass doors of the emergency room.

Garrett has not left the hard plastic chair beside your bed.

He is a ghost of himself. The charismatic, untouchable captain of the Briar Hawks is gone, replaced by a terrified, hollowed-out boy. His dark hair is wild and greasy. A thick, dark layer of stubble covers his jaw. He is wearing the same black t-shirt and dark jeans, though Tucker managed to sneak a clean Briar Hockey hoodie over his shoulders at some point during the first night.

The boys have been a constant, rotating presence. Logan slept on the waiting room floor the first night. Dean spent yesterday pacing a groove into the linoleum hallway outside the ICU doors. Tucker has been acting as a ruthless gatekeeper, bringing Garrett black coffee and forcing him to eat half a stale hospital sandwich every twelve hours.

But none of them can reach him.

Garrett’s entire world has shrunk to the three feet of space between his chair and your bed. His eyes are perpetually locked on the steady, artificial rise and fall of your chest. His large hand remains wrapped tightly around your cold, limp fingers, a desperate physical tether keeping you grounded to the earth.

“Garrett.”

The soft voice comes from the doorway.

Garrett doesn’t turn his head. He just blinks, his red-rimmed eyes burning with exhaustion.

Dr. Gardner steps into the quiet room, holding a tablet. He looks slightly more rested than he did two nights ago, but his professional demeanor is still laced with deep concern.

“We need to talk about the sedation,” Dr. Gardner says quietly, moving to the foot of your bed.

Garrett finally looks up. His chest tightens. “Is something wrong? Did the swelling get worse?”

“No,” the doctor reassures him immediately. “Actually, the swelling in her brain has stabilized. Her intracranial pressure is holding at a safe level. Her vitals are strong. She’s fighting, Garrett.”

Garrett lets out a ragged, trembling exhale, closing his eyes for a split second. “Okay. That’s good. Right?”

“It’s very good,” Dr. Gardner nods. “Which means it’s time to take her off the paralytics and lower the propofol. We need to see if she can breathe on her own. We need to extubate her.”

Garrett grips your hand a fraction tighter. “Will it hurt?”

“Taking the tube out is uncomfortable,” the surgeon admits honestly. “Her throat is going to be incredibly raw, and waking up with a broken ribs and a shattered orbital floor is going to be a shock to her system. We have her on a heavy morphine drip for the pain, but the disorientation is going to be severe. She might panic.”

“I’ll keep her calm,” Garrett says instantly. His voice leaves absolutely zero room for doubt. “Just do whatever you have to do to get that thing out of her throat.”

“Alright,” Dr. Gardner says. He turns to the cluster of machines. “I’m going to dial back the drip. A respiratory therapist will be in shortly. Once the tube is out, it might still take a few hours for her to fully wake up. Be patient.”

The doctor adjusts the monitors, checks your chart one last time, and quietly leaves the room.

Garrett turns his attention entirely back to you.

The wait is excruciating. The respiratory therapist comes in, performs the awful, gag-inducing procedure of pulling the thick plastic tube from your airway, and replaces it with a simple oxygen cannula resting under your broken nose.

You cough weakly during the process, a terrible, wet sound that makes Garrett want to put his fist through the wall, but you don’t open your eyes. You just slip right back into a deep, drug-induced sleep.

So, Garrett waits.

Another three hours pass.

The silence in the room is different now. The mechanical hissing of the ventilator is gone, replaced by the soft, shallow sound of your own natural breathing.

Garrett leans forward, resting his forehead against the edge of your mattress. His thumb traces a slow, methodical circle over the back of your hand.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers into the quiet room, his voice cracking with raw desperation. “Please. Just open your eyes. I need you to open your eyes.”

And then, a miracle happens.

Your fingers twitch.

It’s a tiny movement, barely a flutter against his palm, but Garrett feels it like a lightning strike.

His head snaps up.

“Y/N?” He breathes, his heart launching into a frantic, violent rhythm against his ribs.

He stands up, hovering over the side of the bed.

You groan. It’s a low, raspy, agonizing sound that scrapes against the rawness of your throat. Your head shifts a fraction of an inch against the

pillow, immediately halted by the rigid plastic of the cervical collar locked around your neck.

“Don’t move,” Garrett says instantly, his free hand flying up to hover gently over your shoulder, terrified to actually touch you and cause you pain. “Don’t try to move. You’re in a neck brace. You’re safe.”

Your uninjured right eye flutters. The eyelashes tremble against your swollen cheek.

It takes an agonizingly long minute, but slowly, fighting against the heavy weight of the sedatives, your eye opens.

The world is a blurry, confusing mess.

The light is too bright. The room is too cold. A localized, blinding agony radiates from the left side of your face, completely shielded by a thick white patch. Your chest feels like someone dropped an anvil on it, every shallow breath sparking a sharp, stabbing fire in your ribs.

Panic, thick and immediate, begins to claw its way up your throat.

Where are you? Why can’t you move your neck? Why is it so hard to breathe?

The heart monitor by your bed begins to beep faster, matching the sudden, terrified spike of your pulse.

“Hey,” a voice says.

A shadow blocks the harsh overhead light.

You blink, trying to force your single open eye to focus. The blurry shape above you slowly sharpens into recognizable features.

Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Eyes so impossibly warm that they anchor you to the earth.

Garrett.

He is leaning over you. He looks terrible. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a year. His eyes are bloodshot, his jaw covered in scruff, his face pale and tight with an anxiety so profound it practically vibrates off him.

But he is here.

“I’m right here,” Garrett whispers. His voice is a rough, gravelly rasp, trembling with unshed tears. “I’ve got you. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

You try to swallow, but your throat feels like it’s coated in broken glass. You let out a small, pained whimper.

Garrett’s face crumbles. “I know. I know it hurts. God, I know. You had a breathing tube in. Don’t try to talk.”

You look at him. You really look at him.

The panic slowly begins to recede, beaten back by the heavy, comforting weight of his hand wrapped around yours.

The memories hit you in disjointed, terrifying flashes.

The dark alleyway behind the Market Basket. The blinding pain. The suffocating terror of Phil’s massive hands. The feeling of the cold asphalt pressing into your cheek as you waited to die.

You squeeze your eye shut as a tear escapes, hot and stinging against your battered skin.

“Hey, look at me,” Garrett pleads softly. He reaches up with a trembling hand and gently, so incredibly gently, wipes the tear away with his thumb. “He’s gone. The police arrested him at his house in Connecticut yesterday morning. He’s locked up, Y/N. He can never, ever hurt you again.”

You open your eye, staring up at the beautiful, broken boy standing beside your bed.

He caught the monster. He kept his promise.

Garrett lets out a shuddering breath, his broad shoulders suddenly caving inward as if the structural integrity of his entire body has just failed.

He drops to his knees beside your bed.

He presses his forehead against the mattress, right next to your hip. He doesn’t let go of your hand; he brings it to his lips, kissing your knuckles over and over again, completely uncaring that his tears are soaking into your skin.

“I am so sorry,” Garrett chokes out. The words are a broken, ragged sob, torn from the deepest, most wounded part of his soul. “I am so fucking sorry.”

You frown, confusion cutting through the heavy haze of the morphine.

Why is he apologizing?

“Garrett,” you try to say.

It comes out as a harsh, breathless croak. It hurts. It burns your throat and pulls at the muscles in your neck.

Garrett’s head snaps up. “Don’t talk. Please, baby, save your strength.”

He just called you baby. Not in the casual, teasing way the college guys at Briar throw the word around. He said it with a devastating, reverent kind of love.

“I did this to you,” Garrett cries, the guilt pouring out of him like blood from a severed artery. He shakes his head frantically, his dark eyes wide and tortured. “This is my fault. I brought you into my mess. I thought I could just walk into his house, scream in his face, and walk away. I thought I was protecting you by taking you to my house, but all I did was paint a target on your back.”

You stare at him, completely horrified by the words coming out of his mouth.

He actually believes this. He has been sitting in this miserable, freezing hospital room for two days, convincing himself that he is the villain. Convincing himself that Phil’s violence is a direct result of his own actions.

“If I had just kept my mouth shut,” Garrett spirals, the tears tracking freely down his face, cutting paths through the exhaustion. “If I hadn’t humiliated him in front of you. If I had driven you home myself instead of letting you go to the store alone. I promised you were safe, and I left you alone.”

He drops his head back to the mattress, a harsh, guttural sound of pure self-hatred tearing from his throat.

“I’m a monster,” Garrett whispers into the blankets. “I’m just like him. I destroy everything I touch.”

The words hit you harder than any physical blow Phil landed in that alleyway.

The physical pain radiating through your body is excruciating. Your ribs scream every time you breathe, your head is pounding with a blinding, concussive pressure, and your throat is on fire.

But none of that matters right now.

What matters is the man weeping beside your bed. The man who gave up his bedroom for you. The man who stood between you and his teammates like a human shield. The man who is currently drowning in a sea of toxic, misplaced guilt.

You tighten your grip on his hand. You don’t have much strength, but you squeeze his fingers as hard as you possibly can.

Garrett lifts his head, his eyes immediately searching your face. “What? Does something hurt? Should I press the call button?”

You slowly, painstakingly, shake your head. The movement jostles the neck brace, sending a fresh spike of pain down your spine, but you ignore it.

You look him dead in the eye.

“Not,” you whisper.

The single word tears at your raw vocal cords. It sounds terrible. But you don’t stop. You force the breath from your bruised lungs, pushing past the agonizing pain in your ribs.

“Your,” you croak, your voice shaking with effort.

Garrett stares at you, his chest heaving, his eyes wide. “Y/N, stop. Please.”

“Fault,” you finish.

The three words hang in the quiet air of the ICU, heavier than gravity, louder than a gunshot.

Garrett freezes. He completely stops breathing.

He looks at you, taking in the horrific swelling of your face, the white patch over your eye, the thick plastic collar, the wires snaking across your chest. You have been beaten to within an inch of your life. You have had an organ removed. Your face has been rebuilt with titanium.

And the very first thing you do when you wake up is comfort him.

You don’t ask for pain medicine. You don’t ask what happened. You don’t complain about the agony you are in.

You look at the boy who thinks he ruined your life, and you use your incredibly limited, agonizing strength to absolve him.

The absolute, uncompromising selflessness of it shatters the very last defense mechanism Garrett possesses.

The wall he has spent twenty-one years building — the wall that survived his father’s fists, the wall that survived his mother’s death, the wall that made him the ruthless, untouchable hockey captain — crumbles into dust.

Garrett breaks. He completely falls apart.

A sob rips its way out of his throat. He practically collapses against the side of your bed. He buries his face in the space between your arm and your ribcage, mindful not to put any weight on your actual injuries, but needing to be as close to you as physically possible.

His massive shoulders shake violently. He weeps. Hard, ugly, breath-stealing sobs that wrack his entire frame.

“God,” Garrett cries, his voice muffled by the hospital blankets. “God, I love you. I love you so much it feels like I’m dying.”

Your single open eye widens slightly.

He loves you.

The confession is messy, desperate, and completely lacking any sort of romantic, cinematic polish. It is delivered in a freezing ICU room, smelling of iodine and fear, by a boy who is actively having an emotional breakdown against your arm.

And it is the most beautiful thing you have ever heard.

You can’t move much. Your left arm is restricted by the IV lines, and your ribs scream in protest when you try to shift your torso.

But you manage to lift your right hand.

Your fingers are shaking, weak and uncoordinated from the sedatives. But you slowly guide your hand up, past the heavy blankets, until your palm finds the back of his neck.

Your fingers tangle in the dark, greasy hair at his nape.

Garrett gasps at the touch. He shudders violently, leaning heavily into your weak caress as if your hand is the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge of the earth.

“Shh,” you manage to whisper. The sound is barely a breath, but he hears it.

You stroke his hair. It’s a slow, repetitive motion. You don’t have the strength to do anything else.

Garrett cries for what feels like an eternity. He cries for the terrifying night in the alleyway. He cries for the hours spent staring through the glass of Trauma Bay One. He cries for his mother, for the little boy who couldn’t save her, and for the man who almost lost the only other woman he has ever truly loved.

He pours all of his poison, all of his trauma, all of his fear out onto the sheets of your hospital bed.

And you just hold him.

You let him break. You let him fall apart, completely and totally, because you know that for the first time in his life, he has someone who is going to help him put the pieces back together.

Eventually, the violent shaking of his shoulders begins to slow. His ragged, torn sobs quiet into deep, stuttering breaths.

He doesn’t lift his head right away. He just lies there, his face buried in the blankets, his hand still locked in a death grip around yours.

“I’m sorry,” Garrett mumbles, his voice thick and exhausted. He sniffles loudly, a very un-captain-like sound. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you. I’m not supposed to be falling apart on your bed.”

You let out a tiny, breathy sound that is meant to be a laugh, but quickly turns into a wince as it pulls at your ribs.

Garrett’s head snaps up instantly, panic flaring back to life in his eyes. He wipes his face roughly with the back of his sleeve, smearing tears and exhaustion together.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks frantically, hovering over you again. “I put too much weight on the bed. I’ll get the nurse-”

“Garrett,” you croak, stopping him before he can hit the call button.

He freezes. “Yeah. Yes, baby, I’m here.”

You swallow hard, fighting the sandpaper dryness in your throat. You look at his red, swollen eyes. He looks completely wrecked. But the dark, heavy shadow of toxic guilt that has been suffocating him for the last forty-eight hours has lifted.

“I love you, too,” you whisper.

The words are weak. They are raspy. They lack volume.

But they hit Garrett with the force of a freight train.

He stares at you. His lips part, his dark eyes searching your face as if he’s afraid he hallucinated the sound.

“You do?” He asks, his voice cracking on the question. It’s the most vulnerable you have ever seen him. The arrogant hockey star is nowhere to be found. He is just a boy, desperate for love, terrified of rejection.

You give him a tiny, incredibly slow nod, mindful of the neck brace.

“Since the ER,” you admit, the truth slipping out easily, despite the pain it takes to speak.

Garrett lets out a sound that is half-laugh, half-sob.

He leans down. He is incredibly careful, treating you like you are made of spun glass. He supports his own weight on his forearms, ensuring he doesn’t press against your chest or your injured side.

He bypasses the heavy white patch over your left eye. He avoids your broken nose and your split lip.

Instead, he presses his mouth gently against the unbruised skin of your forehead, right at your hairline.

His lips are warm, soft, and trembling. He lingers there, breathing you in, pressing all of his relief, all of his devotion, and all of his love into that single, agonizingly gentle kiss.

“I am never letting you go,” Garrett whispers against your skin, his breath fanning across your face. “Do you understand me? You’re stuck with me. Forever.”

“Good,” you whisper back, your eye fluttering shut as exhaustion begins to drag you back under. The morphine is heavy in your veins, pulling at your consciousness.

Garrett pulls back just far enough to look at your face. He sees the heavy droop of your eyelid, the sluggish blink.

“Go to sleep, baby,” Garrett murmurs, his thumb resuming its gentle stroke across the back of your hand. “You’re safe. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” You mumble, the word slurring slightly.

“I swear to God,” Garrett says fiercely.

He settles back into the uncomfortable plastic chair. But he doesn’t look like a terrified ghost anymore. He looks like a man who has just been handed the entire universe.

You let your eye close.

The pain is still there. The road to recovery is going to be incredibly long, terrifying, and grueling. There will be police statements to give, trials to attend, physical therapy to endure, and nightmares to fight.

But as the steady rhythm of the heart monitor lulls you back to sleep, and the warm, calloused hand of the boy who loves you holds you tight, the paralyzing fear that has dictated your life for the past year is finally gone.

Because Phil Graham is in a cage.

And you are exactly where you are supposed to be.

***

The sound of the door clicking open pulls Garrett from a light doze.

It has been two hours since you fell back asleep. Garrett hasn’t moved an inch. He is exhausted down to the marrow of his bones, but his heart is lighter than it has been in years.

He turns his head.

Standing in the doorway of the ICU room are Logan, Dean, and Tucker.

They look terrible. They are all wearing Briar Hockey sweats, their hair messy, their faces drawn with exhaustion. Logan is holding a cardboard tray with four coffees. Dean is clutching a small, stuffed teddy bear wearing a miniature nurse’s uniform.

They freeze in the doorway, staring at you.

“Hey,” Garrett says softly, not wanting to wake you.

The three massive hockey players snap their attention to Garrett. They take in the change in his posture. He is no longer hunched over like a man waiting for an execution. He is sitting back in his chair, a small, weary, but incredibly genuine smile touching the corners of his mouth.

Tucker’s eyes widen. “Garrett …”

“She woke up,” Garrett whispers.

The reaction is instantaneous.

Dean drops his head back against the doorframe, a loud, shuddering breath escaping his lips. “Oh, thank God. Thank fucking God.”

Logan sets the coffee tray down on a nearby rolling cart with a hand that is visibly shaking. He walks over to the bed, stopping on the side opposite Garrett. He looks down at your bruised, swollen face, the white eye patch, the heavy neck brace.

“Is she …” Logan swallows hard. “Is she okay?”

“She’s hurting,” Garrett says honestly. “She can barely talk. But she knows where she is. She knows we’re here. And she knows they caught him.”

“Good,” Tucker says, stepping into the room. He looks at you, his expression softening into that familiar, protective warmth. “Because if they hadn’t caught him, I was going to buy a shovel and take a road trip.”

“You wouldn’t have gone alone,” Dean mutters, walking over and placing the small stuffed nurse bear gently on the nightstand next to your bed. “I brought her a friend. Figured she could use another nurse on duty.”

Garrett looks at the ridiculous little bear, and then back at his best friends.

These guys didn’t hesitate. They didn’t ask questions. They took you in, they protected you, and they sat in a miserable hospital waiting room for two days because you are family.

“Thanks, guys,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

Logan waves him off. “Shut up, G. We didn’t do shit.”

“You did,” Garrett insists. He looks back down at your sleeping face. “You kept me from losing my mind. And you gave her a home.”

“She gave us a home,” Tucker corrects softly. He pulls a chair over from the corner of the room and sits down. “This house was a disaster before she started organizing the triage center and making Dean eat vegetables.”

Dean nods solemnly. “I miss the vegetables. I really do.”

Garrett actually laughs. It’s a quiet, rusty sound, but it feels incredibly good.

The four of them settle into the room. It’s cramped, it’s cold, and it smells like antiseptic.

But as Garrett sits there, surrounded by his brothers, holding the hand of the girl he loves, the ICU room doesn’t feel like a hospital anymore.

It feels like the beginning of the rest of his life.

***

Two and a half years.

That is how long it takes to put the shattered pieces of a life back together.

It takes months of grueling physical therapy, a second surgery to adjust the titanium plate beneath your left eye, and countless hours sitting on the worn couch in the off-campus house, letting Garrett, Logan, Dean, and Tucker simply exist around you until the phantom footsteps in the hallway no longer make your heart race.

It takes Phil Graham being sentenced to fifteen years in a maximum-security prison without the possibility of early parole, his legacy as an NHL player erased by the horrifying reality of his domestic abuse convictions.

And it takes time.

But as you stand in the tunnel of the TD Garden, the phantom roar of eighteen thousand fans vibrating through the concrete floor beneath your feet, you know every single agonizing second was worth it.

You watch the ice through the glass.

Garrett is a blur of black and gold. He wears number seventeen, his broad shoulders easily carrying the weight of the iconic spoked B on his chest. He skates backward, his eyes scanning the play, and intercepts a pass with a fluid, effortless grace that makes the crowd erupt into a frenzy.

He is twenty-three years old, newly graduated from Briar University, and currently the most beloved undrafted free agent the Boston Bruins have signed this century.

The whistle blows, signaling the end of the morning skate. The players begin filing off the ice, their skates clattering against the rubber mats of the tunnel.

Garrett takes his helmet off, running a gloved hand through his sweat-dampened dark hair. He is joking with one of the veteran defensemen, a relaxed, brilliant smile lighting up his face.

Then, he sees you.

The smile softens, turning instantly intimate. He breaks away from the pack and skates straight toward the open gate where you are standing.

“Hey,” Garrett breathes, stepping off the ice. He smells like fresh sweat, cold air, and athletic tape. It is the best smell in the world.

“Hey yourself,” you smile, reaching out to rest a hand on the solid plastic plating of his chest pad. “You looked good out there. Your line is clicking.”

“We’re getting there,” Garrett says, leaning down to press a quick, cold kiss to your lips, uncaring of the equipment managers and staff rushing past. He pulls back and traces his thumb gently over your cheekbone, right over the faint, pale scar that rests beneath your eye. “You ready to head back to the apartment? The guys are coming over for dinner tonight. Tuck’s making lasagna.”

“I’m ready,” you nod. “Go shower. You stink.”

Garrett laughs, a deep, rich sound that settles deep in your chest. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

You watch him jog down the tunnel toward the locker room, your heart swelling with an overwhelming, terrifying amount of love.

Life is good. It is safe.

But safety, especially when you are suddenly thrust into the blinding spotlight of professional sports, is a fragile illusion.

***

The shift happens later that afternoon.

You and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island of your new, shared off-campus apartment. It’s a massive upgrade from the chaotic Briar hockey house, though you only live three blocks away from the guys. You are currently chopping vegetables for Tucker’s impending lasagna invasion, while Garrett is sitting on a barstool, scrolling casually through his phone.

Suddenly, Garrett freezes.

The easy, relaxed posture of his shoulders vanishes, instantly replaced by rigid, coiled tension. The color drains completely from his face, leaving his skin a sallow, ashen gray.

“Garrett?” You ask, putting the knife down. You wipe your hands on a dish towel, your heart rate spiking in response to his sudden shift. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer. His dark eyes are locked onto the screen of his phone, scanning the text with a terrifying, absolute stillness. His jaw ticks violently.

“Garrett, talk to me,” you urge, stepping around the island and placing a hand on his shoulder. His muscles feel like solid rock under his t-shirt. “What’s wrong?”

Garrett slowly lowers the phone. He looks at you, and the sheer, unadulterated fury in his eyes makes you take a half-step back. He isn’t angry at you — he could never be angry at you — but the violent, protective rage practically bleeding off him is suffocating.

“They found a picture,” Garrett says. His voice is a low, deadly rasp.

“Who?” You ask, confusion clouding your mind. “A picture of what?”

Garrett looks down at his phone again, his thumb hovering over the screen as if he wants to crush the glass into dust. Without another word, he turns the phone around and slides it across the granite counter toward you.

You look down.

It is an article from a notorious, sleazy sports gossip blog. The headline is blazoned in bold, aggressive text.

BOSTON’S NEW GOLDEN BOY AND HIS TWISTED FAMILY SECRET: IS GARRETT GRAHAM DATING HIS DAD’S EX?

The air in your lungs vanishes.

Below the headline is a split-screen image. On the left is a recent, high-definition photo of you and Garrett walking out of the TD Garden, holding hands, laughing at something he said.

On the right is a photo you haven’t seen in three years.

It’s a blurry, poorly lit paparazzi shot from a charity gala in New York. You are standing next to Phil Graham. You are wearing a stiff, uncomfortable evening gown, your face pale and hollow, your smile tight and forced. Phil has a heavy, possessive hand gripping your waist.

The text of the article is sickening.

Bruins rookie sensation Garrett Graham has been winning over the hearts of Boston with his stellar play and squeaky-clean image. But sources have recently uncovered a highly questionable skeletons in the Graham family closet. The mystery brunette Garrett has been parading around the city? That’s Y/N. A twenty-five-year-old nurse who, just a few short years ago, was playing arm candy for Garrett’s disgraced, currently-incarcerated father, Phil Graham.

Talk about keeping it in the family. While the details of Phil’s sudden imprisonment remain strictly sealed under state records, one has to wonder if this twisted love triangle had something to do with the NHL legend’s sudden fall from grace. Did the son steal the father’s girl? Or is Boston’s new golden boy just picking up his dad’s leftovers?

You stare at the screen, your vision blurring as a cold, terrifying numbness spreads from your chest all the way down to your fingertips.

The world begins to tilt.

The smell of the chopped basil on the cutting board makes you violently nauseous. You hear the phantom, heavy thud of Phil’s boots on the stairs. You feel the cold, sharp bite of the asphalt against your cheek.

“Hey,” Garrett’s voice cuts through the rising panic, firm and immediate.

His large, warm hands grip your arms, physically anchoring you to the present moment. He pulls you away from the phone, stepping into your line of sight so all you can see is his face.

“Look at me,” Garrett demands softly. “Y/N, look at me.”

You force your eyes to focus on him. You are trembling. The phantom pain in your ribs, a ghost from three years ago, suddenly flares hot and bright.

“They put his face on the internet next to mine,” you whisper, your voice cracking completely. “They think … Garrett, they think …”

“I know what they think,” Garrett says, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over your biceps. His eyes are blazing with a terrifying intensity, a ruthless, protective fire that burns away the shadows in the room. “And it doesn’t matter. They don’t know the truth. They’re bottom-feeding scum looking for clicks.”

“Everyone is going to see this,” you sob, the panic finally breaking through. “The team. The fans. Your coaches. They’re going to think you’re involved in some sick, twisted drama. I’m going to ruin this for you.”

“Stop,” Garrett says instantly. He gives your arms a gentle, bracing shake. “Do not do that. Do you hear me? You are not ruining anything. You are my life. I don’t give a flying fuck what some garbage blog says. I don’t care what the fans think. I only care about you.”

He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your hair. You grip the fabric of his t-shirt, burying your face in his neck, drawing in deep, desperate breaths of his cedarwood scent.

Suddenly, Garrett’s phone buzzes on the counter. Then it buzzes again. And again.

Garrett doesn’t let go of you. He reaches out blindly, grabs the phone, and checks the screen.

“It’s Logan,” Garrett murmurs. “The guys saw it.”

He answers the call and puts it on speaker, tossing the phone back onto the island.

“Tell me you saw it,” Logan’s voice barks through the speaker. He doesn’t sound like his usual laid-back self; he sounds absolutely homicidal.

“We saw it,” Garrett says, his arm tightening around your waist.

“I’m going to burn their server room to the ground,” Dean chimes in, his voice vibrating with rage. “I have a buddy who knows a guy in cyber security. We can take the whole site offline.”

“We are not committing a federal crime, Dean,” Tucker’s voice cuts in, calm but completely deadly. “Garrett, is she okay?”

You pull your face away from Garrett’s neck. You lean toward the phone, forcing your voice to steady. “I’m okay, Tuck.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Tucker says softly. “We’re on our way over. We’re bringing the lasagna, and we are locking the doors, and we are ignoring the internet for the rest of the night.”

“The team’s PR director just texted me,” Garrett says, picking up his phone and swiping down to read the notification. His jaw clenches. “They want me at the facility tomorrow morning for a media availability. They want to get ahead of the narrative before the game tomorrow night.”

“What are they telling you to say?” Logan demands.

“They want me to decline comment,” Garrett reads the text out loud, a harsh, bitter laugh escaping his lips. “They want me to say it’s a private family matter and redirect to hockey.”

“Bullshit,” Dean spits. “You can’t let them drag her name through the mud like that. They called her leftovers, G. If you don’t say something, I’m going down there to the press pit myself.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Garrett says. His voice is dangerously quiet. It is the voice of the captain who dragged a broken team to a national championship. It is the voice of a man who watched the woman he loves nearly die in an alleyway.

“I’m handling this tomorrow,” Garrett promises, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “I’m ending this. Permanently.”

***

The media room at the Bruins’ practice facility is packed.

It is usually a routine, boring affair. A few beat reporters asking about line chemistry and power-play percentages. But today, the room is buzzing with a chaotic, electric energy. The gossip blog post went viral overnight, picked up by mainstream sports outlets who are desperate to uncover the details behind the squeaky-clean rookie’s scandalous private life.

You are not at the hospital today. You called out.

Instead, you are sitting on the couch in your apartment, flanked by Logan on your left and Dean on your right, with Tucker standing behind the couch, his arms crossed.

The four of you are staring at the massive flat-screen TV, watching the live feed of the press conference.

Garrett walks up to the podium.

He is wearing a sharp, tailored black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark tie. He looks incredibly handsome, but his face is completely devoid of its usual easy charm. His posture is rigid. His eyes are cold, dark, and utterly merciless.

The Bruins’ head of PR, a nervous-looking man in his late forties, steps up to the microphone first.

“Good morning, everyone,” the PR director says, holding up a hand to quiet the murmuring reporters. “Garrett will take a few questions regarding tomorrow night’s matchup against the Devils. We ask that you keep all questions strictly related to hockey. Garrett will not be commenting on any personal matters or internet rumors at this time.”

The PR director steps back, gesturing for Garrett to take the podium.

Garrett steps up to the microphones. He looks out over the sea of flashing cameras and hungry reporters.

A reporter in the front row, a guy notorious for asking sleazy, boundary-pushing questions, immediately raises his hand and speaks without waiting to be called on.

“Garrett, Terrance Reilly from Boston Sports Daily,” the reporter says loudly. “Your PR guy said no personal questions, but the fans want to know. The article that dropped yesterday regarding your girlfriend and your father, Phil Graham — can you confirm the timeline of that relationship? Is it true you started dating her while she was still involved with your father?”

The PR director immediately lunges forward, reaching for the microphone. “I said no personal questions, Terrance. We’re moving on-”

“No.”

Garrett’s voice cuts through the room like a crack of thunder.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t raise his voice. But the absolute, lethal authority in that single word makes the PR director freeze in his tracks, his hand hovering over the mic.

The entire press room goes dead silent.

Garrett leans forward, resting his hands on the edges of the podium. His knuckles are white. He stares directly at the reporter, his gaze so intense the reporter actually shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“I’m going to answer that question,” Garrett says, his voice vibrating with a dark, controlled fury. “And I am only going to say this once. So I suggest you all make sure your recorders are on.”

Back in the apartment, Logan leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes glued to the TV. “Give it to them, G.”

“The woman in that photograph,” Garrett begins, his voice carrying clearly through the speakers, “The woman this city has seen me with for the last two years, is my girlfriend. She is an incredible, brilliant pediatric nurse who spends her life taking care of sick children. And she is the bravest person I have ever met.”

Garrett pauses, taking a slow, measured breath. He is dismantling his privacy, tearing down the walls he spent years building, all to protect you.

“The article implies that my father’s imprisonment and my relationship with her are part of some scandalous love triangle,” Garrett continues, the disgust heavy in his tone. “It implies that she was playing us against each other. That is a lie. It is a disgusting, misogynistic piece of fiction designed to sell clicks.”

The reporters are furiously typing, completely silent, captivated by the raw, unscripted emotion pouring from the rookie.

“The truth,” Garrett says, his eyes turning hard as obsidian, “is that Phil Graham is not a hockey legend. He is a violent, cowardly abuser.”

A collective, shocked gasp ripples through the press room.

You suck in a breath on the couch, your hand flying up to cover your mouth. He is doing it. He is laying it all out there.

“He abused my mother until the day she died,” Garrett states flatly, refusing to shy away from the horrific reality of his past. “He abused me for eighteen years. And when he moved a young, vulnerable woman into his house, he abused her, too.”

Garrett’s jaw ticks. He looks out at the sea of cameras, but you know, deep in your bones, that he is speaking directly to you.

“I met her at a Thanksgiving dinner,” Garrett says, his voice softening just a fraction, the memory clearly visible in his eyes. “I saw the bruises he left on her arm. I told her to run, and I left. But she was trapped. She didn’t have anywhere to go.”

Garrett grips the podium tighter, leaning closer to the microphones.

“Three weeks later, I ended up in the emergency room at the hospital with a concussion,” Garrett says. “She was my nurse. And when she walked into my room, I saw what he had done to her. I saw the bruises on her face. I saw the terror in her eyes. I refused to leave that hospital without her. I moved her into my house, and I swore I would protect her from him.”

Garrett pauses, the heavy, suffocating silence of the press room hanging on his every word.

“He tracked her down at a grocery store a month later,” Garrett says, his voice dropping to a harsh, gravelly rasp that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “He beat her so badly she required emergency surgery to rebuild her face and remove a ruptured organ. She nearly died in an alleyway because she had the courage to escape him.”

A reporter in the second row lowers her phone, her eyes wide with horror, a hand resting over her heart.

“Phil Graham is sitting in a maximum-security prison right now because he is a monster,” Garrett declares, his voice ringing with absolute finality. “He isn’t a victim of a love triangle. He is a domestic abuser who tried to murder the woman I love.”

Garrett stands up straight, stepping back from the podium slightly. He looks directly at Terrance Reilly.

“So, to answer your question,” Garrett says, his tone dripping with lethal contempt. “No, I didn’t steal my father’s girlfriend. I pulled a victim out of a nightmare. She is the strongest person I know, and I spend every single day thanking God that she survived. The only scandal here is that a garbage blog decided to re-traumatize a survivor of domestic violence for a headline.”

Garrett doesn’t wait for another question. He doesn’t look at the PR director.

He turns his back to the cameras, steps off the podium, and walks out of the press room, the heavy wooden door shutting firmly behind him.

The television broadcast cuts to a stunned anchor sitting at a news desk, fumbling for words.

Dean hits the mute button on the remote.

The apartment is dead silent.

You are crying. The tears are falling freely down your cheeks, hot and fast. You aren’t crying from fear, or from the trauma of the memories. You are crying because you have never felt so completely, unconditionally protected in your entire life.

Tucker reaches over the back of the couch and gently squeezes your shoulder. “He loves you. He loves you so damn much.”

“He just nuked his own privacy for me,” you whisper, wiping at your cheeks. “His past with his mom, his own abuse … he never talks about it. And he just put it on national television to defend me.”

“Because you’re worth it,” Logan says firmly, turning his head to look at you. “You’re his entire world, Y/N. He would burn the whole league to the ground if it meant keeping you safe. You know that.”

You do know that.

***

It takes Garrett forty minutes to get through the Boston traffic and back to the apartment.

When the front door unlocks and swings open, the guys are already gone. They left five minutes after the press conference ended, claiming they needed to go secure the perimeter, but really, they knew you needed to be alone with him.

Garrett walks into the apartment.

He looks exhausted. He has taken the suit jacket and tie off, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to expose his muscular forearms. He drops his keys onto the console table, closing the door behind him.

He looks up, and his dark eyes lock onto you standing in the middle of the living room.

The tension that was radiating off him during the press conference is completely gone. He just looks incredibly vulnerable, his chest heaving with a deep, shaky sigh.

“You saw it,” Garrett says quietly. It’s not a question.

“I saw it,” you whisper.

You don’t wait for him to take his shoes off. You cross the living room in three rapid strides and throw yourself at him.

Garrett catches you effortlessly. His massive arms wrap around your waist, hauling you flush against his body, lifting your feet off the hardwood floor. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting hot across your skin.

You wrap your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his dark hair, holding him as tightly as your healed ribs will allow.

“I’m sorry,” Garrett murmurs into your skin, his voice thick. “I’m sorry it got out. I’m sorry you had to see his face again.”

“Don’t apologize,” you cry softly, pulling back just far enough to cup his face in both of your hands. You look into his beautiful, tortured dark eyes. “Garrett, don’t you dare apologize. What you did today … what you said up there …”

“I meant every word,” Garrett says fiercely, leaning into your touch. He slides his hands up your back, resting them gently on your shoulder blades. “I wasn’t going to let them paint you as some sort of villain. You survived him. We survived him. And I am so damn proud to be yours.”

You trace your thumb over his cheekbone, your heart overflowing with a love so absolute it feels like gravity.

“You told the whole world about your mom,” you whisper, the magnitude of his sacrifice settling heavy in the quiet room. “You protected her memory, too.”

Garrett’s eyes soften, a sheen of tears making them shine in the afternoon light. He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“He doesn’t get to control the narrative anymore,” Garrett says, his voice steadying, finding peace in the truth. “He doesn’t get to hide behind his hockey stats or his money. The world knows exactly what he is now. And more importantly, the world knows exactly who you are.”

“Who am I?” You ask softly, a watery smile touching your lips.

Garrett opens his eyes. The darkness, the fear, the shadows of the past — they are all completely gone, replaced entirely by the bright, unyielding warmth of the future you have built together.

“You’re the girl who fixed my scrambled brain,” Garrett smiles, a genuine, breathtaking curve of his lips that reaches all the way to his eyes. He leans down, brushing his nose gently against yours. “You’re the center of my universe. And you’re never getting rid of me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you whisper.

Garrett kisses you.

It isn’t frantic or desperate like the kisses in the hospital room two years ago. It is deep, slow, and devastatingly certain. It is a promise written in skin and breath, a vow that the nightmare is truly, finally over.

You kiss him back, pouring every ounce of your love into the man who stood in front of the world and fought for you.

When you finally pull away, resting your head against his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart, you look around the quiet, sunlit apartment. You think of Logan, Dean, and Tucker, who are probably arguing over who gets to beat up Terrance Reilly first.

You think of the long, terrifying road that led you from a cold alleyway to this exact moment.

Garrett holds you tight, his chin resting on top of your head, swaying you gently back and forth in the quiet apartment.

The monsters are locked away. The shadows are gone.

"So what is it you wanted to talk to us about, son?" Peter asks and you squeeze Dean's hand even harder.

"Well," he replies, turning to you then turning back to his father. He's rehearsed this so many times and he still has no idea how to get the words out. "We're going to have a baby."

They stare at him for a moment before bursting out into laughter which just makes you feel worse than you already do. You knew they weren't going to take it well, but this is on a whole other level. You already felt mocked by the way they were looking at you and now their laughs are echoing in your ears, taunting you.

"That's really nice, dear, but don't you think you're a bit young? A child is a serious responsibility," Lori tells him as he takes a sip of her wine.

"Your mother's right," Peter agrees. "Don't you think you should wait until you've graduated and then have a child with someone you've known more than five minutes?"

"It's been five months, actually," Dean corrects. "And she's already pregnant so it can't exactly wait and I don't want to."

"A child out of wedlock? Think about what that will do to this family. Our reputation." Of course they're only thinking about themselves. He knows how this looks but it's not like it's a teen pregnancy. And he knows that his parents are very well known in the city, but he doesn't think the backlash and gossip will be nearly as bad as they think. "And you're having a baby with a girl who comes from a scandalous family. Think about how that makes us look."

"What?"

"Oh, she didn't tell you? I thought I'd do some research and the headline was right there. Oh, horrible story. Your father married someone your age, didn't he?" You stay quiet as your nails dig into the cushion of the chair as you try your very best to not lunge at her.

"Well, unlike you, I don't care about reputation and why should she be judged for her father's decision? I see the way you look at her and I know that I didn't choose someone who you thought was suitable but that doesn't give you the right to tear her down, especially right in front of me. And I don't actually care what happens to our reputation. I just thought I'd let you know." He thought they had the right before they found out from someone else when the baby comes. Now he's thinking that he should have just kept it to himself altogether because he should have known that they would behave this way.

"Well, there has to be a wedding," Lori demands. "When you have a child out of wedlock, you get married." You can't help but laugh at that because who is this woman to tell you what to do? And why would she think that you'd listen to her when all she's done is side eye you since you stepped foot into the penthouse? Like hell you'll be part of this crazy family.

"Oh, we're not getting married,"you tell her as you stand, Dean following. "but if we do, trust me, neither of you will be invited."

The couple sits there, mouths wide open, completely flabbergasted that you'd speak to them this way. Dean just shakes his head as he passes by to follow you to the door. He keeps his hand on the small of your back, trying his best to keep up with how fast you're walking. He doesn't blame you for wanting to get the hell out of here and feels the exact same way.

He parents have always been so different to the others of their status and he's never seen this side of them, at least not when it came to him. He knows he'll get an earful for choosing you over them but he doesn't care. He feels good about his decision and he doesn't care if he gets judged for it. He loves you and wants to be here for you no matter what.

When you get into the elevator, he can see that you're trying to remain calm. you're mind is reeling, very likely replaying over the conversation in your head like he knows you do. He honestly wasn't expecting this and now he feels like such a dick for suggesting it in the first place.

"I'm so sorry," is all he says, unsure of what he can do to comfort you. "I swear I didn't think that would be that bad." You hate that he's blaming himself for this when it's not his fault.

"I believe you. I'm sorry for not telling you about my dad." Dean shakes his head, confused as to why you're the one apologizing. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.

"There's nothing to be sorry for. That's your business. They shouldn't have tried to use it against you."

"You know, I thought that coming would Briar would make things different but I guess not. I should known that people would figure out eventually."

"Hey, come here." He pulls you into his arms, hands moving up and down your back in a comforting manner. "If anyone gives you shit, just send them my way, okay?" You nod against his chest and he holds you until the elevator doors open and you both step out hand in hand.

"I know that we were supposed to have lunch, but can we just go home? Today wore me out."

"Yeah, baby." He drapes an arm over your shoulders. "We can do whatever you want."

You can find the rest of the Deanverse here!

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“Here you have, diva” Allie snapped you out of the touch of Logan’s hand. “Della said that the soda and dessert are on her”. 

Logan and you turned around to look at the place to find Della. 

“Thank you so much, Della! I promise when I get rich, you are the first in my spoil list, mwha” you blow her a kiss thanking her for the extra food in your order. Well, actually all of it was on her. 

“You better, sweetheart” Della laughed and pointed at you while she was taking a table's order.

Logan found the whole interaction cute, but still confused because it was the first time he saw you and you are friends with Allie and the owner of this place. “Don’t tell me that Della is your roomie” he joked. 

You laughed while taking the bag of paper with your food in it. “No, Della has known me since I was a kid, she used to live nearby but still stays in touch with my parents”. You told Logan who was impressed. “So she basically keeps me alive, because if it wasn’t for her I would barely eat because of all of the things I have to do. And also, it’s free”.

“Hey! We won a lot of games and championships and never in my life Della has given me a free meal”. Logan protested, fake offended. 

“Lo! your order is ready, help me with the beers?” Allie asked him. 

“No no no, stay there. I will call Tucker or Beau” Logan took a look at their table to call one of the boys. Beau made eye contact with him and Logan gave him a sign to get closer. 

“Thanks, Lo” Allie told her friend. She changed her attention to you. “So, hope you eat everything and promise me you won’t stay till late working in the lab” she pointed at you. 

“Yes, mom. I promise” you joked and that made Logan return to your conversation. 

“y/n I’m serious” Allie was not joking. “I know you!”. 

“Pinky promise” you smiled at her and closed the deal with your pinkies. 

“The lab? What lab?” Logan asked you, he wanted to know as much as possible before you return to this lab Allie mentioned. 

“Oh I’m in med school, I haven’t chosen my speciality yet but right now I’m working with professor Carol in this investigation and project so it’s a big deal” you explained to Logan. 

“Wow! That sounds incredible, good for you” he was shocked, literally. You never get used to compliments that people throw at you, you just thank them shyly like it’s not such a huge thing. 

“She’s literally the smartest person probably in this whole fucking country” Allie told Logan. “I’m proud of my friend” she’s always giving you the flowers you deserve. 

“Thanks, bae” you blew a quick kiss to her. Where the hell Logan has been this whole time that he’s just finding out more about the group of girls? Friends of her best friend’s girlfriends, what the hell. He was certainly going to talk with Garrett and Dean. 

“So, we are celebrating that we won this game, would you like to join us?” Logan invited you to their table. “I know that you are busy in the lab but if you are not in a rush you can-”. 

“Hey, bro. Come on! Give me some beers, the puck bunnies just arrived” Beau appeared out of nowhere. 

You looked at the direction of their table and Beau was right, it was full now the table with pretty and thin girls talking to the hockey team. 

“Uhm… I actually have to go, but thanks I guess” you answered him with a short smile, trying to escape that place asap. 

“Hey! Hi y/n!” Beau just noticed you standing there. Now Beau also knows you, what the fuck. “How are you?”.

“Hi, Beau. Fine, thanks” you nod at the boy and change your look at Allie’s. “Say thanks again to Della, thanks Allie I will text you later” you took all of your things and before stepping out the bar you look at the boys “Bye Beau, bye Logan it was nice to meet you”. You waved goodbye at them. 

“Thanks, Beau” Logan gives him a deathly look. Allie is already gone because of all of the work yet to do. 

“For?” Beau was really confused. 

“I was busy talking with her, and you come and mention the puck bunnies. What the fuck, man?” Logan explained what he just did. 

Maybe she was busy but Allie has an incredible earring like a cat, so she heard the boys talking. It was obvious that Logan wanted for you to stay and she knew you very well and recognized something in your face before Beau appeared that maybe you were going to accept Logan’s invitation. 

After a couple of minutes you were back in the lab, alone eating your food. Delicious as always. You didn’t know if to call it a night to go to bed or keep working in the lab to try to forget the embarrassing moment. 

For a moment you really thought that John Logan, the hockey player, was really interested in meeting you but of course it was not the case. 

You could never compare to their puck bunnies, perfect girls with perfect faces and bodies, so you felt dumb for thinking that he really wanted you to join them. 

After your meal, you worked for two more hours actually making progress and once you were back in your room you texted Allie that you are safe and sound tucked in bed already. 

It was not that late, 11 pm. Allie has like two or three more hours of work so you were not expecting for her to answer. Before bed you always take your book you are currently reading, your goal is at least to read 15 pages. 

This one particularly was not that good so you were falling asleep with the book in your hands when a buzz from your phone brought you back, you took it thinking that maybe it was Allie, but no. 

In your screen there is a notification of Instagram that said

j_logan22 started following you

j_logan22 liked your story

j_logan22 liked your post 

Said story was one you posted about a selfie of you trying on your new glasses you use for reading or for screens. And the post he liked was the last one you published on your feed that was a photo dump about this month including you, the lab, having fun with your friends in a club, a concert, a book shield, selfie with your sibling at the cinema with the popcorn, your pets, etc.

Before you chicken out, you started to follow him back. There is no going back.

He was already back at the house, getting ready for bed when he searched for your user. The rest were still at the bar but after the uncomfortable moment with Beau he drank his beer, ate some nachos and called it a night. So now he’s brushing his teeth when his phone rings once. 

In his screen there was the similar notification 

yn.xo followed you back

He checked his account and you saw his stories all related to the game and once he posted about tonight’s celebration. And you didn’t want to put a like on it because insecurity still lingers in your head. You think it was cute the last post on his feed about some funny moments with his team. 

He also noticed that the common followers you both have are Allie, Dean, Hannah, Garrett, Beau, Malones and THE FIFTH LINE?! 

No way that Jules is that quick, maybe they saw you both chatting tonight. That’s why maybe you just saw his stories and didn't like any post because of Jules to jump off with some conclusions. You have nothing against the puck bunnies but you didn’t want to be related as one. 

“Or maybe,” Logan says, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face, “I’m just better than you. Accept it. It’s the first step to healing.”

“I will literally fight you,” Garrett replies, not entirely joking. He rubs the back of his neck, his competitive streak burning just beneath the surface. He hates losing. Doesn’t matter if it’s on the ice, in the classroom, or on a dusty console in their off-campus living room.

From the armchair in the corner, Dean chuckles. He’s sprawled out in a pair of gray sweatpants, a mixing bowl of Lucky Charms resting on his stomach. His phone is gripped in one hand, his thumb swiping with practiced precision. “Don’t fight him, Garrett. Logan’s got that underlying rage issue. You’ll ruin his pretty face, and then how is he going to pull the kappa girls tonight?”

“Please,” Logan scoffs. “My face is indestructible. And for the record, I’m not pulling Kappa tonight. I’m branching out.”

“Branching out?” Garrett raises an eyebrow, hitting the restart button on the console. “To what? Tri Delt? So adventurous.”

“I’m a man of the people,” Logan says effortlessly. He stretches his arms over his head, popping his shoulders. Beneath the easy charm and the quick jokes, there’s a tension Logan carries that he never talks about. Garrett knows it’s there, Dean knows it’s there, but they don’t push. Logan’s dad is a mess, the mechanic shop is a weight around his neck, and hockey is the only place he can breathe. Well, hockey and this living room.

The front door swings open, the deadbolt clicking loudly in the quiet house.

Tucker walks in. He looks entirely out of place in the lazy Saturday afternoon atmosphere. He’s wearing a fitted white t-shirt that clings to his chest, damp with sweat, and a pair of faded jeans. He looks exhausted. More importantly, he looks serious.

“Look who decided to show up,” Dean says around a mouthful of marshmallows. “Where the hell have you been all day, Tuck? You missed the destruction of Garrett’s ego.”

“I was not destroyed,” Garrett snaps.

Tucker doesn’t smile. He doesn’t drop his keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. He just stands there, his hands on his hips, looking at the three of them like he’s assessing a threat.

“I was moving someone in,” Tucker says. His deep, southern drawl is tight, clipped in a way they aren’t used to. Tucker is the calm one. The gentleman. He doesn’t do tense.

“Moving who in?” Logan asks, sensing the shift in the room’s energy. He sits up a little straighter. “You got a new girl already? Semester hasn’t even started.”

“It’s not a girl,” Tucker says, walking into the living room and taking a seat on the edge of the second sofa. He rests his elbows on his knees, folding his large hands together. “Well, it is a girl. But it’s not a hookup. It’s my sister.”

Silence falls over the living room. Even the low hum of the television seems to fade out.

Garrett drops his controller. “Your what?”

“My sister,” Tucker repeats, his voice dropping an octave. “She’s a freshman here. I just finished moving her into her dorm.”

Dean lowers his bowl of cereal. “Hold on. You have a sister? A younger sister? Why the hell are we just hearing about this now?”

“Because I know exactly how you three operate,” Tucker says flatly, his dark eyes snapping to Dean. “And I wanted to keep her existence off your radar for as long as humanly possible.”

“Ouch,” Logan says, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt, Tuck. I’m a romantic.”

“You’re a menace,” Tucker corrects him without missing a beat. He looks at Garrett. “You’re a puck bunny magnet.” He looks at Dean. “And you’re a walking CDC warning.”

“Hey,” Dean protests, sitting up. “I get tested regularly. I am completely clean. And I am highly respectful of women.”

“I’m not here to debate your morals, Dean,” Tucker says, leaning forward. The easygoing Tucker is completely gone, replaced by an older brother who looks ready to commit a felony. “I am here to lay down some ground rules. Because she goes to Briar now, which means she’s going to be around. She’ll probably come to the games. She might even come by the house if I invite her.”

“Invite her over right now,” Dean says instantly. “I want to meet a female Tucker. Does she say y’all?”

“Dean, shut up,” Garrett says, reading the absolute murder in Tucker’s expression. “Let him talk.”

Tucker takes a deep breath. “You guys know a little bit about how I grew up. Mom working three jobs, right?”

Garrett nods. He knows better than anyone what a screwed-up childhood looks like. His own father made sure of that. But Tucker’s childhood wasn’t violent, it was just hard.

“Well,” Tucker continues, “while I had hockey and football to keep me out of trouble after school, Mom couldn’t leave my sister home alone. So she sent her to the after-school program at the local church.”

“Okay,” Logan says slowly. “So?”

“So,” Tucker says, “she basically grew up in that church. The youth group, the choir, the Bible studies. Everything. My mom and I aren’t religious, but it stuck with her. Deeply.”

Dean frowns, tilting his head. “Like … she prays before meals?”

“Like she is the most sheltered, traditional, sweet, innocent girl you will ever meet in your miserable lives,” Tucker says, his voice completely deadpan. “She’s an Early Childhood Education major. You know why?”

“Because she likes kids?” Garrett guesses.

“Because she wants to be a stay-at-home mom,” Tucker corrects him. “She is going to college to get a degree she only plans on using to raise her own children after she gets married. She wants the picket fence. She wants the Sunday school. She is … entirely pure.”

Logan lets out a sharp laugh, then quickly cuts it off when Tucker glares at him. “Sorry. Sorry, I just—you’re telling me this girl is walking onto

Briar’s campus? Does she know what goes on here? Does she know what goes on in this house?”

“No,” Tucker says firmly. “And she is never going to find out. I need you three to swear to me right now that you will not look at her, you will not hit on her, you will not breathe in her direction with any sort of romantic or sexual intent.”

“Buddy, relax,” Garrett says, holding up his hands. “We aren’t monsters. If she’s your sister, she’s off-limits. Period. Bro code.”

“It’s more than bro code, Garrett,” Tucker insists. “You don’t understand. She is naive. If you so much as smile at her, she’ll think you’re courting her. And I am not joking.” Tucker pauses, dragging a hand down his face. “Guys. She thinks hand-holding is as far as a couple should go before marriage.”

For three seconds, nobody speaks.

Then, Dean chokes on a marshmallow.

Logan bursts into laughter, slapping his thigh. “You’re messing with us. There is absolutely no way.”

“Hand-holding?” Dean wheezes, coughing into his fist. “Before marriage? Tuck, what century did she grow up in?”

“I am completely serious,” Tucker says, and the utter lack of amusement in his face finally makes Logan stop laughing. “She is a southern belle who believes in courtship, purity, and happily-ever-afters. She doesn’t understand guys like you. She doesn’t understand casual. If you touch her, you will break her. And if you break her, I will put you in the hospital.”

The threat hangs in the air, heavy and very real. Tucker is the nicest guy on the team, but he’s also six-foot-three of solid muscle, and nobody doubts he could snap Dean in half if he wanted to.

“Message received, Tuck,” Garrett says, his tone softening. He respects family loyalty. He respects protecting the people you love. “We won’t touch her. We won’t even talk to her if she comes over. She’s invisible to us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dean mutters, though he looks a little terrified. “I respect a good challenge.”

Tucker stands up, crossing the room in two strides until he is towering over Dean’s armchair. “This isn’t a challenge, Di Laurentis. I swear to God. Stay away from her.”

“I’m kidding!” Dean holds his hands up in surrender, nearly spilling his cereal. “I’m kidding, man! I like women who actually want to sleep with me. Your sister sounds like a nightmare for my lifestyle. She is completely safe from me.”

Logan nods from the couch. “Same here, Tuck. I promise. I don’t need the drama, and I definitely don’t need you bench-pressing me. She’s safe.”

Tucker studies them for a long moment. He searches Garrett’s steady gaze, Logan’s relaxed but honest face, and Dean’s slightly panicked expression. Finally, he nods.

“Good,” Tucker says, stepping back. He looks exhausted again. “Because she’s completely out of her element here. She’s terrified, even if she won’t admit it. The last thing she needs is one of you degenerates making her life harder.”

***

You fold the last of your pastel cardigans, tucking it neatly into the small wooden dresser of your new dorm room.

The air conditioner in the window rattles loudly, fighting a losing battle against the muggy Massachusetts heat, but you barely notice. You smooth your hands down the front of your modest denim skirt, taking a deep breath and looking around the tiny, cinderblock room.

It feels entirely foreign. The smell of industrial floor cleaner, the distant thumping bass from a stereo down the hall, the sound of skateboards clattering on the pavement outside — it’s a million miles away from the quiet, dusty heat of Texas. It’s a million miles away from the gentle hymns of Sunday morning service, the sweet tea on the porch, and the safe, predictable routine you’ve known your entire life.

Your roommate hasn’t arrived yet. The other side of the room is totally bare, a stark contrast to your side, which you have already meticulously decorated. A floral quilt covers your twin bed. A framed photograph of you, your mother, and your brother, Tucker, sits on the desk. Next to it, a small, worn wooden cross leans against a stack of textbooks.

You walk over to the desk and trace the edge of the picture frame. Your mom looks tired in the photo, but she’s smiling. She always worked so hard. Three jobs, barely sleeping, just to make sure you and Tucker had food on the table. You know why Tucker pushes himself so hard on the ice. He wants to go pro to take care of her.

But your path has always been different.

You pull out the chair and sit down, resting your hands in your lap. The girls at the church back home told you that coming to a big university up North was a mistake. They said the boys here would be wild, that the culture was godless, that you would lose your way.

But Tucker is here. And you trust your brother more than anyone in the world. He promised to look out for you.

Still, your stomach is tied in knots. You bite your lower lip, listening to the shrieks of laughter from the hallway as a group of girls runs past your door. They sound so confident. So worldly.

You reach into your tote bag and pull out your journal, opening it to a fresh page. You’ve always found comfort in writing things out. It’s how you process the world.

Dear Lord, you write, the pen scratching softly against the paper. Thank you for bringing me here safely. Please watch over Mom back in Texas. And please guide me through this new season. Help me stay true to my values. Keep my heart guarded until I find the man you have chosen for me.

You pause, tapping the pen against your chin. The idea of marriage is something you’ve prayed about since you were a little girl. You don’t want a college fling. You don’t want to play games. You want the real thing — a man who will hold your hand on the porch, lead a family with kindness, and love you completely. You know that kind of man is rare, especially on a college campus, but you’re willing to wait. You’re willing to save yourself for him.

A loud knock on your open door makes you jump.

You spin around in your chair. Standing in the doorway is a tall, striking girl with bright pink streaks in her dark hair. She’s wearing ripped jeans, a band t-shirt that’s cropped above her navel, and a pair of heavy combat boots. She’s dragging a massive suitcase behind her.

“Hey,” she says, chewing on a piece of gum. “You must be my roommate.”

You stand up quickly, smoothing your skirt again, a nervous but genuine smile breaking across your face. “Hi! Yes, I’m Y/N. It’s so nice to meet you.”

The girl blinks at you, her eyes dropping to your denim skirt, your high-necked blouse, and then over to the floral quilt on your bed. She pops her gum.

“I’m Karly,” she says, pulling her suitcase into the room. “And I’m gonna be honest with you, Y/N. We are going to have a very interesting year.”

You swallow hard, your heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and absolute terror. “I’m sure we will.”

You glance back at the photo of your brother on your desk. Tucker said he lived with a few guys from his hockey team. He said they were nice enough, but that he wanted you to focus on your studies and keep your distance from the hockey house.

I’ll be fine, you tell yourself, turning back to help Karly with her bags. I’m just here to study. How much trouble could I possibly get into?

*** 

The neon sign for Malone’s flickers in the dimming Massachusetts twilight, casting a red hue over the cracked pavement of the parking lot. It’s early for a Friday night, which means the usual crowd hasn’t completely overrun the bar yet.

Inside, the smell of stale beer, fried food, and floor wax is overwhelming, but to the students of Briar University, it smells like home.

“I’m just saying,” Dean says, sliding into the worn vinyl of a corner booth, “It’s going to be awkward. What are we even supposed to talk about with a girl who thinks premarital hand-holding is a sin? The weather? The stock market?”

“We talk about whatever she wants to talk about,” Garrett says, taking the seat across from him. He grabs a laminated menu from the center of the table, not bothering to look at it. He already knows what he’s ordering. “Tucker said she’s homesick. He just wants us to be nice to her, eat our burgers, and not act like animals for exactly one hour. Can you manage that, Di Laurentis?”

“I can be nice,” Dean says defensively. He runs a hand through his sandy-blonde hair. “I’m incredibly nice. I just don’t know how to interact with a girl without … you know.”

“Flirting?” Logan suggests, sliding into the booth next to Garrett. He bumps his shoulder against Garrett’s to make room. “Objectifying them? Assessing their bra size with a single glance?”

“I don’t objectify,” Dean scoffs. “I appreciate. There’s a difference. And I’m just worried I’ll slip up and say a bad word, and she’ll burst into tears and call the youth pastor.”

Garrett rolls his eyes. “Just keep your mouth shut, then. Logan and I will carry the conversation. It’s an hour. We eat, we ask about her classes, we say it was nice to meet her, and we go home. Simple.”

“Exactly,” Logan agrees, picking up a paper coaster and spinning it between his long fingers. “She’s probably just a female version of Tucker anyway. Plaid shirt, polite smile, talks real slow. It’s not going to be hard to keep it in our pants for Tucker’s little sister.”

“Thank God,” Dean mutters, checking his phone. “Because if she’s a nightmare, this is going to be the longest hour of my life.”

The heavy wooden door of Malone’s swings open.

Garrett, sitting facing the entrance, glances up out of habit. He expects to see a female Tucker. Someone tall, broad-shouldered, maybe a little awkward, hiding behind a bulky sweater.

Instead, the air leaves his lungs in one sharp, sudden rush.

“Holy shit,” Garrett breathes, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

Logan and Dean turn their heads to follow his gaze.

Tucker is walking through the door, his hand resting protectively on the lower back of the girl beside him.

You step into the dimly lit pub, your eyes wide as you take in the sticky floors, the sports memorabilia on the walls, and the loud hum of conversation. You’re wearing a simple, pale yellow sundress. It has a modest square neckline, thick straps, and a skirt that flows perfectly down to your knees. It isn’t tight, it isn’t revealing, and it certainly isn’t trying to be sexy.

But the way the fabric cinches at your narrow waist, the way the soft yellow brings out the undertones of your skin, the way your hair falls in loose, untouched waves over your shoulders — it hits the three boys in the booth like a physical blow.

You look like a walking, talking angel. You look soft. Untouched. You look like Sunday mornings and sweet tea and everything pure in a world they have spent the last three years tearing up.

“Oh, no,” Dean whispers, his voice strangled. He grips the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. “Oh, God.”

Logan simply stares, his mouth slightly parted. The paper coaster slips from his fingers and lands silently on the table. “Tucker didn’t say she looked like … that.”

“Shut up,” Garrett hisses, kicking Logan under the table, though his own heart is hammering against his ribs in a way it only does right before a puck drops. “Both of you, shut up. Look at the table. Do not stare at her.”

But it’s too late. Tucker spots them in the corner and raises a hand, guiding you toward the booth.

You swallow your nerves, giving your brother a small, grateful smile. He looks so tall and commanding here, so entirely in his element. You, on the other hand, feel completely out of place. The music is a little too loud, the stares from the other tables a little too bold, but you keep your chin up. You’re determined to make a good impression. These are Tucker’s best friends. They’re basically his family up here.

“Hey, guys,” Tucker says as you both reach the table.

Three massive, intimidating athletes immediately scramble to their feet. It’s almost comical how quickly they stand up, almost tripping over each other to get out of the booth.

“Hey, Tuck,” the guy with the dark hair and striking gray eyes says. His voice is deep, a little rough around the edges. He looks at you, and the sheer intensity in his gaze makes you take a half-step back, your shoulder bumping into Tucker’s chest.

“Guys,” Tucker says, his voice taking on that protective, older-brother warning tone they recognize immediately. “This is my sister.”

“Hi,” you say softly. Your southern accent slips out, sweet and slow, curling around the single syllable like molasses.

Dean actually lets out a quiet, pathetic noise at the back of his throat. He coughs loudly to cover it up.

“It’s so lovely to meet y’all,” you continue, clasping your hands together in front of your dress. You look at the dark-haired guy first. “Tucker’s told me so much about you. You must be Garrett.”

Garrett stares down at you. You barely come up to his chest. Up close, he can see the faint dusting of freckles across your nose and the complete, utter lack of makeup. You’re entirely natural. It takes every ounce of his legendary self-control not to reach out and touch your cheek just to see if you’re real.

“Yeah,” Garrett says, his voice tight. He clears his throat, forcing a polite smile that feels entirely foreign on his face. “I’m Garrett. Nice to meet you.”

You smile brightly, and Garrett feels a sudden, violent urge to protect that smile at all costs. It’s a completely irrational, insane thought. He’s known you for thirty seconds. But he wants to wrap you in bubble wrap and fight anyone who tries to take it off.

“And you must be Logan,” you say, turning your attention to the tall, handsome guy with the easy stance and the sharp jawline.

Logan blinks, snapping out of his daze. He normally has a line for every girl, a joke for every situation, a smirk that makes women melt. Right now, he feels like a socially inept middle schooler.

“That’s me,” Logan says, managing a crooked smile. He reaches out, offering his hand. “Good to finally meet the legendary sister.”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second before unclassping your hands and placing your small, soft palm into his.

Logan’s brain short-circuits. Your hand is so tiny in his. His skin is rough from calluses and hockey tape; yours is unimaginably soft. The jolt of electricity that shoots up his arm is so intense he nearly yanks his hand away. He lets go quickly, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, trying to ignore the sudden rush of heat pooling low in his stomach.

“And you’re Dean,” you say, turning to the last guy.

Dean is staring at you with wide, panicked eyes. You have a delicate, silver cross resting against your collarbone. He wants to bite it. He wants to ruin his entire life for you.

“Hi,” Dean says, his voice coming out an octave higher than usual. He clears his throat again, violently. “Yeah. I’m Dean. Welcome to Briar.”

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely touched by how polite they all seem. Tucker made them sound like absolute hooligans, but they’re standing up straight, looking you in the eye, and greeting you with perfect manners. “I really appreciate y’all letting me crash your dinner. I know it’s a Friday night, and you probably have better things to do.”

“Not at all,” Garrett says instantly, his voice a low rumble. “We’re happy to have you.”

“Yeah,” Logan chimes in. “We were just talking about how much we were looking forward to it.”

Tucker narrows his eyes at Logan, clearly suspicious of the overly enthusiastic tone, but he gestures to the booth. “Let’s sit down. I’m starving.”

The seating arrangement suddenly becomes a high-stakes game of musical chairs.

Garrett slides into the U-shaped booth first, taking the far corner. Dean immediately dives in next to him, desperate to put a physical barrier between himself and you so he doesn’t do something stupid like propose marriage. Logan slides into the other side.

Which leaves the space right in the middle, between Logan and Dean.

“Go ahead,” Tucker says, nudging you gently toward the middle of the booth. He plans to sit on the outside edge so he can easily flag down the waitress.

You slide into the booth. You try to make yourself as small as possible, but it’s a tight fit. Your left thigh presses firmly against Dean’s leg, and your right shoulder brushes against Logan’s bicep.

Both men instantly freeze.

You don’t notice. You’re busy smoothing the skirt of your dress over your knees, making sure it stays perfectly modest. “This place is … lively,” you say, raising your voice slightly over the bass thumping from the jukebox.

“It’s a dump,” Garrett says bluntly from across the table. “But they make the best burgers in town.”

“I love a good burger,” you say, giving him a bright smile.

Garrett grips his menu so hard the laminated plastic bends.

A waitress with a nose ring and a tired expression walks over, popping a bubble of chewing gum. “What can I get you boys? And …” she glances at you, raising an eyebrow. “… sweetheart?”

“I’ll have a water with lemon, please,” you say politely. “And the classic cheeseburger. No onions.”

The waitress nods, scribbling it down. The boys place their usual orders — beers, double burgers, loaded fries — and the waitress disappears into the crowd.

“So,” Logan says, leaning forward slightly. He has to turn his body toward you, which means he gets a face-full of your perfume. You smell like vanilla and sunshine. It’s intoxicating. “Tucker says you’re majoring in Early Childhood Education.”

You nod eagerly, happy to talk about something familiar. “Yes! I just had my first orientation class today. It’s so exciting. I love working with kids.”

“That’s awesome,” Dean says. He is staring very hard at a spot on the wall just above your head, refusing to look down at your lips. “You want to be a teacher?”

“Oh, no,” you say with a soft laugh. “I mean, maybe for a year or two. But my real dream is to be a mother. I want to have a big family. I’m getting the degree so I know exactly how to raise my own children one day.”

Silence falls over the table.

To them, college is for partying, playing sports, and avoiding adulthood for as long as possible. The concept of someone actively planning to get married and have a family is entirely foreign.

But hearing you say it, with such absolute conviction and sweetness, doesn’t make them laugh.

Instead, Garrett’s mind flashes with a sudden, unbidden image of you standing in a sunlit kitchen, holding a baby. His baby. The thought hits him so hard he actually chokes on his own saliva, turning away to cough violently into his elbow.

“Are you okay?” You ask, leaning forward, genuine concern in your wide, pretty eyes.

“Fine,” Garrett rasps, his face red. “Swallowed wrong.”

Tucker claps Garrett on the back, looking amused. “Pace yourself, Graham. The food isn’t even here yet.”

“So,” Logan says, desperate to change the subject before he starts mentally picking out baby names. “How are you liking the dorms? Got a good roommate?”

“Karly is … interesting,” you say diplomatically, folding your hands on the table. “She has a lot of heavy metal posters. And she came back very late last night. But she’s been polite.”

“If anyone gives you trouble, you tell me,” Tucker says instantly, slipping into big-brother mode. “Or you tell one of these guys. They’re basically walking brick walls. Nobody will mess with you if they know you’re with us.”

You blush, a beautiful, rosy pink blooming across your cheeks. “Oh, Tucker, I don’t want to bother your friends. I’m sure they have much more important things to do than babysit me.”

“It wouldn’t be a bother,” Garrett says, his voice low and serious. His gray eyes lock onto yours, and this time, you don’t look away. There is a weight in his stare, a silent promise that makes your breath hitch in your throat. “Seriously. You need anything, you call us.”

“Yeah,” Dean adds, leaning in slightly, his resolve to avoid looking at you crumbling. “We’re at your service, Y/N. Literally whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” you say softly, a little overwhelmed by their intensity. They are all so big, so focused, so fiercely protective already. It makes you feel strangely safe.

The waitress returns with the drinks, slamming three heavy pints of beer onto the table and gently placing your water with lemon in front of you.

As she walks away, Garrett, Dean, and Logan reach for their beers at the exact same time. They all need a drink. Desperately.

But before they can take a sip, you bow your head.

You clasp your hands together, resting them gently against the edge of the table, and close your eyes.

Garrett freezes, his pint glass halfway to his mouth. Dean’s eyes go wide, and Logan slowly lowers his beer back to the table.

They watch in stunned silence as your lips move in a silent, hurried prayer. It’s quick — no more than five seconds — but in the middle of Malone’s, surrounded by rowdy college students and blasting rock music, it is the most shocking thing any of them have ever seen.

You open your eyes, offering an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Habit.”

“Don’t apologize,” Logan says quietly. His voice is incredibly soft, stripped of all its usual sarcastic armor. He looks at you like you are something precious. Something fragile that he is terrified of breaking.

Dean swallows hard. He has hooked up with girls in bathrooms, in the back seats of cars, in closets at frat parties. He thought he knew what he liked. He thought he knew who he was.

But looking at you, with your folded hands and your lemon water and your absolute, unwavering purity, Dean realizes he is entirely, hopelessly screwed. He doesn’t want the party girls anymore. He wants you. He wants to take you on a date. He wants to hold the door open for you. He wants to meet your mother.

The thought terrifies him.

The food arrives, and the conversation flows easier than any of them expected. You are easy to talk to. You don’t play games, you don’t try to impress them with fake hockey knowledge, and you laugh at all of Logan’s jokes, even the terrible ones.

You tell them stories about growing up in Texas, about your church choir, about how much you miss sweet tea. They tell you sanitized, PG-rated stories about hockey trips and Coach Jensen’s ridiculous drills.

For an hour, Garrett forgets about his abusive father. Logan forgets about his drunk dad and the mechanic shop waiting to trap him. Dean forgets about his reputation.

They are entirely captivated by you.

When the bill comes, Tucker snatches it before anyone else can reach for it. “I got it. Welcome to Briar dinner.”

“Tucker, you don’t have to do that,” you say, reaching for your small floral purse.

“Put your money away,” Garrett commands gently, his hand shooting out to cover yours.

His large, warm hand rests over your small one. The contact is electric. You gasp softly, looking down at his hand, and then back up into his gray eyes.

Garrett immediately pulls his hand back, as if he’s been burned. Tucker’s warning from earlier echoes in his mind.

“He’s right,” Tucker says, oblivious to the charged moment. “I’m your big brother. I pay. Come on, I’ll walk you back to your dorm. It’s getting late.”

You nod, sliding out of the booth. Dean and Logan practically leap out of the way to let you pass, terrified of brushing against you again.

“It was so nice meeting y’all,” you say, standing by the edge of the table and smoothing your dress. You look at each of them in turn, your smile warm and genuine. “Thank you for letting me join you.”

“Anytime,” Logan says, his voice a little hoarse.

“Seriously,” Dean adds. “Come over whenever.”

“Don’t encourage her, Dean,” Tucker warns, though he’s smiling. “Let’s go, kiddo. See you guys back at the house.”

“See ya, Tuck,” Garrett says.

The three boys stand by the booth, watching as Tucker guides you through the crowded pub toward the exit. They watch the way your yellow dress swishes around your knees. They watch the way guys at other tables turn their heads to look at you, and they all feel a simultaneous, violent surge of possessiveness.

The heavy wooden door closes behind you.

Silence descends upon the corner booth. The loud music, the chatter, the clinking glasses — none of it registers.

Logan runs a hand over his face, pressing his palms into his eyes. He lets out a long, shuddering breath. “Well.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, staring blankly at the empty space where you were just standing. “Well.”

Garrett slowly sinks back onto the vinyl bench, his broad shoulders slumping. He stares at the small glass of water with lemon still sitting on the table.

“We’re so fucked,” Garrett says quietly.

“Completely,” Dean agrees, sliding into the booth next to him. He drops his head onto the table, burying his face in his arms. “I’m in love. I’m actually in love with Tucker’s sister. I want to buy a minivan.”

“She said grace,” Logan mutters, staring at the ceiling as if asking God for help. “She bowed her head and said grace in the middle of Malone’s. I wanted to marry her on the spot. If Tucker finds out what I’m thinking right now, he’s going to murder me and bury me under the ice rink.”

“He’s going to have to bury all three of us,” Garrett says grimly. He crosses his arms over his chest, his jaw set in a hard, resolute line. The competitive fire that makes him the best player on the ice is suddenly burning hot and fast in his chest, aimed entirely at the sweet, innocent girl from Texas.

He knows what Tucker said. He knows the rules.

But Garrett Graham has never been good at following the rules when he sees something he wants.

“Okay,” Garrett says, his voice dropping low, commanding the attention of the other two. “New plan.”

Logan lowers his head to look at him. Dean peeks out from under his arms.

“Tucker said we don’t look at her, we don’t hit on her, we stay away,” Garrett says. “We agreed because we thought she was going to be annoying.”

“She’s an angel,” Dean whispers defensively.

“I know,” Garrett says, his eyes darkening. “Which means staying away is going to be impossible. So, we play it smart. We don’t push. We don’t overwhelm her. We show Tucker that we can be respectful, upstanding gentlemen.”

“I don’t know how to be an upstanding gentleman,” Dean points out, panicking slightly. “I sent a girl a picture of my dick yesterday.”

“You learn,” Garrett snaps. “You adapt. Because if we rush her, she’ll run. If we scare her, she’ll tell Tucker, and we lose. We have to be the perfect, polite guys she thinks we are. We build trust.”

Logan leans forward, a slow smirk starting to form on his lips as he catches on to Garrett’s strategy. “The slow play.”

“Exactly,” Garrett says. “We be her friends. We look out for her. We let her come to us.”

“And then what?” Dean asks, sitting up. “She’s not a hookup in the dorm kind of girl, Garrett. She wants the white picket fence.”

Garrett looks at the empty spot in the booth where you had been sitting, the scent of vanilla still lingering faintly in the air. His chest tightens with a fierce, possessive ache.

“Then I guess,” Garrett says softly, a dangerous edge to his voice, “we start building a fence.”

Logan chuckles, the sound low and dark, a stark contrast to the easygoing guy he usually pretends to be. He grabs his half-empty beer and raises it slightly. “May the best man win.”

Garrett glares at him, the camaraderie snapping back into instant rivalry. “I don’t lose, Logan.”

“Boys,” Dean says, grabbing his own glass and clinking it against Logan’s, his wealthy playboy confidence finally returning. “You’re both forgetting who you’re talking to. She’s going to be mine.”

They drink, the silent declaration of war hanging heavy over the sticky table.

You have absolutely no idea what you’ve just started.

***

“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Tucker says, his large hand resting on the brass doorknob of the off-campus house. He glances over his shoulder at you, his brow furrowed with a mixture of older-brother concern and deep, profound regret.

You adjust the strap of your canvas tote bag, offering him a reassuring smile. “Tucker, it’s fine. Karly had her study group over, and they were playing that awful music with the screaming again. I just need a quiet place to read my Bible and finish my reading for Child Psychology. I promise I won’t be a bother.”

“You’re never a bother, Y/N,” Tucker sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s them. This house is … it’s not a place for someone like you. It’s a zoo. A disgusting, chaotic, morally bankrupt zoo.”

You let out a soft, musical laugh, patting his arm. You’re wearing a light blue, A-line skirt that hits mid-calf and a crisp white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. “They were perfectly lovely at Malone’s last week. They have wonderful manners. I’m sure you’re just exaggerating.”

“Right. Wonderful manners,” Tucker mutters, sounding unconvinced. He pushes the key into the lock. “Just … stay close to me. Don’t touch anything in the kitchen without sanitizing it first. And if any of them look at you funny, you tell me.”

He twists the doorknob, pushing the heavy wooden door open.

The immediate sensory overload is exactly what you would expect from a house inhabited by four massive college athletes. It smells faintly of expensive cologne, citrus floor cleaner, and stale beer. The living room to the left is a disaster zone of scattered Xbox controllers, half-empty water bottles, and a mountain of throw pillows tossed haphazardly onto the floor.

“See?” Tucker says, gesturing to the mess. “Barbarians.”

You step into the foyer, your sensible flats clicking softly against the hardwood. “It just needs a little tidying, that’s all. A house needs a woman’s touch to feel like a home.”

Tucker freezes mid-step, looking at you in absolute horror. “Do not let them hear you say that. Seriously. They will lose their minds.”

You frown, confused, but before you can ask what he means, a door opens on the second-floor landing.

The sound of heavy, bare footsteps echoes against the wooden floorboards upstairs. You instinctively look up, tilting your head back to greet whoever is coming out of the bathroom. You have a polite smile already formed on your lips, ready to say a cheerful hello to Garrett, Logan, or Dean.

You look up.

And your brain entirely stops working.

Standing at the top of the staircase, his hand casually running through his damp, sandy-blonde hair, is Dean.

He is not wearing a shirt. He is not wearing pants. He is not wearing a towel.

He is completely, undeniably, one-hundred-percent naked.

For a fraction of a second, your sheltered, traditional, church-raised mind simply cannot comprehend what your eyes are processing. You have never seen a man’s bare chest before, let alone … everything else.

Water droplets glisten against the hard planes of his abs, tracing the deep V of his hips, drawing your wide, horrified eyes straight down to the absolute center of his body. It is heavy. It is prominent. It is fully on display. You are getting an absolute, unobstructed eyeful of Dean Di Laurentis’s dick.

A tiny, strangled squeak escapes your throat. It sounds like a mouse getting stepped on.

Dean freezes at the top of the stairs. He looks down. He sees you standing in the foyer, staring up at him with eyes the size of dinner plates, your face burning a violent, magnificent shade of scarlet.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes.

Tucker spins around at the sound of the squeak. He follows your gaze up the stairs.

The roar that erupts from your brother’s chest is something out of a wildlife documentary.

“DI LAURENTIS!” Tucker bellows, lunging forward as if he’s going to sprint up the stairs and tackle Dean through the drywall. “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!”

You slap both of your hands over your eyes, squeezing them shut so tight you see bursts of white light. Your entire body is trembling. “Oh my goodness,” you gasp, your voice muffled behind your palms. “Oh my goodness, Lord forgive me, I didn’t mean to look, I didn’t-”

“I am going to end your bloodline!” Tucker screams at Dean, stepping in front of you to physically shield you from the sight, even though your eyes are already covered. “I am going to rip your head off and throw it into the Charles River! Get a towel! Get a fucking towel!”

Upstairs, a door bangs open. Logan steps out of his bedroom, rubbing his eyes, wearing a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants. “Tuck, what the hell are you yelling-”

Logan stops dead in his tracks. He looks at Dean, fully nude in the hallway. He looks over the railing and sees Tucker practically foaming at the mouth, shielding a violently blushing, trembling you.

“Oh, God,” Logan says, instantly realizing what just happened. A bark of laughter escapes him before he can stop it. “Dean, you idiot.”

“It’s not my fault!” Dean defends himself, though he doesn’t make a single move to cover up. Instead, he casually leans his hip against the banister, an incredibly arrogant, wicked smirk spreading across his handsome face. He looks down at you, knowing exactly what he’s doing to your delicate sensibilities. “Nobody told me we were having company. Besides, it’s just biology, Tuck. Relax. It’s not like Adam and Eve were walking around covered up in denim, right, Y/N?”

You let out another high-pitched squeak, burying your face directly into the back of Tucker’s flannel shirt. “Please tell him to put clothes on, Tucker. Please.”

“I am coming up there,” Tucker says, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly calm. “And I am going to castrate you.”

Another door opens. Garrett steps out of his room, his dark hair messy from sleep, wearing nothing but black gym shorts. He assesses the situation in three seconds flat. Naked Dean. Enraged Tucker. And you, shaking like a leaf, hiding behind your brother.

The primal, possessive instinct that Garrett has been desperately trying to keep in check since Malone’s violently snaps.

“Put some fucking pants on, Di Laurentis,” Garrett snarls, his voice so sharp and authoritative it actually makes Dean flinch. Garrett glares at him, his gray eyes flashing with genuine fury. “Now.”

Dean holds his hands up in surrender, dropping the smirk. “Alright, alright! Geez, Graham, calm down. I’m going.”

Dean turns and saunters back into his bedroom, taking his sweet time, fully aware that Garrett and Logan are both staring daggers into his back.

“He’s gone,” Tucker says softly, turning around and placing his heavy hands on your shoulders. “Y/N. Honey, you can open your eyes. He’s gone.”

You slowly lower your hands. Your face feels like it is radiating enough heat to cook an egg. You refuse to look up at the second floor, keeping your eyes glued strictly to Tucker’s chest. “I think I should go back to the dorm.”

“No,” Tucker says firmly, completely entirely enraged on your behalf. “You are not leaving. You came here to study, and you are going to study. I am going to go upstairs and have a very long, very physical conversation with Dean. You go sit in the kitchen.”

“Tucker, please don’t hit him,” you whisper, clutching your tote bag. “It was an accident.”

“The first three seconds were an accident,” Tucker growls. “The Adam and Eve comment earned him a black eye. Go to the kitchen, Y/N.”

Tucker marches past you, taking the stairs two at a time. A second later, you hear Dean’s bedroom door slam open, followed by Dean yelping, and Logan’s booming laughter.

You let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to your racing heart. You have never been so mortified in your entire life. You try to push the image of Dean’s … anatomy out of your head, but it is seared into your retinas. It was just so … large.

You shake your head violently, asking for forgiveness, and quickly scurry into the kitchen.

If the living room was a disaster zone, the kitchen is an active biohazard.

You drop your tote bag onto a barstool and simply stare. There are three empty pizza boxes stacked on the center island. A pile of mail is scattered over the granite countertops. The sink is overflowing with dirty dishes, some of which look like they’ve been sitting there since the Bush administration. There is a single, lonely apple sitting in a fruit bowl, completely shriveled and brown.

The shock of what you just saw upstairs is immediately replaced by a deeply ingrained, almost pavlovian response to domestic chaos.

You cannot study in this. Your mother raised you better than this.

Without even thinking, you drop your Bible on the only clean corner of the island and roll up the sleeves of your white blouse.

Garrett walks into the kitchen two minutes later, having left Tucker to verbally assassinate Dean upstairs. He is still shirtless, his chest and muscular arms on full display. He expects to find you sitting quietly, maybe crying from shock, or at least staring awkwardly at the floor.

Instead, he stops dead in the doorway.

You have found a half-empty bottle of all-purpose cleaner under the sink. You are vigorously scrubbing the granite island, your hips swaying slightly in your blue skirt as you wipe away dried hot sauce and mysterious sticky rings. The pizza boxes have already been broken down and shoved into the recycling bin.

“What are you doing?” Garrett asks, his voice thick, sounding completely bewildered.

You jump slightly, turning to look at him. You immediately avert your eyes from his bare, sculpted chest, focusing fiercely on his chin. “Oh. I just … I couldn’t sit here with the mess. How do you boys live like this? It’s not sanitary.”

“You don’t have to clean that,” Garrett says, taking a step forward. “Y/N, stop. We have a cleaning lady who comes on Mondays. You’re a guest.”

“Nonsense,” you say, tossing the paper towel into the trash and reaching for another. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, Garrett. Besides, it helps calm my nerves.”

You finish wiping the counter and move toward the sink. You turn on the hot water, squirting a generous amount of Dawn dish soap over the towering pile of plates.

Garrett just stands there, completely paralyzed.

He watches you plunge your small, delicate hands into the soapy water. He watches the way the afternoon sunlight catches the golden strands of your hair. He watches you naturally, effortlessly take control of his chaotic space and bring order to it.

Garrett grew up in a massive, sterile mansion that felt like a museum. His mother was sick, and his father was a monster. He has never known what it looks like to have a woman happily puttering around a kitchen, humming a soft melody, creating a sense of warmth just by existing in the room.

It hits him like a freight train.

Every protective, possessive, provider instinct in his body flares up so intensely it actually aches. He wants to walk up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, bury his face in your neck, and never let you leave this house again.

“Do y’all even have any real food?” You ask, drying a plate with a towel and setting it on the rack. “I looked in the fridge to find some water, and it’s nothing but sports drinks, beer, and something that smells like old cheese.”

Logan walks into the kitchen just in time to hear the question. He is also shirtless, showing off a lean, corded swimmer’s build that is completely different from Garrett’s bulk.

Logan freezes beside Garrett, his jaw dropping slightly as he takes in the sight of you standing at the sink, washing their dirty dishes.

“Uh,” Logan says, his brain totally short-circuiting. “We order out a lot.”

“That is terrible for your bodies,” you scold gently, sounding exactly like a southern mother. You turn off the faucet and wipe your hands on a towel. You walk over to the pantry, pulling the door open. You inspect the shelves, pushing aside boxes of protein bars and stale chips. “You are division one athletes. You need proper nourishment. Meat. Vegetables. Complex carbohydrates. Not … whatever these neon orange puffs are.”

You grab a large, heavy bag of flour from the back of the pantry. You haul it onto the newly cleaned kitchen island. Then you march over to the fridge, extracting a carton of eggs, half a stick of butter, and a gallon of milk.

“Y/N, seriously, what are you doing?” Logan asks, his voice practically a whisper. He feels like he’s watching a hallucination.

“I am making you boys a proper breakfast,” you declare, pulling a large mixing bowl from a lower cabinet. “Or lunch, I suppose, since it’s one in the afternoon. Have none of you eaten today?”

Garrett and Logan shake their heads simultaneously, completely mute.

“Exactly,” you say, cracking an egg into the bowl with one hand. “Sit down. Both of you.”

They obey instantly. Two massive, dangerous hockey players scramble onto the barstools on the opposite side of the island, sitting side-by-side, watching you with wide, mesmerized eyes.

“I am going to make biscuits from scratch,” you announce, measuring out the flour. “And some scrambled eggs. And if I can find bacon in that freezer, I’ll fry that up too. A growing boy needs protein.”

Logan swallows hard. His dad is a drunk who can barely remember Logan’s name, let alone cook him a meal. Logan has spent his entire life taking care of everyone else — his dad, his brother, his teammates. Nobody takes care of Logan. Nobody cooks for him just because they want to.

Watching you knead the dough, your small hands dusted with white flour, your face completely serious and focused on the task of feeding him, breaks down a wall inside Logan that he didn’t even know existed. He wants to give you the world. He wants to buy you a house with a wrap-around porch. He is utterly, hopelessly ruined.

“You don’t have to do this,” Garrett manages to choke out, though his voice is rough and betraying his absolute desperate need for you to stay right here forever.

“I want to,” you say, giving him a sweet, blinding smile that makes Garrett’s heart physically stutter in his chest. “It’s the least I can do. I barged in on your Saturday uninvited.”

“You can barge in whenever you want,” Logan says, his voice dripping with such unfiltered sincerity that it makes you pause and blink at him.

Footsteps echo on the stairs. Tucker walks into the kitchen, followed closely by a fully dressed, highly subdued Dean. Dean has a red mark on his shoulder where Tucker clearly shoved him into a wall.

“Alright,” Tucker says, exhaling sharply. “He apologized. He won’t ever-”

Tucker stops.

He looks at the gleaming counters. He looks at the empty sink. He looks at his sister, covered in flour, happily rolling out biscuit dough on the island. And finally, he looks at Garrett and Logan.

Garrett and Logan are staring at you with expressions of such intense, terrifying devotion that Tucker feels a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck.

Dean steps around Tucker, peering into the kitchen.

Dean’s mother is a high-powered corporate lawyer who wouldn’t know how to turn on an oven if her life depended on it. Dean has always dated girls exactly like his mother: driven, ambitious, entirely independent, and terrible in a kitchen.

He looks at you. He looks at the flour on your cheek. He looks at the modest, incredibly feminine way your skirt swishes as you turn to check the oven temperature.

Dean Di Laurentis, the biggest playboy on the East Coast, feels an overwhelming, violent urge to get a corporate job, put on a suit, and come home to you at five o’clock every single day for the rest of his life.

“Oh my god,” Dean whispers, gripping the edge of the doorway to keep himself upright.

“What are you doing?” Tucker asks you, his voice cracking slightly in panic. He told them to stay away. He told them she was pure. He didn’t account for you actively weaponizing your traditional upbringing against them.

“I’m making y’all lunch,” you say cheerfully, oblivious to the immense psychological damage you are currently inflicting on the three men in the room. “Have a seat, Tucker. The biscuits will be done in twelve minutes.”

Tucker looks at Garrett. Garrett’s eyes are dark, practically dilated, tracking your every movement.

Tucker looks at Logan. Logan has his elbows on the counter, his chin resting in his hands, staring at you like you are the sun and he has been living underground his whole life.

Tucker looks at Dean. Dean looks like he is going to pass out from pure, unadulterated yearning.

“Guys,” Tucker says slowly, a warning edge slipping into his voice. “Stop staring at my sister.”

“I’m not staring,” Garrett lies smoothly, though he doesn’t blink once. “I’m watching the dough.”

“It’s fascinating dough,” Logan agrees, completely hypnotized.

“I want to eat her dough,” Dean murmurs, still gripping the doorframe.

Tucker violently shoves Dean into the hallway. “Get out! All of you, get out of the kitchen!”

“Leave them be, Tucker,” you scold lightly, pulling a cast-iron skillet from the lower cabinet. You set it on the stove and turn on the burner. “They’re just hungry. Go sit down, Dean. I found some bacon in the freezer.”

Dean slowly steps back into the kitchen, his eyes never leaving you. He walks over to the island and takes the stool next to Logan. He looks at you with a kind of desperate, pleading reverence.

“You’re making bacon?” Dean asks, his voice thick.

“Yes, Dean,” you say with a soft smile. “I’m making bacon.”

Dean puts his head down on the cool granite counter. “I love you. I’m sorry I was naked. Please marry me.”

“Dean!” Tucker roars, lunging forward.

You just laugh, a bright, chiming sound that bounces off the walls, assuming he is entirely joking. “You’re very funny, Dean. But I think you’re just hungry. My mama always says men think with their stomachs.”

“We do,” Logan confirms, his gray eyes burning into you. “That’s exactly what we do.”

Garrett leans forward, resting his massive forearms on the island, putting himself slightly closer to you than the other two. “Can I help you with anything, Y/N? Anything at all. You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

“Actually,” you say, handing him a bowl and a whisk. “If you could whisk these eggs for me, Garrett, that would be wonderful. I need to keep an eye on the skillet.”

Garrett takes the bowl like it is the Holy Grail. He grips the whisk and begins beating the eggs with the intensity and focus of a man trying to win the Stanley Cup. He would whisk cement for you if you asked him to.

Tucker collapses into the fourth barstool, burying his face in his hands.

The slow play is officially dead.

Garrett, Logan, and Dean are no longer just interested. They are completely, irrevocably obsessed, and sitting in the kitchen while you cook them breakfast is cementing a terrible, beautiful truth in all of their minds.

They are going to fight to the death for you.

And you, blissfully unaware, just hum a quiet church hymn as you flip the bacon.

***

The house is dead quiet, which is entirely unnatural for a Thursday afternoon. Usually, there’s music blasting from someone’s room, the sounds of NHL 20 blaring from the living room TV, or the dull thud of a hockey puck bouncing off the drywall in the hallway.

Today, there is only the agonizing, suffocating weight of three miserable men sitting in absolute silence.

Tucker is gone. He had a mandatory meeting with the academic advisor, followed by a study session at the library, meaning he won’t be back for at least another two hours.

Garrett is sprawled out on the battered leather sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling fan. Logan is sitting backward on the armchair, his chin resting on his folded arms, staring blankly at the blank television screen. Dean is lying flat on his back on the rug, his arms thrown over his face, looking like a corpse that hasn’t been discovered yet.

None of them have brought a girl back to the house in three and a half weeks.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Dean finally says. His voice is muffled by his own arms, thick with genuine, unfiltered despair.

“Take what?” Logan asks, not looking away from the black screen.

“The pretending,” Dean groans, slowly lowering his arms. He stares up at the ceiling, looking haunted. “I can’t sit here and pretend that my entire brain hasn’t been rewired. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to go to the Kappa party tonight. I don’t want to look at another girl.”

Garrett slowly shifts his gaze from the fan to Dean. He doesn’t say anything, but his jaw clenches.

“I think,” Dean whispers, as if confessing to a murder, “I think I have a thing for trad wives. Like, a serious, life-altering thing.”

For three agonizing seconds, the only sound in the room is the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.

Then, Logan lets out a long, shaky breath and drops his forehead onto his arms. “Oh, thank God. Thank God it’s not just me.”

Garrett sits up abruptly, dragging both hands through his dark hair. The sheer relief of the admission breaks the tension in the room like a snapped rubber band. “Are you kidding me? I’ve been losing my mind. I’ve literally been looking up property values in the suburbs. I don’t even like the suburbs!”

“I spent twenty minutes yesterday looking at minivans online,” Dean confesses miserably, sitting up and crossing his legs on the floor. “Honda Odysseys, Garrett. With the built-in vacuum cleaners in the back. I don’t even have a kid to drop Cheerios! Why do I care about a built-in vacuum?”

“Because of her,” Logan states the obvious, his voice heavy.

It has been roughly a month since you moved to Massachusetts, a month since Tucker brought you over for the first time, and exactly one week since you completely dismantled the Briar University hockey team with a piece of poster board and a sheet of shiny stickers.

Without another word, Garrett stands up and walks into the kitchen. Logan and Dean immediately follow him, a solemn, pathetic little parade trailing toward the refrigerator.

They stand in a semi-circle, staring at the white double doors of the fridge.

Right in the center, held up by four strawberry-shaped magnets, is a piece of bright pink poster board. The top reads, in perfectly neat, cursive handwriting House Rules for Good Boys.

“It’s a behavior chart,” Dean whispers, staring at it with a mix of awe and sheer terror. “She gave us a literal behavior chart meant for kindergartners.”

Logan reaches out, lightly tracing the edge of the poster board with his fingertip. “And we are fully governed by it.”

The flashback plays in all of their minds with crystal clarity.

A little over a week ago, you had marched into the house through the front door, carrying a rolled-up piece of cardboard and a small plastic bag from an arts and crafts store. You were wearing a mint-green sundress with a matching ribbon in your hair, looking completely out of place among the empty beer cans and scattered hockey gear.

“Tucker is at practice,” Logan had told you from the kitchen counter.

“I know,” you had said, unfurling the poster board. “I waited until he left. Gather ‘round, boys.”

They had looked at each other, confused, but the gentle, authoritative tone of your voice had them immediately leaving the living room and filing into the kitchen. They had stood in front of you, three towering, intimidating athletes, watching as you expertly magnetized the chart to the fridge.

“This house is a disaster,” you had told them sweetly, placing your hands on your hips. “You curse too much, you leave your dirty socks on the coffee table, and your sink always has dishes in it. Mama always said boys need structure. So, I am giving you structure.”

Garrett had stared at the board. There were columns with their names — Garrett, Dean, Logan, and even Tucker. Down the side were categories like Used Inside Voices, Completed Chores Without Complaining, No Bad Words, Ate All Our Vegetables, and Kindness to Others.

“What is this?” Dean had asked, trying not to laugh.

You had reached into the plastic bag and pulled out a sheet of shiny, holographic gold star stickers. “This is your behavior chart. Every time I come over, I will assess your behavior. If you do well in a category, you get a star next to your name.”

“Y/N,” Logan had chuckled, leaning against the counter. “We’re twenty-two years old. We don’t care about gold stars.”

You had smiled. It was a soft, entirely innocent smile, but it possessed a terrifying power. “Oh? Well, if you get five stars in a row, you get a reward. I will bake you whatever you want. Brownies, chocolate chip cookies, homemade cinnamon rolls …”

They had stopped laughing.

“But,” you had added, raising a delicate finger, “if you break a rule, you lose a star. And if you lose a star, I will be very, very disappointed in you.”

The word had hung in the air.

None of them had ever wanted to disappoint you. The thought of your big, pretty eyes looking at them with sadness or disapproval was literally agonizing.

“I want a star,” Garrett had said instantly, standing up straighter.

“Me too,” Dean had chimed in, suddenly panicking that he was behind.

“What do I have to do right now to get a star?” Logan had demanded, already grabbing a sponge to wipe down the countertops.

And just like that, you had them on a leash.

Back in the present, Garrett stares at the chart. Next to his name, he has four gold stars. Logan has four gold stars. Dean has three.

“I can’t believe I lost a star,” Dean mutters, dragging his hands down his face. “I stubbed my toe on the coffee table! It was a natural reaction!”

“You screamed ‘motherfucker’ at the top of your lungs while she was pulling a pie out of the oven, Dean,” Logan points out mercilessly. “You’re lucky she didn’t take two stars.”

“She looked so sad,” Dean whispers, genuinely distressed by the memory. “She just looked at me, sighed, and peeled the sticker right off the board. It physically hurt my chest, Logan. I felt like I failed as a man.”

“You did fail,” Garrett says, not taking his eyes off his own row of stars. He is one star away from the ultimate prize. “You lack discipline. She likes discipline. That’s why I’m winning.”

“We are tied, Graham,” Logan reminds him, bumping his shoulder. “I took out the recycling yesterday without being asked. She gave me a star for ‘taking initiative’. She patted my cheek, Garrett. She physically patted my cheek and called me a good boy.”

Logan’s voice actually breaks a little at the end of the sentence. The tough, sarcastic mechanic’s son from a broken home has completely crumbled under the weight of maternal praise.

“She called you a good boy?” Dean asks, his head whipping toward Logan, sheer jealousy radiating off him in waves. “When? I was here all day yesterday!”

“When you were in the shower,” Logan says, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “She patted my cheek, gave me a cupcake, and said she was proud of how hard I was studying for my finals.”

Garrett grips the edge of the kitchen counter so hard his knuckles turn white. “If you two think you’re getting the reward over me, you’re delusional. I ate broccoli last night. Plain, steamed broccoli. I hated every second of it, but she watched me do it, and she smiled.”

“God, her smile,” Dean groans, leaning back against the island and shutting his eyes. “It’s destroying my life. It really is.”

Since implementing the chart, you have started coming over every few days. You never come empty-handed. You show up carrying Tupperware containers filled with casseroles, fresh bread, and sweets. You sweep into the house like a gentle hurricane of domesticity, armed with a feather duster and an unshakeable moral compass.

The worst part — the absolute, most debilitating part for the three of them — is what you wear when you do it.

You are entirely oblivious to the effect you have. You show up in floral dresses that hit your knees, your waist cinched with a ribbon, looking like a 1950s housewife stepped out of a catalog. Sometimes you wear a frilly, pastel apron over your clothes to keep the flour off. You hum church hymns while you wipe the counters. You scold them gently for their bad habits. You act like the perfect, traditional wife, entirely unaware that the three men watching you are feral, testosterone-fueled athletes who are one loose thread away from snapping completely.

“I can’t sleep,” Dean confesses, keeping his eyes shut. “I literally can’t sleep anymore.”

“Join the club,” Logan mutters. “I haven’t slept a full night since she started wearing that yellow apron with the little ducks on it.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a raspy, tortured whisper. “I’m having dreams. Wet dreams.”

Garrett scoffs softly. “Dean, you’re twenty-two. Congratulations on basic biology.”

“Not about normal things, Garrett!” Dean snaps, opening his eyes and glaring at him. “About her And it’s messing with my head because they aren’t even normal wet dreams!”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Dean runs a hand violently through his sandy hair, pacing a small circle in the kitchen. “In the dream, she’s in the kitchen. She’s wearing the floral dress. She’s baking cookies. The whole house smells like vanilla and sugar. And she looks so … sweet. So pure. And then she turns around, and she smiles at me, and I walk over to her, and I … I do things to her.”

Dean swallows hard, his face flushing a dark red.

“Filthy things,” Dean continues, his voice strained. “Things that would make Tucker literally murder me with a rusted spoon. On the kitchen island. In the apron. And she’s calling me a good boy the entire time. I woke up yesterday morning and I had to sit in the shower under freezing cold water for forty-five minutes just to keep myself from crying.”

Logan stares at Dean, completely horrified but also terrifyingly empathetic. “Okay. That is … that is intense.”

“It’s psychological warfare!” Dean hisses, gesturing wildly toward the fridge. “She is a literal angel. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She bends over to check the oven, and the skirt flares out just a little bit, and I feel like my brain is melting out of my ears.”

“She is completely untouchable,” Garrett says softly, his voice cutting through Dean’s panic.

Garrett leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. His gray eyes are dark, stormy with frustration and an aching, desperate kind of longing.

“That’s the problem,” Garrett says. “You’re dreaming about doing filthy things to her, Dean? She doesn’t even know what a wet dream is.”

Dean stops pacing. Logan looks at Garrett.

“Think about it,” Garrett continues, his voice turning grim. “She thinks hand-holding is a big deal. She prays before she eats a french fry. She was raised in a church where they probably told her that impure thoughts are a sin. If you tried to explain a wet dream to her, she would probably think you spilled water in your bed and offer to help you change your sheets.”

The absolute truth of that statement hits them like a physical blow.

Somehow, the realization of your total, complete innocence makes them all even hornier. It is a forbidden, unreachable purity that their corrupted minds are utterly obsessed with. They don’t want to ruin you. They want to worship you. They want to be the one man in the entire world who gets to show you what it feels like to be touched, to be loved, to be absolutely consumed by someone else.

But it’s impossible.

“She belongs in a glass case,” Logan says miserably, slumping against the counter. “Or a museum. We are entirely too dirtbag for her.”

“Tucker told us from day one,” Garrett says, staring at the floor. “He said if we touch her, we break her. I didn’t get it then. I thought he was just being an overprotective brother. But he was right. We don’t know how to do courtship. We don’t know how to do slow. We’re hockey players. We hit things.”

“I could learn,” Dean says defensively, though he sounds desperate. “I could buy flowers. I could open doors.”

“You hold the school record for most threesomes in a semester, Di Laurentis,” Logan reminds him.

“That was before I saw the light!” Dean argues. “I’m a changed man! I haven’t even looked at a girl since Y/N walked into Malone’s. I am reformed. I am practically a monk.”

Garrett lets out a harsh, humorless laugh. “We’re all monks now. And for what? She’s Tucker’s sister. Even if one of us somehow managed to learn how to be a perfect, god-fearing gentleman, Tucker would never allow it. He knows us too well.”

“Tucker isn’t the boss of her,” Dean points out, his competitive edge finally overriding his misery. He walks back over to the fridge, stopping directly in front of the pink poster board. He stares at the gold stars glinting in the afternoon light.

“What are you thinking, Dean?” Logan asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I’m thinking,” Dean says slowly, a dangerous, familiar spark returning to his eyes, “that we have a metric system right here.”

Garrett pushes off the counter. “What are you talking about?”

Dean turns around, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his handsome face. The misery is gone, replaced entirely by the thrill of the hunt. “This behavior chart. She put it up to give us structure. To make us good boys.”

“Yeah,” Logan says slowly. “So?”

“So,” Dean says, tapping the poster board. “We use it. We play her game. We play it better than we’ve ever played anything in our lives. We don’t just act like gentlemen, we become gentlemen. We compete.”

Garrett narrows his eyes. “Compete for what?”

“For the right to pursue her,” Dean says, the words hanging heavy in the kitchen air.

Logan goes perfectly still. Garrett’s jaw clenches.

“We are three guys who are aggressively, pathetically in love with the same girl,” Dean says, pointing between the three of them. “And we are all terrified of Tucker. If we all make a move, it’s going to be a bloodbath. Tucker will kill us, we’ll ruin our friendship, and she’ll run away crying because she hates conflict. So, we make an agreement.”

Dean steps away from the fridge, looking at Garrett, then at Logan.

“Whoever has the most gold stars on this chart by the end of the semester,” Dean proposes, his voice dead serious, “is the winner. The winner gets to go to Tucker, confess his intentions, take the beating like a man, and then ask Y/N on a proper, traditional date. And the losers have to back off completely. Forever. No interfering, no sabotage, no whining.”

Silence descends on the kitchen again.

It is an insane idea. They are betting on the affection of their best friend’s sister using a kindergarten reward system. It is childish, absurd, and potentially relationship-destroying.

But as Garrett looks at the chart, he realizes it is the only fair way.

He wants you. He wants you so badly his teeth ache. He wants to sit at the kitchen table while you make breakfast, he wants to go to church with you on Sundays just to hold your hand, he wants to build that white picket fence himself just to keep you safe inside it.

And he knows Logan and Dean want the exact same thing.

“You’re assuming she’s a prize to be won, Dean,” Logan says quietly, though he hasn’t looked away from the chart. “What if she doesn’t want the winner?”

“If the winner asks her out and she says no,” Dean replies easily, “then she says no. But the winner is the only one who gets the chance to ask. The winner gets a clear shot without the other two crowding him. Deal?”

Logan hesitates. He thinks about your soft hands, the way you smell like vanilla, the way you praised him for doing the dishes. He thinks about a lifetime of coming home to a warm house and someone who actually cares if he had a good day.

He sets his jaw. He refuses to lose that.

“Deal,” Logan says, his voice hard with resolve.

Dean turns to Garrett.

Garrett, the captain. The star center. The most competitive man on the Briar University campus. He looks at the single gold star separating him from Dean, and the tie he currently holds with Logan.

He isn’t going to lose. He doesn’t know how to lose.

“Fine,” Garrett says softly, his gray eyes locking onto Dean’s. “Deal.”

“Excellent,” Dean grins, clearly thrilled with himself. “Gentlemen, the game is-”

The front door suddenly clicks open.

“Hey, guys, I’m back!” Tucker’s voice echoes from the foyer, followed by the heavy thud of his backpack hitting the floor. “And I brought Y/N! She wanted to drop off some cookies!”

The three men in the kitchen freeze.

Instant, absolute panic washes over them. The bet, the confidence, the competitive bravado entirely evaporates the second they hear your name.

“Hello!” Your sweet, melodic voice chimes out, followed by the soft click of your sensible shoes on the hardwood floor. “Are you boys in the kitchen?”

Garrett practically dives for the dirty sponge Logan abandoned earlier, furiously scrubbing a spot on the already pristine granite counter.

Logan snatches a rogue piece of junk mail off the island and starts reading it with terrifying intensity, pretending to be deeply engrossed in an ad for a local carpet cleaning service.

Dean just stands there, looking like a deer caught in headlights, violently trying to force the image of his wet dream out of his mind before you walk into the room.

You step into the kitchen.

You are wearing a pale pink dress with little white daisies printed on it. You have a delicate, white crocheted cardigan draped over your shoulders. In your hands is a large plastic container, and you are smiling so brightly it practically illuminates the room.

“Hi!” You say, your southern drawl thick and warm. “I made snickerdoodles. I know y’all have a big game this weekend, so I wanted to make sure you had plenty of energy.”

Tucker walks in behind you, looking exhausted but fond. He glances at the three of them. He notices Garrett aggressively scrubbing a clean counter, Logan reading junk mail like it’s a textbook, and Dean standing rigidly at attention with his hands clasped behind his back.

Tucker squints. “What are you idiots doing?”

“Cleaning!” Garrett barks out quickly, his voice a pitch higher than usual. “Just keeping the house tidy. You know. For the chart.”

You beam at him, setting the container of cookies on the island. “Oh, Garrett, that is so wonderful! Look at you, taking initiative.”

Garrett’s chest puffs out instinctively. He glances at Dean and Logan with a smug, triumphant look.

You walk over to the fridge, pulling a sheet of shiny gold stars from your small purse. You peel one off the sheet, your delicate fingers working carefully. You reach up, standing on your tiptoes slightly, and press the gold star firmly onto the poster board, right next to Garrett’s name.

“There you go,” you say, turning to him and giving his bicep a soft, approving pat. “Five stars for Garrett. You get the first reward.”

Garrett stops breathing. The touch of your hand on his arm sends a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. He stares down at you, absolutely mesmerized, completely lost in the scent of cinnamon and sugar that clings to you.

“Thank you, Y/N,” Garrett manages to rasp out, his voice incredibly deep. “I … I appreciate that.”

Logan and Dean are staring at Garrett with expressions of pure hatred.

“And I noticed that the living room doesn’t have a single piece of clothing on the floor,” you say, turning your attention to the other two. “Did you both help with that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean says instantly, practically standing at attention.

“Absolutely,” Logan agrees, desperate not to be left behind.

You smile, peeling two more stars off the sheet and adding them to Dean and Logan’s columns. “Good boys. I am so proud of how well y’all are doing.”

Dean lets out a soft, embarrassing whimper. He quickly clears his throat to cover it up, but Tucker definitely heard it.

Tucker narrows his eyes at Dean, his protective instincts flaring up. “You okay, Di Laurentis?”

“Never better,” Dean squeaks, staring rigidly at the fridge.

“Well, I can’t stay long,” you say, turning back to your brother. “I have to get back to the dorm to finish an essay for my literature class. But enjoy the cookies!”

“I’ll walk you back,” Tucker says instantly.

“Oh, you don’t have to,” you assure him, picking up your purse. “It’s still daylight. I’ll be perfectly fine.”

“I am walking you back,” Tucker repeats, leaving no room for argument. He looks at his three roommates. “Don’t eat all the cookies before I get back. Or I’ll take a star down myself.”

“You don’t have authorization to touch the chart, Tucker,” Garrett says seriously. “Only Y/N does.”

You let out a lovely, melodic laugh. “He’s right, Tucker. Only I control the stars. Bye, boys! Have a blessed afternoon!”

“Bye, Y/N,” they chime in unison, sounding like a choir of completely brainwashed cult members.

They watch you leave the kitchen, their eyes glued to the sway of your pink skirt. They listen to the front door open and close, followed by the heavy thud of the deadbolt locking.

The silence returns to the house.

Garrett, Dean, and Logan slowly turn to look at each other.

The misery is gone. The despair is gone.

In its place is an absolutely terrifying, feral determination.

Garrett points a finger at Dean. “I am going to win.”

“You’re delusional,” Dean fires back, snatching a snickerdoodle from the container. “I am going to charm her so hard she’s going to forget your name.”

Logan cracks his knuckles, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. “You two can fight it out all you want. But she likes a project. And I am the biggest project in this house. She’s going to fix me, and then she’s going to marry me.”

The war has officially begun.

And all it took was a pack of shiny gold stickers.

***

The pink poster board on the refrigerator is no longer just a behavior chart. It is a monument to madness.

It is the second week of December. Outside the off-campus house, a fresh layer of Massachusetts snow blankets the front lawn, but inside the kitchen, the temperature is absolutely boiling.

Garrett, Dean, and Logan stand in a tight triangle around the kitchen island, staring at the refrigerator.

The chart is completely, utterly full. There is not a single millimeter of blank space left in any of their three columns. The gold stars overlap each other, gleaming mockingly in the overhead lights.

Garrett has exactly seventy-five gold stars. Dean has exactly seventy-five gold stars. Logan has exactly seventy-five gold stars.

It is a perfect, catastrophic, three-way tie.

“This is mathematically impossible,” Garrett says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He braces his massive hands on the granite counter, his jaw ticking so hard it looks like it might snap. “One of you cheated. I know for a fact I earned more stars this week. I shoveled the driveway before she even got out of her dorm.”

“I didn’t cheat!” Dean snaps, running a hand frantically through his sandy hair. He looks entirely unhinged. “I went to a knitting circle, Garrett! I sat in a circle with eight grandmothers at the community center and I learned how to knit a scarf! She gave me five stars for ‘embracing wholesome hobbies’. You can’t beat that!”

“Oh, please,” Logan scoffs, pointing an accusing finger at Dean. “I went to a Friday night Bible study. Do you know how hard it is to sit in a folding chair in a church basement, making eye contact with a youth pastor named Keith, while actively hallucinating about doing entirely unholy things to the girl who invited me? I earned those stars with my blood, sweat, and sanity.”

“It doesn’t matter what any of us did,” Garrett growls, turning his fierce gray eyes on his teammates. “The bet was simple. The one with the most stars at the end of the semester gets the right to pursue her. Nobody else interferes. We tie, nobody wins. Which means nobody has the go-ahead.”

“Well, somebody has to win!” Dean practically shouts, pacing the length of the kitchen. “I am dying, boys. I am literally dying. Tucker and Y/N fly back to Texas tomorrow morning for Christmas break. That’s three weeks. Three weeks without seeing her, smelling her, or hearing her call me a good boy. If I don’t get to stake my claim before she leaves, I’m going to throw myself off the campus bridge.”

Logan rubs the back of his neck, his normally easygoing face tight with frustration. “We can’t all pursue her. Tucker will literally buy a shotgun. We agreed to the bet so we wouldn’t tear this house — and her — apart.”

“Fuck the bet,” Garrett says suddenly.

Dean and Logan stop. They both stare at their captain.

“Excuse me?” Dean says.

Garrett stands up to his full, intimidating height. His chest heaves under his dark gray t-shirt. “Fuck the bet. Fuck the gold stars. I can’t do this anymore. I am not stepping back just because we tied. I want her. I am going to make her mine, and I don’t care if I have to fight both of you and Tucker to do it.”

“Whoa, hold on,” Logan says, stepping forward, his own alpha instincts flaring up. “You don’t just get to claim her because you’re the captain, Graham. I want her just as badly as you do. Do you have any idea what it does to me when she wears those little floral dresses? When she hums while she washes my dishes? I want to put a ring on her finger. I want her in my bed.”

“Your bed?” Dean barks out a harsh, desperate laugh. “I want her everywhere. I want her on this kitchen island. I want to ruin that perfect, sweet little innocence of hers. I want to pull her hair and make her scream my name until she loses her voice. I want to do filthy, degrading, mind-blowing things to her while she’s wearing that goddamn frilly apron, and I’m not letting either of you get to her first!”

“You think you’re the only one?” Garrett snarls, taking a step toward Dean, completely entirely feral. “I want to bend her over the dining table. I want to hold her down and make her take every inch of me until she’s begging. I am obsessed with her, Di Laurentis. It’s a sickness. I’m going to ruin her for any other man.”

“You’ll have to go through me,” Logan warns, his voice dropping an octave, his fists clenching at his sides. “Because she’s going to be underneath me, looking up at me, taking it all-”

A loud, metallic clatter cuts through the kitchen.

It sounds like a tin can hitting the hardwood floor in the foyer.

Garrett freezes. Logan stops breathing. Dean’s eyes go wide.

Simultaneously, the three massive athletes turn their heads toward the hallway.

You are standing in the foyer.

The front door is slightly ajar behind you, letting in a biting gust of December wind. You are wearing a thick, powder-blue winter coat, a white knitted beanie, and your cheeks are flushed pink from the cold.

At your feet lies a round metal tin. The lid has popped off, scattering a dozen perfectly frosted, homemade Christmas cookies across the hardwood floor.

Your hands are clamped over your mouth. Your eyes, usually so bright and warm, are dilated with absolute, unadulterated shock. They are wide and glistening with the sudden, sharp sting of tears.

You heard everything.

Every filthy, dirty, explicit thing they just said. The bet. The gold stars. The competition to “win” you. The incredibly graphic, violent ways they want to ruin your innocence.

“Y/N,” Garrett breathes, the color entirely draining from his face. The fierce, feral competitor vanishes in a fraction of a second, replaced by sheer, suffocating panic. “Y/N, wait.”

You let out a small, broken gasp. You take a step backward, your sensible winter boot crunching on a sugar cookie.

“Sweetheart, please,” Logan begs, holding his hands up like he’s approaching a terrified, wounded animal. He takes a slow step forward. “Just let us explain. It’s not what you think-”

“You … you bet on me?” You whisper, your voice trembling so violently it barely makes a sound. “A chart? Like … like a prize?”

“No!” Dean says, his voice cracking with pure desperation. “No, Y/N, it wasn’t like that! We just—we all wanted you so badly, and we didn’t know how to handle it!”

You look at Dean. Then you look at Logan. Then you look at Garrett.

The image of them — the perfect, polite gentlemen you thought you were helping, the boys you prayed for, the boys you baked for — shatters into a million jagged pieces. They aren’t gentlemen. They are predators. And they have been circling you for months, salivating, waiting for the right moment to pounce and do the horrible, filthy things they just described.

A sob tears from your throat.

You spin on your heel, grab the doorknob, and practically throw yourself out into the freezing snow.

“Y/N!” Garrett roars.

The heavy wooden door slams shut behind you with a deafening bang.

Garrett, Dean, and Logan sprint into the foyer, slipping on the crushed cookies. Garrett rips the front door open, stepping out onto the icy porch in nothing but his socks.

“Y/N!” He yells into the falling snow.

But you are already running. You are sprinting across the front lawn, tears streaming down your freezing cheeks, desperate to get back to the safety of your dorm, to Tucker, to anywhere that isn’t here.

Garrett stands on the porch, the freezing wind whipping through his hair. Logan and Dean stand in the doorway behind him, looking at the empty street.

“She’s gone,” Logan whispers, his voice entirely hollow.

Garrett slowly turns around, his gray eyes dead. He looks at the crushed cookies on the floor. He looks at the chart on the fridge in the distance.

“We are so fucked,” Garrett says.

***

The Texas heat is a jarring contrast to the New England winter. Even in December, the air is mild and humid.

You sit in the third pew of your childhood church, surrounded by the familiar scent of polished wood, old hymn books, and your mother’s floral perfume. The choir is singing a beautiful rendition of “O Holy Night.” It is peaceful. It is safe.

It is absolute torture.

It has been exactly two weeks since you fled the off-campus house. Two weeks since you boarded a plane with Tucker, who spent the entire flight wondering aloud why his three best friends were suddenly ignoring his texts and acting like they were at a funeral. You hadn’t said a word. You couldn’t.

You try to focus on the pastor’s sermon, but your mind is a traitor.

Every time you close your eyes, you don’t see angels or scripture. You see Garrett’s massive arms braced against the kitchen counter. You see Dean’s wicked, hungry smirk. You see Logan’s intense, darkening eyes.

I want to ruin that perfect, sweet little innocence of hers.

Dean’s voice echoes in your head, a phantom whisper against your ear. You shiver violently, crossing your arms over your chest, pressing your knees together in the church pew.

You are a good girl. You have always been a good girl. You saved yourself, you kept your thoughts pure, you prayed for guidance.

But overhearing them has awakened something entirely terrifying inside your body.

The shock and betrayal have slowly, agonizingly, morphed into something else. Something hot. Something heavy. Something that makes your skin flush and your pulse race in places you have never paid attention to before.

That night, you lie in your narrow childhood bed, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above you. The house is completely silent.

You squeeze your eyes shut, clutching the edge of your quilt, trying to pray yourself to sleep. Lord, please cleanse my mind. Please remove these thoughts. Please make me forget them.

But the darkness behind your eyelids is entirely hijacked.

You drift into a restless, feverish sleep.

The dream hits you with the force of a tidal wave.

You are in the kitchen of the off-campus house. You are wearing the yellow floral dress, the one that ties at the waist. But the fabric feels incredibly thin, brushing against your overly sensitive skin.

A hand grips your hip. It is massive, hot, and calloused.

Garrett.

You gasp in the dream as he pulls your back flush against his broad, solid chest. You can feel the hard ridges of his abs through your dress, the overwhelming, suffocating heat of his body. He leans down, his mouth brushing against the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

“Mine,” Garrett growls in your ear, his voice a vibrating, possessive rumble that shoots straight down your spine and pools between your thighs. “You’re mine, Y/N. I told you I was going to ruin you for anyone else.”

You whimper, arching your neck, completely powerless to stop the heavy, wet ache blooming between your legs.

Then, Dean is in front of you. He steps into your space, his eyes dark with unfiltered lust. He reaches out, his long, skilled fingers trailing down the center of your chest, undoing the tiny buttons of your dress with agonizing slowness.

“Such a good girl,” Dean murmurs, his voice a wicked, sinful coaxing. He parts the fabric, exposing your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. “So pure. God, I want to dirty you up. I want to hear you beg for it, sweetheart.”

In the real world, tossing and turning in your childhood bed in Texas, your breathing turns ragged. Your hands instinctively slide down to grip the bedsheets, twisting the fabric into knots. A sheen of sweat coats your skin. You are burning up from the inside out.

In the dream, Logan’s hands replace Dean’s. Logan is kneeling in front of you. He pushes the skirt of your dress up, his large hands gripping your bare thighs. His thumbs press into the soft, sensitive flesh, parting your legs.

“Please,” you hear yourself cry out in the dream, though you don’t even know what you’re begging for. It is an entirely new, blinding sensation.

“I’ve got you,” Logan whispers, his breath hot against the juncture of your thighs. “I’m going to make you feel so damn good, Y/N. Just let go.”

Logan’s mouth touches your skin.

You jolt awake in the dark.

Your eyes snap open, your chest heaving as you gasp for air in the quiet Texas bedroom. Your heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs.

You lie there, paralyzed, completely consumed by the physical aftermath of the dream.

Between your thighs, there is a heavy, throbbing ache. A wet, slick heat that you have never felt before. The friction of your own cotton underwear against your swollen flesh is almost unbearable. Your body is practically vibrating with an empty, aching need.

“Oh my God,” you whisper into the dark, tears springing to your eyes.

You pull your knees to your chest, burying your face in your hands, overwhelmed by the crushing guilt. You feel like a sinner. A dirty, corrupted sinner. You are having explicitly filthy dreams about your brother’s three best friends doing things to you that you couldn’t even put into words.

And the worst part — the part that makes you sob into your pillow — is that your body craves it.

You don’t want to forget them. You want to go back to sleep. You want Garrett’s possessive grip. You want Dean’s dirty praise. You want Logan’s mouth on your skin.

For the rest of the Christmas break, you are a ghost. You pick at your food. You stare out the window. Every time Tucker mentions their names, asking why the hell they aren’t returning his calls, your stomach plummets, and a fresh wave of heat washes over your body.

It is a grueling, exhausting war between your sheltered mind and your rapidly awakening body. And your body is winning.

***

It is the night before you and Tucker are supposed to fly back to Massachusetts for the spring semester.

Your suitcase is packed and sitting by the door. You are lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, dreading the return to Briar University. You don’t know how you are going to look at them. You don’t know how you are going to be in the same state as them without completely falling apart.

Exhaustion finally drags you under.

The dream that comes this time is not a fragmented sequence. It is a terrifying, hyper-realistic onslaught of the senses.

You are entirely naked. You don’t know how it happened, but the floral dresses and the sensible skirts are gone. You are lying on the plush rug of their living room floor.

Garrett is above you. His heavy, muscular body presses you into the carpet, his chest crushing against yours. He grips both of your wrists in one of his massive hands, pinning them above your head. His mouth is entirely consuming yours, a punishing, bruising kiss that leaves you breathless and dizzy.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Garrett murmurs against your lips, his hips rolling down to press against yours. You can feel the impossible size and hardness of his erection pressing directly against your aching, wet center. “You are taking all of this.”

You cry out into his mouth, your back arching off the floor, desperate for the friction.

But then Garrett pulls back.

Dean slides behind you, pulling your back flush against his chest. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you tightly against his own hard length. His mouth attacks your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise, his teeth scraping over your pulse point.

“You like it, don’t you?” Dean rasps in your ear, his hand sliding down your stomach, dipping lower and lower until his fingers brush against your slick heat. “You like being our good girl. Let me hear it. Say you like it.”

“I like it,” you sob in the dream, completely losing your mind as Dean’s long fingers slide into your wetness, stroking you with an expert, merciless rhythm. “Please, Dean, please-”

“Look at me, sweetheart.” Logan’s voice.

You open your eyes. Logan is kneeling between your spread thighs. His gray eyes are dark, stormy, completely fixated on the sight of Dean’s fingers working inside you.

Logan leans forward. He rests his large hands on your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, pinning you in place.

Then, Logan lowers his mouth.

The sensation of his hot, wet tongue sliding over your most sensitive, swollen flesh sends a violent shockwave through your entire body.

In your bed in Texas, you cry out loudly, your back arching off the mattress. Your hands fly down to your own body, completely entirely driven by instinct. You don’t even know what you’re doing, but you need relief. You need it so badly it feels like you’re dying.

In the dream, the sensory overload is pushing you straight to the edge.

Garrett is kissing you again, swallowing your moans. Dean’s fingers are pumping inside you, stretching you, matching the frantic, desperately wet rhythm of Logan’s tongue lashing against your clit.

The pleasure is building, pooling, tightening like a coiled spring in your lower stomach. It is agonizing. It is beautiful. It is right there. You are seconds away from shattering, from experiencing your very first orgasm, surrounded by the three men you realize, with terrifying clarity, you are hopelessly, completely in love with.

“Let it go for us,” Garrett growls.

“Come for me, baby,” Dean demands.

“Taste so fucking sweet,” Logan murmurs.

The tension snaps. You are right on the absolute edge of the precipice, your body preparing to explode into a million pieces of blinding, white-hot ecstasy.

And then-

The shrill, piercing shriek of your iPhone alarm clock shatters the silence of the room.

Your eyes snap open.

The living room vanishes. Garrett is gone. Dean is gone. Logan is gone.

You are alone in your childhood bedroom. It is 5 AM. Your flight is in three hours.

The physical sensation drops out from under you, leaving you stranded on the absolute edge of the cliff. The heavy, aching arousal is still there, throbbing violently between your legs, demanding a release that is suddenly, cruelly out of reach.

You let out a frustrated, desperate whine, your hands gripping the bedsheets so hard your knuckles turn white.

The realization of what you have been reduced to hits you. You are a tangled, sweating, thoroughly aroused mess, waking up from a filthy dream about three men you haven’t spoken to in weeks.

You sit up in bed, bringing your knees to your chest.

And then, you burst into tears.

You cry because you are frustrated. You cry because your body aches in a way you don’t know how to fix. You cry because you are a traditional, sheltered girl who was supposed to wait for a sweet, simple man, and instead, you have been entirely corrupted by three massive, filthy-mouthed hockey players.

You don’t want the white picket fence anymore.

You want the off-campus house. You want the chaos. You want Garrett’s fierce protection. You want Dean’s dirty praise. You want Logan’s intense, soulful eyes.

You crave them. You crave them so badly it feels like a physical illness.

You wipe your tears roughly with the back of your hand, looking across the room at your packed suitcase.

In three hours, you will board a plane back to Massachusetts. In less than twelve hours, you will be back on the Briar University campus.

You take a deep, shaky breath, the residual heat of the dream still causing a deep, heavy pulse between your thighs.

You don’t know what you are going to do when you see them. But you know one thing for absolutely certain.

You are not the same innocent girl who ran out of that house a month ago.

The door is unlocked, so you go right in, like Logan told you to. You close the door behind you, wings in hand, leaving your bookbag by the door. Then you wait.

The house is quiet. You pull out your phone and text I’m here to Logan, but there’s no reply even after a few minutes. You peer around the stairs. Where is everyone?

“Hey.”

You snap to attention as Dean comes around the corner. He slows down to a stop, raising his eyebrows at you. 

“What’s up?” he asks.

Fuck. You never know how to answer this question. Usually, people don’t actually want to know about your life. They’re just being polite.

“Nothing,” you say, your voice going up at the end. “And yourself?”

He snorts. “I mean, why are you just standing by the door?”

“Oh. I’m waiting for Logan. I came to drop off his wings.”

Dean nods, squinting at you. “Uh-huh… so go to him? He’s in the back lifting, but he should be done soon. You’re not, like, exiled to this one spot.”

“Heh, right.” You swallow. “Okay. Thanks.”

He gives you a thumbs-up and one last lingering, strange look, before going upstairs. You drop your smile, already feeling wrung out. Going to people’s houses makes you feel like you’ve run a marathon. So many rules. 

It’s just you again. You go towards the backyard, but you take your time, looking at the pictures on their fridge and the video games in the cabinet under the TV. You snoop through some of the shelves, fascinated to learn about what they eat. Conclusion? Many protein powder containers. You didn’t know it came in that many flavors. You wonder which one Logan eats. Chocolate? Confetti cake? Peanut butter?

There’s a photo of the guys at what looks like the beach. Your eyes linger on Logan even though all four of them are shirtless. He’s wearing light blue board shorts that are crisp against his golden skin, and he has his arms around Garrett and Tucker. He’s smiling at the camera. You kind of want to take a picture of the photo and make that his contact in your phone, but that is probably not the best choice, morally and mentally, so you instead stare at it for a long time and commit it to memory. Then you go outside. 

Logan is lifting weights. Logan is shirtless, in real time. Logan's back muscles are like the dimpled marble you find in museums, so skin-like, it makes you wonder if the sculptors entombed a person they loved and called it creation. With every rep, his muscles flex, from his shoulders to his stomach. His skin is a little bronzed, and you can imagine how tan he gets in the summer, his body sun-hot even after night falls. 

He has a maroon bandana on, presumably to keep the hair out of his face. You lean against the door, winded like you're lifting weights alongside him. His skin looks soft. You'd like to find out for sure. 

There's a shiny path between his neck and shoulder that looks like it'd sink beneath your teeth. And his thighs and calves are both sturdy. He's a good skater, so it makes sense. But it's different to see his legs bare, evidently thickened with muscle, working to support Logan as he lifts weights. You took a biology class. You know that Logan's bulging calf muscle is called the gastrocnemius. Below is his Achilles tendon. You wonder if his are sore—if you pressed, would he groan? 

Or maybe his quadriceps are the sorest from all the skating. They're thick with muscle too. Yours are soft with fat. Maybe Logan would like to press down on yours. 

No, bad. Wrong. You shouldn't think like that. What an offense it'd be, you wanting Logan like that. A dark, hurt part of you imagines him laughing to his friends about the girl in his psychology class believing she has the right to like a person like him. It's happened before; the way people—boys—can turn on you in an instant when they realize that you have the gall to crush on them like normal girls do, turns your bones to ice. You won't make that mistake with Logan. 

“Hey dude, if you're going out later, can you get—” Tucker stops short at the sight of you, his hand on the doorknob as he pokes his head outside. He smiles. “Oh, hey. What're you…” 

Logan has set down his weights, and he's staring right at you. He waves. Your eyes widen. 

“W-wings,” is all you can say. Shit. You shimmy past Tucker, and hover near the kitchen island. You're tempted to make a break for it, wringing your hands as you watch Tucker ask his question, then return inside. 

“Were you waiting on Logan? He's finishing up his last rep.”

“Right.” You shrug like you weren't creeping on John Logan two minutes ago, and sit at the island. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing. I'm just cooking, but hang out if you want. Actually! Do you mind taste-testing something?”

“Does it have mushrooms?”

“No,” Tucker says, spooning something from a bowl. “It's pico de gallo. I'm making tacos. I just wanna know if the acid and salt are balanced.”

He offers you a spoonful of the pico. You eat it, focused on the salt and acid. It's so nice when people give instructions for what they want feedback on. When someone asks you if something is good or bad, you have no idea how to answer. According to what? you want to ask.

“It's very good,” you say. “None of the flavors are overwhelming.”

Tucker holds his hand up, and it takes you a second to realize he wants a high five. Slowly, you tap his hand. 

“Teamwork makes the dream work,” he says. “You should stay for dinner.”

You’d consider it if you thought it would just be Tucker and Logan. But you don’t think you can handle all four of them together just yet. Not alone, anyway.

“Thank you for the offer,” you say, reciting the words your old therapist taught you to reject someone without hurting their feelings. “But I can’t today. Maybe another time.”

“Yeah, definitely. I haven't made pico since high school, so I’ll be making it again soon.”

“Did you cook a lot with your mom?”

Tucker beams. “Yeah, I did. I still do when I go home to visit. Mostly, I'm trying to do my mama justice when I recreate what she taught me. Do you cook much?”

“Sometimes. But often I'm so worn out, I have no energy to try new recipes. I like to cook and bake but one hundred other things usually require my energy instead. I haven't been grocery shopping in nearly two weeks.”

Which has been tough, considering the food at the cafeteria isn't always the best, and you pay per meal since you'd told your mother you would mostly cook in your dorm, which has a kitchen unit. But for the past week, you've sustained on two cafeteria meals and whatever looks reasonably edible in the vending machines. There was also Thursday, where you stumbled upon a breakfast event for women entrepreneurs, which you are not. But they had cheese danishes. You love danish. 

“I hear you. I'll get excited to try a new recipe and then I can't decide and I just make something I've made before,” says Tucker. 

You nod. “Yes. Except I can't even do that at times. But something that's helped me is a food chart.”

“What's that?” 

“It's a chart on my fridge with little pictures of foods I like and eat regularly. It's split into three categories for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. So breakfast has toast, cereal, bacon, waffles, and so on. Lunch has sandwiches, burgers, ramen… anyway, it helps to have a visual presentation of what I can eat. Then I pick something and make it. Usually. Sometimes I eat shredded cheese out of the bag and call it a day.” 

Or you don’t go grocery shopping for weeks and you have nothing on your chart to eat anyway. 

“That's a good idea. Wait, maybe I can make one to maintain a balanced plate. Protein, carbs, fiber, fat. Those could be categories.”

You nod. “You can organize it however you want. I can send you the template I used.”

“Sick. I'll give you my number,” Tucker says, walking around the kitchen island. 

You unlock your phone and he types his number in, then takes a selfie where he's pursing his lips and puts that as his contact picture. You laugh, startled. 

The door behind you opens. Logan walks in, no longer shirtless. He stops short upon seeing you two. 

“What’s happening here?” he asks, drying his neck with a towel. 

“Tucker is putting his number into my phone,” you say. You turn to Tucker. “Maybe you can send me the recipe for the pico de gallo?”

You doubt you'll be making it soon, but it's nice to have another friend, which seems to be what Tucker is becoming. And based on the video you watched, talking about cooking is a good way for you to make him your friend. You are on fire so far. Two new friends in a month! 

“Totally,” he says, patting your hand. 

“Logan said you're a master chef,” you say, glancing at Logan, expecting him to chime in. But he's just staring at your hand, where Tucker touched you. You don't know him well enough to parse through his expressions, but it doesn't look like happiness. 

“Aw, thanks, man.” Tucker pats Logan's chest, which snaps him out of his staring. He smiles.

“Yeah, well, it's true. Alright, I'm gonna shower, then I gotta stop by the garage.”

“I left your wings over there,” you say, pointing to the couch. Maybe Logan didn't notice you watching him earlier. That bodes well for you, if true. The last thing you need is to prove to him how weird you truly are. 

“Thanks,” Logan says. “They're always here if you wanna use ‘em again. Never know when you'll be in a pinch for a costume.”

You just nod, still unused to Logan's easy generosity. He goes upstairs. 

“Hey, since he's going to the garage, why don't you go with him? It's on the same highway as Market Basket,” Tucker says. He's just finished tenderizing the chicken, and now he's cutting it. 

“Will Logan be okay with that?”

“‘Course, he'd take you anywhere you wanna go.”

You suppose friends do that for other friends. 

“Thank you for the suggestion, Tucker.”

“No prob.” He's now elbow-deep in a Ziploc bag, seasoning the chicken with one gloved hand. The smell of Adobo, oranges, and chipotle peppers makes your mouth water. He also has an apron on, which makes you feel light and warm. 

You're beginning to understand now what it's like to feel welcomed, befriended, a part of people's lives. Yes, you have Hannah and Allie, who always make you feel welcome, but you've never gone out and made friends on your own. Hannah was at freshman orientation, and befriended you herself, because Hannah's smiley and kind to everyone. Then Allie became your friend because Hannah introduced you. 

But to find friends on your own, to go to a hockey house and watch someone marinade chicken for their taco night, it's a different feeling entirely. It makes you think that maybe you're not a lost cause like your mother has told you so many times before. In your first month of college, she visited a few times, always tutting at the “state of things.” 

She told you that you'd fail the college experience if you didn't get out of your dorm, but you were so overwhelmed by change that you had no idea how to do what she wanted. You've never known, actually. Your whole life is one big question mark when it comes to pleasing your mother. You stumble blindly, reaching for people, places, experiences you don't want to have, all in the name of eliciting a smile from her. 

“Hey, pipes are leaking!” Logan shouts from upstairs. “Tuck, can you bring me my allen wrench?”

You look at Tucker, who appears a little frazzled between the chicken and the veggies to dice. 

“I can bring it,” you say, getting up. “Where's the wrench?”

“Thanks. It's in that closet.” He points to it with his chin. 

You open the closet and locate the orange toolbox. You pull out a wrench and show it to Tucker. 

“That's the one. Bathroom's at the end of the hall.”

You go upstairs. One of the doors is closed, and you can hear music and what sounds like a woman's voice. You linger only for a moment before you go to the bathroom. The door is barely cracked, so you knock softly. It swings open. 

“Thanks, ma—” Logan cuts himself off, evidently realizing that you're not Tucker. “Oh, hi.” 

A beat. Then:

“Your underwear is pink,” you blurt. Also, Logan is only in his underwear. 

He looks down. “Yeah, these are actually the product of Garrett's learning curve with the washer. He didn't know you're supposed to separate colors and whites. So now I have three pairs of pink briefs.”

You nod, still fixed on Logan's thighs and how tight the underwear sits on them. Look anywhere else.

You look at his face, which seems worse, somehow. 

“Sorry,” you say, suddenly, horribly mortified. “I was—sorry.”

Logan smiles, and you envy how he can lean against the doorframe like he's not almost naked. “All good. Ten years in locker rooms desensitizes you to people seeing you in your underwear.”

“Even girls?”

He makes a so-so motion with his hand. “Depends on if I think they'll laugh at me.”

“I would never laugh at you in your underwear,” you say seriously. “You look great.”

He lifts an eyebrow. You stutter. 

“I-I mean—that's…”

God, you've never lost your words like this. Your tongue feels like sand. 

“Can I have the wrench?” he asks kindly.

You almost throw it at him with how fast you shoot your arm out. He takes it, fingers brushing yours. You cross your arms tightly against your chest. 

Logan points to the shower with his thumb. “So I'm gonna go fix this…”

“Uh-huh! Yes. Good plan. Have fun.”

“Alright.” He gives you a thumbs-up. The door is almost shut when you say, “Wait!”

Logan opens the door a little. “Yeah?” 

“Can you drop me off at the grocery store? I haven't gone grocery shopping in two weeks.”

His eyebrows knit. “Two weeks?”

“Yeah.”

Logan frowns. “You shouldn't go so long without shopping. Have you been eating enough? Is it ‘cause you don't have a car?”

It wouldn't matter if you had a car because you don't drive—driving terrifies you. And even if you did drive, you probably still wouldn't have gone shopping because doing anything related to maintaining your body has felt like an impossible task these days. 

But that isn't something you can tell Logan, so you just say, “Yes.” 

“Well, I can drive you to the store in the future, so you don't go that long without groceries. Just let me know. Thursdays and Sundays work best, when I don't have games or practice.” 

“Okay,” you say, thinking again about how nice Logan is to you. Then you look at his chest. He is so nice, in fact, that you'd really like to bite his belly. It's taut with muscle, but you think it'd still be a good location to bite. 

“Okay,” Logan echoes, and it sounds a little like he's laughing. “I'll see you in a bit.”

You nod, and he closes the door. You stare at it for a couple seconds before you turn on your heel. You're about to go downstairs, maybe ask Tucker if he needs help. But the door to Logan's room is wide open. You stop in front of it. 

His jersey is on the back of his chair. His bed is made. You always enjoy seeing people's beds made even though you've never been able to maintain that habit. Straightening blankets is an impossible task; going to sleep regularly is hard enough. 

Logan's room is neater than you expected. Dean's room is, according to overheard conversation from girls on campus, a sty. You take a hesitant step inside. Then another, and another. You see his closed laptop and a couple of photos on his desk. One of him and Jules. One of Logan and Garrett after a hockey game. One of the whole Briar team. You scan the faces until you find Logan, and he's smiling like he always is, curls bouncy. He has books on his shelves, and you read some of the titles: Intro to Adult Developmental Psychology; World of Ice Hockey; Bridge to Terabithia. You take out the last one. Its pages are worn, the paperback cover slightly bent. You return it to the shelf. 

You pull open his drawers, finding athletic wear, sweatpants, and soft sweaters. You open another drawer and find his socks and underwear—you quickly shut it. Then you wander the room. He has his hockey gear in one corner: his stick, his padding. 

You sit on the edge of his bed, wondering what it would be like to come here regularly, lying on Logan's bed and smelling his apple scent, agonizing over essays, watching movies. Every time you discover someone's space, you yearn to be a part of it. For their room to engulf you, accept you as part of the furniture, a part of their home. The pull in your stomach to feel that with Logan is particularly strong. It's bad.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch movement too late. Garrett spots you immediately on his way to his room, which is across from Logan's. He stops at the doorway. 

“Hey,” he says. “What're you doing in here?”

Even though he and Hannah are dating—or not dating, you aren't really sure—Garrett Graham thoroughly intimidates you. Hannah has told you that he’s kind of arrogant but also kind of sweet. You know he's Logan's best friend, and Logan's so gentle, so kind, that you figure he must see something very good in Garrett to be his best friend. But all you see is the same sort of boy who, in seventh grade, would kick a ball at you. Patterns keep you safe, and you've seen this pattern before. 

“I am waiting for Logan,” you say, instead of trying to explain yourself. You don't have an explanation for why you're in here, but you can't let Garrett suspect that. 

He nods once. “Okay. You guys seeing each other?”

Oh, you know this code! 

“No, we're friends.” You wait, watching Garrett’s expression carefully to gauge if he finds that unbelievably hilarious. 

Garrett glances to the side, mouth curling into a smirk. “Right, sure. Friends.”

“We are,” you say, suddenly irritated. You wish you'd stayed in the kitchen with Tucker. 

“It's just, girls aren't usually in guys’ rooms unless…”

“You and Hannah studied together,” you say. “I presume you did that without having sex.”

Garrett gapes at you. “I—yeah, but that's different. You're not tutoring Logan.”

“So what? Logan can't be my friend? Sex is all men and women can do with each other?”

“That's not what I said.”

“It sure sounded like that.”

He sighs, runs a hand through his curls. “I didn't mean it that way. I just thought you were joking about being friends. Y'know, some girls pretend they aren't seeing a guy when they really are.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

“I dunno, sometimes it's ‘cause they don't want anyone else to know. So I thought you were kidding, but…” He scrunches his mouth in thought. “I get the feeling that you don’t really do that.”

Do that sounds like it could mean many things, and you wonder if Garrett intended that. 

“I wouldn't lie about being friends with or dating someone,” you say, feeling lost. You thought you knew where this conversation was heading, who Garrett is, and now you don't. People are hardly ever this straightforward with you. 

Garrett nods. “Understood. Sorry for assuming.”

You look at him. “Do you like Hannah? Besides the fact that she's a pretty girl.”

Garrett’s eyebrows crook briefly, before relaxing. His voice is soft when he says, “Yeah, I do.” Instantly, you believe him. Maybe he wouldn’t kick a ball at you. 

“Okay.” You get up, and he steps aside to let you pass. “I'm going to wait for Logan downstairs. See you.”

Garrett goes to his room and shuts the door. At the top of the stairs, you see Dean emerge from his room, which is the one you heard a woman's voice in. He's shirtless, which seems to be the typical state of dress here, but he's also flushed, sweaty, and has a small bruise on his neck. Oh.

Dean winks at you. “Hey, vampire.”

You frown. “What?”

“‘Cause you need to be invited in,” he says. “Vampire girl.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

Dean's smile dims. “I was—no, it's a joke.”

“A joke about how I didn't know that I could come into the house. And that's stupid, right?”

He shakes his head. “No… I wasn’t making fun of you. I thought it was cute. Polite,” he clarifies. “Most people who stop by aren’t polite. You're Wellsy's friend, right? She's polite too; she knocks.”

“Yes, Hannah's my friend. Did you really fail Developmental Psychology II?”

“Tragically, Professor Diamond was not nearly as forgiving as Dr. Jenkins. But then I switched my major, so whatever.”

“Do you invite everyone to your parties?”

Dean doesn't seem perturbed by your rapid subject changes. “Sure I do. Otherwise I'd send out handwritten invites. Logan told us what happened with you and Pembroke. That guy's a fucking sleaze, and he can't skate for shit.”

You nod. “He's repulsive.”

“Seriously. All the more reason to reject him from the team. Hey, you should come to our game. We're playing next week.”

“Your games are loud.”

“Yeah, that's part of the fun!” 

“I disagree. I'll come only if Logan wants me to,” you say. 

Dean grins. “Trust me, he definitely does.” 

“Are you lying?”

“Nope,” he says cheerily. 

You hum. “Fine. Who's that woman in your room?”

“Her name's Carmen. Lovely lady. Met her at a coffee shop.”

“Okay. Enjoy, I guess.”

He salutes. “Have done. Will do.”

You finally go downstairs. It isn't more than a few minutes before Logan joins you. His hair is damp, and his jacket covers his biceps, which is kind of unfortunate. You wonder what color his new underwear is, and then you chase that thought away, guilty for thinking it at all. 

Logan takes his keys from the hook by the door and shakes them a little. “Ready to go?”

“Yes.” You put on your bookbag. “Bye, Tucker. Good to see you.”

“You too!” Tucker calls from the kitchen over the sound of frying tortillas.

“I'll be back in a bit,” Logan says, then opens the door. 

You follow him out to his truck and get into the passenger seat. 

“Mind if we stop at the garage first?” he asks. “It's before the store.”

“Not at all.”

It’s a short drive to the garage, but it feels like it takes forever. Maybe that’s because you stare at Logan the whole time. Well, mostly you look at his hands on the steering wheel. He wears a silver ring on his right pinky, and you can’t believe you’ve never noticed. Veins feed into each other down his forearms. You feel dizzy.

“I promise it’ll only be ten minutes at the garage,” Logan says, startling you from your staring. “Jules needs me to finish a patch job for a bike because they had to record a special episode for their show.”

“You both work at the garage?” you ask.

“Yeah, it’s our family’s garage. Jules and I pretty much run it, since…” Logan stops, his mouth thinning. “Since, uh, my mom’s in rehab again.”

“That must have been really hard to grow up around,” you say. 

He sighs. “Yeah. Jules always sticks up for her, but they don’t remember—” He shakes his head, turning into the garage lot. “Anyway. It shouldn’t be too long. You can come in.”

You follow Logan inside. He navigates the garage with practiced movements. He gestures for you to sit across from him while he works.

“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a bicycle from the future.”

He laughs. “Yeah, apparently the guy who brought it in is a professional bicyclist. I always felt like a bike is a bike but hey, maybe people say that about hockey skates.”

“I wish I was balanced enough to do either of those things,” you say, watching Logan screw something on the wheel. He’s taken his jacket off, so his biceps are once again in full view. 

“You don’t know how to ride a bike?” he asks. 

“No. My aunt tried to teach me when I was seven, but I couldn’t get the hang of it, and then she got mad, so I stopped trying.”

“Well, that was dumb of her,” he says. “Teaching anyone anything requires patience. We all didn’t know something at some point.”

You pick at a loose thread on your pants. Logan’s words have reminded you once more of the cavern inside of you that quivers dangerously when someone says things aren’t your fault. “I guess so.”

Logan pushes the front wheel of the bicycle, and it spins smoothly. He looks at you. “I can teach you, if you want. Jules doesn’t ride their bike anymore. I can adjust the seat for you.”

“You want to teach me how to ride a bike?”

“If it’s something you’re interested in, yeah, why not?” Logan stands, and you follow him up. He wheels the bike to the back of the garage, then you both go outside. He locks the garage. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, crossing your arms. What you want to say is why? Why would anyone want to do something so nice for you, go through the painful process of teaching you anything? 

“I know,” Logan says as you both get into the truck. “If you don’t want to, it’s okay. But if you do want to, then I’m up for teaching you. I promise I won’t rage-quit like your aunt did.”

“Isn’t it stupid to learn how to ride a bike in college? It’s so late.” You’re always too late for things. Always behind.

“It’s never too late to learn anything, ever,” Logan says. “Dean taught me that, if you can believe it.”

“Oh.” You flatten your palms against your thighs. “Okay. I would like to learn how to ride a bike. Then I can go on bike rides with Hannah.”

“Cool. How does next weekend sound?”

“It sounds good.” You unzip your bookbag and find your coin purse that’s shaped like Kermit the Frog. You take out twenty dollars and put it in the center console.

“What’s that for?” Logan asks. “You don’t have to pay me to teach you to ride a bike.”

“It’s gas money. You’ve been so generous with me, I don’t want to not give anything in return.”

“You don’t need to give me money.”

“I want to,” you say. “You told me to say what I want to do, and I want to give you gas money.”

He glances at you, half-smiling. “Should’ve known that would come back to bite me.”

Biting. Mmm.

“I don’t spend my work study money on anything but food,” you say. “I don’t go to bars or concerts or movies. I don’t travel. It’s fine, alright? Please take it.”

Logan sighs. “Okay, but don’t make it a habit.”

“I’ll make it a habit if I want to, John Logan.”

He laughs, surprised, and you laugh with him. 

“Sassy,” he says. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

You didn’t either, but Logan seems to bring out everything in you.

Logan pulls up in front of Market Basket. He rolls down the window when you get out.

“I’ll be in the lot,” he says. “Call me if you can’t find me.”

“You’re going to wait?” you ask.

“Of course I’m going to wait.”

“Why are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,” Logan grumbles.

“Well, I don’t cook, so it can’t have been me. Must’ve been Tucker,” Dean says.

Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. “If you're spreading bullshit about me, Dean, I'm here to defend myself. For the record: yes, I did make bacon, and there's a plate downstairs. But I was not the one who poured grease down the drain, because I'm not a fool.”

They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now. 

“Yeah, I lied earlier,” Dean says. “It was me. I wanted to use the cup.”

Logan smiles flatly. “I already knew it was you, dumbass. You clog every drain in the house once a week. Vote time. Everyone in favor of kicking Dean out forever?”

The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird. 

“Nay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?”

“Yeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?” Tucker says, rolling his eyes. 

Then he bolts for the door, Dean on his heels. Logan sighs and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. He dreamt about you again. You were on the ice, skating with him, telling him how much you like Taco Bell. He kissed you. 

Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.

“Hey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,” Garrett says, typing on his phone. No doubt texting Hannah. Logan is proud to say that he no longer has a crush on Hannah Wells, as fleeting as that was. No, he has a crush on her friend, who is smart and beautiful and who probably hasn't given him another thought since the party three weeks ago.

He missed you in class this week. He even stayed behind and pretended he had a question in order to scan the room to check if maybe he didn't see you the first time. But you were nowhere to be found. And it's not like he can text you. He scoured Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook for your account, until he felt like a fucking creep and stopped, the search fruitless. Hell, Logan would write you letters if it meant talking to you beyond the two sentences you exchange in class. 

You did wave at him last week. Usually, you pack up your things as fast as possible and run out of the lecture hall. So when you lingered long enough to smile at him… well, that was pretty fantastic. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Logan says. 

Garrett nods. “I'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.”

Logan lets his head fall back against the pillow as Garrett leaves. He thinks what Garrett's doing with Hannah will probably end with one or both of them getting hurt, especially since they’re both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannah’s Instagram songs more than once. Garrett’s absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other. 

“Fuck,” he says to himself, palms on his eyes. 

You lost your silica gel.

It's not terrible… no, it is. It's thrown off your whole week, actually. You've been on websites longer than usual, looking at fidget toys, sorely tempted. You're especially taken with a moldable squishy with beads inside. It's like the mother of silica gel, and your fingers itch with anticipation of how it would feel.

But you can't. It's eighteen dollars, which is certainly one reason why you shouldn't buy it, but it also would make noise. And even if you used it outside of class… what if someone found it or caught you using it? How do you explain that? 

And you hate feeling like you need a toy to keep you grounded. Your stomach hurt so badly that you skipped class on Monday, which sucked because you didn't see Logan. But you were thinking about having to see your mother during the break and your upcoming finals and nothing, not even listening to music, helped the resulting pain in your stomach. 

Your mother has always told you that it's psychological, and treats your anxiety like a moral failing on your part. If you would just try harder… but you don't know how to do that. You're already trying so hard. It's difficult enough to eat everyday, and go to class, and sleep enough, and not rot in your dorm. 

Your mother would be pleased if you told her you went to a party. She'd dismiss the fact that a guy harassed you. She wouldn't believe you if you told her about Logan and his pretty curls and mouth. No man is looking to just be friends with you.

She was the one who wanted you to go away for college. You didn't mind staying local, but she said you'd never “grow into yourself” if you didn't move away. 

Your nails have been bitten to stubs. You've been growing them for a month, and all your hard work is lost. The silica gel occupied your hands but now that it's gone, you've fallen back to nail biting. 

Hannah said she would meet you at the stadium after her class this morning. Two days ago, you told one of the editors of the Briar newspaper that you bought a new camera. You've taken pictures for them before, but never during an event. Stupidly, you revealed your new purchase, and the editor excitedly asked you to attend an interview that some of the Hawks players were giving today, and take pictures for the paper. 

If only you knew when to keep your mouth shut. Taking pictures of people is stressful. You hate it. They often want you to turn them into someone they're not through the camera lens. People can never just be themselves on camera. That's why you take pictures of birds or buildings or sunsets. They just are, and you can capture them in all their candidness. Most of the world doesn't perform for a camera—only people do. 

Hannah is the first one to greet you when you get inside the stadium. You walk to the bleachers together, where a video crew is setting up. 

“This is great,” Hannah says. “People are gonna see your pictures, as they should.”

You shrug. “I guess so. I didn't really want to do this.”

“Your photos are really good,” she says. “And getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?”

You sigh. “I don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.” Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. “And what if the players hate the pictures?”

“Well, Garrett's doing the interview, and he wouldn't let anybody on the team say anything to you about your pictures. But it's only a few of them, I think. Do you want me to stand with you?”

You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say. 

She beams. “Of course I'll stay.”

But as everyone finishes setting up, Coach Jensen approaches you. Hannah explains that she's Garrett's tutor, and Coach tells her that she can stay, but only in the bleachers. 

“I'm here to support my friend,” she says. “It’s her first time photographing for the team. Please?”

“Sorry. Only press and photographers can be here.”

She looks at you sympathetically. “I'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.”

You watch Hannah go sit, wishing you had the silica gel.

Garrett is the first player interviewed. You take many pictures, so there are lots of options to choose from when you send them to the paper. He doesn't look at you once, which is splendid.

Next is Dean. He's fired up in his interview, swearing that Briar will crush the competition. Then it's Tucker, who seems a little nervous in front of the camera. You understand completely. 

You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you can’t hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.

“So John,” begins the reporter. “How is the team preparing to win the next three games? You’ll need three wins to keep Briar’s ranking.”

“Yeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrett’s a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt we’ll win. We’ve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.”

He glances in your direction. Click. You’re not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you can’t help it. You won’t send that one to the paper.

“How are you personally feeling about the season?” the reporter asks.

You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.

“John, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,” she says. “Is there something distracting you? A light? A noise?”

“Nope,” Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. “All good.”

He answers a few more questions. The reporter thanks all of them for their time and then the crew packs up. You put the lens cap on your camera and pack it up in its case.

“Hey.”

You look up from your case. Logan’s in front of you. This close, you can really take in his appearance: his swoopy hair, his azure jacket with the Hawks emblem on the chest. He smells like apples, as always. 

“You’re here,” he says, before you can say hi back.

You nod, confused. “Um. Yes?”

“I didn’t know you were a photographer.” He’s smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. “I haven’t seen you photographing games.”

“I don’t. The paper’s editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.”

“Can I see?”

You hesitate. “I can’t retake pictures.”

“I know. I’m asking because I want to see your pictures, not ‘cause I care about how I look in them. You don’t even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?”

“You want to see my other photos? They’re of birds and stuff like that.”

“I fucking love birds. And I mean that.”

You blink. “Oh. Okay. Me too.”

“I didn’t see you in class this week,” he says.

“I was sick.”

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

You nod. You don’t tell him why you were sick. He doesn’t need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.

She stops next to you. “Hey! How was it?” She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. “Hi, Logan. What’s up?”

“Hey, Wellsy,” he says. You try not to frown. It’s stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isn’t even his invention. 

“Logan wants to see my photos,” you say.

Hannah raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I didn’t know you liked photography, Logan.”

“Oh, big time,” he says, looking at you. 

Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.

“You did great,” she says. “I’ll see you later?”

“I thought you wanted to get lunch together,” you say. 

“Uh…” She glances between you and Logan. “I’ll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.” She rolls her eyes. “Hockey players.”

“Ouch,” Logan says, nudging her.

Hannah smiles sweetly. “You and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.”

“Garrett will definitely be hearing that.”

“Good.” She squeezes your arm. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have fun.”

You watch her go, feeling lost. “She said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?”

“Oh, um, I don’t think Hannah meant anything by it,” Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. “Garrett’s such a diva, honestly—he’d probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.”

You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since he’s currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is. 

“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “I’ll go eat by myself then. It’s one o’clock, so it’s lunchtime.”

“I could come with you.” Logan clears his throat. “Uh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.”

“Oh. No, I’d like that.” You smile. “And I can show you my photos, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding breathless. “Please do.”

Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.

“Hockey season,” he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didn’t have to; he said he wanted to.

You sit opposite him with your own food. Nothing had seemed appetizing, but you have a headache, which is your body’s way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you don’t feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you don’t have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.

And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you aren’t distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You can’t do those things in front of another person, because it’s rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget you’re supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and it’s no longer appetizing. 

“Eating that much chicken doesn’t make you feel sick?” The thought of eating that much meat in one sitting makes you want to vomit. Not to mention the chicken ick. Chicken is an extremely unsafe food—if you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you can’t eat it.

Logan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.”

He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldn’t be such a chore if you could eat like that. 

You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you because that’s the only thing that sounds edible today, but since you’re with Logan, you can’t do that. Probably you can’t go to Taco Bell every time you see him… still, you’re tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Logan’s done eating, and then you can go get what you want. 

You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go away—it’s too hard to talk to people when you have a headache, and you really want to talk to Logan.

You unwrap the foil your turkey burger is in. You take it out and remove the whole wheat repulsive bread, then put the meat on your plate. You cut it into small triangles with your knife and fork. 

“Not a fan of the bun?”

You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously. 

“This bread tastes like cardboard,” you say slowly, watching him for judgment. “I like fluffy white rolls only.”

“That’s my favorite too. Garrett’s always on me to eat more whole grains.”

“Maybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.”

Logan laughs. “Seriously. I think I’m spoiled by Tucker’s cooking. He’s a master chef.”

You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you don’t want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever you’re eating. At least you don’t have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesn’t dismiss the possibility of a bad texture. 

You chew, staring at your plate. You forget you’re not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.

“Sorry,” he says. “Again. Seems like I’m always doing that.”

“I zoned out.”

“Yeah, you’re really focused on your food there.”

“I have to be, or I won’t finish it,” you say. “Nothing’s appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.”

You quickly finish the burger, which isn’t the worst, to be fair, but you’re not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and it’s your favorite day on campus. 

“Okay,” you say. “Now I can talk to you.”

Logan smiles. “Awesome. Can you show me your pictures?”

“Oh, right. Yes, I can.”

You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your camera’s screen, but he doesn’t touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet he’s warm and solid.

“Wait, go back,” he says.

You were skipping through the pictures from today’s interview. You press the left arrow to go back.

“There! Oh my God, that’s so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,” Logan says, snickering. 

It’s a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open. 

“That was a mistake,” you say, but you’re smiling too. You can’t avoid Logan’s infectious giggles. 

“No, that was a gift from above,” Logan says, still laughing. “God, that’s perfect. If you don’t send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.”

“How?”

“Do you have Instagram?”

“No,” you say. “I deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.”

“Honestly? Good for you. I’m not on it that much either.” 

“The only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,” you say. “So it doesn’t really matter. I don’t care about random students’ lives.”

“You rock,” Logan says. “Seriously. You’re my hero.”

You can’t take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.

“Well, uh,” he continues. “This might be presumptuous of me, but… d’you wanna exchange numbers?”

“It’s not presumptuous,” you say. “I like talking to you.”

He lights up. “Same here.”

You type your number into his phone. 

Hi :) says the message on your phone.

Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan 🏒. 

“I’ll send the picture when I upload them tonight,” you say.

“I’m gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.”

“I did.” You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. It’s one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. It’s only a little blurry too.

“That is so fucking cool, whoa.” Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You don’t move away. “You’re amazing at this. What else did you capture?”

You show him pictures of the nearby lake, sunsets, a deer, the Boston skyline. Logan loves them all, and tells you many times how good of a photographer you are.

“You could do this professionally, seriously,” he says. “Like, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.”

You shrug bashfully. “I don’t know. It’s not even my major. It’s just a hobby.”

“So what? You’re really good.”

You gnaw the inside of your cheek. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see what’s open.”

You and Logan are pretty much curled up next to each other by now. Your arm and thigh are pressed against his. He is indeed warm, and you can feel his muscles shift against you. You think of him in the gray sleeveless shirt at the party. You couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms. 

And when he turns to talk to you, he’s so close. Close enough to—

“Yo, Logan, you started without us?”

Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Logan’s teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over. 

“Hey, man,” Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. “I thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.”

“Plans changed,” Logan says. He doesn’t look very happy to see them. You’re puzzled. 

“Hi,” Tucker says, waving at you, saying your name. You wave back.

And then Garrett and Dean seem to notice you. Dean grins, looking between you.

“Ah,” he says. “Plans changed. Got it.”

You don’t like the tone of his voice. You don’t like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other. 

“How do you know Logan?” Dean asks. “You a hockey fan?” He winks.

“I’ve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.”

“You guys study together?” Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. “Ow! What the fuck, man? Why’d you kick me?”

“Because you’re both asking idiotic fucking questions,” Logan says. “Lay off. She’s not a suspect.”

Your skin itches. You don’t like being watched. And they’re watching you, you can tell. They’re studying you. Figuring you out. 

“Actually, I should go,” you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it. 

“Are you sure?” Logan asks, getting up with you.

“Yes, I have finals to work on.” You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. “Thank you for the meal swipe.”

“Yeah, anytime,” Logan says. “I’ll see you in class on Monday?”

You nod. “You will. I’ve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.”

“‘S not a real threat,” Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. “They have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors don’t care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.”

“And I still got a B minus,” Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett. 

Tucker shakes his head. “Yeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.”

“A win is a win.”

“So Dr. Jenkins lied?” you ask, brows furrowing.

Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. “Kinda. More like a bluff.”

You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. “Why does everyone know the secret rules but me?”

All week you’ve been anxious about potentially missing a third class because of your stomach. You were prepared to chug as much Pepto Bismol to avoid that as you needed to. Has everyone else been living without a care in the world, not forcing themselves to go to class when they feel sick? You’ve gone when you were sure you’d throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain you’ve ever felt, right before you got it removed. 

Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, they’re all staring at you. Fuck. 

“Whaddya mean, secret rules?” Dean asks.

Fuck, fuck. You’re being weird. Stop it. Stop. 

“Hey,” Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so he’s the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. “If you don’t feel well, you should skip, but you aren’t, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. That’s what college is for. You’re doing the right thing. It’s not a secret rule, it’s just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.”

Dean scoffs. “Excuse me?”

Logan ignores him. “So I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tucker’ll make you soup and I’ll bring it over.”

Tucker leans around so you can see him and gives you a thumbs-up in confirmation. Your breathing gets a little easier; your shoulders soften. 

“Okay,” you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You aren’t brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back. 

“Can’t wait to see your pictures in the paper,” Logan says.

You smile. “They’re of you.”

“Yeah, but you took ‘em. Who cares what they’re of?”

You duck your head, feeling shy again. It’s a residual shyness, but sometimes you get so aware of how nice and handsome Logan is, and the fact that he goes out of his way to talk to you. Not that you’ve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you aren’t immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. You’ve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You can’t.

“Well, um, bye. I’ll drop off your wings soon,” you say.

“Stop by anytime.”

“See ya around,” says Tucker.

“Yeah, see you,” Garrett says. Dean nods. 

You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan won’t hold it against you. 

Once outside, you take out your camera and flip through some of the shots of Logan. You’re not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now you’re a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.

“Hey, wait up!”

You turn around. Logan’s jogging toward you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask as he stops in front of you.

“Uh.” He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Um. Hm. Good question. I don’t know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.”

You frown, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.”

“What? You didn’t—”

“I did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrett’s faces. They thought I was weird. And I was, to be fair. I reacted too strongly to the absence thing. Sometimes I do that, and I don’t realize until someone’s really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.”

“You did not emote wrong,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didn’t think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you know…”

“Nerds?” you finish.

“Smart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but we’re actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. They’re not used to people who worry about attendance. That’s all it was, I promise.”

You purse your lips, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. You can’t, so you just ask. “Do you mean it?”

“Yes,” Logan says. “I mean it.”

“It’s okay if you don’t. I wouldn’t hold it against you. Lots of people have thought I’m weird. Lots of boys. Lots of athletes. I was terrible at kickball in middle school, and people hated me for it. I would sit out early so they wouldn’t purposely kick the ball at me.”

His eyes get sad. That’s an expression you recognize on Hannah too.

“That’s fucking awful,” Logan says. “We aren’t all like that. I’m not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with aren’t either. Even if you are weird, it’s not a bad thing. Not at all.”

No one’s ever told you it’s okay to be weird. They’ve only ever denied that you are, even though you’re pretty sure you are. You can’t help it either. But Logan doesn’t mind. You’re still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you. 

“Okay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? I’m going to drop off your wings before Monday.”

“Sure, so you’re gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then you’re gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then you’ll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. It’s like a dirt path. And you’ll turn right onto that. We’re the first house on the left.”

You nod, even though you’ve already forgotten all that. You’re terrible with street names. “I’ll be there.”

“I look forward to it,” Logan says, grinning. 

You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. “I actually don’t remember anything you’ve just said. I’m bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?”

“I can absolutely do that,” Logan says softly. “Okay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?”

“Yes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briar’s first schoolhouse in 1846.”

He tilts his head. “How do you know that?”

“It’s on the plaque.”

“Huh. Embarrassingly, I’ve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.”

“He brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.”

“Shit, wow. That’s cool.”

“History is cool.”

Logan hums. “You’re cool. And that mentality is why Dean’s the loser for missing half the semester and you aren’t.”

You smile. “I guess so.”

“Okay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then you’re gonna walk past that student vegetable garden you photographed. Keep walking until you see that giant oak tree with the knots in the trunk. The one that students make out under. Or, uh… study?”

“Attempt to study, anyway.” You know the struggle well.

“There’s a path there, and you’ll walk until you see our house on the left.”

“Got it,” you say. “For real, this time.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.”

You look at the cafeteria. “They won’t mind?”

“Nah, we always have people come over, don’t worry. Hey.” Logan bumps your arm gently. “They won’t bother you. And if you want, text me, so you’ll know I’ll be home.”

The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.

“I really do like talking to you,” you say.

“Me too.” Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.

“Okay, well, see you!” And you’re gone.

She’s not happy about it. Something you like about being friends with Hannah Wells is that she wears almost every emotion on her face. Once you deciphered her expressions, it was easy enough to figure out from there what she’s feeling. It makes everything much simpler. You wish everyone were as easy to read as Hannah.

She lets you go with one last affectionate goodbye. You start walking, not sure where you’re supposed to go to find the shuttle from the stadium. Part of you doesn’t really care as much about that. Mostly, you want to get away from the noise. Tonight was just a cacophony of buzzers and slammed pucks and chants and shouts. Players getting shoved against the glass was the worst. You jumped every time.

You pull out your phone. It feels like you’ve gone in a circle. The stadium is a maze.

“Hi.”

You look up. John Logan—everyone calls him Logan, which throws you off—is about ten feet away, and he’s coming closer. He’s still in uniform, even his skates. You’re always impressed when you see players walk on skates. His hair is damp with sweat and at its curliest. Usually, it’s in fluffy waves.  

“Hey, are you coming to the party?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of you.

“I wasn’t invited,” you say.

He tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching. You focus, trying to figure his face out. A look like that usually means you’ve said something that doesn’t make sense, but you can’t imagine what that would be. You don’t even talk much with Logan, so how can he already be confused by you?

“You’re friends with Hannah, right?” he asks. “And Hannah’s bringing her friend Allie?”

You nod. “Yes, they were invited.”

“It’s a campus-wide invite,” Logan says. “No one got invited specifically—Dean and Beau posted the details expecting the entire student body to show up.”

“Oh. That’s confusing.”

He shrugs. “It’s usually the same group of people who go to the parties, so I guess people don’t think about it. But uh, you know, if Hannah and Allie are going, it’s safe to say that you can go too.”

People don’t think about a lot of things. They tell you even less, which makes you feel stupid and lonely sometimes. But you don’t say any of this, because your mother would say those are inside thoughts. Instead, you shove your hand in your pocket and play with a silica gel packet that came in your new camera box.

You like to roll the beads inside the packet, and you’ve discovered that if someone asks what you’re fiddling with, it’s acceptable if you show them the silica gel. You used to fiddle with a ball of plastic wrap, but that made too much noise in class.

“Okay, well, congratulations on your game,” you say when Logan says nothing else. “Bye.” You turn to leave the stadium.

“Wait!” Logan jogs around to face you again. “Uh, wait. Did Hannah not invite you?”

“She asked me to go, but I declined because I have a paper due next week, and because I wasn’t invited. It’s rude to go to parties you aren’t invited to.”

That’s a rule that took a few times to learn in middle school, but you’re very proud that you know it now. Except apparently it doesn’t apply in college. Rules are always changing, and sometimes it makes you so frustrated, you could spit.

“Well, what if I asked you to go? Invited you officially. I live with Dean, and I helped set up the party. Is that enough of an authority?”

“I don’t really know what constitutes an authority to invite people to parties,” you say. “Why do you want me to go?”

“Uh, well…” Logan steps forward, bowing his head a little. One thick curl falls into his eyes. He has such beautiful hair. You wonder what conditioner he uses. A few times you’ve sat next to him in class, and he smells like apples. “I feel like we’re kinda friends now.”

“We are?”

He winces. “I mean, kinda? Is that okay for me to say? We’re in class together, and you stop by with Hannah.”

“I stopped by once because she left her bag. I didn’t come inside.”

“True, fair enough. You can come in though, you know? Like that’s totally okay. Just for the future.”

You doubt you’ll stop by the Hawks House again. You have no reason to. But you nod anyway.

“Plus we compared notes that one time,” Logan says, snapping his fingers. “That’s a friend thing to do, right?”

You let his words wash over you. John Logan says you’re kinda friends. You like Logan. He’s nice to you, and to Hannah. You haven’t spoken much, but he lent you a pencil a few weeks ago in your developmental psychology class. And he always waits and holds the door for you, even if you’re a few people behind him. He doesn’t scare you like athletes often do. He isn’t loud, and he doesn’t say rude things about women, or make fun of how clumsy you are. When you tripped on a step in class, he didn’t snicker like other students—he reached out to catch you, and asked if you were okay.

Then again, you’ve hardly hung out together. There’s always time for him to change his mind, show a different side. Plenty of people have done that.

But you like making friends. You’re not good at it. You want to be. 

“Okay,” you say. “We can be friends.”

Logan grins. “Awesome.”

“You have nice teeth.”

He grins wider. “Thanks. I think that’s the first time anyone’s complimented my teeth.”

“That surprises me,” you say. “I don’t have a costume. Can I still enter the party, or will I be banned for life?”

Logan laughs. You squint. What’s funny?

“Normally, you’d get banned, but as an official party planner, I can get an exception made.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh…”

“I’m kidding,” he says gently, nudging your shoulder. It’s a soft nudge because of his padding. “You don’t need to wear a costume, but if you want, I have an extra pair of wings. You can be a bird with me. Tuck’s a bee.”

You’ve never been a part of a group costume. “I thought it was supposed to be costumes for two people.”

“We make our own rules. I’ll drive you there, okay? I don’t think you’ll wanna be on the party bus. It gets loud.”

You’re relieved. “Yes. Thank you.”

“No sweat. I’ll be out in a sec.”

You watch him disappear into the men’s locker room. You sit on a nearby bench. People are still filing out of the stadium. You put your headphones on, lean your head against the wall, and close your eyes. 

Seven minutes later, a hand on your elbow makes you jump, eyes flying open. You tear off your headphones.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Logan says. He’s in a gray sleeveless shirt and dark jeans. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay.” 

People don’t really touch you, mostly because you don’t care for it. Hannah and Allie like hugs, and sometimes you give them one, especially if they’re sad, because that’s what you do for sad friends. But mostly, you avoid it. People hug too hard, or too long, or they’re sweaty or smell funny. Logan doesn’t smell bad—he smells like orange Dial soap and his apple shampoo or conditioner, and you realize he must’ve showered. 

“Tuck is waiting for us in the car,” he says. “The wings are in the trunk.”

You follow him outside, into the mild night. His curls are even curlier when wet. You want to reach out and tug one, watch it spring back into place, but that’s definitely not an appropriate thing to do. You shove your hands in your pocket and squeeze the silica.

“What were you listening to?” he asks.

“Brown noise.”

“Is that a band or a song or…”

“No, it’s like white noise, but softer.”

He nods slowly, eyebrows knitting. “Oh. Huh.”

“There’s also pink noise and black noise, which I listen to at night to sleep. White noise feels like needles in my ears.”

“So you don’t listen to music?”

“I love music,” you say. “But sometimes it’s too much. The arena was loud, and sometimes I need something quiet to reset my brain, you know?”

“I definitely get that. I’m gonna check those out.”

“Will you really?”

Logan looks surprised. “Yeah, I will.”

You meditate on that, trying to figure out how that makes you feel, Logan meaning what he says.

Tucker greets you happily, and says that more’s the merrier when you tell him about Logan’s idea to join their costume. He has a girl named Kayla with him, and they sit in the backseat on the ride over, kissing and giggling. So you sit in the front with Logan, who keeps the radio turned low.

“If you wanna wear your headphones, I don’t mind,” he says.

You don’t, but the offer makes you beam at him.

Before you go inside, Logan gives you a pair of glossy black bird wings to wear. He steps back, smoothing the feathers, and looks at you.

“You look good. Those really suit you,” he says, and you wonder if he means that too. You’re not brave enough to ask.

The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive, which astounds you, considering the game officially ended less than an hour ago. Dean and Beau are at the center of the party, doing shots. Everyone cheers when they finish. Tucker and Kayla go to greet Dean, but Logan hangs back with you. He leans in to talk in your ear.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I don’t like drinking.”

“That’s cool. I’m gonna get a beer. Do you want to come with me?”

You eye the swell of people in the kitchen and grimace. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be here.”

He smiles, dark eyes warm. Your stomach flips. “Okay. Be right back.”

As he goes, you scour the room for food. If you’d known you were going to the party, you would’ve eaten before the game. But you find an untouched plate of pizza rolls, which is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened tonight, besides Logan telling you that you’re friends.

You put three on a napkin and stand to the side, watching people dance. Allie’s in a beautiful green dress, and you see Dean dance with her. Jealousy strikes you—not because you want Dean, but because you wish you were adept at all of this. Dancing, talking, making friends. Making a boyfriend. Going to college. Living. Hannah understands your struggle a little, but even you can see how well she and Garrett are hitting it off, fake relationship or not.

You finish your pizza rolls and fold the napkin, bouncing your head in time to the music. You don’t like parties, but this isn’t so bad, you suppose. It’s certainly reasonable enough to withstand in the name of friendship, and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?

“Can I refresh that for you?”

You squint at your now empty napkin, where your pizza roll crumbs now lie. Then you look at the guy who asked. He might be a hockey player, you’re not sure. You pretty much only know Logan and Garrett, because Hannah’s your friend. You know Tucker, you suppose, since you’ve now ridden in a car with him. You know of Dean, because it’s impossible to go to Briar U without learning Dean Di Laurentis’ name and seeing his bleach blond head of hair on campus. But you couldn’t pick any other player out of a lineup. 

“It's a napkin,” you say. “It had food, not a drink.”

He holds up his hands and laughs. “Yeah, duh. It was an opener. I wasn’t being literal.”

Opener to what? You don't ask. He keeps talking, evidently not needing you to participate in the conversation.

“I’m Ben Pembroke. I just tried out for the team, but I’m pretty much a shoo-in. My dad played for Briar. Do you come to a lot of parties?”

“No,” you say. “I came to this one because Logan asked me to.”

Ben frowns. “Are you together?”

“He drove me here in his car.”

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, are you dating?”

“No,” you say. “I'm not dating anybody.”

His smile returns. It looks wrong on his face. He has nice teeth too, but they don’t look as nice as Logan’s. “Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because.” Ben suddenly creeps a hand up your back. “It means you're available tonight. You're cute.”

You push his hand off. “Don't touch me. I don't like strangers touching me.”

Ben scoffs. “C'mon, enough with the ‘hard to get' act. I get it, you're ‘not like them.’ You're a nice girl. Whatever.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, but whatever it is, I want no part of it. Leave me alone.”

Ben gets closer to you. You flinch. He's tall and he's angry. You think so, anyway. 

“The fuck? You were sending me signals. You want me.”

Definitely angry. You ball up your empty napkin in your fist. You hate arguing. You usually have to get loud to make people take you seriously, and shouting gives you a headache.

“I was not sending you signals,” you say, voice rising. “I don't want anything to do with you. You came over here.”

Ben smiles again, full of ice. “Look, babe, it's cool, okay? None of your nerdy little friends will know we were together.”

“Together for what? Sex?”

Ben winks. You make a noise of irritation. 

“I did not send you sex signals, you creep. I don't like you! Go away!”

Ben reaches for you again. You yell, throwing your napkin on the ground. 

“Get away from me!” People start to look at you. You scream without words, so angry you feel like you might die. “Go away, go away!”

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Ben snaps, but you ignore him. You don’t care what he calls you as long as he leaves.

“Hey.”

Logan’s wings are suddenly in front of you. He glances at you. 

“You okay?” he asks, holding out his hand behind him. He doesn’t touch you—you think his hand might be an offer, if you need it.

You chew the inside of your cheek. You don't feel okay, but you don't know if this is one of those times when you should lie. Sometimes lying makes things easier, but you never know when that is. 

Logan turns back to Ben after you take his hand. “What the fuck, Pembroke? You're harassing women?”

“Man, she wanted me, I swear—”

“I did not send you sex signals,” you shout. “I don't like you!”

Ben's face spasms. Logan puts a hand on Ben's chest. 

“Take it somewhere else. She's not interested.”

Ben flings a finger at you. “But she—”

“Get. The fuck. Out.” Logan's hand curls in Ben's shirt. A warning. Jules said that in one of their videos about Briar’s games. When John Logan touches people and gets in their faces, he “means business.”

Ben scowls at you. Logan steps back so he can block you from Ben's face. 

“Fine. Fucking whatever.”

He stomps away. You squeeze the silica gel so hard, the beads dig into your palm. You fear the packet might burst. Your brain aches with the fight and the anger and anxiety that accompanied it. You promised yourself you wouldn't make a scene like you always do. It's why you can't keep friends, and you brace yourself for Logan to tell you something similar. 

He leans in so you can hear him over the music. “Let's go outside. It's too loud here.”