𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐧

It should be a good night. It is a good night, technically. They won. He scored. The whole left side of his body aches in a familiar, satisfying way from a hit in the second period that would probably look worse tomorrow and feel better never, and he has no morning skate, which means there’s no rational reason he should be standing here grinding his molars into powder because some guy in a clean sweater and very serious watch is making her laugh near the dining room doorway.

A real laugh. The kind where her head tips slightly back and her hand comes up like she’s trying to stop herself from being too loud, even though Garrett knows for a fact she’s capable of being much louder than that and has several recent memories his brain really doesn’t need to supply right now while Dean is standing two feet away.

The guy says something else. She grins. She’s talking with her hands, one of them wrapped around a beer, the other moving as she explains something to him with the sort of focused, lively expression she gets when she’s discussing hospital drama or some disgusting ward story Garrett’s ninety percent sure he doesn’t want to hear but always asks about anyway because she lights up when she knows what she’s talking about.

The guy leans in. Garrett’s fingers tighten around the neck of his bottle.

“Careful,” Tucker says mildly. “You paid for that.”

Garrett doesn’t look at him. “I’m holding it normally.”

Logan snorts. “Yeah, man. Super normal. Real relaxed grip you’ve got there. Like a man seconds away from inventing glass dust.”

Dean, delighted, shifts closer. “What are we looking at? Oh, wait. Are we looking at the doctor?”

“He’s not a doctor,” Garrett says automatically.

All three of them go quiet for half a second.

Then Dean’s face does something horrible. “Oh.”

Logan makes a sound. “Oh, he knows lore.”

“I don’t know lore.”

“You absolutely know lore,” Tucker says. “That was immediate.”

Garrett finally drags his eyes away from the dining room doorway to glare at him. “She said he’s a med student.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says, nodding with grotesque sympathy. “And when did she say that, buddy?”

Garrett hates them. All of them. Deeply. With history and texture.

He looks back across the room before he can stop himself. She’s still there. Still smiling. Her hair is loose over her shoulders, a little messy from the cold outside and the party heat inside, and she’s wearing the top she wore last night under his hands when he had her pressed into his mattress with her thighs shaking around his hips. A different pair of jeans. Same mouth. Same mouth currently curving at Jeremiah or Jason or whatever the fuck his name is like he’s said something worth the amount of teeth she’s showing.

Which is fine. It is.

Garrett’s not stupid. He knows what this is. He knows what they are. They’ve been extremely clear. Painfully clear. Repeatedly clear, usually while naked or half-asleep or in the aftermath of some situation that makes clarity feel less like emotional maturity and more like both of them holding up a cardboard sign that says this is casual while standing in the ashes of casual’s house.

She’s not his girlfriend. She’s said this. He’s said this. The whole thing works because of it. She’s busy. He’s busy. 

She has clinicals and labs and exams and shifts that wreck her enough that sometimes she sits on the edge of his bed in silence for five full minutes after taking off her shoes. He has hockey and captain shit and games and classes and the kind of schedule that turns eating lunch into an event if he manages it before three. They don’t need complicated.

Except he picked her up from the hospital two nights ago because she’d texted him something like might fall asleep in the elevator lol, and the thought of her taking the bus half-dead at midnight had made his body move before his brain finished pretending not to care. 

He drove her home, got her into bed, put a glass of water on her nightstand, and told her to stop trying to answer her group chat because none of those people could force her to discuss wound care at 12:46 a.m. 

Then this morning he drove her to clinic because it was raining and she had looked at the weather app and whined softly under her breath and because he’d wanted an excuse to see her in scrubs with her hair claw-clipped up and sleep still sitting sweet and heavy in her face.

So, who the fuck is this dickhead?

Who’s this future-doctor douchebag with his neat hair and his clean shoes and his little hospital-placement proximity, making her laugh at a party Garrett’s hosting in a house Garrett pays rent in, near a kitchen where she’s eaten his leftover pizza at one in the morning while wearing his hoodie and his boxers and complaining that Dean keeps buying the wrong orange juice.

Not his girl. Sure.

She was his girl last night when he had his mouth against her stomach and her hands in his hair, when he’d made her come twice before they even got under the covers properly because she'd arrived stressed and sharp and vibrating out of her own skin. 

She was definitely his girl around the third time, when she got so loud Dean had thumped on the wall and yelled, “Some of us are trying to fucking sleep!” which had made her hide her face in Garrett’s shoulder and shake with laughter while Garrett, saint that he is, hadn’t gone across the hall and murdered him. 

She was his girl when she fell asleep with one bare knee hooked over his thigh, hair in his mouth, one hand flat on his ribs like she needed to keep him there even unconscious.

But now, apparently, she’s standing by the dining room doorway with Doctor Sweater, laughing like he isn’t two comments away from making Garrett do something that will require an apology to the whole hockey program.

“Thought she wasn’t your girlfriend,” Logan says, because Logan has chosen death.

Garrett’s jaw tightens. “She’s not.”

Dean hums. “Right.”

“She’s not,” Garrett repeats, and hears how bad it sounds the second it leaves his mouth. Too fast. Too defensive. Like a man denying a crime while holding the stolen TV.

Tucker takes a sip of his beer, eyes on the scene across the room. “You look like you might kill him.”

“Not impossible,” Garrett says. “Still might.”

Dean’s laugh is immediate and bright. “Oh, he’s gone. He’s fully gone. Look at him.”

“I’m standing right here.”

“Physically, sure. Emotionally, you’re over there lifting your leg on her like a golden retriever,” Dean beams. 

Garrett turns his head slowly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“A lot,” Logan says, nodding. “But he’s not wrong.”

“He is wrong.”

“Then why do you look like that?” Tucker asks.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to decide how much shit you’d be in if you body checked him right now.”

Garrett looks back at her again, because suffering is a hobby now. Jason is saying something with his hand raised slightly, like he’s making a point. Probably some hospital thing. Probably something about rounds or a consultant or whatever the fuck people who wear badges and make too much eye contact in break rooms talk about. 

She’s listening with her face all open and interested, nodding along, and Garrett knows that face too. The one she gets when someone’s saying something actually worth hearing. The one she wore in the library when she was explaining veins on his forearm, all focus and warmth and that little crease between her brows.

His stomach twists, because that guy gets that version of her in the hospital. That guy gets her in scrubs, gets her tired and competent, gets to know the ward stories before Garrett does, gets to stand beside her at the nurses’ station or wherever they’re placed and watch her do the thing she’s good at in real time. 

Garrett gets the after. The crash. The bad-day texts. The tears in his room. The pizza. The sex. The way she curls into him after pretending she isn’t sleepy. He likes the after. He likes it too much, probably. 

But the thought of some other guy existing in the middle of her actual day, in the part where she’s bright and capable and not half-dead against Garrett’s pillow, makes something ugly and hot move in his chest.

Which is stupid. He talks to women. Women talk to him. She’s never once made a thing about it. Well. She’s made faces, maybe. Little ones. But she’s never walked across a room and performed some caveman territorial bullshit because a girl laughed at one of his jokes.

Garrett’s bigger than that. He is 100%, completely and totally, bigger than that.

However, Garrett’s, unfortunately, not bigger than that.

“I’m gonna get another beer,” he says.

Logan looks at the bottle in his hand. “You have one.”

“This one’s annoying me.”

“The beer?” Dean asks.

Garrett gives him a look.

Dean puts both hands up. “Right. My bad. Totally the beer.”

He lasts another eight seconds. Eight. Which is honestly generous, considering Jackson laughs at something she says and then puts his hand briefly on her upper arm.

Briefly. A normal person’s touch. Barely contact. Probably nothing. It’s there and gone in less than a second, and still Garrett sees it so clearly that the whole room seems to sharpen around it. 

The guy’s fingers on her sleeve. Her not flinching. Her not even noticing, maybe. Her just smiling, still mid-sentence, because she’s comfortable enough around him that he can touch her arm and she doesn’t immediately step back. Garrett sets his beer down on the nearest surface with more force than necessary.

“Oh, here we go,” Logan says softly, like he’s narrating wildlife footage.

Garrett cracks his neck. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Dean’s practically glowing. “G, remember, she’s not your girlfriend.”

Garrett points at him without looking back. “One more word and I’m putting your mattress in the front yard.”

“You did that last semester.”

“And I’ll do it better this time.”

He crosses the room before anyone can answer. The party shifts around him automatically, people making room because Garrett is Garrett and because he’s moving with enough purpose that even drunk freshmen understand basic survival instincts. 

He grabs his letterman jacket off the back of a chair on the way, the one he’d thrown there an hour ago because the house was too hot and because he had not, at that stage of the night, known he was about to need a visual aid.

She sees him when he’s a few steps away. Her eyes flick over from Joseph’s face and land on Garrett, and something changes in her expression so fast most people would miss it. A tiny catch at the corner of her mouth. Amusement, like she knows. Like she’s known for at least five minutes that he’s across the room slowly losing his mind and has chosen, with incredible cruelty, not to rescue him from himself.

Garrett’s blood pressure becomes a team concern.

“Hey,” she says as he reaches them, voice light, eyes bright. Too bright. Oh, she’s absolutely going to be insufferable later.

“Hey, baby.” He says it easily. His own mouth hears the possessive little curve in it and decides to double down because shame has taken the night off. He swings the jacket around her shoulders, warm from the room and heavy enough that it covers most of her top at once. “Told you to bring a jacket.”

Her lips press together. Not a smile, not yet, but close enough that he wants to bite her.

“I wasn’t cold,” she says.

“You were going to be.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Was I?”

“Mhm.”

She looks up at him with that almost-smile still sitting there, and for a second the room behind her drops away. Just the two of them. His jacket on her shoulders. Her eyes on his face. The last memory of last night alive and well between them, horribly unhelpful and very smug.

Then James clears his throat. Garrett looks over at him.

The guy isn’t ugly, which is offensive. He has that med-student look, clean and tired and self-important in the socially acceptable way, like he could diagnose a cough and then use the word actually before explaining why everyone else in the room is wrong. He’s holding a beer he’s barely touched. 

Garrett hates him immediately and with some nuance.

“Hey, man,” Garrett says, making his voice pleasant enough to be legally admissible. “I’m–”

“Garrett Graham,” the guy says, his face brightening with recognition. “No, yeah, I know who you are. Big hockey fan.”

That should help. It does not.

“Oh,” Garrett says, nodding once. “Cool.”

She shifts beside him, and Garrett feels her trying not to laugh more than he sees it.

Jacob holds out a hand. “Joshua.”

Garrett takes it. Firmly. Not too firmly. Probably. “Justin?”

The guy blinks. “No– uh. Joshua.”

Garrett nods like this is brand-new and very important information. “Right. Totally. Joshua.”

Her shoulders shake once under his jacket.

Garrett looks down at her. “You good?”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “Mhm.”

His hand, which has somehow ended up at the edge of the jacket near her shoulder, tugs it more securely around her. It’s a stupid, small thing. A nothing thing. Except she lets him do it. She doesn’t shrug him off. Doesn’t roll her eyes in front of John. 

Doesn’t make some cutting little joke about him being ridiculous even though he is being ridiculous, spectacularly so, at a level that may require group review.

She just looks up at him and says, “Hold this?”

Then she hands him her beer, like he’s the sort of person who stands there holding her drink while she slides her arms into his letterman jacket. Garrett takes the beer because he’s domesticated now.

She slips one arm into the sleeve, then the other, the jacket swallowing her in the shoulders and falling too big over her hands. The sight of it does something so abrupt inside him that he almost forgets Joel is present and breathing. 

She looks like she belongs in it. That’s the problem. Worse, she looks like she knows what it does to him. She tugs one sleeve down, fingers appearing just past the cuff, then reaches for her drink again.

“Thanks,” she says, all sweet and casual and deadly.

Garrett hands it back. “Don’t mention it.”

She lifts the beer to her mouth, and her eyes stay on his for half a second over the rim.

Oh, she is evil. Beautiful, evil woman.

Jayden says something about the game, and Garrett answers. He thinks he answers normally. There are words involved. Something about the third period. Something about special teams. 

He’s only half aware of it because she’s turned slightly back toward Joshua but is still close enough that Garrett can feel the edge of his jacket brushing his knuckles when she moves. Close enough that when she laughs softly at something Jasper says, she glances up at Garrett first, like she wants to see what it does to him.

It does plenty.

He drops his hand to the back of her shoulder, thumb pressing once through the thick jacket fabric. It could pass as absent. It’s not. She knows it too, because her eyes flicker for one fraction of a second, and then she looks back at Jared with her smile still intact.

Garrett bends and kisses her temple. He doesn’t plan it, it just happens. One second he’s standing there trying to participate in a conversation with a man whose name he’s already intentionally fumbled, and the next his mouth is at the side of her head, pressing a quick, warm kiss into her hair like he’s done it a hundred times before in front of people.

She goes still for half a breath, then her fingers tighten around the bottle.

Garrett feels something in him settle, low and pleased and stupidly male. It proves that Garrett is losing his grip on a situation he keeps insisting is casual. But she doesn’t move away. She doesn’t correct him. She just stands there in his jacket with his kiss still warm near her temple and says, “Anyway, the ward coordinator was being insane,” like her voice hasn’t gone just slightly softer around the edge.

Garrett isn’t proud of the fact that he enjoys this. But he enjoys it a lot.

He lasts maybe another minute before the satisfaction starts to curdle into the awareness that if he stands here any longer, he’s going to either keep touching her or start asking Joe invasive questions about his placement schedule. Neither option is ideal. One of them may violate several social norms and possibly university policy.

So he squeezes her shoulder once and says, “I’ll be over there.”

She looks up at him. The grin finally breaks properly, tiny and private, tucked into the corner of her mouth like she’s saving it for later. “Okay.”

“Come find me if you get cold.”

She looks down at his jacket, then back up. “Sure.”

Garrett can feel Joshua watching the exchange with the stiff politeness of a man who’s just realised he’s wandered into a situation with no clean label and a lot of territory already claimed by someone who refuses to call it territory. Good. Let him wonder. 

Garrett gives him one last nod. “Jeremy.”

“Joshua,” the guy says weakly.

“Right.”

He turns before she can laugh in his face.

He makes it back to the boys and immediately regrets every friendship he’s ever formed.

Dean’s bent almost in half, one hand over his mouth, shaking with silent laughter. Logan has both eyebrows raised so high they’re basically in his hairline. Tucker looks like he’s trying to be kinder than the other two and failing because his mouth is twitching too hard.

“No,” Garrett says, pointing at all of them. “Absolutely not.”

Tucker takes a sip of beer, eyes still on Garrett. “Subtle jacket move.”

“That wasn’t subtle,” Logan says. “That was a billboard.”

“She was cold,” Garrett says.

Dean wheezes. “She’s indoors!”

“It’s drafty.”

“The thermostat is set to seventy-two and there are ninety people in here,” Tucker says.

“Drafty,” Garrett repeats.

Dean presses both hands together in front of his mouth like he’s praying for strength he doesn’t intend to use. “Baby, I told you to bring a jacket,” he says, pitching his voice lower in an atrocious impression that makes Logan immediately choke on his drink.

Garrett’s eyes narrow. “I will end you.”

“No, no, it was good.” Dean nods earnestly, fighting a grin so hard he looks pained. “Very casual. Extremely platonic. I actually put my varsity jacket on all my non-girlfriends before intimidating their male classmates.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

The words are automatic. They also, judging by the faces in front of him, are not helping.

Logan pats his shoulder. “Yeah, man. We know. You’ve said it a lot. Usually while looking like you’re going to put someone through the wall.”

Garrett looks away, which is a mistake because he sees her across the room, still in his jacket. She’s talking to whatever-his-name-is, but her body has shifted slightly, angled more toward Garrett than before. 

The jacket sleeves hang over her hands. She lifts her beer, says something, laughs again, and this time her eyes flick over to him like she knows exactly where he is. Like she’s known the whole time.

His stomach does that stupid little swoop again. A quick drop, like missing the bottom stair. Because she’s wearing his jacket without complaint, because she let him kiss her temple in front of some guy from her hospital placement, because she’s going to tease him later and he already knows he will let her. 

Worse, he’ll probably enjoy it. He’ll probably stand in his room while she shrugs the jacket off and says something sweetly evil like were you marking your territory, Graham? and he’ll tell her to shut up and kiss her against the door because the answer is yes and he’s not ready to put that in words.

“Look at him,” Dean says softly, with the reverence of someone witnessing art. “He’s doing it again.”

Garrett does not turn. “Doing what?”

“Staring at your not-girlfriend in your jacket.”

“She looks cold.”

“She looks smug,” Tucker says.

“She looks like she knows she owns you,” Logan adds.

“She doesn’t own me.”

All three of them stare at him. Garrett drinks from his beer and discovers it’s empty. This is disappointing because he was hoping it would give his mouth something to do besides continue lying.

Dean leans closer, voice bright. “Hey, G?”

“No.”

“You gonna ask the future doctor to leave or just silently audition for a jealous boyfriend role all night?”

Garrett gives him a look. “You really want your mattress on the lawn.”

“I’m serious. I need to know how far the delusion goes. Like, she’s not your girlfriend, but you pick her up from clinical, right?”

Logan starts counting on his fingers, because apparently he has prepared evidence. “Drives her places. Makes her eat. Lets her sleep in his bed. Gets weird if she doesn’t text back.”

“I don’t get weird.”

“You once came downstairs and asked if the Wi-Fi was working because she hadn’t replied in fifteen minutes,” Tucker says.

Garrett points at him. “That was a reasonable question.”

“It was raining,” Logan adds. “You said maybe the weather was messing with reception.”

Garrett shrugs once. “I was making conversation.”

“You were pacing.”

Dean looks toward the dining room doorway, then back at Garrett, his grin sharpening. “And now you’re about to fight a med student because he made her laugh.”

“I’m not about to fight him.”

“Because you already gave her your jacket and kissed her head, so you think the point’s been made?”

Garrett opens his mouth. Nothing useful comes out.

Dean’s smile widens with the slow horror of a man being proven right in real time. “Oh my God.”

“Shut up.”

“You do think the point’s been made!”

Garrett drags a hand over his jaw. It hurts because his jaw has been clenched for at least ten uninterrupted minutes. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Logan says cheerfully. “You need us. Who else is gonna tell you you’re acting insane?”

“I’m not acting insane.”

Tucker’s eyes move across the room again, and his expression softens slightly. “She doesn’t look mad, for what it’s worth.”

Garrett follows his gaze before he can pretend not to. She’s still talking, still smiling, still doing that animated hand thing, but now his jacket has slipped off one shoulder a little. 

She reaches up absently and pulls it back into place without looking down, like keeping it on matters. Like it’s not just fabric. Like she’s decided, for whatever reason, to let him have this.

Garrett’s chest tightens in a way that is harder to turn into anger. “No,” he says after a second, quieter despite himself. “She doesn’t.”

Dean, because he has a soul only in theory, immediately ruins the softness. “That’s because she likes seeing you suffer.”

Garrett exhales through his nose. “Yeah, probably.”

“She picked a med student on purpose,” Logan says.

“She didn’t pick him.”

“She’s wearing your jacket and making eye contact across the room while another guy talks about hospital stuff,” Dean says. “That girl is conducting research.”

Tucker nods solemnly. “Clinical trial.”

Garrett gives them all a flat look. “You’re done.”

“Double blind study,” Dean continues. “Except everyone can see it except you.”

Logan laughs hard enough to fold into Tucker’s shoulder. Garrett’s very seriously considering the mattress thing. Possibly not just Dean’s. Possibly all of them. A clean sweep. Character building.

Across the room, she looks over again. This time, she smiles at him properly. Just for him, small and pleased and warm under the edges of his jacket. The kind of smile that says she knows exactly how stupid he’s being and, worse, that she’s not entirely against it.

Garrett’s hand tightens around the empty bottle.

Dean makes a soft, wounded noise beside him. “Oh, buddy.”

Garrett turns his head slowly. “What now?”

“You’re so fucked.”

For once, Garrett doesn’t immediately argue. Because she’s not his girlfriend. He knows that. He has the words memorised. He’s said them enough times that they should mean something by now. 

She’s not his girlfriend, and he’s not her boyfriend, and Joshua can laugh at her hospital stories if he wants because she’s allowed to have classmates and friends and whatever other normal people things Garrett has decided are personal attacks.

But she’s standing in his living room wearing his jacket. She had let him put it on her in front of another guy. She had let him kiss her temple. She’d handed him her beer like his hands were a natural place to put things while she settled into his clothes. 

She’s looking at him now like she knows exactly how jealous he is and has chosen, for reasons that are going to ruin his life, to be gentle with it until she can make fun of him somewhere private.

Garrett lifts the empty bottle to his mouth, realises again there’s nothing in it, and lowers it with a muttered, “Fuck.”

Logan claps him on the back. “There it is.”

“I’m getting another beer.”

“Sure,” Dean says. “Beer.”

Garrett ignores them and heads for the kitchen, taking the route that passes her, because he’s fully given up on pretending to be a rational person tonight.

As he passes, his hand brushes the small of her back through the jacket. Brief. Warm. Deliberate enough that she feels it, subtle enough that Jacob probably has to stand there and wonder if he imagined it. She turns her head slightly, eyes lifting to him.

Garrett bends just enough to murmur near her ear, “Still good?”

Her smile tugs again, private and dangerous. “Mhm.”

His fingers press once at her waist, hidden in the thick fabric. “Find me later.”

It comes out lower than he means it to. More instruction than request. A little too much of last night in it. A little too much of his hands, his bed, her voice muffled in his pillow, Dean banging on the wall. He hears it. She hears it too.

Her eyes flick to his mouth, then back up. “Maybe,” she says.

Garrett’s jaw tightens, but this time it’s not jealousy that does it. Or not only jealousy.

“Maybe,” he repeats.

She lifts her beer to her lips. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

Garrett stares at her for one second too long.

Then Joshua says, “Sorry, am I missing something?”

She looks back at him, sweet as anything. “Nope.”

Garrett almost laughs. Instead he gives Doctor Asshole one more polite nod. “Good seeing you, Jason.”

“Joshua,” the guy says, a little helplessly now.

“Right.”

He walks away before she can fully lose the smile. The boys are watching from the couch with expressions that make Garrett want to leave the country.

Dean lifts both hands in surrender before Garrett even reaches them. “Don’t worry, man. Super normal.”

Logan nods. “Barely possessive at all.”

Tucker, traitorously calm, adds, “Very not-girlfriend.”

Garrett drops onto the couch beside them, beerless, jacketless, pride in critical condition, and looks across the room one more time. She’s still laughing. Still in his jacket. Still not his girlfriend.

Garrett leans back, drags a hand down his face, and mutters, “Shut the fuck up.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

taglist ⋆⁺₊ ₄₄❅. @xlinxdax0704  |  @snowtargaryen  |  @goodbyetuesday  |  @staystrongsoa  |  @dadshirrt  |  @miya-111  |  @softburrow  |  @darlinglux  |  @waitingforsmartpeople  |  @seon9yeonie  |  @laceyvt3  |  @sunny747  |  @cosmoh0lic  |  @blackgurlieee  |  @matchieee  |  @loomiz  |  @corvusmorte  |  @erin-alice  |  @cloudsxcherriesx  |  @lolskunk  |  @elizabeth123456767  |  @purplerainx1  |  @pinkgiraffebeach  |  @lucyysthings  |  @outpostsworld  |  @s0ftdr1nks  |  @maybankslover  |  @instantplaiddream  |  @droppedyourhnd  |  @bsenpai  |  @urfavadi  |  @em1ly57  |  @parker-barnes-af  |  @violyn20  |  @bootyliciousbutterfly  |  @bloomingflower13  |  @rexit-mo  |  @tpwkmera  |  @cherryrry581  |  @stevesxwhore  |  @solapeachtea  |  @giuliaasstuff  |  @pamacs-macs  |  @loonylosworld  |  @alice07ea  |  @hitting-euphoria4  |  @tessf13  |  @canupourme14theroad  |  @jayda12  |  @kmc1989  |  click here to be added to the taglist!

She doesn’t turn around at first. That’s one of the first things the ED teaches you, in its harsh little way. People are always coming in. Doors open, wheels roll, voices sharpen, and the floor somehow makes room for whatever crisis has just arrived like it had been expecting it. 

Around her, everyone moves with that strange, practiced calm that still feels a bit like witchcraft to her, panic folded neatly into tasks, fear clipped down to the edge of a pen, hands already reaching for gloves and monitors and charts before the person on the stretcher has even fully crossed the threshold.

“What’ve we got?” Dr. Patel asks, already stepping toward the paramedics.

The stretcher rolls past the nursing station behind her, and one of the paramedics starts talking in that clipped, efficient rhythm that makes every sentence sound both ordinary and terrifying. “This is John Logan, twenty-one. He’s come in from Briar hockey training after a hit during drills. He’s taken contact to the face, gone down, and coach thinks he may have hit the back of his head on the ice. No loss of consciousness that anyone saw, but he’s been asking the same questions and can’t really tell us what happened. He’s got a headache, feels dizzy, bit nauseous. Nosebleed was active when we got there but it’s settled now, and he’s got a decent split to the inside of his lower lip. No neck pain, no vomiting. Obs have been stable.”

Her pen stops moving. For a second, the whole department seems to keep going without her. The wheels keep squeaking. The monitor keeps beeping. Someone laughs at the far end of the nurses’ station in that brittle way people do when the shift has already started to get weird.

But all she can hear is John Logan sitting in the middle of that handover like a puck dropped clean at her feet.

“Logan?” she says, too loud and too immediate, before she can smooth it into anything professional.

The paramedic glances back. Dr. Patel glances back. Maria, her charge nurse, gives her a look from beside the stretcher that manages, somehow, to say several things at once, the main one being whatever this is, please do not make it my problem.

She’s already pushing away from the counter, notes abandoned, Red Bull sweating a bright silver ring onto the desk behind her. “Sorry. I– sorry. I know him.”

Logan gets wheeled into bay four looking, frankly, far too pleased with himself for someone with dried blood crusted under one nostril and a split lower lip swelling on one side.

His hair’s damp from melted ice and sweat, sticking up in the back in a way that would be funny if his eyes weren’t doing that slightly unfocused thing she’s been trained to notice before she’s allowed to react to it. 

He blinks up at the ceiling like the tiles are being rude to him. She follows Maria in, pulling gloves on with fingers that only shake for half a second before she makes them stop, heart thudding once, hard, and then settling into the lower, steadier part of her body where she keeps all the useful things.

Logan turns his head when she comes into his line of sight. His brow creases, slow and dramatic, like recognition is having to fight its way through several layers of fog and hockey equipment. “I know you.”

“Hi, Logan,” she says, leaning in just enough that he doesn’t have to search for her face. Her voice comes out softer than she expects, but steady. Good. She’ll take steady. “You okay?”

His eyes narrow with the heroic concentration of a man trying to remember his own Netflix password under medical supervision. Then his face clears, delighted and bloody. “Garrett’s girlfriend! Hi!”

Every person in the room hears it. There are things a person could whisper in the ED and nobody would catch them over the phones and monitors and general human misery, but Garrett’s girlfriend has the acoustic reach of a trauma alarm.

Heat climbs straight up her throat. “I’m not–” she starts, because some stupid reflex in her still thinks this is the hill worth dying on, even though Logan is lying there with a possible concussion and blood on his teeth. She stops herself and reaches for the rail instead, lowering it so Maria can get in closer. “Okay. Lean back for me, yeah? Let them have a look at you.”

“Garrett’s gonna be so mad,” Logan mumbles, letting his head fall back against the pillow with the loose obedience of someone who has temporarily lost access to all his usual objections.

“Probably,” she says, gently turning his wrist so Maria can clip the pulse ox on properly. “But that’s more of a personality defect than a medical concern.”

Maria’s mouth twitches.

Logan looks at her with genuine, hazy admiration. “You’re funny.”

“You’ve told me that before.”

They get him settled with the strange, controlled choreography of people who know exactly where to put their bodies in a small room. Dr. Patel checks him over, asks the kind of questions that sound simple until the answers come back wrong. Name. Age. Where are you? What happened? Does your neck hurt? Any vomiting? Any vision changes? 

Maria repeats a few in a softer tone when Logan’s gaze drifts toward the curtain and his attention starts to slip off the edge of the room. He knows who he is. He knows he’s at the hospital. He doesn’t know what drill they were running, or why his mouth tastes like pennies, or why his coach apparently went full soccer mom and called an ambulance.

When she checks his temperature, he gives her a slow, solemn thumbs-up like she’s just done something worthy of ESPN coverage.

“Thanks, bud,” she says, fighting a smile.

“Professional,” he tells her, thickly, through the swelling.

“I’m a student.”

“Close enough.”

Dr. Patel orders more monitoring, meds for the headache and nausea, and imaging if he doesn’t settle the way they want.

The room thins out by degrees, people peeling away toward other beds and other problems, and she’s just reaching for the blood pressure cuff when a familiar voice cuts across the main department, too loud and too panicked and much too Garrett to be anyone else.

“Where is he?”

Her eyes close. Another voice follows, higher with stress and irritation. “Bro, you can’t just walk back there.”

Then Tucker, sounding like he’s trying to be polite while actively losing his mind. “Sorry– sorry, we’re with the idiot who got concussed.”

“Fuck,” she mutters.

Logan perks up immediately, which is not ideal. “Guys?”

She strips off her gloves and steps out before the entire Briar hockey team can commit a privacy violation in front of God, Maria, and three irritated nurses who have already had enough of today. 

Dean’s craning his neck over a privacy screen like he’s trying to spot someone across a party instead of an emergency department, Tucker has both hands shoved into his hair, and Garrett’s standing between them in his hoodie and sweats, curls flattened on one side like he’s dragged a hand through them too many times, face set in that awful careful way that means he’s much closer to freaking out than he wants anyone to know.

His eyes find hers, and something under her ribs does one bright, stupid little flip before she can stop it. “Oh, thank God,” Garrett says, already moving toward her. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay,” she says quickly, putting a hand out before he can walk straight past her and into a bay he absolutely hasn’t been invited into. Her palm lands against the front of his hoodie, solid heat and hard chest and the faint outdoor cold still clinging to him. “He’s in there. Stop yelling.”

“I’m not yelling.”

Dean points at him immediately. “You were absolutely yelling.”

Garrett doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay on her face, scanning it like she might accidentally give away something worse than her words. “Is he conscious? Did he know where he was? He couldn’t remember what happened.”

“He’s awake, he’s talking, he’s annoying, so all his major personality functions are intact.” She lowers her voice a little when the sharpness in his jaw doesn’t move. “Garrett. He’s okay. They’re assessing him properly.”

The tension in his face shifts, dragged out of panic and pushed into something he can carry without making it everyone else’s problem. He nods once, quick and tight. “Can I see him?”

“For two minutes,” she says. Then, because Dean’s already angling his body toward the curtain with the unearned confidence of a man who has never met a boundary he didn’t consider negotiable, she adds, “And if any of you crowd him, I’m kicking you out.”

Dean blinks at her. “Wow.”

Tucker, still pale under his tan, nods once like this has genuinely done something for him. “That was kind of hot.”

Garrett shoots him a look. “Shut up.”

She leads them in anyway, and Logan’s whole face lights up the second he sees them, like he hasn’t just been scraped off the ice and transported here in an ambulance. “Guys!”

The room immediately becomes too full in that specific way rooms become too full when hockey players enter them. Dean swears under his breath and leans over the bed, Tucker lets out a rough little laugh that sounds more like relief than humour and grabs Logan’s ankle through the blanket, and Garrett goes quiet. 

That’s the thing she notices most, he doesn’t crowd, doesn’t start talking over everyone, doesn’t perform the worry into something loud enough to hide behind.

He steps to the side of the bed and looks at Logan’s face, really looks, taking in the dried blood, the split lip, the unfocused eyes, the way Logan is smiling too widely because his brain has temporarily filed this whole morning under weird but fine.

“You scared the shit out of us, dude,” Garrett says.

Logan frowns. “Why?”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “Because you got bodied and then asked what day it was four times.”

“Oh.” Logan thinks about that, then looks at her. “What day is it?”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, dragging both hands down his face.

“Okay,” she cuts in, stepping between Dean and the monitor before he manages to trip over something expensive and attached to the wall. “Everyone back. Back, please. I actually have to work.”

Garrett moves first. He catches Tucker lightly by the sleeve, nudges Dean back with his shoulder, and somehow gets both of them away from the bed without making it a whole production. 

His gaze stays on her, though. She can feel the attention of him, steady and warm and much too direct, following her hands as she wraps the cuff around Logan’s arm, clips the pulse ox back onto his finger, asks him to rate his headache out of ten, asks whether the nausea is better or worse, checks the bleeding at his lip with gauze and the lightest pressure she can manage.

She knows she’s not doing anything extraordinary. It’s observations and questions and documenting what she’s told to document. It’s the kind of thing she’s been practicing for weeks, the kind of thing that still sometimes makes her feel like she’s wearing someone else’s competence and hoping it fits long enough to pass. 

But Garrett watches her like she’s doing magic. Like the girl who steals his hoodies and falls asleep with her anatomy notes open on her chest has been briefly replaced by someone sharper and calmer and terrifyingly capable, and he has no idea what to do with the fact that both versions are her.

Maria comes in a minute later with the meds, her eyes flicking once to the three enormous boys lined up against the wall in various states of poorly hidden distress. “Doctor put in orders for acetaminophen and Zofran,” she says, holding the chart out a little. “You want to give them? I’ll cosign and watch.”

Her mouth goes a little dry for reasons that have very little to do with the Red Bull still abandoned at the nursing station. She nods. “Yeah. Yep.”

Logan eyes the tablets suspiciously. “Am I dying?”

“No,” she says, scanning what Maria tells her to scan, double-checking the dose because Garrett’s watching and Maria’s watching and, more importantly, because Logan is a real patient and not just an idiot she’s seen drunk in Garrett’s kitchen eating cereal out of a mixing bowl. “This one’s for the headache, and this one should help with the nausea. Small sip of water, okay? Don’t sit up too fast.”

Logan takes the cup with exaggerated seriousness, like she’s handed him an ancient goblet. “Yes, nurse.”

“Student nurse.”

“Future nurse,” Tucker says from the wall, earnest enough that she has to keep her eyes on the chart or she’ll smile.

She points at him without looking up. “Waiting room.”

Maria gives a soft, approving hum from beside her. “Actually, honey, these boys do need to wait outside.”

“Yeah,” she says, peeling her gloves off. “I’ll walk them out.” She turns back to Logan, whose eyelids are drooping a little now that the initial excitement of having visitors has started to wear off. “Logan, say bye to your friends.”

He lifts one hand in a loose, tragic wave. “Bye, friends.”

Dean looks genuinely affected. “Why did that make me sad?”

“Head injury makes him nicer,” Tucker says. “Maybe we should keep him like this.”

Garrett doesn’t laugh, but his mouth twitches. That tiny break in him is enough to make the room feel a fraction less tight. He lets her guide them out, walking last, still glancing back through the curtain like Logan might vanish if he stops looking. 

When they reach the hallway, she turns and plants both hands on Garrett’s chest before he can hover there indefinitely and slowly turn into hospital furniture.

“I’ve got him,” she says, softer now, because Dean and Tucker are a few steps ahead and because Garrett’s face has gone quiet again. “It’s okay.”

His hands hover for half a second before settling at her waist, careful and brief, the way he touches her when he remembers there are people around and he’s trying very hard to be normal about it. 

His thumb moves once against the side of her scrub top, a small restless stroke that gives him away completely. “You’ll come tell me?”

“Yeah. When the doctor comes back and they know more, I’ll come out.”

His eyes search her face like he wants to argue and knows she’ll win, which is maybe one of the more satisfying developments of the morning. Finally, he nods. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she echoes, then gives his chest a gentle push. “Go wait. And keep Dean from charming his way into a restricted area.”

Dean, already halfway down the hall, calls back, “I heard that.”

“You were meant to.”

Garrett’s mouth curves then, small and tired and stupidly soft at the edges. For one second, with the ED moving around them and Logan concussed behind a curtain and her Red Bull still sitting open somewhere going warm, he looks at her like she’s done something much more impressive than take a blood pressure and bully his friends into behaving. Like the competence of her has hit him somewhere inconvenient and he’s trying not to make it her problem.

Then he leans down just enough to murmur, “You’re really good at this.”

The compliment lands too warm and too directly in her chest, especially with her badge clipped crookedly to her pocket and dried coffee on one sleeve and the faint medicinal smell of the room still clinging to her. 

She looks away first, because there are some things she can handle in front of three hockey players and a charge nurse, and Garrett Graham looking proud of her is not one of them.

“Waiting room, Graham.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and backs away with both hands raised, smiling like an idiot.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

taglist ⋆⁺₊ ₄₄❅. @xlinxdax0704  |  @snowtargaryen  |  @goodbyetuesday  |  @staystrongsoa  |  @dadshirrt  |  @miya-111  |  @softburrow  |  @darlinglux  |  @waitingforsmartpeople  |  @seon9yeonie  |  @kmc1989  |  @laceyvt3  |  @sunny747  |  @cosmoh0lic  |  @blackgurlieee  |  @matchieee  |  @loomiz  |  @corvusmorte  |  @erin-alice  |  @cloudsxcherriesx  |  @lolskunk  |  @elizabeth123456767  |  @purplerainx1  |  @0witchtrials0  |  @pinkgiraffebeach  |  @lucyysthings  | @outpostsworld | @s0ftdr1nks | @maybankslover | @instantplaiddream | @droppedyourhnd | @bsenpai | click here to be added to the taglist!

Garrett’s leaning against his Jeep under the car park light, arms folded. His hair’s messy from a shower, dark curls still damp at the ends, and he has that whole Garrett Graham thing going on. Broad shoulders. Stupidly easy confidence. Mouth already curving like he knows exactly what she’s thinking and has decided to be annoying about it.

Her stomach does something small and embarrassing. Very professional. Very composed. Very student nurse of her.

He pushes off the car when he spots her, and his grin pulls wider, warm and smug all at once. “Hey.”

“Hey, you,” she says, and hates a little bit how soft it comes out.

His eyes move over her face, then down to her scrubs, her badge, her shoes. Quick enough to pass as casual if she didn’t already know him too well.

“You look like the hospital won.”

She huffs, but it turns into a smile because she’s missed him, which is humiliating. “That’s just what clinical excellence looks like.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Back pain. Emotional damage. Mild dehydration.”

“Sounds prestigious.”

“It is. Very competitive.”

His mouth twitches as he reaches past her for the passenger door and opens it before she can. He stands there holding it, eyebrows lifted like he’s daring her to say something.

She looks at him. “I can open a car door.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” His eyes flick briefly to her mouth. “I’m being impressive.”

“With doors?”

“I’m starting small.”

She laughs despite herself and slides into the passenger seat, immediately hissing when the cold leather touches the backs of her thighs through her scrub pants. “Oh my god.”

Garrett leans one forearm on the top of the door. “You good?”

“No. I’ve died.”

“You’re still talking.”

“Final reflex.”

He laughs, shuts the door, and rounds the front of the Jeep. She watches him through the windshield, the loose, easy way he moves, one hand dragging through his hair as he comes around to the driver’s side. 

They’ve texted constantly over the last two weeks. Stupid things. Tired things. Her half-delirious updates from placement. His pictures of Dean passed out on the couch or Tucker making dinner like a man personally betrayed by vegetables. 

But it hasn’t been this. Him in the same space as her. His car smelling like clean laundry and cold air and whatever body wash he uses that she has absolutely no business recognising this quickly.

He gets in and starts the car, immediately blasting the heat. She holds both hands in front of the vents like she’s trying to resurrect herself.

“It’s so cold,” she says.

“It’s November.”

She turns her head slowly. “Thank you. That helped.”

“Anytime.” He shifts toward her instead of putting the car into reverse, one hand coming up to her jaw with that easy, devastating confidence of his. His fingers are warm against her skin, thumb settling just below her cheekbone. “C’mere.”

She goes torward him easily. His mouth is warm, familiar, faintly minty, and the kiss is supposed to be quick until she smiles into it and he makes that low, pleased sound in the back of his throat like he’s won something. His thumb presses a little firmer at her jaw. The hospital car park drops away for a second.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. “How was it?”

She hums, because words take a moment. “Okay. Busy. Fun, kind of. My brain’s not really working. Like, I think if you asked me my birthday right now, I’d need a minute.”

“Good to know. I’ll keep it simple.” His thumb strokes once over her cheek. “You eat?”

She makes a face.

Garrett’s expression flattens. “That’s a no.”

“I had coffee.”

“Babe.”

“And half a granola bar.”

“Babe.”

The word lands too easily. Warm. Exasperated. Like he has any right to sound that domestic when Garrett Graham doesn’t do girlfriends. 

He only picks her up from hospital placements at eleven at night, texts her to make sure she isn’t walking out alone, remembers her schedule better than she does, and looks personally offended when she hasn’t eaten dinner. Completely different thing.

She lifts her brows. “Don’t babe me in your disappointed captain voice.”

“My disappointed captain voice works.”

“It’s bossy.”

He finally leans back, hand dropping to the gearshift. “You wanna go to yours? I can drop you. The guys are throwing something at the house.”

“Something?”

“Dean said low-key.”

“So loud.”

“Probably.”

“And sticky.”

“Almost definitely.”

She scrunches her nose, already imagining the music, the yelling, Logan saying something insane across the kitchen while Tucker tries to make sure no one breaks a lamp. Usually, she likes the hockey house. Tonight, the thought of it makes her want to climb into bed fully clothed and become unavailable to the public.

“No party,” she says. “I’d fall asleep standing up and someone would draw on me.”

Garrett nods. “Dean would.”

“Tucker would stop him.”

“Tucker would try.”

“Logan would take a picture.”

She grins, nodding very seriously. “Unsafe environment.”

Garrett smiles, softer this time. “Home, then.”

She nods, but instead of sitting back like a normal person, she leans over the console and kisses him again. Slower this time. Less hello, more something she’s not going to name because he’ll get unbearable about it and also because she’s tired enough to be honest by accident.

His mouth curves against hers. 

“You staying over?” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” he says, too quick to pretend he had to think about it. Then, quieter, “If you want me to.”

She rolls her eyes before her face can do something stupid. “You’re very easy.”

“For you?” His grin turns lazy. “Yeah. Little bit.”

That shouldn’t make her stomach flip. It does anyway. To recover, she slides a hand into his hair and tugs lightly at the curls near the nape of his neck. His breath catches, barely, but she hears it.

She smiles. “Interesting.”

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

His hand lands on her thigh over her scrubs, big and warm and far too comfortable there. “You’re supposed to be exhausted.”

“I am.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “You’re harassing me for sport.”

“I can multitask.”

He laughs under his breath and kisses her again, and this one gets away from them fast. Two weeks of missed schedules and half-asleep phone calls and pretending none of it counts as missing each other. 

His hand slides a little higher on her thigh. Hers tightens in his hair. The heat blasts over her knees, and she leans closer over the console, smiling into his mouth when he makes another low sound that’s going to be a problem for her later.

Then someone walks past the front of the Jeep. Close enough that when her eyes open, she catches the white coat, the badge, the tired doctor face, and the unmistakable glance into the car before he looks away with the grim professionalism of a man choosing not to involve himself.

She freezes. Garrett starts laughing.

“Oh my god.” She drops her forehead into his shoulder. “No.”

His chest shakes under her cheek. “Was that one of your doctors?”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just asking.”

“That is so unprofessional.”

“You’re off the clock.”

“I’m in the hospital car park!”

He shrugs. “Completely different.”

She lifts her head to glare at him, but his face is bright and smug and delighted, and it only makes her want to laugh too, which is frankly rude of him. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. That man watched me miss an IV yesterday.”

Garrett’s grin gets worse. “Good. New association.”

“What?”

He gestures with one hand. “Now he won’t think about the IV.”

“He’ll think about me making out with you in your Jeep.”

“Exactly.” He looks deeply pleased with himself. “Rebrand.”

She stares at him, then smacks his chest. “Drive.”

“Okay, okay.” He catches her hand before she can pull it back and kisses her knuckles, still smiling like an idiot.

She groans dropping her head back against the headrest. “I’m transferring schools.”

“No, you’re not.”

She points at the windshield. “Drive, Graham.”

He pulls out of the car park still grinning, one hand on the wheel, the other finding its way back to her thigh as soon as they hit the road. 

Outside, the hospital drops behind them in glass and light, the streets stretching dark and quiet toward campus. The heat keeps blowing over her legs. Garrett’s thumb moves slowly over her scrubs like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

She tips her head against the seat and watches him in the passing streetlights, the curve of his mouth still there, stupid and pleased and familiar.

“What?” he asks without looking over.

She shakes her head softly. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

She turns her hand palm-up on her thigh, and after half a second, his fingers slide between hers like they were headed there anyway.

“Just drive.”

His hand tightens around hers. “Yes, ma’am.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

For one stupid second, her body responds before the rest of her has the energy to argue with it. Something loosens under her ribs. A small, pathetic little lift, because sometimes after a bad shift, seeing him is exactly what she wants. 

Sometimes she wants the noise of the hockey house and Garrett’s mouth on hers and his hands at her waist under her t-shirt and the particular smug, warm attention he gives her when he’s trying not to make it obvious that he’s been waiting for her. 

Sometimes it takes the edge off. Sometimes it lets her climb out of her own head for a while, which is useful, considering her head has spent the last twelve hours being a truly miserable place to live.

But tonight the thought of going over there and having to be funny, or pretty, or easy, or whatever version of herself Garrett usually gets, makes her chest tighten until it almost hurts.

She isn’t in the mood to hook up. She’s not even in the mood to be perceived.

She wants to put on the oldest, softest clothes she owns, eat something with too much salt, lie horizontally under three blankets, and not have anyone ask her anything that requires a real answer. 

She wants to stop feeling the ghost of a stranger’s fingers around her forearm. She wants to stop hearing that doctor’s voice clipping sharp across the nurses’ station like embarrassment is best when it has an audience. 

She wants to forget the little boy on the bed with his cheeks flushed from fever and dehydration, his arm so small under her gloved hand, the cannula not threading properly once, then again, his mother’s face tightening with every second, his father saying, “Can we get someone who knows what they’re doing?” in a tone that’s taken up permanent residence behind her sternum.

She has no idea what to do with that in Garrett’s room. She has no idea what to do if she sees him and cries. The worst part is that she wants to see him anyway, and that feels like a personal failing.

She stares at the message until the screen starts to dim, then taps it awake with her thumb, not tonight. sorry.

She sends it before she can start rewriting the tone of it like a psychopath. Then she drops the phone onto the bed and stands there in her towel, wet hair cold on her shoulders, stomach aching with a hunger she’s ignored so thoroughly it’s  started to feel like nausea.

The phone lights up again almost immediately.

Garrett: You okay? Thought you were off tonight?

Her mouth pulls, not quite a smile and not quite anything else. He remembers stupid things when it serves him. Her placement roster. The type of coffee she buys when she has an early shift. The fact that she likes the corner of his bed closest to the wall because the room feels less open there. 

He remembers all of that and then still has the nerve to act like whatever this is between them is completely casual. Like men routinely keep mental calendars of girls they’re just sleeping with. 

She exhales through her nose and picks hers back up. She types, yeah. just not in the mood tonight. sorry. Sends it, then adds, bad day.

The three little dots appear, disappear, appear again. She hates that she watches them.

Garrett: Did you want to come watch a movie or something?

The room makes a small sound around her, or maybe that’s the building, or maybe it’s just the leftover rush in her ears from crying in the shower earlier, even though she was pretending she hadn’t. 

Her thumb hovers over the keyboard. Because that’s worse, somehow. That’s so much worse.

If he had sent something flirty back, she could have stayed home and felt sad and righteous about it. She could have filed him where he insists on being filed: Garrett Graham, hockey captain, extremely hot mistake, not boyfriend material, not soft, not hers. 

But he doesn’t. He offers a movie. Like that’s fucking allowed. Like he can just make room for a version of her that doesn’t want to be touched like that tonight, and the room will still count.

She presses her tongue behind her teeth until the pressure stings a little. She taps her thumb on her screen, you don’t have to do that.

His reply comes fast enough to make her throat tighten.

Garrett: I want to see you. Garrett: Please?

She looks at it for too long. It’s ridiculous. One word shouldn’t do anything to her. It’s not a confession. It’s not a promise. It’s barely punctuation. 

But Garrett doesn’t say please often, unless he’s teasing, and this doesn’t read like teasing. This reads like him sitting in his room, hair damp from a shower, probably shirtless, phone in hand, asking to see her without dressing the request up as something he can pretend is less honest later.

She closes her eyes for one second. Then she types. i’ll be there soon.

By the time she gets to the hockey house, the cold has climbed under her hoodie sleeves and settled into her wrists. She’s put on leggings and an oversized sweatshirt because anything tighter felt like one more demand on her body, and UGG boots because tying laces would have required optimism she doesn’t currently possess. 

Her hair’s still damp, pulled back badly, little pieces escaping around her face. She has mascara under one eye despite washing her face twice. 

There’s a bruise blooming faintly around her forearm where the patient had grabbed her, which wasn’t even really worth mentioning if she’s being sensible, except her body keeps remembering the sharp surprise of it. 

The grip. The way she had frozen for half a second before the nurse beside her stepped in. The shame of that half-second, like fear is something she should’ve trained out of herself by now.

The hockey house is already loud before she knocks.

There are voices inside, a game on TV, somebody laughing too hard in the living room. The whole place glows yellow through the front windows, warm and messy and aggressively lived-in. 

Usually that makes her feel better before she even gets inside. Usually the clutter and noise and boyish chaos of it all feels like a relief after hospital floors and fluorescent lights and the sterile bite of hand sanitiser. Tonight it mostly makes her aware of how tired she is.

The door opens before she has to knock twice. Logan stands there with a beer in one hand and a hoodie half-zipped over his bare chest, his hair flattened weirdly on one side like he’s either napped recently or lost a fight with the couch. 

His face brightens when he sees her, easy and genuinely pleased. “Hey,” he says. “You here for G?”

She nods, forcing her mouth into something close to normal. “Yeah. Is he upstairs?”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s in his room.” Logan steps back to let her in, then tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking over her face just long enough to make her worry he can tell. “You good?”

The question hits too close to the bruise. She nods again, too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Fair.” He lets it go and shuts the door behind her and nods toward the stairs. “He’s been weirdly annoying for, like, twenty minutes, by the way.”

Despite herself, something twitches near her mouth. “Only twenty?”

“Yeah, no, my bad. Since birth, probably. But specifically about his phone for twenty.”

She huffs the smallest laugh, and Logan grins like he’ll take it.

Then she goes upstairs. The staircase creaks under her boots. Someone calls something from the living room, followed by Tucker’s voice saying, “Absolutely not,” in a tone that suggests whatever it is will happen anyway. 

The hallway upstairs is dimmer, quieter, the party noise blunted to a lower hum. By the time she reaches Garrett’s door, the laugh Logan pulled out of her has already gone thin again.

She knocks once and opens it before she can change her mind. Garrett’s on his bed, sitting with his back against the headboard, phone loose in one hand, sweatpants low on his hips, no shirt on. The lamp beside his bed is on, softening the room into warm corners. 

There’s a textbook open beside him, facedown and abandoned, which feels optimistic. His hair is a little damp. There’s a fading bruise near his ribs from the game last week that she had checked twice and threatened to re-check if he kept pretending it didn’t hurt.

He looks up the second the door opens, and his face changes. The lazy, pleased curve of his mouth softens into something more alert, his phone already dropping onto the blanket beside him as he sits up properly.

“Hey,” he says. “How was your day?”

She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out.

For one stupid second she just stands inside his room with one hand still on the doorknob, looking at him in the lamp light, at the familiar mess of his bed and the hoodie on his chair and the half-full water bottle by his knee, and all the pressure she’s been holding in her body since the doctor raised his voice seems to find the exact seam where she is weakest.

Her face crumples before she can stop it.

“Oh–” Garrett is off the bed immediately. “Uh, fuck. Okay. Okay, c’mere.”

That makes it worse, the way he doesn’t stand there looking alarmed and useless. He moves like it’s instinct, like a whistle has gone off somewhere in him. 

One second he’s across the room, the next his arms are around her, one hand at the back of her head and the other reaching past her shoulder to push the door shut with a soft click behind her.

She collapses into him, there’s not really another word for it. Her forehead drops against his bare chest, her hands curling weakly near his waist, the sob catching in her throat before it can become anything elegant. 

He’s warm from the shower or from the bed or just from being Garrett, solid in a way that makes her knees feel less trustworthy, and the smell of him hits so hard she has to press her face in closer. 

“Sorry,” she gets out, the word half-muffled against him. “Sorry, this is so lame. It was just really–”

“Hey.” His hand moves over her back, slow and wide, then up again. “You don’t have to explain. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry.” His voice is low, a little rough with the quickness of the shift. Party downstairs, phone in his hand, girl in his room. Then this, her crying into his chest like she’s lost the ability to be normal in front of him. “Shit day, huh?”

She nods against him, which drags her cheek over his skin and makes her feel even more pathetic because it feels good. Being held by him feels good. 

It’s not awkward, it’s not too much. His arms are tight enough to keep her there without trapping her, one hand still moving steadily over the back of her sweatshirt like he’s trying to smooth the whole day out through fabric.

Garrett rests his cheek on top of her head. “We can just hang out, yeah?” he murmurs. “Don’t have to do anything.”

Her throat closes around the relief so fast it hurts. She nods again.

His hand pauses between her shoulders, then starts moving once more. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she whispers.

“Okay.” He presses his mouth to the top of her head. It's quick, almost absent, the kind of touch he could probably pretend meant nothing if anyone walked in. “What happened?”

She inhales, but it catches badly. The first words come out wet and uneven, dragged up from somewhere below her ribs. “A doctor yelled at me.”

Garrett goes still in the particular way men do when they’ve not yet been told who to be angry at, but are already preparing several options. “A doctor.”

“Yeah.” She lets out a shaky breath and makes herself pull back enough to talk, though she doesn’t get far because his hands come up to her face almost immediately, thumbs brushing under her eyes with clumsy, careful attention. “I made a mistake on the chart. Not– not a dangerous one, just– it was stupid, and I should’ve caught it, and he just snapped at me in front of everyone and I felt like such an idiot.”

Garrett’s thumbs move again, wiping tears from her cheeks before they can reach her jaw. His expression’s gone tight in the way it does when he’s trying to behave like a civilised person and not like someone who solves problems by body-checking them into boards. “Okay.”

“And then this patient grabbed my arm.” Her voice thins on that part before she can stop it. She looks down between them, at the place where his chest rises and falls, because his face is too much. “Not hard, actually, I mean, kind of hard, but he was confused and upset and I know he didn’t mean it, it just–” Her hand lifts uselessly toward her own forearm. “It freaked me out.”

Garrett’s gaze drops at once. She sees the moment he spots the mark. The faint half-moon pressure, the little shadow of bruising starting under the skin.

His jaw tightens. “Baby,” he says, and the word is soft enough to ruin her all over again.

“It’s fine.”

“Don’t do that.”

She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh and almost another sob. “Do what?”

“Tell me it’s fine when you’re crying in my room.”

She wipes at her own face with the heel of her hand, even though he has already done it. “And then I tried to do an IV on this little kid. He was so dehydrated, so his veins were shit, and I missed twice.” Her voice cracks around the last word, which is ridiculous, because people miss IVs. Actual nurses miss IVs. It happens. It happens all the time. She knows that. She knows that with the rational part of her brain that’s currently standing several metres away with its arms folded, being absolutely no help at all. “And he was crying and his parents were so mad, and the dad was like, can someone else do it, and I know that’s fair because it’s their kid and they were scared, but my charge nurse just sent me out of the room and she didn’t even– she didn’t say anything. She didn’t defend me. She just looked at me like I’d made everything worse.”

Her mouth wobbles around the end of it, and she hates that so much she presses her lips together until they hurt.

Garrett cups her face more fully, thumbs at her cheeks, fingers warm near her ears. He looks at her like the room has narrowed down to the exact size of her face and everything else can wait its turn.

“You’re normally good at those, right?” he asks.

It’s such a Garrett question. So practical and blunt and weirdly helpful that another tear slips free before she can stop it.

She nods. “Usually. On– on a hydrated adult, but–”

“Yeah, well.” His mouth pulls to one side, eyes flicking over her face while he wipes the tear away. “That seems like an important difference.”

She gives a wet little laugh. “A little bit.”

“A very dehydrated kid sounds like the hard mode version.”

“It is, but I should’ve–”

“Hey.” His voice firms just enough to stop the sentence before it gets anywhere useful. “You had a bad day. Doesn’t mean you’re bad at it.”

She looks at him. Garrett Graham, shirtless in his bedroom, hair damp, thumb under her eye, saying something kind and sensible with the slightly uncomfortable expression of a man who’s discovered tenderness in his own hand and is hoping no one brings too much attention to it.

It makes her want to cry harder. Instead she presses her lips together and nods, because if she speaks immediately, she’s going to become completely unbearable.

His face shifts then, something sparking faintly under the concern. “You wanna practice on me?” he asks.

She blinks. “What?”

“IVs.” Garrett’s hands are still on her face, but his mouth’s curving now. “You can practice on me.”

A laugh breaks out of her before she can stop it, startled and rough. “Garrett.”

“On the whole team, if you want. I’ll make ’em.”

She stares at him through tears. “What?”

“I’m captain.” His grin widens, smug and gorgeous and absolutely not the point. “Can do what I want.”

“You cannot force your team to become IV practice dummies.”

“Sure I can.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Baby, I’ve made those guys do suicides hungover. IVs would be nothing.”

She laughs properly then, one hand coming up to cover her mouth because it’s wet and ridiculous and coming from somewhere in the wreckage of the day. 

Garrett’s expression changes when he sees it, going pleased in that way he tries to hide too late.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s okay. I don’t need to practice IVs on your team.”

He sucks at his teeth, pretending to consider this a serious lost opportunity. “You sure? Logan’s got good veins.”

“Oh my God.”

“Tucker too, probably. He drinks water like a fucking freak.”

“I’m not stabbing your roommates.”

“Dean deserves it.”

“Dean definitely deserves it,” she murmurs, and immediately laughs again when Garrett points at her like the admission has strengthened his case. “No. Stop. I’m sure.”

“Fine.” He sighs like she’s being unreasonable, then lets his hands fall from her face to her shoulders, squeezing lightly through the hoodie. “Movie?”

She nods, then wipes under her nose with her sleeve before she can remember she’s in front of him and should maybe have some shame. “Yeah.” Her stomach chooses that moment to ache meanly, empty and sour. “And food. I’m starving.”

Garrett looks genuinely offended. “You haven’t eaten?”

“I had crackers.”

“When?”

She frowns, a small pout forming on her lips. “Don’t interrogate me.”

“When?”

She narrows her damp eyes at him. “Like… four?”

“Jesus Christ.” He takes her by the hands and walks her backward toward the bed with the same careful authority she uses when he gets stubborn about injuries, which is deeply annoying given that she’s meant to be the healthcare-adjacent one here. “Sit down.”

She sits. Mostly because the backs of her knees hit the mattress and her body, traitorous and exhausted, decides that sitting is an excellent idea. 

The bed dips under her. Garrett crouches in front of her, all bare shoulders and concerned eyes and stupidly attractive forearms resting lightly on his knees. 

He looks up at her from the floor, and the angle’s so unfair after the day she’s had that she almost tells him to put a shirt on for medical ethics reasons.

“How about pizza?” he asks.

She nods immediately. “That’d be good.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

His smile comes softer this time. “Okay.”

Then he pushes up and kisses the tip of her nose. It’s so quick and so casual and so devastatingly not sexual that she forgets how to react for half a second.

Garrett, of course, doesn’t appear to understand the damage he’s doing. He only reaches for one of her boots, fingers wrapping around the heel with practical focus. “These coming off?”

She looks down at him. “Are you taking my UGGs off?”

“Unless you’re wearing them in bed.”

“I might be.”

He tugs one off gently and sets it beside the bed, then reaches for the other. “I’m not sleeping next to outside shoes.”

She stares at him. “Who said I’m sleeping here?”

Garrett glances up without pausing. “You wanna go home?”

Her answer doesn’t come fast enough. That’s its own answer.

His expression shifts only slightly, smugness held back by something quieter. He pulls the second boot off and sets it neatly beside the first. “Didn’t think so.”

“You’re very full of yourself.”

“You came over to cry in my room.”

Her mouth drops open. “Wow. You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah.” He rises and sits beside her on the bed, reaching for his phone. “But I’m ordering pizza, so you’re stuck with me.”

She groans and flops backward onto his bed, one arm over her eyes. The mattress smells faintly like his detergent and him and some other boyish thing she refuses to catalogue too closely because she already feels emotionally compromised enough. “Fuck. I can’t believe I cried in front of you.”

Garrett’s weight shifts beside her. “Very cute.”

She moves her arm just enough to glare at him. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious.”

She groans. “That makes it worse.”

“You did the little sad hiccup thing.”

“I’m going to leave.”

“You're not. You have no shoes on.” He taps something into his phone, then pauses. “Pepperoni?”

“Please.”

“Garlic bread?”

She lowers her arm fully. “Obviously.”

“Wasn’t sure if you were in medical mode and about to tell me garlic bread has no nutritional value.”

“I’m in emotional support carbs mode.”

“Hot.”

“Garrett.”

“What? I’m being supportive.”

She turns her face into his pillow to hide the smile because it arrives before she’s given it permission. 

Her body still feels wrung out. The day hasn’t vanished. The doctor’s voice is still there if she listens for it, and the little boy’s crying, and the humiliation of standing in the hallway after being sent out of the room with her hands shaking inside her pockets. 

None of that is magically gone because Garrett made a joke about Logan’s veins and took off her boots. But the room has changed the volume of it.

The lamp is soft. His bed is warm. The party downstairs exists, but distantly, like weather outside a window. Garrett’s beside her ordering pizza, and one of his hands has settled on her forearm where it rests near his thigh, his thumb moving once over the bone there like he’s forgotten he’s doing it.

He orders the pizza, then tosses his phone onto the comforter and lies back beside her. For a minute, neither of them says anything. She keeps her cheek pressed to his pillow and looks at him from there, at the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the little crease between his brows that hasn’t fully gone away.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he says, eyes still on the ceiling.

She blinks. “You’re not even looking at me.”

“I can feel it. It’s very loud. Nurse anxiety has a specific frequency.”

She huffs. “I’m not a nurse.”

“Yet.”

The word lands softly. Yet. Like a fact. Like he’s already decided the end of the sentence for her.

She looks down toward his hand on her ankle. “I felt really stupid today.”

Garrett turns his head then. She wishes he hadn’t, almost, because the attention is harder when she can see it. She can make jokes at his ceiling. His face is different. His face asks things without asking.

“I know everyone has bad days,” she says, the words coming slower now, less broken than before but somehow more embarrassing. “I know people miss IVs and get yelled at and have patients lash out. Like, I know that. I know it logically. But it just felt like all day I kept being one step behind, and every time I tried to fix it, I made something else worse.”

Garrett watches her for a moment. “You ever yell at me when I fuck up?”

She frowns. “What?”

“In hockey.” He shifts onto his side, propping his head on one hand. “If I miss a pass or blow coverage or whatever.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Because I know what I’m doing?”

“You do know what you’re doing.”

“Not always.” His thumb resumes that absent movement against her forearm. “Sometimes I miss shit I normally don’t. Sometimes the play’s weird, or the guy’s faster than I thought, or I’m tired, or my head’s not where it should be. Doesn’t mean I suddenly forgot how to play hockey.”

She looks at him, and something uncomfortable and warm presses against the back of her throat.

Garrett’s mouth lifts faintly, but his voice stays easy. “I know. Sports metaphor. Very shocking from me.”

Despite herself, she smiles. “Groundbreaking.”

“Yeah, I’m deep.” His gaze drops briefly to her forearm again, to the bruise half-hidden by her sleeve. “But I’m right.”

She looks away first because that’s easier than letting him be right while shirtless and kind. “That doctor was still a dick.”

“Oh, for sure.” Garrett’s answer comes immediate enough to pull a laugh out of her. “I hate him.”

“You don’t know him.”

“Don’t need to. Strong instincts.”

“He’s like fifty.”

“I can hate old people.”

“You’re so brave.”

“And the dad too,” Garrett adds, warming to it now. “I get that his kid was sick, but he can catch a little hate. As a treat.”

Her emotions are humiliatingly close together tonight, stacked badly, like someone’s thrown all her insides into a cupboard and is now opening the door just to watch what falls out.

She groans, rubbing her hands over her eyes. “Fuck, I’m so tired,” she mutters.

Garrett catches one of her wrists and pulls her hand gently away from her face. “Hey.”

“I’m fine.”

He gives her a look.

She exhales, the lie collapsing immediately. “I’m not, like, not fine. I’m just… tired. And embarrassed.”

“About crying?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t be.”

She snorts. “Wow. Cured.”

“I’m serious.” His fingers slide from her wrist to her palm, fitting there with an ease that makes her stomach dip. “You think I haven’t cried in front of people?”

She turns her head, brows lifting. “Have you?”

Garrett’s mouth twitches. “No.” She swats at his arm with her free hand, and he laughs, catching that wrist too before she can do any damage. “Ow, okay, violent.”

“You deserved that.”

“Probably.” His grin settles, but his hands stay around hers. “I meant you don’t have to be embarrassed in front of me.”

She looks at him for a second that stretches. “Garrett.”

“What?”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m being nice.”

She smiles because he looks offended, and because if she doesn’t smile, she might do the stupid thing again where her eyes fill and her mouth twists and she becomes a girl crying in a boy’s bed over a day that’s already over.

Garrett studies her face, then leans forward and kisses her forehead. Warm and lingering, just long enough that her eyes close on instinct.

When he pulls back, he says, “Stay tonight.”

Her heart does something stupid.

He must see it, because he adds quickly, “To sleep. Relax. Whatever. No funny business.”

“No funny business?”

He winces. “I panicked.”

“That was awful.”

“I know. I heard it.”

The laugh comes out of her small and shaky, but real. “You sure?”

Garrett rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“I just mean–”

“I know what you mean.” He squeezes her hands once, then lets one go so he can brush a damp piece of hair back from her cheek. “I wanted to see you. That was all.”

There’s absolutely no way her face survives that. She feels it happen. The warmth. The giveaway softness. The way her mouth parts slightly because all the clever, reasonable parts of her have left the room in disgust. Garrett watches it, and something in his own expression shifts before he hides it under a little smirk.

“Don’t make it weird,” he says.

She laughs, startled. “Me?”

“Yeah. You’re looking at me all… grateful.”

“I am not!”

“You are.”

Her eyes practically roll into the back of her head. “You’re so emotionally stunted.”

“And yet you came over.”

“Barely. I nearly stayed home.”

“Glad you didn’t.”

She stares at him. He looks like he regrets the honesty about half a second after it leaves his mouth, but only because it’s too plain, not because it’s untrue. His eyes flick down to her mouth, then away, then back to her face with that familiar Garrett confidence trying to reassemble itself over something much less tidy underneath.

She saves him, because she’s generous even on the brink of collapse. “Pizza better get here fast.”

Relief and amusement cross his face together. “Starving?”

“Like, angry starving.”

“Oh, shit. Serious.” He reaches for his phone. “I’ll track it.”

She rolls onto her side again while he checks the order status, and this time when his hand finds her arm, she lets herself enjoy the warmth of it without immediately putting it under cross-examination. 

The day is still sitting in her somewhere, ugly and sore. Tomorrow she’ll probably replay the IVs again in the shower. She’ll probably hear the doctor’s voice while brushing her teeth. She’ll probably wake up and remember the patient grabbing her before she remembers where she is.

But right now Garrett is beside her, shirtless and stupid and careful in ways he would absolutely deny under oath, and the room smells like his laundry and soon, hopefully, pizza.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

⤷ taglist ⋆⁺₊ ₄₄❅. @xlinxdax0704  |  @snowtargaryen  |  @goodbyetuesday  |  @staystrongsoa  |  @dadshirrt  |  @miya-111  |  @softburrow  |  @darlinglux  |  @waitingforsmartpeople  |  @seon9yeonie  |  @kmc1989  |  @laceyvt3  |  @sunny747  |  @cosmoh0lic  |  @blackgurlieee  |  @matchieee  |  @loomiz  |  @corvusmorte  |  @erin-alice  |  @cloudsxcherriesx  |  @lolskunk  |  @elizabeth123456767  |  @purplerainx1  |  @0witchtrials0  |  @pinkgiraffebeach  | click here to be added to the taglist!

She’s a nursing student. She has clinical placement at seven on Monday morning and three half-finished flashcards on cardiac meds shoved into her bag and a lab partner who keeps texting her about their assessment. 

She understands symptoms. She understands pattern recognition. She understands that if a man who doesn’t do girlfriends makes you feel like a girlfriend for three to six hours a week, and then smiles at you after like he hasn’t just rearranged your entire nervous system, that’s not necessarily pathology. Sometimes that’s just Garrett.

His hand is warm around hers, and she’s a little drunk, and the game had been brutal, and he’d scored twice, and there are girls downstairs wearing Briar colours and looking at him like he’s something they could win if they stood in the right place long enough. And she’s the one he’s taking upstairs.

So. Normal. Definitely. Totally. 

Garrett pushes his bedroom door open with his shoulder, tugging her inside after him, and the noise of the party drops at once to a muffled, bass-heavy pulse through the floorboards.

His room smells like clean laundry, cold air from the cracked window, and him underneath it, that warm boyish mix of soap and deodorant and whatever he uses in his hair when he pretends he doesn’t use anything. 

There are textbooks stacked badly on the desk, a hoodie thrown over the chair, tape and a half-empty Gatorade bottle on the dresser. Evidence of a life being lived at full speed and cleaned only when Tucker threatens violence.

She gets half a second to take it in before Garrett closes the door behind her. Then he turns, catches her by the waist, and backs her against it.

The breath leaves her in a soft, embarrassing little rush. Garrett, for all his size and all the speed he carries on the ice, is annoyingly good at knowing exactly where someone’s body is in space.

He presses her back into the door with just enough weight, one hand braced near her head and the other sliding to her hip, his mouth already curving like he knows the sound she just made has ruined any chance of her acting composed.

“Hi,” he says, close enough that the word brushes her lips.

She looks up at him. “Hi.”

His grin deepens. “You’ve said that, like, six times tonight.”

“You keep appearing near me.”

“I live here.”

She tilts her head. “That’s probably part of the problem.”

He laughs under his breath, and then he kisses her before she can decide whether that was too honest to have been funny.

It starts the way it always starts, like he’s going to be patient just to prove he can. His mouth settles over hers slowly, warm and confident, one hand still at her waist, thumb slipping over the soft fabric of her dress.

She can taste beer on him, faint and bitter, and the peppermint gum he’d been chewing earlier because Dean had made some deeply unnecessary comment about post-game mouth and Garrett had thrown a bottle cap at his head. 

His lips are soft in a way that always feels vaguely unfair, especially against the rest of him, the broadness of his shoulders and the hard line of his body still wired from the game, and when she opens for him he makes a small sound in his throat that goes straight through her like heat.

Her fingers climb into his hair before she can pretend restraint was ever on the table. His curls are a little damp at the roots from the party, from the shower he must have taken after the game, from whatever warmth still clings to him after the crush of bodies downstairs. She tugs, just lightly, and Garrett’s hand tightens at her waist.

“There she is,” he murmurs against her mouth.

She would like to say something clever to that. Something dry and immune. Instead she sucks his bottom lip between hers and feels him go briefly still. Then he groans. It lands low and rough in the small space between them, and something in her stomach tips clean over.

Garrett’s hand slides from her waist to her back and pulls her in harder, until there’s very little room left between the door and him and her body has to make several immediate decisions about survival. Her hands stay in his hair. His mouth opens over hers, deeper now, less patient, and the kiss turns messy in that private familiar way it gets when they are both pretending this is simple.

His tongue against hers. His thumb at her jaw. The scrape of his teeth, quick and careful, when she nips at his lip again because he’s rewarded it once already and she likes the sounds he makes against her mouth.

He kisses down her jaw, and her head tips back into the door before she can help it. His mouth moves warm over the hinge of it, then lower, to the line of her throat where her pulse is doing something medically ridiculous. He finds it with the kind of precision that feels almost insulting. His lips press there once, then again, open-mouthed and slow enough that her fingers tighten in his hair.

“Garrett,” she breathes, and immediately hates herself a little for sounding like that.

He hums against her skin, smugness practically vibrating off him. “Yeah?”

“Don’t be annoying.”

His smile touches her throat. “Be patient.”

She laughs, which comes out unstable because he chooses that exact second to kiss back up her neck, along her jaw, to the corner of her mouth. He catches her there before she can fully get the breath back, and this kiss is less patient from the start. His hand moves up to her jaw, fingers gentle but sure, thumb resting near the corner of her mouth in a way that makes it very hard to remember that she has bones.

She thinks he likes her.

It arrives abruptly, in the middle of his mouth on hers and his hand spread over her back and his knee sliding between her thighs like he already knows where she’ll make that soft sound for him. She thinks it, and then the thought sits there glowing, horrible and warm.

Garrett Graham does not do girlfriends. Everybody knows that.

It’s practically public information. He has hockey, classes, training, games, and the kind of attention that follows him around campus like bad weather. He’s just been made captain, which means half his life now belongs to the team in a more official capacity than it already did. He spends mornings on the ice, afternoons in class, nights pretending he’s not exhausted while some girl in a mini dress lets him drag her upstairs by the hand and tries not to care when he looks at her like this.

And she’s busy too. She is. She has lectures and placement and exams that make her want to peel her own face off. She has care plans to write and competencies to get signed and older nurses who can destroy a person with one look if they prime an IV line too slowly. She’s not wandering around with free time and delusion looking for somewhere to put both.

But Garrett’s hand’s at her throat, careful and warm, and his mouth is on hers like he has nowhere else to be, and she likes him so much that for a second it’s genuinely inconvenient to breathe.

His knee shifts higher between her thighs. The feeling catches before she can stop it. A little drag of pressure through the thin fabric of her dress and the heat already sitting low in her body, and her hips move once, almost by accident, chasing it.

Garrett’s response is immediate. His breath breaks against her mouth, not quite a laugh and not quite a groan, his fingers flexing at her jaw. “Fuck.”

The word should make her feel powerful. And it does. Unfortunately, it also makes her stupid.

She does it again, on purpose this time, and Garrett kisses her harder, his free hand sliding down her side, over the curve of her hip, to pull her closer against his thigh. The door is cool at her back. His body is hot everywhere else.

The party downstairs has become a distant, irrelevant animal. She can feel the dull beat of music through the wood, the pressure of his hand at her waist, the soft roughness of his lips when he drags his mouth from hers just long enough to breathe and comes right back like leaving was a mistake.

He turns them without really breaking the kiss, one hand moving to her back, walking her backward across the room. It’s smooth for approximately three steps, and then her knees hit the edge of the bed. She drops onto it with a soft, inelegant oof.

Garrett pulls back just enough to look at her. For one second, neither of them says anything. She’s sitting on the edge of his bed with her dress riding higher than she left the house intending, boots planted on his carpet, hair probably already a mess from his hands. Garrett stands between her knees, flushed and grinning down at her like this night has gone exactly where he wanted it to.

God help her, she grins back.

“Smooth,” he says.

“You shoved me.”

“I guided you.”

She has just enough time to roll her eyes before he pulls his shirt over his head, and then the entire mood changes.

The heat’s still there, because Garrett Graham shirtless is, objectively, not a situation a girl can be expected to process with clinical detachment.

His shoulders are broad and strong and his chest is exactly as unfair as she remembers from the other times she’s had the opportunity to lose her mind about it. There are abs. Obviously there are abs. Annoying, well-defined, deeply unnecessary abs that make some extremely unhelpful part of her brain go momentarily blank.

But over all of that, dark and yellowing and fresh and ugly, are bruises. A lot of them. Across his ribs. One spreading along his side in a purple smear that disappears toward his back. Another near his shoulder. Smaller marks scattered over his chest and stomach, some fading green at the edges, some new enough that the skin around them still looks angry. There’s a cut near his collarbone she hadn’t noticed downstairs and another thin scrape along his ribs, red, but not bleeding now.

She knew the game had been rough. Everyone had known. The hits had been loud enough from the stands that one of her friends had flinched into her shoulder and muttered, “Jesus, is that legal?” 

She had watched Garrett get slammed into the boards and get back up like irritation was the only possible consequence. She had seen him grin through blood on his lip after the second period and had thought, with equal parts lust and alarm, that hockey players were not right in the head. But seeing it like this, close enough to touch, is different.

“Whoa,” she says, before she can soften it. Her hands come up instinctively but stop short of his skin. “Garrett. Hey. Hold on a second.”

He glances down like he has forgotten his own torso exists, then gives a small frown. “Oh. That.” His gaze lifts back to her, careless in a way that would be more convincing if she hadn’t spent half her week learning exactly how many bad decisions people described as nothing right before they became triage paperwork. “Yeah, you get used to it.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“Because that looks insane.”

“It’s fine.” He bends toward her, one hand already coming to her jaw, under the impression that his very stupid body can simply be kissed out of the conversation. “C’mere.”

He kisses her, and she lets him for about two seconds because she’s only human and his mouth is still his mouth. Then she makes a small, involuntary squeak of disapproval against his lips.

Garrett pulls back, forehead dropping to hers, jaw tight with the particular frustration of a man who can feel the night slipping out of his control and doesn’t appreciate the medical profession’s role in it. “What?”

She blinks up at him. “Can I at least look at them?”

His eyes narrow. “At what?”

“At your ribs, Garrett.”

“Jeez. They’re ribs. They’re still there.”

“Are we sure?”

That gets the corner of his mouth, barely. “Pretty sure.”

“Are you sure you didn’t break one or some shit?”

He lets out a groan and then, with all the theatrical suffering of a man denied his constitutional rights, flops backward onto the bed beside her. The mattress bounces under his weight. “We’re not gonna fuck, are we?”

She stares at him. Garrett looks over with the aggrieved expression of someone who believes he’s asked a very fair question.

She rolls her eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Can I just look? Please?”

“This feels like a trap.”

“You took your shirt off and revealed a fucking crime scene.”

He gives her a look so flat she nearly laughs at his stupidity. “It’s hockey.”

“It’s bruising over your ribs.”

He sighs, long and dramatic, then lifts one hand and gestures vaguely down at himself like a monarch granting access to disputed land. “Fine. Nurse me.”

“I’m not a nurse yet.”

“Great. So this is amateur hour.”

She shoots him a look, eyes narrowing. “Oh. Would you like me to stop touching you?”

“No,” he says too quickly, and then has the audacity to look slightly offended when she smiles.

She shifts onto the bed properly, one knee tucked under her, trying very hard to keep her attention on the task and not on the fact that Garrett is lying shirtless under her hands with his jeans still slung low on his hips and his hair a mess from her fingers. 

The bedside lamp is on, yellowing the room softly, catching over the bruises and the lines of his stomach. Downstairs, someone yells, followed by laughter and a dull thud that neither of them bothers to investigate.

She presses two fingers gently along his lower ribs first. “How’s this?”

“Fine.”

She moves slightly higher. “Here?”

“Fine.”

She pulls her hands back and looks at him. “Garrett.”

“What?”

“Use a word that isn’t fine.”

He looks at the ceiling like she’s placed an enormous burden on him. “Manageable.”

“Wow. Thank you for your courage.” She presses again, lighter this time, watching his face. “Here?”

His mouth tightens before he can stop it.

She catches it immediately. “That hurt.”

“No.”

“Your entire face just did a thing.”

“My face does a lot of things. Girls usually love it.”

“Garrett.”

He exhales through his nose, then gives in by about one inch. “It’s… tender.”

“Tender like sore, or tender like don’t touch me there again unless I’m dying?”

He rolls his eyes. 

“Answer.”

“Sore,” he says, then adds, because he’s incapable of letting her have anything cleanly, “but if you wanna touch me there again under different circumstances, I’m totally open-minded.”

She presses her lips together, trying not to laugh, and fails. “You’re actually the worst patient I’ve ever had.”

“I’m your hottest patient.”

She tilts her head. “Mm. Unfortunately.”

His grin flashes, quick and pleased, before she moves her hand higher and finds another spot that makes the muscles in his stomach tense under her fingertips.

Her brain, horribly unprofessional, registers the abs again. A full, useless, warm-body register of the hard give of him under her hand, the smooth heat of his skin, the fact that his stomach jumps a little when her fingers pass too close to the waistband of his jeans. 

She’s touched him plenty of times. In significantly less educational contexts. But this feels different because she’s trying to be careful, and careful, with Garrett, is its own kind of intimacy.

“You’re staring,” he says.

She looks up and finds him watching her with one brow raised. “I’m assessing.”

“You’re assessing my abs?”

“They’re in the way of the bruises.”

He grins, head pressing back into the mattress as he adjusts his hips. “Tragic for you.”

“Deeply.” She drags her gaze back to the bruising near his side because if she keeps looking at his face while touching his stomach, she’s going to become useless to both medicine and feminism. “This one’s ugly.”

“Yeah, that guy was huge.”

She glares at him, one eyebrow raising in disapproval.

Garrett huffs. “What? I didn’t just let him hit me.”

“Sorry. I forgot he was supposed to ask for approval first.”

He laughs, then winces, one hand coming toward his ribs before he stops himself. “Ow. Jesus. Don’t make me laugh.”

Her face changes at once. “See?”

“I’m fine.”

She clicks her tongue once in frustration. “You just winced.”

“Because you’re funny.”

“Because your ribs hurt when you laugh,” she runs her hand across his chest again, genuinely concentrating on the damage now.

“Could be both.”

She gives him a look and reaches up to brush his hair back from his forehead, more because she wants to than because it serves any medical purpose.

His curls slip through her fingers, soft and warm, and his eyes do something quieter for half a second. Eyelids dropping halfway. Then the usual Garrett comes back over it, but not quite fast enough.

Her hand lingers. “I’m gonna get you some meds, okay?” she says, voice lower now.

He groans. “Can I get head first, or…?”

She huffs and smacks him lightly on the chest before she thinks. Garrett winces.

“Oh shit.” She jerks her hand back immediately, horror punching through the laugh. “Sorry. Sorry, my bad. My bad.”

He turns his head on the pillow and gives her a look of grave betrayal. “Jesus. Some nurse you are.”

“I said I wasn’t a nurse yet!”

“Yeah, and thank God. Accreditation board dodged a bullet.”

“I hate you.” But she’s smiling when she says it, which rather ruins the effect. She climbs off the bed, tugging her dress down as she stands because it’s migrated during the assessment with absolutely no respect for her professionalism. “Stay here.”

Garrett lifts his head slightly. “Where else would I go?”

“Knowing you? Back onto the ice to get punched again for sport.”

He opens his mouth to object. She points at him from the doorway. “Stay.”

His grin turns slow and irritating. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

His mouth opens again, probably to say something dirty, but she slips out before he can.

The hallway is louder than his room by several degrees, music and shouting rushing back in around her. She shuts his door behind her and stands there for a second with her hand on the knob, blinking herself back into the party version of the house. Two girls come up the stairs laughing into each other, one of them barefoot, both of them carrying cups. A guy she vaguely recognises from one of Garrett’s classes is sitting on the floor by the wall, looking solemnly into a bag of chips like it might answer something for him.

The bathroom is blessedly empty when she gets there. She flips on the light and starts opening cabinets.

Condoms. More condoms. A suspiciously ancient bottle of hair gel.

“Ew,” she mutters, pushing aside something at the back of the cabinet that may once have been a protein shaker lid and may now qualify as a biohazard. “Men should not be allowed storage.”

More condoms, because this house is prepared for everything except basic first aid. A packet of painkillers finally appears behind a half-used tube of toothpaste, and then antiseptic wipes in a box that looks like it has survived three tenants and a small war. She checks the date, then grabs them along with a clean washcloth from the stack under the sink.

When she gets back, Garrett is still on the bed, thank God, though he’s propped himself against the pillows now and is holding his phone above his face. He looks up when she comes in, and the expression on him changes in a way she wishes she hadn’t noticed. 

The grin comes first, of course. It always does. But underneath it, there’s something softer. Something almost pleased. “You robbed our bathroom?”

“You own, like, ninety-three condoms and one bottle of painkillers.”

“Sounds balanced.”

“One of the condoms was in the medicine cabinet stuck to expired hair gel.”

He frowns. “That’s probably Dean’s.”

“Everything disgusting in this house cannot be Dean’s.”

“It actually can.”

She shuts the door with her hip and comes back to the bed, setting the supplies on his nightstand. “Sit up.”

He obeys, but makes it look like he’s doing her a personal favour. She hands him two tablets and the Gatorade from his dresser because hydration is hydration, even if blue sports drink feels questionable as medicine. Garrett takes them, eyes on her the whole time, then swallows with a grimace.

“See?” she says. “So brave.”

“I’ve been through a lot tonight.”

“You almost got laid and instead got ibuprofen. Devastating.”

He presses his lips together in an attempt not to laugh. “Finally, someone understands.”

She sits beside him, half-turned toward him, and tears open an antiseptic wipe. “This might sting.”

“Baby, I play hockey.”

She presses the wipe lightly to the cut near his collarbone.

Garrett hisses. “Fuck.”

She pauses, looking at him. He stares back, offended.

She smiles sweetly. “Baby, you play hockey.”

“Yeah, well, hockey doesn’t usually come in… little wet napkin form.”

She laughs despite herself and keeps going, careful now, dabbing around the scrape rather than dragging across it. He watches her while she works. She can feel it. The weight of his attention moving over her face, the line of her mouth, the way her hair keeps falling forward no matter how many times she tucks it back. The room feels warmer than it did before she left. Smaller, too, with him propped against the pillows and her sitting close enough that her knee presses against his thigh.

For a while, the party fills the places where neither of them speaks. Bass downstairs. Footsteps in the hall. A sudden burst of Dean’s voice somewhere below them, unmistakable even through the floor, followed by what sounds like Logan yelling, No, absolutely not, in a tone suggesting absolutely yes.

Garrett’s fingers touch her hair before she realises he’s lifted his hand. He brushes it back from her cheek, slow and absent, tucking it behind her ear with more care than the gesture needs. His hand doesn’t leave right away. His thumb grazes once near her temple, barely there, and when she looks at him, the grin is gone.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs.

The words are quiet enough that the party almost swallows them. Almost.

Heat rises immediately under her skin, stupid and quick. She looks down at the antiseptic wipe in her hand like it’s become fascinating. “You’re concussed, I think.”

Garrett shakes his head. “Mm-mm.”

“Garrett.”

“Was thinkin’ it before the game too.”

That makes something in her chest go inconveniently soft. She tries very hard not to let it show. She really does. Unfortunately, her face has chosen this exact moment to resign from service. Her mouth wants to smile. Her skin is warm. Her hands, which were perfectly capable five seconds ago, are suddenly very interested in folding the used wipe into a tiny, useless square.

“That’s probably still, like, concussion-adjacent,” she says.

He laughs, softer this time so it doesn’t hurt as much. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make a joke when I say something nice.”

She looks up at him then. Her mouth opens, then closes.

Garrett’s expression shifts, not smug now. Curious, maybe. Careful in a way that sits strangely on him because he wears confidence so easily that it’s easy to forget he can be gentle without making a performance of it.

“I don’t know,” she says finally, because it’s the most honest answer she has and still only half of one.

His thumb moves once over the strand of hair between his fingers. “Okay.”

She huffs a small laugh. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” His mouth curves faintly. “I can work with I don’t know.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I’m a generous guy.”

“You asked for head while actively bruised.”

The smile comes back properly then, and the room unclenches around them.

She reaches for another wipe, but Garrett catches her wrist before she can open it. “Hey.”

Her pulse gives a small, irritating kick. “What?”

He doesn’t say it immediately. That’s unlike him enough that she notices. His fingers stay around her wrist. “You looked good at the game. You were… you were wearing that little Briar sweatshirt.”

She narrows her eyes. “Are you making fun of my sweatshirt?”

“No.” His eyes flicker across her face. “I liked it.”

The warmth under her skin gets worse.

“You scored twice,” she says, because deflection is now a survival tool.

His grin tilts. “I know.”

“Cocky.”

“You brought it up.”

She rolls her eyes, but her smile gives her away again. 

His fingers slide from her wrist to her hand. “You looked pretty in my colours.”

Her heart does one of those hard, stupid beats that feels less like romance and more like a medical event.

She looks down at their hands because his are big and warm and bruised at the knuckles, and because looking at his face suddenly feels like stepping too close to the edge of something. “You can’t just say things like that when I’m trying to, like, provide healthcare.”

“Why not?”

“Um, boundary confusion.”

“You’re sitting on my bed in a tiny dress.”

“And administering antiseptic.”

“Mixed signals all around.”

She laughs, and Garrett smiles at her like he meant to make that happen, like getting laughter out of her is its own private stat he’s keeping somewhere in his head.

For a second, she lets herself stay there. Lets herself sit with the warmth of his hand around hers, the lamp light over his bruised chest, the ridiculous intimacy of painkillers and antiseptic wipes and his hair still messy from her fingers. 

The whole night has gone sideways. From heat to something softer without losing the heat completely. From his knee between her thighs to her thumb brushing lightly near a bruise on his ribs. From fuck me to don’t make me laugh, it hurts.

Maybe this is what makes her like him so much. Not the obvious things, though the obvious things are doing their best. It’s that Garrett, who has every reason to stay easy and shallow and wanted by everyone, keeps accidentally becoming specific with her. Specific in rooms. Specific with his hands. Specific in the way he remembers what she wore to his game and says she looked pretty like it’s been sitting in him all night, waiting for somewhere to go.

She clears her throat and reaches for the last wipe. “I still need to clean that cut.”

Garrett’s eyes flick down to her mouth, lifting onto his elbow. “Mhm. After?”

She pushes him back down. “No, before.”

“So strict.”

“Alive men get privileges.”

He sighs and leans his head back against the pillows, exposing the line of his throat like he’s submitting to the terrible injustice of being cared for by a girl in a mini dress. “Fine. Do your worst.”

She shifts closer, half in his lap now because it’s the only angle that makes sense and absolutely not because her body has been looking for excuses since the hallway.

His hand lands at her thigh automatically, warm over the hem of her dress. He doesn’t move it higher. He doesn’t make a joke. He just rests it there, thumb slow against her skin while she dabs antiseptic over the scrape near his collarbone.

This time he doesn’t hiss.

“Good boy,” she murmurs before she can stop herself.

Garrett’s eyes open. The air changes instantly. Her hand stills. His mouth curves slowly, and the bruises, the ibuprofen, the entire attempted medical intervention lose significant ground against the expression on his face.

“Oh yeah?” he says, positively beaming.

She points the wipe at him. “Do not.”

His hand tightens lightly on her thigh, amusement low in his voice. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m warm.”

“And you’re in my lap.”

“For medical purposes.”

“Right.”

She gives him a look, but it’s hard to make it stick when he’s smiling like that and when she is, in fact, half in his lap, one hand on his chest, the other holding antiseptic.

Garrett’s gaze softens again, almost unfairly fast. “C’mere.”

“I’m right here.”

“Closer.”

She should say no on principle. She doesn’t. She lets him pull her in carefully, mindful of his ribs even when he clearly isn’t, until her forehead rests against his. The party moves under them, distant and messy and young. Someone bangs on a door down the hall. Somebody else laughs too loudly. Garrett’s room stays dim and warm around them.

His thumb brushes once over her thigh.

“Are you gonna sleep here?” he asks, quiet enough to make it sound casual and not at all like the question has changed shape in his mouth.

She pulls back a little to look at him. “What?”

He shrugs, but it’s a bad shrug. Too careful. “I mean, you can. If you want. Since you’ve already ruined the original plan.”

She stares at him.

Garrett’s brows lift. “What?”

“The original plan being sex?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes narrow. “And now your backup plan is… a sleepover?”

“Don’t make it sound lame.”

“It’s incredibly lame.”

His eyes move over her face. “You wanna leave?”

She doesn’t. The answer is immediate and sits in her before she can make it sound prettier.

“No,” she says.

His face shifts again, the smallest flicker of satisfaction moving through it before he reins it in. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

For a moment, they just look at each other. She’s waiting for him to make a joke. He’s probably waiting for her to make one. Between them, the thing neither of them has named sits warm and too close, wearing all the shapes of what this is supposed to be and none of them fitting quite right.

Then Garrett leans in and kisses her. Softer this time. Still warm, still him, still enough to make the room narrow, but without the frantic press from the door, without the urgent slide of his knee between her thighs. 

His mouth moves over hers slowly, his hand rising to her jaw, thumb touching the corner of her face. The sweetness of it makes her chest ache in a way that’s frankly rude after everything else he’s already done to her tonight.

When he pulls back, he stays close. “You gonna keep nursing me,” he murmurs, “or am I cleared for kissing?”

She looks down at his bruised ribs, then back at his face. “Light kissing.”

He runs his thumb over her bottom lip. “Define light.”

“Um. No additional injuries.”

“So that rules out Dean joining.”

She laughs, louder now, and he smiles against her mouth before kissing her again, like the laugh is something he can catch if he moves fast enough.

Downstairs, the party gets louder. Upstairs, Garrett Graham lets her press one more cautious hand to his ribs and pretends not to notice when she leaves it there longer than she needs to.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

Your eyes shot open at the sound.

You threw back the duvet with a petty scoff.

Okay, sure, you’d refused to wake up to say goodbye to your boyfriend but the absolute cheek to leave without giving you your morning kiss. It was hard not to take it to heart.

Was he actually upset with you?

Was he messing with you?

Or did he genuinely just forget?

——

Garrett had been sweating by the time he finished practice.

His hair was wet and dripping, and his clothes were sticking to him like a second skin. Thank God the locker rooms had showers, because there was no way he was going home to you smelling like a sewer drain.

After Garrett had finished his shower, he wrapped his white towel around his hips and walked back into the main changing area.

He wasn’t expecting his teammates to be surrounding each other, watching something on Dean’s phone.

They all looked up at him… guiltly? No… empathetically?

Why were they all looking at him?

“Yes?” Garrett prompted.

Tucker nudged Dean, who then nudged someone else, who then nudged another person, until everyone was nudging each other and whispering about who would be the one to tell Garrett whatever.

“Can someone just please tell me what the hell is going on?”

It was Logan that came over to him, handing Garrett his phone.

Garrett looked down at the screen and saw your face. He frowned and nervously swallowed, looking up at his onlooking teammates one more time before hitting play.

It was a video uploaded onto the Fifth Line.

Jules was clearly filming and you were the only person in shot.

“I hear you have some big news for us, Y/N?”

“Yes.” You smiled sadly.

Garrett felt a punch to the heart at your sad face. He was going to knock out the idiot who took the smile from your face away.

Your eyes welled up then, and Garrett’s heart started to race. He was mentally counting how long it would take for him to get changed and get home to you.

“I’m now single.”

What?

Garrett’s jaw physically dropped, and his mind couldn’t process anything long enough to tell himself to close it.

Garrett couldn’t look away from the video, but he felt his best friend, Logan, wrap an arm around his shoulder in solidarity.

“So you and Garrett?” Jules asked.

“We’ve parted ways.” You nodded.

“Any particular reason?”

“He knows what he did.”

Garrett was so confused. Confused by the entire video and situation, but also confused on how to feel. One moment he felt sad for you, the next he was plain confused and now he was anxiously trying to recount what the hell you could be talking about?

Was this breakup even mutual?

What the actual fuck was going on?

“Y/N asks for privacy during this time.” Jules said before the screen turned black.

Garrett’s gaze kept focused on the phone.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even process a single thought. He was completely broken.

“It’s okay, man.”

It was Logan’s voice matched with someone squeezing his arm that made him flip out of his daze.

“No. No. What the fuck.” Garrett mumbled, walking over to his changing space.

He discarded his towel without any regard for all his teammates watching him - their captain. He pulled on a hoodie and threw on his sweatpants without so much considering pulling on underwear too.

It took Garrett less than five minutes to get ready to leave, whilst his teammates hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Have none of you got anything better to do?” He shouted out rhetorically as he left the locker room to go and find you.

You. His girlfriend.

Did he miss the memo of when you broke up?

You had slept over just last night. He’d left you in his bed this morning, wearing his clothes. Your underwear was in his washing basket because you were over at his house more than you were at your own dorm.

There was no way you had broken up.

And if you had, by some miraculous event, broken up, then he was about to become the world’s most needy and relentless ex-boyfriend.

——

The knock on your door sounded angry.

You bookmarked your current read, slipped out of your bed and walked across the wooden floor of your dorm to the door.

You had barely flicked the lock open before it was dramatically swung open to reveal Garrett, his hand splayed wide open to keep your door open.

You barely got to look at him before he moved towards you, cupped your cheeks firmly and kissed you like it was the last thing he’d ever get to do.

It took a moment for you to realise what was happening before you started kissing him back.

Garrett walked you backwards and somehow managed to also close your door behind him, without ever breaking the kiss. You moaned as he tilted your face to kiss you deeper, the desire in the pits of your stomach only growing.

Your hand touched his chest, your fist curling the material of his hoodie as he kissed you harder.

Your touch must have triggered something, though, because he stopped kissing you a moment later.

Both of your cheeks were flushed and lips fucked.

Your breathing was heavy. Your chest heaved as you locked eyes with his.

He kept his distance close to you as he spoke.

“You’re not breaking up with me.”

“W-what?” You asked. Your brain felt completely messed up from the kiss.

“We’re not breaking up. End of story.”

“Garrett—.”

“I saw your video on Fifth Line.” He cut you off.

“All of it?” You questioned, eyebrows furrowing as you tried to understand what was happening.

“Yes.”

“Okay, then you know I was making a joke.” Your hand let go of his hoodie and you pulled a little further away from him.

Clearly there was a misunderstanding or miscommunication happening right now, because you and Garrett were very clearly not on the same page.

“Hang on a minute.”

You pulled out of his hold completely in search for your phone. Garrett reluctantly let you go, but followed close behind you like a lost puppy.

After pulling up the Fifth Line on your Instagram, you opened the video that had already amassed three times the views of anything else, and pressed play.

Garrett came to stand close behind you, the side of his cheek pressing against the side of your head.

You watched the video with him, jaw dropped when the video stopped.

“I don’t understand.” You said quietly.

“Well that makes two of us.” Garrett agreed.

You put your phone back down and turned around to face him. “Jules recorded me saying that bit, and then also another bit saying how it was all a joke and that we’re very much together. I didn’t want any dick-picks sliding into my DMs.”

“Might be too late for that, baby.”

“Fuck.” You sighed, covering your face with your hands, “It was meant to be a joke.”

“Hey, hey. C’mon.” Garrett wrapped his arms around you to hold you close. The feeling of his arms encompassing you made you feel very safe. “Bit of a shit joke though, baby.”

Your head nestled out from his hold so you could look at him.

“Bit of a shit morning though.” You retaliated.

“Hmm?”

“You know what you did.”

“Well, clearly I don’t.” Garrett laughed.

“You didn’t kiss me.” You pouted.

“I didn’t kiss you?” Garrett’s eyebrows raised and you hoped that it was because he was shocked at his bad behaviour.

“No.”

“My poor baby.”

“Mhm.”

“In all fairness, you were half dead… I mean, asleep.” Garrett joked, because he teased you all the time about how you’re practically dead when you sleep.

“Well still…”

“Still what?”

“Better kiss me next time, bitch.”

“As long as we don’t break up. Can’t kiss you if we break up.” Garrett proposed.

“Let’s never break up.”

“Deal.

everyone on the Gryffindor Quidditch team feared the day that Quidditch practice officially started for all houses, because they knew how crazy Oliver got.

the two weeks leading up to that fateful Saturday, Oliver been picking and chatting it up with all of his teammates. he’ll ask them how their summer went then immediately go into his plan on how they can win their first game against Slytherin.

his first target was obviously his star seeker; Harry Potter. coincidentally, his star beater — Y/N L/N — was also with Harry.

two birds with one stone!

“ah, the people i miss the most during the summer!”

you snapped your head to the voice, recognizing that it belonged to nobody other than Oliver Wood, your Quidditch captain.

Harry physically shrieked at the sight of Oliver, causing Hermonie to roll her eyes and Ron to snicker. ever since Harry joined Quidditch his first year, he’s been working nonstop because of Oliver’s strict schedule.

you — on the other hand — somehow enjoyed the early practices and the strictness Oliver had on you and your teammates. the early practices allowed you to chat with your friends, and you also got to see Oliver, your crush.

ever since you joined Quidditch, you always fancied Oliver. you honestly think it was because of his scottish accent that drew you in, and the way he was so passionated about the sport, something about it made you weak in the knees.

“uhm, it was okay? how was yours?” Harry answered frightfully. it was silly knowing that one of Harry’s fear was Oliver Wood during Quidditch season.

but lord does that man get scary.

before you could even respond with your own experience, Oliver moved aside some plates — earning a ‘hey!’ from Seamus and a side eye from Dean — placing a piece of parchment onto the table.

“since our first game is against Slytherin, i’ve devised more and better strategies for us to defeat them. we need to work harder and stronger —“

you couldn’t even register his words, cause the way his scottish accent just scratched your brain in the right way. Hermonie had to nudge you in the ribs to get you out of your lovesick phase.

your eyes gaze around the clearly messy parchment, seeing Oliver’s messy handwriting all over it. you weren’t surprised to learn that all Oliver did over the summer was focus on Quidditch.

meanwhile, you spent time with your friends and went to visit different countries like France, Italy, Germany, Japan, Norway —

“— Y/N! this is where you come in,”

you were quickly taken out of your thoughts when you heard Oliver say your name. your eyes once again gaze over the parchment and realize Oliver was holding a miniature picture of you.

it was one from your first year of Quidditch during your 2nd year, you still had baby fat in your cheeks and your hair was much more shorter.

you cringed slightly at the thought of your 2nd year self — then paused.

“why do you have a miniature photo of me from my 2nd year?” you asked, curiously. Harry looked to see the photo, then quickly realized there were other miniature photos.

the only difference — was the other ones were hand drawn. only yours was an actual photo, the one of Harry’s was poorly drawn and Oliver didn’t even had his scar, the one of Fred and George didn’t even look like twins, and poor Angelina, Oliver didn’t even bother adding the correct colors for her Quidditch uniform.

“oi! how come hers is the only one as an actual photo!?”

you failed to realize that during your thoughts, Fred and George had came up behind you and Harry, also being integrated by Oliver as well. Angelina also joined, frowning at her poorly drawn self.

Oliver rolled his eyes impatiently, “that’s none of your concern. back to my plans —“ he went on a whole rant how the 3 beaters — you, Fred, and George — needed to pick up your weight and basically body slam the Slytherin’s beaters.

yeah, this was going to be a long year.

────୨ৎ────

Oliver was actually insane. ever since Quidditch season started, Oliver has not let the Gryffindor Quidditch team rest for a single moment.

the September breeze fluttered by your robes, causing you to shiver lightly as you held onto your Sky Scythe, the newest addition to your broom collection. you were wearing your usual practice attire — a simple white long sleeve covered by your Gryffindor jumper, and some black jeans.

the rest of your teammates — Harry looked more tired than usual, Fred and George practically fell off their brooms, and Angelina looked like she wanted more of her beauty sleep.

Oliver looked lively per usual, hand perched on his hip as the other held onto his Nimbus 2000, smirking. “good morning team!” it was 4 in the morning, “how are we doing on this lovely morning?” the sun wasn’t even up.

Harry groaned, fixing his glasses that slightly tilted. “when are we going to ever going to practice at a reasonable time?” Fred snickered, George glared at Oliver, Angelina sighed, and you just yawned.

Oliver just laughed, shaking his head. “never, Potter! now come on, Slytherin supposedly going to take the pitch by 9 in the morning. we got 5 hours, up in the sky we go!”

you sighed as the rest of the time flew by. you almost got dropped by Fred since he accidentally bumped into you when he was yawning, Harry almost ate the golden snitch, Angelina almost ran into the goal post, and Oliver was fuming.

everything wasn’t going according to plan. he envisioned everything perfectly in his head and the fact it wasn’t coming out as he envisioned has him tweaking.

when it was finally for break time, he was about to snap.

“come on, Wood,” you groaned, leaning against your Sky Scythe, your hair messy from the air and your forehead had bits of sweat coming down from it. “can we please end early today? it’s the first day of practice — and plus we got practice tomorrow.” you whined.

it felt like the Gods above had blessed you, cause as soon as you said that — “fine. everybody been whining, practice is dismissed.” he sighed, crossing his arms across his chest, shaking his head disappointedly.

Angelina fisted the air, Harry sighed in happiness, and Fred and George thanked every God they knew. you sighed in relief, smiling.

you and your teammates immediately ran back to Gryffindor tower, with Oliver following after y’all. he had to admit — he was also feeling a bit tired, and they been at it for around 3 hours. he didn’t want his team risking detention because they fell asleep in class.

as soon as all of y’all had entered, Fred and George slumped onto the couches, Harry immediately ran up to his dorm, and Angelina just full blown fell onto the carpeted ground. you laid down next to Angelina, stretching as you rested your head racing the fire, the warmness immediately taking you to sleep.

Oliver walked in a bit after, taking in the sight of most of his teammates currently out of it.

Fred was sprawled out on the couch, one leg draped over the top, and the other laid on the seat, he had his arms behind his head to support it.

George cradled up on the second, stealing a blanket, covering his lanky body over it. his ginger curls draped over his face like a cape, giving him some sort of privacy.

Angelina was on the carpeted floor in front of the couches. she had taken a blanket from Fred and draped it over her body, using your legs as head support.

you were laid on your stomach, laying your head on her crossed arms, face facing the fireplace to generate warmth onto your face and body.

Oliver sighed, slumping onto the unoccupied couch, his fingers running through his brunette hair. crap. now he’s feeling tired.

before he could even slip into dreamland, he heard footsteps come down from the stairway. he looks up to see a familiar face — Percy Weasley.

“what in Merlin’s name are you doing awake so early?” Percy grumbled. clearly, he wasn’t a morning person, despite being Prefect and Head boy. Oliver snickered, playfully rolling his eyes.

“Quidditch season started, gotta make sure these lots are ready for Slytherin.” Percy takes a glance at the bodies, seeing his two younger twin brothers snoring rather loudly than he would like.

Percy sighed, “you and Quidditch ..” he murmured. Oliver rose an eyebrow. “hey! i heard that,” he whispered, “you and your Prefect duties ..or whatever,” Percy gave him a look.

“you’re also a Prefect.”

“oh, right.”

────୨ৎ────

you were convinced that the Prefects were plotting something against you.

ever since the fist Qudditch game — Gryffindor won, by the way — the Prefects have been circling you like you were guilty of something. you were worried that you might’ve accidently opened the Chamber of Secrets or dissed them without realizing they were there.

so far, you had interacted with all of the Prefects.

first was Percy Weasley.

Percy Weasley was the older brother of Ron, Fred, and George. if rules were a person, Percy would be that. he somehow always had a straight posture, his glasses never slid down his nose, and his curly ginger hair was always kept fresh.

you had accidentally ran into him after breakfast.

“oh! i’m sorry!” you apologized quickly, realizing you bumped into somebody. looking up, you see the familiar red curly hair that all the Weasley siblings shared. you soon realized — this is Percy Weasley.

“ah, Miss L/N,” he said with a smile. you never really saw him with a smile, so it freaked you out a bit, but you smiled back. “your skill in Quidditch are remarkable, i must say,” he murmurs, causing you to grown flustered. you weren’t used to getting compliments.

“he certainly enjoyed working with you today, Miss L/N.”

“ah! thank you Percy! that’s nice coming from you.” it lowkey sounded backhanded, but Percy didn’t seem to mind it. he gave you a tight smile, a squeeze on your shoulder, before going on his merry way. you failed to see the way he took a quick glance at you as you walked off.

then it was Penelope Clearwater.

Penelope was the Prefect of Ravenclaw. she had long straight blonde hair, pale skin, and a beautiful smile that you sort of envy. there were rumors of her and Percy dating but they both denied it profusely.

you had ran into her in class.

it was Potions class. you didn’t know why Penelope was in there — maybe to look over the lesson? she was a Prefect after all, but what do Prefects even do? — and she was standing in the back of the class, an open book in hand. you had unfortunately forgotten your book for that class that day, so Snape ordered you to go grab one from the back.

as you did, Penelope looked up at you. wanting to be polite, you gave her a small smile and went next to her to grab the book needed for that class.

“you’re Y/N, right? one of the beaters on the Gryffindor team?”

your eyes meet hers as she spoke. you were kind of shocked she knew you — you weren’t quite known alongside the other houses, so the fact she knew you had you quite spooked.

“yeah, that’s me. you’re Penelope Clearwater, right? Ravenclaw Prefect?”

she smiled warmly, nodding. “i heard all about you, Oliver says you’re a great addition to the team.” before you could even respond, Snape’s ruler scared the crap out of you.

“chatting it up with a Prefect, are we?” Snape asked, causing you to shriek and quickly shake your head. he ushered you to go back to your seat and shot Penelope a glare as he walked back to the front of the class.

then it was Cedric Diggory.

Cedric Diggory was the heartthrob of Hogwarts. he was the Hufflepuff Prefect. you lowkey had a crush on him back in your third year. you can’t even blame yourself, Cedric is an attractive guy.

you had ran into him during lunch.

you had just stepped into the dining hall, eyes gazing at the rows of students at each table. you had accidentally slept a bit over your clock during your afternoon nap, resulting you in coming in late.

when you finally catch eyesight of your friends, you happily smile and began walking — before you collided into somebody’s chest.

you were almost knocked out of your shoes when somebody grabbed your wrist. you open your eyes to see beautiful brown eyes — Cedric’s eyes.

“oh my Merlin — i’m sorry! i should’ve seen where i was going!”

you blabbered, resulting in Cedric laughing. his laughter calmed you down a bit since it gave you the sense that he wasn’t mad.

“oh, no worries! the name is Cedric Diggory, you must be the infamous Y/N L/N i’be heard about?”

you were confused for a hot second, before you heard your name being called by Hermonie. Cedric must’ve heard it too, since he straighten you up.

“i’ll see you later, Y/N.”

he smiled, laughing calmly as he walked passed you. you just stood there in shock. infamous Y/N L/N? who in the world has been talking about you?

then, it was Cho Chang.

Cho Chang was a very pretty girl. you adored her sleek black hair that never had frizz. you wondered what her hair are routine was. she had such a cute smile. she was also the Ravenclaw Prefect.

you ran into her in the bathroom.

it was one of those days. mother nature decided to grace you with her presence, and you woke up that morning with bloody sheets.

unfortunately for you, your cramps were absolutely hell the first couple of days. you were thankful you didn’t have Quidditch practices or matches in the next couple of days, because you can’t fathom getting on a broom right now.

currently, you were in one of the girls bathroom, using the loo as you felt all the blood pour out of you. it felt disgusting, but it was apart of being a girl.

when you exited out the stall, you look up to see Cho, who was fixing her lashes in the mirror. she saw you rather quickly, since her face seemed to brighten up.

“you’re Y/N L/N! oh my, you’re much more prettier in person! he was right!”

you grew confused as you clutched onto your stomach. the way she worded her sentence was like somebody been telling her about you.

“uh, yeah. that’s me. you must be Cho Chang, right? Harry told me a lot about you.”

at the mention of Harry, her cheeks slightly lit up, making her giggle lightly.

“ah, Harry James Potter! he’s a handsome one, for sure.”

you laugh at her words, Harry was handsome, but it was funny how she said his full name. Cho smiled at your giggles, now she realized it all.

after, it was Marcus Flint.

Marcus Flint was the Prefect of Slytherin. he and Oliver had an ongoing fuel on the Quidditch pitch, but off? they were best buds. he was sometimes snarky, he reminded you of Oliver in some way.

you ran into him after a Quidditch match.

it was another Gryffindor vs Slytherin match. Malfoy was seriously getting on your nerves the whole match, and you were about to give him a piece of your mind after the match — and obviously, Gryffindor won — that was until somebody stop you mid step.

“you’re just as stubborn as he mentioned,”

you heard somebody snark. you look up to see Marcus Flint, in his green Slytherin Quidditch robes. his hair looked a bit ruffled up, maybe because he took quite a beating from the goal post after he rammed into it earlier.

“who?”

you asked curiously. every interaction you had with these damn Prefects they always talk like somebody had been constantly talking about you.

before Marcus could even answer, you felt a hand on your shoulder. you glanced over your shoulder to see Oliver, who was giving Marcus a look that said ‘don’t say anything’ to which Marcus shrugged his shoulders.

Oliver quickly whisked you away, saying that the team was already celebrating in the common room and he wouldn’t want you to miss out on all the fun.

────୨ৎ────

“he likes you.”

Hermonie said like it was a fact. your eyes just widen.

you and Hermonie often had study dates on Thursday in the Library. these study states include studying for Potions, Charms, and DADA. then usually it went to gossip.

you decided to tell her about how weird the Prefects been acting. how you randomly ran into all of them — beside Oliver — and they spoke to you like somebody was clearly talking about you to them.

“come on, Y/N. you can’t be this clueless.”

you frowned. Hermonie sighed.

“the reason they all been acting weird is because Oliver Wood clearly likes you. they’re all Prefects, right?” you nodded, “he probably told them that he fancied you, and they wanted to see you face-to-face.” she explained.

then, as if a switch was tuned on, everything finally made sense.

“he certainly enjoyed working with you today, Miss L/N.”

“i heard all about you, Oliver says you’re a great addition to the team.”

“oh, no worries! the name is Cedric Diggory, you must be the infamous Y/N L/N i’be heard about?”

“you’re Y/N L/N! oh my, you’re much more prettier in person! he was right!”

“you’re just as stubborn as he mentioned,”

oh my God. you might be the most clueless person you ever met.

Hermonie snickered as she sees the realization finally dawned into you. meanwhile, you’re recalling every moment and very interaction with the Prefects.

oh my God. Oliver probably does like you.

before Hermonie even realized, you ran out of the Library, Madam Pince didn’t look too happy with you causing all that noise. you don’t even register where you were going, but one thing was one your mind.

find Oliver Wood.

and surely enough, you did. unfortunately, he was in the Prefect lounge. you knocked profusely on the door, trying to catch your breath.

as soon as Percy opened it, you zipped past in and entered the lounge. all of them were in there, and they were all currently staring at you.

but your eyes only darted to one person — Oliver Wood.

“you,” you pointed towards him, and he raised in hands up in defense. you took a step towards him, taking a deep breath, you didn’t want to look foolish, so you hoped what Hermonie said was right.

“..do you ..do you fancy me?”

everybody went quiet for a few seconds. you immediately started to regret running here in the first place and started taking a few steps back before Oliver stood up.

he was still in his Quidditch robes, a bit dirty from practice earlier that morning. his hair hadn’t been combed from the morning, and his lip looked chapped as if he was continuously biting them.

“i..” he started, darting his eyes everywhere but you. you didn’t even care the fact that the other Prefects were there, you just wanted to know if what Hermone theorized was true.

and gosh, you hoped she was right.

Oliver needed to speak faster, cause a few seconds has passed and he hasn’t said anything else yet. you were about to give up before he began talking again.

“i do fancy you, Y/N. i been since you joined the team — ah, crap, i don’t know how to express these feelings though.”

once again, you didn’t care about the other Prefects being in the room as in two steps, you grabbed Oliver’s face and smashed your lips into his.

realization slowly sunk in as you heard the other Prefects cheering and as you pulled away, your cheeks were burning and Oliver was chuckling.

“didn’t know Captain had a favorite!”

Cedric teased, throwing an airball causing Oliver to glare at him. the realization hit you like a truck.

“oh my ggggoooossshhhh, this is why i was the only one with an actual photograph! and all the Prefects talking about me like somebody was talking about me to them! i’m so slow.” you whined, causing Oliver to laugh more as his arms snake their way around your shoulders.

────୨ৎ────

“WHAT!?”

the team’s all yelled in unison, clearly shocked at the news they’ve just been told by their Captain. Oliver nodded, arms crossed.

“yeah, me and Y/N are dating.”

Fred’s eyes widen, George’s jaw dropped, Harry’s glasses almost fell off his face, and Angelina looked like she was told her whole family had been kidnapped.

“oh my, is this why you were acting so weird around her during matches and why you got mad at that Ravenclaw bloke for almost hitting her with a bludger?”

Oliver’s cheeks turned red and you laughed playfully.

captain’s favorite, huh?

He’s practiced it, too. Quietly. Under his breath. In the mirror once, which he immediately decided was humiliating and never did again.

He’s got it.

He has it.

Until he doesn’t.

---

You don’t know anything is different when he asks you to come with him.

“C’mon, doll,” he says, tugging on your hand, already halfway out the door. “Wanna show you something.”

You squint at him, suspicious, but you go anyway, letting him pull you along with that soft, insistent grip of his. The evening air is warm, the sky bleeding into that soft gold-and-pink stretch just before sunset, and he’s quieter than usual as he walks beside you.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Yeah, but this is like… upgraded weird.”

He huffs, but there’s no bite to it. Just nerves. You don’t recognize them for what they are yet—just assume it’s one of those Bucky moods where he gets in his own head a little too much.

So you lace your fingers through his, grounding, steady. He squeezes back immediately.

Always does.

---

He stops when you reach the spot.

It’s nothing extravagant. Not some big, sweeping, cinematic place.

Just your place.

The quiet stretch near the water where you two end up more often than not—late nights, early mornings, stolen hours in between. The place where he’s watched you laugh, watched you cry, watched you fall asleep with your head in his lap while the world kept spinning around you.

It matters.

That’s why he picked it.

You turn to him, brow furrowed slightly. “Buck?”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment everything in his head just—

Gone.

Completely blank.

He knows he had words. He knows he had a whole damn speech lined up, something worthy of you, something that could even begin to explain the way you’ve changed his life.

But you’re standing there, looking at him like that—soft, curious, a little concerned—and suddenly every single thought just… disappears.

All he’s left with is feeling.

And it’s too big.

Too much.

His chest tightens, his pulse pounding in his ears, and before he can overthink it—before he can talk himself out of it—he just moves.

Drops.

Right there.

One knee hitting the ground hard enough that he barely registers it.

Your eyes go wide.

“Bucky—?”

His hands are already fumbling, pulling the ring from his pocket, nearly dropping the damn thing in the process. His fingers shake—actually shake—and he can’t even look away from you long enough to be embarrassed about it.

Because you’re staring at him.

Like you can’t quite believe what you’re seeing.

And he's panicking.

Not about the answer. Never about that.

Just—about getting it right.

About saying it right.

About making sure you know.

And he can’t find the words.

Not the pretty ones. Not the practiced ones. Not any of it.

So what comes out is—

“Please.”

It’s rough. Breathless. Barely more than a whisper.

Your face does something soft, something almost startled.

He swallows hard, chest heaving slightly as he tries—tries—to pull something else together.

“I—” He shakes his head, a broken little huff of a laugh leaving him. “I had a whole thing planned. I swear I did. I—”

Nothing.

Still nothing.

His throat works, his eyes burning just a little as he looks up at you, completely exposed.

“Please,” he says again, a little stronger this time, but no less raw. “Just—please.”

And it’s all there anyway.

Everything he couldn’t say wrapped up in that one word.

Please stay.

Please choose me.

Please let me spend the rest of my life loving you.

Please don’t let this be something I lose.

Your eyes shine almost immediately, tears welling up faster than you can stop them. You press a hand to your mouth, a breath hitching out of you as you stare down at him.

“Bucky…”

He looks terrified.

Not of you.

Of losing you.

And that’s what does it.

That’s what breaks you open completely.

You drop to your knees in front of him so fast he barely has time to react, your hands coming up to cup his face, grounding him the same way you always do.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice thick. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. Instantly.

“You don’t need a speech,” you say softly, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “You don’t need any of that.”

His grip on the ring tightens, like he’s still not convinced.

“You’ve got me,” you continue, tears slipping free now, but you’re smiling through them. “You’ve always had me.”

His breath stutters.

“Yeah?” he asks, quiet, almost disbelieving.

You laugh a little, wet and shaky, leaning forward until your forehead presses against his.

“Yeah, idiot,” you murmur. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

The relief that hits him is immediate.

His shoulders sag, a broken, breathless sound leaving him as his eyes squeeze shut for a second, like he needs it just to steady himself.

“Jesus,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-choking on it. “Thank God.”

You pull back just enough to look at him again, grinning now. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” he says, still a little dazed, finally slipping the ring onto your finger with hands that are only slightly less shaky. “I had this whole—this whole thing, doll. It was good, too. Real good.”

“I’m sure it was.”

“I practiced.”

You snort. “Did you really?”

He groans, dropping his head forward until it bumps lightly against your shoulder. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not,” you say, laughing as you wrap your arms around him. “I think it was perfect.”

He huffs. “Yeah? Just ‘please’?”

You pull back, kissing him slow and soft, pouring every bit of your answer into it.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at the assumption, more so annoyed by the fact that she may be right, even if you don't want to admit it. 

You've been tutoring Dean for the past two months, and what starts off as a horrible agreement that you regretted with your entire being turned into an anticipated two hours study that you now look forward to. 

Ironic. 

At first, you did it for the extra cash. It's easy money, you couldn't refuse the tempting offer when you were already struggling to get by with a part time job. Not only did it pay better, but it consumed less of your time. 

It's a good deal, you couldn't pass it down when Dean was practically begging on his knees for you to accept it. He once sent over his hockey teammates just to cozy you up into accepting his offer, causing a whole humiliation ritual in the cafeteria while he watched from the side with puppy eyes and a pout formed across his lips. 

It was a ridiculous sight, made you fume for days before finally calming down and eventually agreeing to help him. You regretted it in an instant, watching as a cocky, taunting smile smears all over his face, screaming at you to get away and avoid trouble. 

But you didn't. Instead, you showed up, even if you dreaded it, and considered it the worst part of your day. In your defense, Dean is very annoying, and wouldn't take you seriously unless you flashed him a life-threatening glare that would end him in the spot. 

He'd pretend not to understand things just to rile you up and make you scold him, almost as if he enjoyed it, amused by the way your face twists into a sour expression. Then comes apologizing, where his voice lowers into a whisper, and you'd fight the urge not to fold over the hushed apologies he mutters to you while tracing soothing patterns to your hand. 

You don't know when, or how it starts, but the dreaded sessions suddenly turn into something you look forward to. Two hours oscillate into three then eventually four, until you both lose track of time, and forget the entire reason to you being there. 

You hate it, how easy going he is, and how his dimples form when he flashes you a smile, or chuckles at a stupid joke you make just to earn a reaction out of him. Or how your stomach flutters with butterflies when he sits too close, or teases you with that taunting tone that makes you melt. 

You hate how easy it is for him to be near you, when you're short of breath half of the time he's around. It's absurd how the compliments he gives you roll off the tongue, like it's natural for him, like he doesn't flirt with half of the girls on campus. 

He probably thinks it's some joke, something that started and now you can't seem to get away from  it. You know you shouldn't, this is Dean Di Laurentis, everyone knows he's trouble, and you shouldn't have let him cross your boundaries, or get to you with a few flirtatious comments, but somehow he did, and now you're in too deep to end things. 

So the least you can do right now is deny it. Deny anything even happened, even though your friends can see right through your lies. 

"Like I said," you start, "Nothing's going on between us, I'm simply tutoring him."

"Oh, for fuck' sake." Allie shoots back, "The whole campus thinks you're dating. You know how serious that is for Dean Di Laurentis?" 

"It's just rumors, nothing more. People thinking we're together doesn't mean that we are." You mumble, rolling your eyes with offense. "You wouldn't catch me with Dean Di Laurentis even if my life depends on it." 

"I call bullshit." Hannah chants from the side, shifting the attention to her. 

"Hannah!" You shout, as Allie perks from her seat in agreement. "You're supposed to take my side, why are you feeding into her delusion?!" 

"It's not delusion if everyone sees it," Hannah shrugs her shoulders, approaching your bed. "C'mon, I'm dating his best friend, that man never stops talking about you." 

"You're lying," Allie gasps, scooting close to Hannah as she throws herself next to her. Her gaze shifts back to you, eyebrows pinching with frustration. "She never tells me stuff!"

"That's because nothing happens." You reason, exhaling with fake annoyance. "We're barely even friends, I doubt he thinks of me like that." 

"Calling bullshit again," Hannah's head tilts towards you, not believing a word you muttered. "Have you seen the way that man speaks about you?" 

"Stop it!" Allie slaps Hannah's side, excitment visible on her face. "Tell me about it! he mentioned her often?"

"She's all he talks about," Hannah turns back to Allie, ignoring your presence and pretending you're not even there. "Once he stayed by my side for an entire party just to ask about her interests."

"He did that?" You mutter, feigning oblivion to the teasing smile Hannah flashes you. "Okay, why are you talking as if I'm not even here?" 

"Oh, come on you have to admit, he likes you." Allie chimes in, "I've never not seen Dean Di Laurentis not have sex at a party. What do you mean he gave that up just to talk about you?"

"Okay," you mumble, slightly convinced. You settle for shaking off that feeling, "That doesn't mean anything, he can, not have sex if he wants, how does that involve me?" 

"I need to knock some sense into her," Allie huffs, falling back into the bed. "Do something, Hannah." 

"I tried," Hannah pouts, joining Allie's side with disappointment. "She's such an idiot." 

"Hey!" Your brows pinch with annoyance, as you sling your backpack over your shoulder. "Anyways, I'm leaving. Do you guys need anything?" 

"Where are you going?" Hannah questions, sitting up along with Allie. 

"I have a tutoring session with Dean." You reply. 

"Oh my God." Allie says under her breath. 

"Wait, I'm coming with." Hannah gets up, heading towards her room to grab her stuff. 

"Are you going in that?" Allie questions, gaze flickering to the baggy shirt covering all your curves. 

"What's wrong with it?" You ask, glancing down as you grab into the hems of it. 

"Dress up a little, will you?" Allie groans, grabbing into you as she walks towards her closet. 

"You're acting as if I'm going to a party." You mumble, face scrunching with confusion when she throws a pink, spaghetti strapped top over to you. 

"Wear this." She orders, observing you with anticipation.

You don't argue, because doing so will only lead to more arguing, and Allie won't give up unless you admit defeat. Instead, you sigh, taking off your shirt and throw the soft material over your head. 

It... complements you. Definitely not appropriate for a tutoring session, but you know exactly what Allie intents when she handed it over to you. It scrunches around your chest, showing a bit of cleavage, and it displays all your curves, curling at your waist, and showing the sliver of skin around your stomach. 

Then, before you can argue, she throws a denim skirt in your direction, lips pressing into a a thin line as she waits for you to take off your pants. 

You do. It's not like you really have a choice. 

Your pants slide off your legs easily, soon replaced by the skirt she handed you, which complements the top well. It rests comfortably around your hips, the length of it reaching just below your inner thighs, covering enough for you to not pick a fight. 

"I still don't think this is appropriate for a tutoring session." You start, admiring yourself in the mirror. 

"Oh, shut it." She huffs, grabbing a necklace and a few bracelets for you to wear. "Here, put these on, I'll find you a pair of sneakers that match with your outfit." 

"That's not needed!" You shout, but she ignores it as she digs deep into her closet, only coming back up when she pulls out a white pair of shoes, decorated with a bit of pink. 

"Here." She offers them to you, waiting for you to put them on. 

"What's taking you so–" Hannah's sentence cuts short as she stills in her spot, taking a moment to admire your outfit. "Oh." 

"It's too much, isn't it?" You complain, ready to slide off your top. 

But before you can proceed with your action, Hannah perks up again. "No wait!" she says, approaching you. "You look amazing." 

"Hannah." Your lips form into a pout, shoulders relaxing with defeat. 

"I'm not sure Dean can handle all that." Allie murmurs, checking you out with an amused expression spread all over her face. "You look so sexy, holy shit." 

"You did your big one, Al." Hannah shoots back, fist bumping Allie with her attention still glued to you. 

"So dramatic," you roll your eyes, failing to hide the smile smothered across your lips. "Should we leave?" 

"Oh, yeah." Hannah nods, "We definitely should."

"Is it too late to go back home?" You anxiously look back at Hannah, who's a moment away from knocking on the door. 

"Probably," Hannah shrugs her shoulders, glimpsing between you and the door. "Dean's expecting you any second now, Garrett said he's camping by the door for you."

"But–" You start, cutting your sentence short when Hannah sends you a death glare. 

With no hesitation, Hannah knocks on the door, barely giving you time to process the gesture before the door's wide open. 

Your eyes widen with shock at how quickly the door unlatches, gaze instantly shifting to Dean, whos eyes land on Hannah with a tight-lipped smile that displays his dimples. 

"Wellsy!" He leans against the door, feighning surprise, as if he hasn't been waiting for your arrival for the past hour. His attention lands on you, breath cutting short when his eyes lock with yours. He mutters your name, deliberate, quiet, if you weren't paying such close attention, you would've missed it. "Hi." 

"Hey." 

Tension seeps into the air, and you're sure it's obvious in the way your body tenses, stilling in your spot as Dean's eyes travel from your head, all the way down your legs, then back up again. You fight the urge to come up with an excuse as to why you're dressed up today, but settled on silence when Dean huffs out a ragged breath, one he didn't know he was holding. 

"I was waiting for you." He doesn't think when he speaks, mouth moving faster than his brain could process. He clears his throat, cheeks flushing a deep shade of red as he realizes what he said, quickly correcting himself. "Since you're tutoring me. I wasn't sure if you wanted it to take place here, or maybe in the library, since–" 

"You don't have to explain yourself," You nervously scratch the back of your neck, an awkward chuckle tumbling past your lips. "I'll make up for it, since I'm a bit late today, sorry."

"Oh, it's totally fine." He emphasizes the 'totally', nodding his head with comprehension. "Should we..." he trails off, stepping to the side. "Come on in." 

"About time," Hannah rolls her eyes, walking past Dean into the house. He almost chuckles, face growing serious when you follow behind your friend, nervously fidgeting with yours fingers. 

Logan perks up from the couch at the sight of you, tilting his head back as a sigh of relief escapes his throat. "Ugh, finally." 

"Hi," you wave, chuckling even though you're confused. Dean closes the door, following behind you as you step up the stairs. 

"I'm glad you're here." Logan states before you can disappear, continuing when your eyebrows pinch with confusion. "I've never seen someone this excited to study, he's mentioned you like a million times in the past hour alone." 

"John Logan." Dean's tone laces with embarrassment, the threat barely heard through his gritted teeth. 

"Oh, be nice to him," you joke, glancing towards Dean from over your shoulder, who's far too busy observing the way your hips sway back and forth to pay your gaze the attention. 

The walk up the stairs feels like an eternity, but you eventually get to Dean's room, door instantly clicking shut once you're both inside. 

Dean leans against the door, taking a moment to admire as you throw yourself on the bed, making yourself comfortable as you grab out your school stuff. Your head shoots up with confusion once you take notice, lips jutting into a slight pout as you utter your next words. 

"Are you not sitting down?" 

You ignore the tension cutting through when he flashes you a lazy smile, taunting, yet teasing, tugging at the strings of your heart and making your stomach flutter with butterflies. Your gaze flickers back to your supplies, taking a deep breath to get a hold of yourself. 

Why's it so difficult to control yourself?

Dean doesn't say a word, simply walking over to you before he positions himself next to you. He sits close, too close you can smell his musky cologne that impales all your senses, and feel his breath as it lightly fans over your exposed arms. 

You cut to the chase, starting your tutoring session like you normally do. Everything's going smoothly, and you're nearing the end of it, but something else is weighing down your chest. 

You can clearly feel Dean's gaze on you, burning holes through your skin and flustering you into a mess. Your words stammer past your lips, and a deep breath drags out before you're fed up, finally looking up from the textbook. Your eyes shift to Dean, who's propped against his elbows, too comfortable to move, or take his eyes off of you. 

"Someone's paying close attention." You tilt your head, tone filling with sarcasm. Dean laughs at the abrupt change of atmosphere, head leaning back for a moment before his eyes are on you again. 

"For sure." He goes along with the 'joke', entertained by the sassiness laced in your voice. 

"What did I just say?" You question, your words more of a challenge. 

"Don't put me in the spot." He cooes, and if not for how annoyed you are, you would've folded in the spot. 

"You're not paying attention!" You state, causing the boy to scrunch his nose with defeat. 

"Alright, I'm sorry." He admits, barely earning a smile out of you. "I'll try to pay attention." 

"And what's got your attention, Di Laurentis?" 

"Something." He says, as he fidgets with the sheets covering the bed. 

"And what would that something be?" 

His gaze flickers to your cleavage, and it's swift, you would've missed it if you aren't paying such close attention. It's not on purpose. his face turns pale as soon as it happens, and he fight the urge to come up with an excuse as to why he looked, and why he did it right as you asked. 

But you know. Deep down you know what's distracting him, and keeping him from paying attention. 

"Oh." You mumble. It's barely coherent, but Dean still hears it, cursing under his breath in reaction. 

"I'm..." His eyes force shut, head dipping with shame. "I'm trying really hard not to look."

"Wow," you chuckle, entertained by how guilty he seems. "Aren't you the gentleman?" 

At that, Dean laughs, tension off his shoulder as his eyes travel back to you. "Trying to be," he reasons, voice lowering into a whisper. "But it's really hard when you look this pretty." 

Your breath gets caught in your throat, and it's difficult to control the corners of your lips, tugging into a smile, barely visible, but it's there, enough for Dean to take it as a sign. 

He inches close to you, leaning his head down as he traces small circles to your hand, ticklish, and making goosebumps breakout across your arms. You take his action as a challenge, leaning forward so there's barely any distance separating you. 

He whispers your name, exhaling through his nose. Like your mere presence is tempting him, pulling at his strings. His gaze flickers down to your lips, keeping contact for a brief second before his eyes lock with yours again. 

"You should probably tell me to stop." He states, forehead brushing against yours. His fingers trail up your arms, deliberate, yet casual, halting around the spaghetti strings of your top. He toys with the material, breath shuddering when his knuckles make contact with your bare skin. 

"Probably," you repeat, fingers finding the curve of Dean's jaw. Your tone drops to match his, breath shaking as you mutter your next words. "But what if I don't want you to?" 

That's the only sign Dean needs. 

Dean ceases the distance separating you, capturing your lips in a chaste kiss, needy, and so desperate, it knocks a breath out of you. Your hands move to the back of his neck, grasping onto his hair as he kisses you numb, tugging and nibbling at your lips. 

He bites down hard enough, the pressure of the action making you whimper, giving him the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. His tongue meets yours halfway, the warmness of his mouth engulfing the inside of yours in an instant. 

Dean's hands trail wherever he can get them, traveling from your waist to your stomach, to your back, and back on your hips when you moan into the kiss. His fingernails dig into the skin, applying enough pressure for it to leave a mark, and the mere thought of that turns you on. 

Your body leans into the touch, back arching as he rolls your hips against his knee. The fraction makes you feel funny, tingly all over, he doesn't give you a chance to process it before he does it again, entertained by the mess he creates out of you. 

You mewl into the kiss, crying out in pleasure when he disconnects the kiss, not giving you a chance to complain before his lips are back on your skin again. Only this time, he kisses down your throat, licking and nipping at the curve of your jaw, then slowly kissing his way down your neck, where his teeth graze the delicate skin with so much want, you can feel the desperation in his action. 

Dean groans against your skin, pressing slick, open-mouthed kisses to your collarbones, while one of his hands messages the exposed flesh of your cleavage. He kisses his way down, taking a mouthful of your chest the moment he has the chance to. 

The kisses he litters to your chest are soft, the sensation like feathers on your skin. He presses another kiss, grazing his teeth over the flesh, licking the same spot to soothe any pain away. 

"Dean," You whimper, head falling back as you press his face into your chest, chasing after the pleasure he's making you feel. "Please." 

"Please what?" He mumbles, kissing your chest once more before he straightens again, sitting up as one of his knees separate your legs, giving him enough space to stand in between. 

His hand caresses soft circles to your cheek, now hovering over you, with his legs dipping into the mattress. Then, with a thumb to your chin, he forces your mouth open, pressing a kiss to your lips, licking a stripe of your mouth before he repeats it again. 

"God, you know how much I wanted this?" He says in between kisses, gaze growing hazy. "Wanted," another kiss, "you."

You don't say anything, simply letting him tilt your head as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your lips, licking into your mouth and savoring every bit you're offering him. He kisses you like a starved man, like he's never done this before, like he's been dying to feel your lips on his. 

"So fucking pretty for me." He says, slowly kissing down your jaw, this time lingering when he sucks on the skin, to mark you for everyone else to see. "You dress up for me, darling? Dolled up all for me." 

You whine out in embarrassment, but that doesn't stop the pleasure surging through your body, traveling to in between your legs when Dean's hands reach under your top, massaging the plush skin and pressing you closer than you already are. 

He kisses you again, this time deepening it to savor the taste on his tongue. He tilts his head to the side, taking your upper lip between his, fingers occupied with the clip of your bra. 

And just as he's about to unclip it the door clicks open. 

"Tucker told me to bring over some–" in front of the door stands Logan, with a bunch of snacks scattered on a tray. He almost drops the stuff in his hold, mouth gaping to speak, but falling into utter silence instead. 

Your attention shifts to Logan in an instant, and you have to process the situation for a second before realization takes over.  

Fuck. 

You don't think as you push Dean off of you, causing the boy to lose his balance and fall off the bed. You try to grab onto his shirt, but it happens too fast, he lands on the ground with a thud. 

A gasp escapes your throat, attention shifting  from Logan to the now stretched out shirt in your grasp, with Dean, a mess on the ground. 

Dean's eyes follow yours, flashing his friend a guilty look that tells Logan all he needs to know. 

As for Logan, he's awkwardly standing by the door, gaze flickering from Dean to you. His head tilts, and he's contemplating whether right now is a good time to speak, maybe confront you both?

And just as you thought things couldn't get any worse, they do. 

Hannah's giggles bounce off the walls as she approaches Dean's room with a plate Logan seemingly forgot. 

"You forgot the–" Hannah starts, words dying in her throat when she's met with the awkward position you and Dean are in. "Cashews." 

"Fuck." You mumble under your breath, falling into the bed with defeat. 

"Are we..." Logan trails off, pointing between you two. "Are we interrupting something?"

"Huh?" Dean starts, too hazed by what just happened to answer. "I–"

"No," you beat him to replying, violently shaking your head. "We were just studying." 

"Mhm, just studying." Dean agrees, reaching for the hand you offered him earlier, for the mere purpose of balancing. It doesn't help your situation, causing you to instantly pull back your arm when both Hannah and Logan glance down. "I'll just, stay on the floor." 

"Yeah, right." Hannah says, not convinced whatsoever. 

"We should probably leave," Logan turns to Hannah, nudging her side as he continue. "We'll leave you to it."

"You are explaining yourself as soon as we're home." Hannah whisper-yells to you, as if the two boys aren't still listening. 

"Explain what?" You whisper back. 

"This." Hannah points to you, eyes traveling down to your chest, and Dean on the floor, a total mess, he can't even pick himself back up. 

You fix your shirt, covering Dean's face with your palm. "Don't look at him." 

Hannah's lips tug into a smile, amused by how much you're trying to prove a point. 

"He's all yours." Hannah's eyebrows raise with intrigue, giving Logan the signal to leave. 

"It's not what it looks like!" You shout, but they don't give you a chance to justify yourself, shutting the door before you can continue. 

And through the walls, you can hear Hannah yelling "Guess what we just fucking saw?" 

Right, so now everyone will know that happened, no matter how hard you try to deny it. 

Isn't this great?

"They left without giving us the snacks." Dean's lips jut into a pout, growing serious when you flash him a death glare. 

"Dean Di Laurentis." 

"That would be me." He scratches his chin, avoiding your gaze. 

"What are we going to do?" 

Though to be fair, things with Logan are not bad. That's the thing people don't understand when they hear situationship from hell. On the contrary, things with Logan are very good. Too good. Too good to look at directly without feeling something inconvenient shift behind your ribs, which is precisely why it's bad. Because he had been so genuinely, almost aggressively nice about the whole thing. He had found you at the edge of that party and sat next to you and talked to you for hours like you were the most interesting thing in the room, and he had made a real effort not to look at your boobs while you were talking, which in that particular environment was either extremely respectful or a sign that he was raised correctly, and either way it had done something to you.

And then you had woken up on his chest the next morning. His warm skin and steady heartbeat, the sort of light that meant it was too early to be awake, and done the awkward post-hookup shuffle of words, and heard: I'm not really looking for anything serious.

A bucket of cold water dropped directly on your head would have been less effective. More merciful, probably.

What else could you have done except agree? For god's sake, he was sitting there in black boxers holding a cup of coffee, extending it toward you like a peace offering, brown eyes looking at you with an expression that was genuinely, unfairly soft for seven in the morning. You took the cup. He readjusted against the headboard and looked at you with those eyes and said, simply: "So?"

So. So what? What were you supposed to say?

"Sure," you heard yourself say. "I'm interested in that too."

Sure. I'm interested in that too. Your internal voice repeated it back to you with the tone of a younger sibling trying to get a rise out of you. That was, objectively, the least true thing you had ever said out loud. You had been raised on Bridget Jones and every famous rom-com ever committed to film. You believed in love, in its inconvenience and its necessity and its complete refusal to be reasoned with. Casual did not cut it for you. It never had.

But god. If Bridget could have seen John Logan in that particular light, with that particular bed head, she would have understood completely.

So you agreed. And after that came the encounters.

At first they were private, almost secretive, you telling your friends you were going for a run and then actually running, just in the wrong direction entirely. Logan telling his that he was going to study somewhere, which was technically true, depending on your definition of anatomy. It gave everything a specific kind of thrill, the pleasant urgency of something that existed slightly outside the normal rules, and for a while that was enough.

But time has a way of dissolving things like that. Gradually, without either of you deciding to, you stopped hiding. And that was when the real problem arrived.

You and Logan became friends.

Not the convenient, surface-level kind, the real kind, the kind that builds without you noticing until one day you look around and realize that this person has become load-bearing in your life. You were always at the house. You knew the full taxonomy of Dean's recent romantic encounters, the specificity of Garrett's current problems, the ongoing narrative of Tucker's various endeavors. You didn't just know about them, you helped. You were involved. You had opinions and history and context, and they knew it, and they came to you with things.

And it went the other way too. Logan had gotten so close to your friends that he would voluntarily drive Marissa to her therapy appointments in Boston without being asked, would send Benny reels about topics they'd talked about the week before, remembered details that even you sometimes forgot. He had threaded himself into the fabric of your life so completely and so quietly that you could no longer locate the seam.

And finally, finally, things had started to feel like they were moving in the right direction. The direction they probably should have been heading since the morning after Halloween. Maybe the casual arrangement had just been a detour — a scenic route to the same destination. All's well that ends well.

And then you and Logan would go to Malone's, and a waitress would glance between you with a smile and say what a nice couple you made, and Logan would laugh in that easy, noncommittal way of his and say: we're just friends.

And there it was. Bucket of cold water. Every time, without fail, like a reset button neither of you had agreed to keep pressing.

Every single time.

Which brings you to now.

You are sitting on Logan's couch, draped over him, legs intertwined, peppering kisses down his neck while he makes a valiant and increasingly unsuccessful effort to tell you about the new episode of some reality show he has gotten inexplicably invested in. Something about traitors in a castle. Who cares. Not you. Not when Logan smelled like that and the house was quiet and his hands were doing that thing where they moved without him seeming to notice.

You sank further into him. The kisses started to linger. His words got sparse.

"Are you even listening to me?" Logan murmured, his voice coming out considerably less steady than he had probably intended.

You hummed against his pulse point by way of answer.

The front door opened.

You both startled, pulling apart with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before, but the moment you registered it was Dean you settled back into exactly the position you'd been in. Dean didn't care about PDA. He actively encouraged it.

He dropped onto the opposite couch, looked at the ceiling briefly, then at you.

"Okay, I have a question," he said. "Logan, dude, this is for science, please don't be weird about it."

At this point you were sitting upright, Logan's arms still looped around you, his chin finding your shoulder, using you as a very comfortable shield against whatever Dean was about to say.

"Shoot," you said.

Dean took a breath with the energy of someone preparing to say something they had already decided to say regardless of the response. "Do you think I should buy a vibrator for a friend of mine?"

Logan laughed against your neck. You shivered slightly at the warmth of his breath.

"Are you the friend?" you asked. "Are you buying a vibrator for yourself?"

"What? No. I'm a man."

"That doesn't mean anything. Men are allowed to have vibrators."

"I know that. It's not for me."

"I really think you should get one though. For yourself. If you want to be the Samantha of the group you have to commit to the bit."

"I am the Samantha," Dean said, with genuine offense. "And it's not for me."

"Have you even watched Sex and the City?"

"Yes. I'm from New York, for god's sake and you're being such a Carrie right now."

You settled back against Logan's chest, his arms tightening around you automatically, like a reflex, like something he did without thinking about it anymore.

Yes, you thought. And my own Mr. Big is currently holding me on this couch.

Garrett and Hannah came down the stairs in what you assumed were their stay-at-home outfits: sweatpants, hockey jersey, the specific comfort of two people who had stopped performing around each other. The moment they came into view you felt Logan's hand still. Not move away just still. And then he shifted from behind you to sitting beside you, technically still touching but the warmth of it had changed completely. It was less person you are tangled up with and more person you happen to be sitting next to on public transport.

You knew that shift. You had felt it before.

The first time, you had told yourself you were imagining things.

It was a Tuesday, nothing special about it, the kind of evening that had become completely ordinary, you at the house, Logan beside you on the couch, his thumb making absent circles on your knee while Dean argued with Tucker about something that didn't matter. Hannah had stopped by to pick up something she'd left there the week before, and the moment the door opened Logan's hand had stilled. Not moved away. Just stilled. Like an animal that had heard something.

You hadn't said anything. You'd filed it away in the part of your brain reserved for things you weren't ready to look at yet.

The second time was at one of Garrett's games. You had been standing with Logan at the edge of the rink afterward, his jacket half around your shoulders the way it always ended up, and Hannah had appeared through the crowd. Logan had straightened. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it the slight shift in his posture, the way his jacket had slipped back off your shoulders without him seeming to notice he'd let it go.

You'd picked it up off the floor and handed it back to him without a word.

The third time you stopped counting.

Malone's on a Friday night had a particular energy loud enough to feel festive, familiar enough to feel like home. Your usual table was in the corner, the big one that fit all of you without anyone having to pull up an extra chair, and the evening had been good. Genuinely good, the kind that reminded you why you had agreed to this arrangement in the first place, Logan's knee against yours under the table, his arm finding the back of your chair sometime around the second round of drinks, the easy warmth of being somewhere you belonged.

You were mid-story , a good one, the kind that had the whole table leaning in and you could feel it landing, the timing was right, and Garrett was already laughing before you got to the punchline and Dean had that look on his face that meant he was going to steal this story and tell it as his own later, and Tucker was—

You glanced at Logan.

He wasn't laughing.

He was looking across the table at Hannah with an expression you recognized because you had spent the better part of a year learning every single detail of his face, and what was on it right now was something soft and slightly helpless the expression of someone watching something they had decided they couldn't have.

The story finished without you. Somewhere far away, the table laughed.

You picked up your drink. Set it down. Picked it up again.

"I'm going to step outside," you said. "Just — smoke a bit."

"You don't even smoke, (Y/N)!" Tucker replied, laughing, and it killed you because all of Logan's friends had come to know you so well.

"You okay?" Garrett asked.

"Fine. Just air."

You were already standing. Already reaching for your jacket. Logan was on his feet before you made it two steps.

"I'll come with you," he said.

The parking lot outside Malone's was cold and poorly lit. You got about twenty feet from the door before you stopped walking. The noise from inside filtered out muffled and distant, everyone still laughing, completely unaware.

Logan stopped beside you. Waited. He had always been good at waiting, which was one of the things you had loved about him and one of the things that had slowly, quietly driven you insane.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't do the thing where you stand there and wait for me to calm down." You turned to face him. The cold air hit your face and you were glad for it. "I'm not going to calm down. So just talk to me. Tell me the truth. Please. Don't bullshit me right now, Logan, I am asking you to not bullshit me right now."

"Baby—"

"Don't baby me, Logan. Not right now"

He looked at you with that steady, unhurried patience of his, which tonight felt less like a quality and more like a weapon.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"I want you to tell me if you have a crush on Hannah." The word crush felt absurdly small for the moment but you couldn't bear the weight of the more accurate alternatives.

Something shifted in his face. Not guilt exactly, something deeper than that. The specific expression of someone who had been quietly hoping a question wouldn't arrive and had known, somewhere underneath the hoping, that it always was going to.

"It's not—" he started.

"Logan."

He exhaled. Looked at the ground briefly. Looked back at you.

"It's not serious," he said. "It's nothing. She's with Garrett. It's not like I would ever—"

"Oh my god." The laugh that came out of you had nothing to do with anything being funny. "Oh my god, you actually do. You actually have a crush on her."

"It's not a big deal—"

"You have a crush on your best friend's girlfriend and it's not a big deal." You repeated it back to him slowly. "I have been right here, Logan. For almost a year I have been right here, and you have a crush on Hannah."

"It's just a feeling. It doesn't mean anything." His voice had an edge to it now, something defensive sharpening underneath the calm. "And you don't get to be mad at me for it."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't get to be mad at me for having feelings." The words were coming faster now, the composure cracking in a way you almost never saw from him. "We said casual. That was the agreement. I can't be accountable to you for things I feel when you are not my girlfriend."

The word landed like a slap.

Girlfriend.

"Right," you said. Your voice had gone very quiet. "I'm not your girlfriend."

"That's not what I—"

"No, you're right. I'm not." You looked at him. Really looked at him — this person whose coffee order you knew by heart, whose nightmares you had talked him through at two in the morning, whose hand had reached for yours in his sleep so many times you had stopped counting. "Can I ask you something? And I need you to actually answer me. Not just wait until I stop talking."

He said nothing, which you took as a yes.

"What did you think this was?" Your voice was still quiet. Controlled. "Not what we agreed on in the beginning. What did you think it was last week? Last month? What did you think it was tonight when you had your arm around me at that table? When you picked me up from my house and kissed me in your truck?" You took a breath. "Because I need to understand how you look at what we have been doing and see something casual. I genuinely need you to explain that to me."

"It's complicated—"

"It's not complicated. It's actually very simple. I just need you to say it out loud."

"You knew what this was when we started—"

"I know what it was when we started. I'm asking what it is now." You crossed your arms against the cold. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like a relationship. It looks like you drive my friends places and remember things about them they never told you twice, and I know every single thing about your life, and we spend more nights together than apart, and you reach for me when you're asleep like I'm something you don't want to lose." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "So you'll have to forgive me for being confused about the casual part."

"I can't—" He stopped. Started again. "It's not about not wanting to. It's about what I can actually give right now. Hockey takes everything. My family, my mother, I don't have money, I don't have stability, I don't have any of the things that—"

"I'm not asking you for stability. I'm not asking you for money." Something in your chest had cracked open and you were past the point of closing it. "I'm asking you to admit what this already is. That's all."

"I am being honest—"

"Then be more honest." Your voice broke on the last word and you kept going anyway. "Because I'm in love with you."

The parking lot went completely silent.

Logan stared at you. The words sat between you in the cold air like something that had changed the temperature.

"What?" His voice came out barely above a breath.

"I'm in love with you." Steadier the second time. "I have been for a long time. And I know that's not what we agreed on. But I can't stand here and pretend I don't while you tell me it's not a big deal that you have feelings for someone else." You looked at him. "We are already a couple, Logan. In every single way that actually matters, we already are. The only thing missing is you admitting it."

Something moved across his face — something large and unguarded and almost frightened.

"It's not that simple," he said, quieter now, the defensiveness gone out of it.

"I know it's not simple. I know about hockey. I know about your mom. I know all of it, Logan, because you told me, because that's what we do. But none of that changes what I just said." You took a breath. "So just tell me. Do you have feelings for me? Yes or no. That's all I'm asking."

Logan looked at you.

And said nothing.

The silence stretched between you, long and terrible. His jaw was tight. His eyes moved across your face like he was looking for something he either couldn't find or couldn't say, and the longer the silence went on the more clearly you understood that the silence was itself an answer.

"Wow," you said finally. Very quietly. "Okay."

You picked up your bag. Straightened your jacket. Looked at him one more time this person you had spent 338 days loving in whatever form he would accept.

"Don't follow me," you said.

He didn't.

You walked back toward the warm light spilling out of Malone's windows, past your friends still laughing, past the table that an hour ago had felt like home, and you kept walking. Past the door, past the window, down the street, into the cold.

Too angry to cry. Too tired to pretend. Too done to look back.

Behind you, in the parking lot, Logan stood very still and said nothing which was the thing he was best at, and the thing that had finally cost him everything.

It had been a hard couple of days. But the upside of a not-breakup in college was that you didn't get to wallow, no watching rom-coms until the wee hours, no doing the Bella, watching the months pass from your bedroom window. Life was as it had always been, minus the space Logan had occupied in your weekly schedule. Not a metaphysical space, a literal one. When you opened your Google Calendar you found his game days still blocked out in blue, his training days still marked, everything still there like a calendar that hadn't gotten the news yet.

Pathetic, you thought, and deleted them.

Your days now belonged entirely to yourself, which should have felt like freedom and mostly felt like a lot of unscheduled Tuesday afternoons. No more disappearing in the middle of the day, no more make-out sessions in the library during lunch break. Just you and your own company and the slow, unglamorous work of being fine.

You weren't fine. You were something adjacent to fine that required daily maintenance and the careful avoidance of certain songs.

Marissa had noticed, she called it being under the weather, which was such a specific and old-fashioned way of putting it that in the beginning you had found it strange and now found it completely endearing. Your own personal nanna, showing up with iced coffee and terrible ideas at exactly the right moments.

The terrible idea this time was an underground bar in Boston she had found, which was a surprise since Marissa was fundamentally a sports bar person. You had a strong suspicion the entire excursion was engineered entirely for your benefit and the benefit of your appetite for expensive, colorful drinks, and you loved her for it and didn't say so.

The drive took exactly long enough to hype yourself up.

I'm pretty. I'm smart. I'm a catch.

The bar was dimly lit in a way that felt intentional rather than neglected, all low ceilings and good music and the general atmosphere of a place that didn't need to try. You, Marissa and Benny settled into a corner booth and approximately ninety seconds later Benny's elbow was in your ribs.

"Cute guy. Nine o'clock," he said, in what he apparently believed was a whisper.

You glanced toward the bar. Tall, white jacket, the kind of easy posture that meant he wasn't thinking about his posture at all.

"I'm not really looking for anything," you said.

"You're single. He's cute. The bar has drinks. What exactly is the problem?" Benny tilted his head. "Go order our drinks and make some poor decisions. You've earned it."

"I didn't bring my ID."

Benny stared at you. "You came to a bar without your ID?"

"I forgot." You shrugged.

"(Y/N)." His voice had the specific tone of someone choosing their words carefully. "What is wrong with you. Go. Drinks. Now. The ID thing is a you problem, figure it out."

You slid out of the booth before he could say anything else.

The guy at the bar was, up close, even more irritatingly attractive than he had been from across the room. He glanced over when you appeared beside him, and then glanced again in a way that was not subtle and didn't try to be.

"You look like you're deciding something," he said.

"Whether to admit I forgot my ID at a bar."

He looked at you for a moment. Then he smiled easy and genuine. "Hunter," he said, and held out his hand.

"((Y/N))."

"I'll vouch for you," he said. "If you tell me what you're drinking."

You told him. He ordered both without being asked, which was either presumptuous or exactly right, and you decided it was exactly right.

By the time you made it back to the booth with four drinks and Hunter's number in your phone, Benny was looking at you with the expression of someone who had orchestrated something and was very pleased about it.

You didn't tell him he was right. But you didn't have to.

The thing about Hunter Davenport was that he was genuinely, irritatingly likeable.

You had not been thinking about Logan when you said yes to Hunter's suggestion of getting coffee. You had not been thinking about Logan when the coffee turned into a walk, and the walk turned into two hours of easy conversation that asked nothing from you and gave something back.

That was the point.

You had gotten very good at not thinking about Logan in the weeks since Malone's. It was a skill, like any other, it required practice and the occasional forcible redirection of your own brain, but you were nothing if not disciplined when the situation called for it. You had been showing up to things. Laughing at the right moments. Sleeping through the night, mostly.

You were fine. You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it, and right now you weren't examining the difference too closely.

Hunter was easy. That was the thing about him. He was warm and uncomplicated and he looked at you like you were worth looking at, which was something you had apparently needed more than you realized.

It was nothing serious. You had been very clear about that with yourself. You were not ready for serious. But his hand was warm when it found yours walking back from the coffee place, and you let it stay there.

You were almost believing it.

The team was at the rink for an open practice, one of the informal ones that sometimes drew a small crowd of friends and the generally affiliated. You had come with Marissa, which gave you plausible deniability about why you were there, and you had sat in the third row and watched without watching, which was a skill you had also been practicing.

Hunter had waved at you from the ice. You had waved back.

You had not looked at Logan. You had been extremely disciplined about not looking at Logan, which meant you were also extremely aware of exactly where he was at every moment without technically looking at him, which was its own kind of exhausting.

After practice, Hunter had come off the ice still in half his gear and found you immediately, easy and unhurried, and said something that made you laugh. Your hand had gone to his arm the way hands do when you're laughing at something someone said, and it had stayed there for approximately four seconds.

Four seconds.

You knew it was four seconds because you had counted them, which meant some part of you had been paying attention to something you were pretending not to pay attention to.

The locker room door swung shut behind Logan without him looking back.

You found a quiet corner of the rink lobby while Hunter went to get his bag. You were looking at your phone, not reading anything on it, when you heard footsteps and looked up.

Logan.

He had changed out of his gear. His jaw was doing the thing: the tight, controlled thing that meant something was happening underneath the composure that the composure was working very hard to contain. His eyes moved from your face to the door Hunter had gone through and back.

"Hey," you said carefully.

"You and Hunter," he said. Not a question.

"That's not really your business."

"You're spending a lot of time with him."

"Logan—"

"I'm just making an observation." His voice was very even. The voice he used when he was the least controlled.

"Make it somewhere else."

He laughed short and humorless. "Right. Okay." He looked at the floor. Looked back at you. "I just didn't think you were the type."

You went very still. "The type to?"

"To go after a guy because of who he plays for." Quiet. Measured. Like he had chosen this version of the sentence carefully. "I didn't think that was your thing."

The lobby was very quiet.

You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to make sure you had heard what you thought you'd heard. Long enough to see something flicker in his expression, the immediate, unmistakable recognition that he had gone too far.

"Say that again," you said softly.

"I didn't mean—"

"No." Your voice was calm in a way that had nothing to do with being calm. "Say it again. I want to make sure I understood you. Are you calling me a puck bunny?"

Logan said nothing. The flicker had become something closer to horror.

"Because that's what you just said." You tilted your head slightly. "After everything. That's what you went with."

"I didn't — that's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean?" You took a step toward him. "Because I have been patient, Logan. I have been so patient with you. I said the most honest thing I have ever said to anyone in that parking lot and you said nothing back, which I am trying. I am actively trying to make my peace with. But you do not get to say that to me. You don't get to do that."

"I know." His voice had lost all its evenness. "I shouldn't have—"

"Why did you say it?"

He looked at you.

"Tell me why." Your voice cracked slightly and you kept going. "Because it wasn't an observation. So tell me why."

Something moved across his face the composure fracturing in a way you had only seen once or twice in all the time you had known him.

"Because I can't—" He stopped.

"Can't what?"

"Because I can't watch you with him and not—" He stopped again. Pressed his mouth shut. Looked at the ceiling briefly.

"Not what?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He looked at you. Right at you. And for one unguarded, terrible second you could see everything, all of it, the whole enormous weight of everything he hadn't said in the parking lot outside Malone's, sitting right there on his face with nowhere left to hide.

And then he looked away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It was wrong."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"Yeah," you said. "It was."

You picked up your bag. Hunter had reappeared at the far end of the lobby, jacket on, easy smile, completely unaware of the wreckage he had wandered back into. You walked toward him and did not look back at Logan.

But you heard him the sharp exhale of someone who had just watched something leave that they weren't sure was coming back.

Good, you thought.

And hated that you thought it.

Here was the thing about being called a puck bunny: it wasn't the word itself that got to you.

Puck bunnies weren't the worst thing a person could be.

Men were allowed their types, allowed to prefer blondes or brunettes or redheads, to only date younger women, to have a thing for accents, to announce their type to anyone who will listen like it’s a personality trait, to want someone tall or short or with a specific laugh, or say things like "I have never been with a Brazilian before". They were allowed to say these things out loud, to Tinder-filter by height, and if it was possible they would do by weight too, to have opinions about bodies that they shared freely and without apology.

But god forbid a woman had a type. God forbid a woman found hockey players attractive or musicians, or academics, or anyone with a specific quality she was drawn to. Then she was something to be named and categorized and looked down upon. Then she was a bunny.

You were not offended by the word.

You were offended that Logan, who had been silent while you poured your heart out in a cold parking lot, who had said nothing when you asked him the most direct question you had ever asked another human being , had found his voice again specifically to say that. That of all the things he could have finally said to you, after all the silence, this was the one he chose.

That was what got to you.

Not the word. The timing. The source. The specific, devastating irony of a man who couldn't say I have feelings for you finding it very easy to say something that small.

You didn't tell anyone what he said.

That was the first decision you made, walking out of that rink lobby with Hunter's hand in yours and Logan's exhale still somewhere in your chest. You were not going to tell Dean, who would say something devastatingly accurate about it. You were not going to tell Marissa, who would want to talk about it for three hours. You were not going to tell anyone, because telling someone meant turning it over, examining it, and you were not ready to examine the specific shape of what Logan had said to you and what it meant that he had said it.

You knew what it meant. That was the problem.

You had known the moment you saw his face, that flicker of something before the composure reassembled itself, the way his eyes had moved to Hunter and back to you with an expression that had nothing casual about it. You had spent 338 days learning the map of Logan's face and you knew exactly what that look was. You had just also heard what came out of his mouth immediately afterward, which meant that what Logan felt and what Logan was willing to do about it were, as always, two completely different countries.

You were done trying to travel between them.

The week that followed was quiet and it felt different from the other times you had gone quiet. Before, the silence had always been temporary, a held breath. This felt more like an exhale. Like something had finally, after a very long time, finished.

You went to class. You had coffee with Hunter on Tuesday, which was easy and warm and asked nothing from you. You went to Marissa's on Thursday and watched something forgettable on her laptop and fell asleep on her couch, and she put a blanket over you without waking you up, which was the kindest thing anyone had done for you in recent memory.

You did not go to the house off campus. You did not text Logan. You did not check if he had texted you, which required leaving your phone face-down on your desk for approximately four days straight, which was its own kind of discipline.

You were fine. You were getting finer.

You were also absolutely not fine.

Dean found you on a Wednesday.

Not dramatically, he just appeared at the coffee shop near your building where you went on Wednesday mornings, which you had mentioned to him exactly once four months ago, which meant he had remembered it and filed it away and was now using it, which was such a Dean thing to do that you almost smiled.

He sat down across from you without asking if it was okay and stole a sip of your coffee before saying anything.

"He told me what he said," Dean said, without preamble.

You looked at your coffee. "Okay."

"He feels terrible."

"Good."

"I mean genuinely terrible. Like, I've known Logan for three years and I've never seen him—" Dean stopped. Seemed to decide something. "He's not sleeping. He's barely eating. He showed up to practice yesterday and coach pulled him aside after because his head wasn't in it, which has never happened, not once in three years."

"Dean." You looked up at him. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you deserve to know that it cost him something." His voice was straightforward, without manipulation. "I'm not asking you to forgive him. What he said was awful and he knows it. I'm just, you spent a long time showing up for him and I don't want you to think that none of it landed. It all landed. It's landing right now. It's just landing a little late."

You were quiet for a moment.

"A little late," you repeated.

"Okay, very late."

"Dean." You wrapped your hands around your cup. "He called me a puck bunny."

"I know." Dean had the grace to look genuinely pained. "He said it because he was jealous and scared and he handled it in the worst possible way and there is no defense for it. I'm not here to defend it."

"Then what are you here for?"

Dean looked at you across the table, this person who had been in your corner since before you had any idea how much you would need someone in your corner, and his expression was very honest.

"I'm here because he's my best friend and he's falling apart," he said. "And you're also my friend. And I hate watching both of you be miserable when I know exactly why you're miserable." He paused. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just wanted you to know."

You looked out the window. The street outside was grey and unremarkable, the specific flatness of a Wednesday in November.

"How long has he known?" you asked quietly. "That he has feelings for me. How long has he actually known?"

Dean was quiet for a moment.

"A while," he said carefully.

"How long is a while, Dean."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Since pretty much the beginning," he said.

You closed your eyes briefly. Opened them.

"Okay," you said.

"(Y/N)—"

"I'm not angry." And you weren't, which was almost surprising. You were something quieter and more tired than angry. "I just needed to know." You picked up your coffee. "Tell him I said he needs to sleep."

Dean looked at you. "That's it?"

"That's it." You met his eyes. "I'm not ready for anything else right now. But tell him to sleep."

Dean nodded slowly. He finished stealing your coffee and stood up and put his jacket on, and then he stopped with his hand on the back of the chair.

"For what it's worth," he said. "The Hannah thing. It was never real. He told me that too. He said he thinks he latched onto it because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening."

You didn't say anything.

"Okay," Dean said. "I'll see you around."

He left. You sat there with your cold coffee and the grey Wednesday street outside and the specific, exhausting weight of loving someone who had known the whole time and chosen, over and over, to say nothing.

Since pretty much the beginning.

338 days. And he had known since pretty much the beginning.

You sat with that for a long time.

It had been raining since noon.

Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain that arrived with thunder and purpose, just the steady, grey, unrelenting kind that soaked through your jacket in the first thirty seconds and didn't apologize for it.

You were on your way back from the library, hood up, head down, thinking about nothing in particular, which you had gotten very good at recently. The art of thinking about nothing. Occupying your own brain with the immediate and the logistical the paper due Thursday, the coffee you were going to make when you got home, the question of whether you had remembered to charge your phone.

You had not been thinking about Logan.

You were almost at your building when you heard him.

"(Y/N)."

You stopped walking.

He was standing at the bottom of your building's front steps, which meant he had been waiting in the rain for some amount of time, which was evident from the state of him soaked through, hair flat, jacket dark with water. He looked like someone who had arrived with a plan and abandoned it somewhere on the walk over and was now operating on something more basic and less manageable.

He looked, for the first time in all the time you had known him, completely unguarded.

"Logan." Your voice came out carefully. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you."

"It's raining."

"I know."

"You're soaked."

"I know." He took a step toward you. "I've been standing here for forty minutes trying to figure out what to say and I still don't know, so I'm just going to say it badly and hope that counts for something."

You looked at him. The rain came down steadily between you.

"You have two minutes," you said.

He exhaled. Ran a hand through his wet hair. Looked at you with the expression of someone stepping off a ledge they had been standing on for a very long time.

"I have been in love with you," he said, "since pretty much the beginning."

The rain was very loud suddenly.

"I knew it when we agreed to casual. I knew it when we stopped hiding. I knew it every time I reached for you in my sleep and every time a stranger called us a couple and I laughed it off, and I knew it in that parking lot outside Malone's when you told me the truth and I stood there and said nothing back." His voice was steady but only barely, the steadiness of someone gripping something very hard. "I said nothing because I was terrified. Not of you. Never of you. Of what it meant. Of what I would owe you if I said it out loud. Hockey takes everything I have and my family situation is a disaster and I don't have money or stability or any of the things that a person is supposed to have before they ask someone to—" He stopped. "But Dean said something to me last week. He said that I was losing you anyway. That all my careful management of the situation had achieved was losing you slowly instead of all at once, and somehow I had convinced myself that was the better outcome."

You said nothing. The rain soaked through your hood and you didn't move.

"And then I said what I said to you at the rink." His jaw tightened. "I have replayed that moment every day since it happened. There is no version of it that I can make okay. I said it because I saw you with Hunter and something in me just broke. Not a good break. Not the kind that leads anywhere useful. Just — I broke, and I said the cruelest thing I could think of, and I aimed it at you, and I have hated myself for it every single day since." He looked at you. "I'm not telling you that to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you because you deserve to know that it was never about you. It was never about who you are. It was about me being terrified and handling it in the worst possible way, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry."

The rain fell between you, steady and indifferent.

"You knew since the beginning," you said finally. Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

"Yes."

"A year."

"Yes."

"And you said nothing."

"Yes." He didn't flinch from it. "I said nothing, and I let you carry it alone, and I told myself I was protecting you from the complications of my life, but I think I was just protecting myself. From having to be as brave as you were in that parking lot." Something moved across his face. "You were so brave. You said the true thing and I just stood there. And I have thought about that every day since. About what it cost you to say it and what it cost me to say nothing back."

You looked at him. This person. Soaked through and unguarded and finally, finally saying the thing he had been not saying for 338 days.

"The Hannah thing," you said.

"Wasn't real." Immediate. Certain. "I think I needed it to be real because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening. She has what you and I have, what you and I were and I think I confused wanting that with wanting her. It was never her." He held your gaze. "It was always you. It has only ever been you."

The rain had soaked through your jacket completely now. You were cold in a way that had stopped being uncomfortable and become simply the condition of the moment.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me tonight," Logan said. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just needed you to know that I heard you in that parking lot. I heard every word. And I should have said this then, and I'm sorry that I didn't, and I'm saying it now because Dean was right, I am losing you anyway, and I would rather lose you having finally told the truth than keep you at a distance by staying silent." He paused. "I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And I'm sorry it took me this long to be brave enough to say it."

The street was very quiet under the rain.

You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to turn it over. Long enough to feel the full weight of 338 days, of every almost-conversation and loaded silence and reset button and bucket of cold water. Long enough to remember his hand going still when Hannah walked in, and the parking lot, and the rink lobby, and the specific sound of his exhale when you walked away.

Long enough to remember, underneath all of it, a Halloween party and a wall and two people waiting out the night from the edges of it, talking like they had nothing to prove to each other.

The beginning, before it got complicated. Before it got careful.

"You're an idiot," you said.

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite hope. Something more tentative than hope.

"I know," he said.

"You made everything so much harder than it needed to be."

"I know."

"I carried that alone for a very long time, Logan."

"I know." His voice broke slightly on it. "I know you did. I'm sorry."

The rain came down. You looked at him this soaked, unguarded, finally honest person standing at the bottom of your steps and felt something in your chest that had been braced for a very long time slowly, carefully release.

"You should have just said it," you said. "In the beginning. You should have just said it."

"I know." He took a step closer. Close enough that you could see the rain on his face, the wet dark of his hair, the expression underneath all the composure that had finally run out of places to hide. "I know. I'm saying it now."

You looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly.

"I love you." No hesitation. No composure. Just Logan, standing in the rain, finally saying the true thing. "I love you. I have loved you since pretty much the beginning and I am done pretending I don't."

The rain fell between you and neither of you moved and the street was quiet and everything was very still.

Then you closed the distance.

You kissed him in the rain, which was cold and slightly impractical and nothing like the careful, managed version of Logan you had spent 338 days trying to navigate. This was different. This was him kissing you back with both hands and no hesitation and none of the holding back, and it felt finally, finally like the true thing. Like the version of this that had been waiting underneath all the other versions the whole time.

When you pulled back you were both soaked and breathing slightly unsteadily and his forehead dropped to yours in the rain.

"I'm still mad at you," you said.

"I know." His arms tightened around you. "I know you are."

"The puck bunny thing is going to take a while."

"I know. Whatever it takes."

"And you have to tell me things." Your voice was muffled against his jacket. "When you're scared, when it gets complicated, when your brain does the thing where it decides silence is the safe option. You have to tell me instead."

"I will." He said it simply, without qualification, which was how you knew he meant it. "I will."

You stood there in the rain outside your building, soaked through and slightly ridiculous, and you thought about Halloween and 338 days and parking lots and rink lobbies and all the long, complicated distance between the beginning and right now.

Worth it, you thought.

Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”

The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.

Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.

Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.

Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.

You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”

He smiled politely, “Hey…”

“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.

Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.

You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.

Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”

You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.

You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”

He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.

You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.

You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.

He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.

Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.

“Cash or card?” He asked.

You held up your metal black credit card.

Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.

“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.

He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”

You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“

Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.

He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.

+

A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.

He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.

“Hi, Logan!”

“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”

You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.

Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“

“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.

He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.

“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.

As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”

People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.

“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.

You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.

“Did you win?” You asked.

He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.

“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.

You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”

Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.

“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.

You smiled shyly and said, “You…”

His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.

He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”

“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.

He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.

You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.

He smiled at that.

He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.

“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.

“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.

“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.

“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.

Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”

His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”

Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”

Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”

Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”

His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.

+

Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.

By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.

But now he was noticing a pattern.

So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.

But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.

“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”

You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“

“No, she doesn’t.”

You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.

His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.

Yet, you did.

Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.

Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.

Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.

“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”

“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”

“You do?” You asked.

He nodded, “I do.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.

He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”

You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”

He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.

But ever since you stumbled into his bed on one October night during some Halloweekend festivities, Logan quickly became your comfort zone. And right now, as you restlessly writhe between his sheets, you have absolutely zero desire to leave this comfort.

“Fuck,” the man of the hour rasped and grunted, his head dropping unceremoniously onto the crook of your neck. He breathes frenzied exhales into your shoulder, hot air drifting towards the bottom of your ears. His body weight practically crushes you, leaving you with just the tiniest slot of air to supply your lungs. But you’re not complaining. You’re exactly where you want to be.

You gasp into his brown curls as his thrusts quicken, your hands desperately fisting and grabbing onto the fitted sheet as some sort of pathetic attempt to anchor yourself. Watching you twist underneath him with heavy-lidden eyes, Logan grasps your hands, carefully interlocking your fingers with his, your palms firmly sealing against each other. Like the satisfying connection of the final pieces of a puzzle.

The loving gesture tugs at your heart. This “casual” intimacy is too much to bear, but you can’t bring yourself to let go.

“Y/N,” He rasps into your skin, his frantic breaths imprinting themselves like love bites onto your neck. You know that he’s close, and judging by the tension breeding underneath your belly that’s threatening to release itself, you know that you’re not that far off either. With your elbows digging into his mattress, you arch your back, slightly lift your hips just a tad higher, and the sound that emerges from your throat reverberates off the walls of his bedroom. Logan immediately finds his own release as he moans your name into your neck, his stubble etching a mark onto your skin, and his own body shaking from head to toe.

After he takes off the condom, Logan’s chest makes its way on top of yours as you sink into his bed, trying to catch your breath as he lazily draws circles on your thigh. Though your mind flinches at the “casual” nature of your relationship with Logan, your heart eventually learns to return to slow resting state while around him. He’s a steady presence, and his company is much needed as you try to navigate around the various stressors in your life.

Already, your tortuous coursework and demanding work-study stint are clearly draining you. Hannah frequently points out the dark bags under your eyes and the sluggish, lethargic nature of your gait as you force yourself to attend class.

But you had another stressor that completely robbed the last morsels of life clinging on to your body. A hidden, yet dangerous stressor that you kept snapped shut in the corners of your mind, only giving the key to your therapist for her to unlock.

The reason why you always refused to sleep at Logan’s place.

“So beautiful,” Logan’s voice pulls you from your reverie, his hoarse whisper tickling your collarbone. He kisses over the hickeys he proudly implanted near your breast, admiring his view. “All for me.”

You bite your bottom lip at his comment, pressing down so hard that you’re sure blood will ooze out any minute now. You’re technically not “all for him.” Even though he skips hockey practice to help jumpstart your car on the side of the road. Even though he now uses a fragrance-free laundry detergent because his sheets would irritate your sensitive skin. Even though he looks at you with those eyes that compel you to answer his text every single time. Even though his bed feels so comfortable right now.

Control yourself.

“Back at ya,” You awkwardly laugh, delivering a very nervous and spur-of-the-moment reply. So smooth, Y/N. Did you flirt this badly when he tore your Tinkerbell costume off?

Chuckles rumble from his chest, pressing down onto your heart. You could play his laugh on repeat. Hell, even set it as your ringtone. “Still not used to receiving compliments, I see.”

You don’t offer a response. Suddenly, the bed feels way too warm and way too inviting. As his pillow swallows your head, your eyes start to close.

But you quickly force yourself to wake up, remembering that you do not, in any circumstance, want to fall asleep in his bed. You will not make that mistake.

Instead, you lean over to check the time on your phone. 4:09 PM.

“I need to get going to my shift,” You slide out from underneath him, removing yourself from his grap. The sudden loss of warmth feels like whiplash.

His dark eyebrows furrow as you grab the haphazardly laid clothes on the wooden floor. “Doesn’t it start at 5:00? You still have some time,” He pats your unofficial side of his bed, watching you shimmy yourself into your jeans. “Come ‘ere. Stay a ‘lil longer.”

You bite your lip even harder, using it like a stress ball, and you try to forget that your situationship remembers that tiny detail of your work schedule. Of course he does.

“I like getting there early, though. It’s much better than arriving five minutes before a session starts,” You zip up your jeans, chuckling softly when he flashes his signature sad puppy eyes at you. “I like to quickly refresh myself on the content beforehand.”

“As if you would need any refreshing, Mrs. Bio and Psych Double-Major,” He teases, and yep, you’re pretty sure that’s blood you’re tasting right now.

“Trust me, I don’t always remember the ins and outs of signal transduction.”

Logan tilts his head to the side, staring at you with those confused eyes that you find so absolutely endearing. “And what the hell is ‘signal transduction?’”

You sigh, kneeling onto the floor and tying your shoes. “That’s a story for another time. I better get going.”

“Wait, I’ll walk you down,” He says as he jumps out of the bed, rapidly putting on his sweatpants and grabbing a random flannel from his desk chair.

You roll your eyes as you open his bedroom door, hearing the noises of his roommates from downstairs. “I’ve been here plenty of times, Logan. I know my way around the house.”

He shrugs, buttoning up his flannel. “So? God forbid a guy wants to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman?” You stifle a laugh, and he has the gall to put on a mildly offended face.

“Of course, my lady. I’m always on my best behavior for you.”

More blood seeps from your lip. You give him a playful shove on his shoulder, but he brandishes that signature crooked "John Logan smile" at you, and fuck, you’re in deep.

As the both of you walk downstairs, your peer at the living room and say a goodbye to the rest of the boys. Tucker and Dean were sitting on the couch, pouring over a textbook that you knew all too well. By the looks of it, Garrett wasn’t home. He was probably hanging out at Hannah’s dorm, per usual.

“Good seeing ya, Y/N,” Tucker smiles at you, lifting his head from the textbook.

“Yes, very good seeing ya,” Dean drawls, suddenly jumping up from his spot on the couch and making his way over to you. “And we are in desperate need of your guidance. This bio class is killing us.”

All of the boys knew you already. Though you and Logan weren’t “serious” by any means, neither of you kept your situationship a secret from others. At least Logan spared you the hurt and discomfort that comes from sneaking around.

Then again, all of his charming, boyfriend-coded compliments haven’t made the situation any better either.

You shake your head jokingly at Dean. “You guys have Professor Ragner, right? He’s chill. You’ll be fine.”

Dean gasps in fake shock, puting a hand to his heart as if he were in a melodramatic soap opera. “Wow, so you’re just leaving us to drown with no support? I see how it is, Y/N.”

You scoff. “No offense to y’all, but I don’t have time for free tutoring. I’m getting paid minimum wage, which is practically nothing to begin with, to tutor jocks like y’all in the first place. I’m sure as hell not doing any unpaid labor.”

“I can pay you in a different way,” Dean unabashedly flirts, blond waves falling over his eyes, voice dropping to a lower tenor. You raise an eyebrow in amusement, knowing that he’s joking.

Then someone behind you loudly clears their throat. You turn around to Logan, who is adorning an expression that you can’t quite decipher.

“Jesus, relax, Johnny,” Dean comes around and pats him on the back, which Logan rejects in fake disgust, pretending to flinch. “I was just suggesting an alternative method of payment.”

“Uh-huh, sure you were," Logan replies with a chuckle, though his smile doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes.

Tucker rejoins the conversation. “I don’t know about cash, but I’ll pay you back with free meals. I make a mean pasta carbonara.”

“Now that, I can get behind,” You point finger guns towards Tucker. “Well boys, I’m off to work. I’ll see y’all later.”

Tucker and Dean say their goodbyes. With a light touch of his hand on the small of your back, Logan leads you to the porch. He opens the door, and as you step outside, he wraps a hand around your wrist, wanting to say one last thing before you leave.

“Have a good shift,” He presses a kiss to your forehead. You force yourself to not bite your lip for the hundredth time. Control. “I’ll see you on Friday, yeah?”

You don’t know what to say. You knew that the team was throwing a party before their game on Saturday. A sharp inhale exits your nose.

“Yeah, sure,” You smile at him, starting to walk to your car. “See you, Logan.”

As you drive to the tutoring center, you chastised yourself for how close you were to falling asleep in his bed. This pathetic attempt at a situationship was going to tear you apart. And if you need to distance yourself from those warm eyes and beaming smile, then so be it.

Friday was two days away. You decided to not come over to the hockey players’ house for their party before playing Eastwood. Not only did you want some space between you and Logan, but you also had an upcoming midterm that made up a good chunk of your grade for your Psych class. You thus planned on devoting your entire weekend to studying for it.

So when Friday night came along, giving excuses to Logan felt easy. Somewhat easy.

(9:21 PM) Logan: Hey, I haven’t seen you yet. Are you on the way?

(9:46 PM) Y/N: I have a huge midterm on Monday. I need to study. Sorry, I forgot to tell you :/

(9:48 PM) Logan: Ahh I see, no worries.

(9:51 PM) Logan: I looked forward to seeing you.

(9:52 PM) Logan: I’ll see you after the midterm? Good luck, you got this.

(10:23 PM) Y/N: Thanks, good luck with the game. 

A twinge of guilt spread through your chest and hammered at your heart when you didn’t confirm the rendezvous. You always came to the boys’ parties before their games, even though you continuously stuck by your rule of never sleeping over, which definitely took Logan a little bit of time to get used to. During Halloweekend, you surprised him when you slipped out of his bed at 3:00 AM, grabbing your car keys and opening his bedroom door.

“You don’t want to stay the night?” You recall his gravelly voice, utterly rattled with sleep, as he watched you put on your shoes. “It’s kinda late.”

“I have an early morning. And I didn’t drink at all, so…” You explained, giving him a tight smile before closing the door so that you didn’t have to stare any longer at his bare, toned chest. “See ya.”

Starting with a clean slate was necessary. After all, you needed to keep your commitment to both your grades and your job. Logan would only serve as a distraction.

That’s what you kept repeating to yourself as you went to bed later that night, putting your phone on the other side of your room in order to stop checking it.

The first thing that you notice is that you can’t speak.

You bring a palm up to your mouth, but your face feels completely numb. Anything you say just comes out extremely muffled, as if you never had a mouth in the first place. You gaze around your environment with blurry eyes, looking at the four corners of the dingy room. You try to touch one of the walls, but as soon as your hand comes into contact, the wall becomes translucent, your hand just floating around in open space. But as you pull your hand back, the wall comes up again, inching closer and closer to your face.

Your breath hitches as you try to find an escape—a trapdoor, a window, just anything will do. But the room starts to resemble a box the more you look at it, as if you were an inanimate object shoved inside a carton to never be seen again. The lump in your throat grows as your vision subsides with each passing second, complete murk and darkness clouding up your eyes.

You try to bang on the walls, but your balled up fists just fall into air. You try to scream for help, but you feel chains wrapped around your mouth, silencing your cries and greedily swallowing up any remaining shred of air needed for your survival.

The sound of falling objects tears your gaze away from the walls. You eyes widen as you watch clumps of your hair disintegrating into the floor and massive droplets of blood emanating from your fingertips. You frantically search your whole body for any sign of a cut, a wound, an injury, but your hunt is fruitless.

And that’s when the walls start closing in, devouring every inch of space that’s not covered by your trembling body.

You sink to the floor as your knees helplessly buckle, crawling up into a ball as a fresh flow of tears sprint down your cheeks. Soon those tears also turn to blood, drowning your limbs in a sea of red. And the ceiling feels so fucking close to you, you’re certain that it’s going to collapse.

Sounds of whining sirens and howling wind and quick gunshots and terrified screaming all fuse and merge tightly together in perfect storm, a cacophony where you can hear each individual occurrence happening at once. The walls are up to your nose, and you try so hard to scream. To cry for help.

The sound of a door slamming shut finally wakes you up.

You’re heaving as you sit up in your bed, your fists rapidly unclenching to rest your palms on your chest. Your body feels so unbearably hot, outlines of your sweat etching themselves onto your sheets. A fearful whimper tears out of you, and you wrap your hands around your curled-up body as you begin to frantically rock yourself back and forth on your bed. The sobs pour out of you in an instant, breaths clawing themselves up your throat in such a sharp, stiniging manner that you’re sure there’s clawmarks scarred across your trachea. You’ve had night terrors ever since elementary school, but you’ve never really adjusted them.

The tears completely wreck you. You move your hands from your body to the sheets, fists digging into the fabric, helplessly searching for security. What a stark contrast to your time with Logan, where you desperately fisted at his sheets while waves of pleasure cascaded through your body.

Both times, however, you were looking for control.

Nevertheless, as your sobs gradually begin to subside, you inhale shaky breaths to center yourself back to reality. When your vision starts to clear up, you go back to the 5-4-3-2-1 coping technique that your therapist suggested to ground yourself.

Five things you can see. Four things you can touch. Three things you can hear. Two things you can smell. One thing you can taste.

As you slowly list through the four things you can touch, your mind goes back to the hockey player you’re trying so desperately not to think about. But all you desire is to feel his callused palm on your cheek, his long arm around your waist, and his mouth trailing kisses on your neck.

And you hate how much you yearn to be in Logan’s arms right now. You ache for his comforting presence, but you know you can’t place this trouble on him, this overwhelming burden to bring you back to Earth after a night terror. He already has enough on his plate.

Sighing, you make your way to the bathroom to splash some water on your face. On your way there, you grab your phone, looking at the date and time. 2:38 AM, Monday, February 23rd.

So you had a night terror the morning of your big exam. Great.

At least you can thank your neighbors’ rowdiness for pulling you out of your dream. They loved to slam the door after a night out, and unfortunately for you, they seemed to go out every fucking night. You kindly asked them to close their door more gently, but clearly, your words had zero effect.

After wiping your face and staring too long at your bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror, you walk to your desk, deciding to fit in a last-minute study session now that you’re awake. You definitely don’t want to go back to sleep now.

After five minutes of flipping through some flashcards, you make the mistake of scrolling through the notifications on your phone. Your eyes immediately lock on to some notifications from Instagram. Specifically, some DMs from Logan.

When your trembling fingers open your message thread with him, the slight shaking in your body stops when you browse through his messages. All of them were either the silliest of reels or the stupidest of memes. And under each and every one of them, he wrote a message: This made me think of you; or you definitely need to watch this; or even this is so stupid, but it made me laugh so hard that I had to send it you.

As you laugh while watching cat videos and overplayed vines, the desire for Logan seeps through your veins. He has no idea of the effect you have on him.

Sebastian,

Witch Weekly says that writing down your feelings is supposed to help. That if you’re in love with someone you can never have, you should put it all down on parchment, let it spill from your heart like ink onto a page. Then, once it’s written, you can crumple it up, set it on fire, or hide it away where no one will ever find it.

I suppose it’s meant to be cathartic. A way to lighten the burden, to lessen the ache. But I know better.

Because no matter how many words I pour onto this page, no matter how many times I try to convince myself that this will fix something, I already know the truth.

There is no fixing this. There is no untangling my heart from yours.

I will love you until the day I die.

It feels embarrassing to even write that, like I’m some sappy, lovesick fool. But I suppose that’s exactly what I am. And who cares, really? No one is ever going to see this.

No one will ever know how deep this goes but me.

How have you never noticed, Sebastian? You’re supposed to be so sharp, so quick-witted, always a step ahead of everyone else.

But the truth is I’ve loved you since fifth year, since the moment we met.

Since the day you smirked at me like you already knew all my secrets, like you had me all figured out before I’d even said a word. You were infuriating from the start—sharp-tongued, arrogant, always so bloody sure of yourself. You challenged me, teased me, riled me up just to see me snap.

And I never stood a chance.

Somewhere along the way, your laughter became my favorite sound. Your voice became my comfort. Your presence became home.

I know you—in a way I don’t think even you do. I remember everything.

The way you take your tea, strong and almost disgustingly sweet, like you’re trying to cover up the bitterness with reckless abandon.

The way you tilt your head when you’re about to say something infuriatingly smug, that damnable smirk already forming before the words have even left your mouth.

The way your brow furrows when you’re deep in thought, when you think no one’s watching.

The way your hands twitch when you’re holding back, itching to reach for your wand, to fight, to protect.

The way you bite your lip when you’re trying not to laugh.

The way your eyes—Merlin, your eyes—burn with every emotion you try to hide. You think you're so clever, so unreadable, but I see it all. The mischief, the fire, the frustration, the fleeting moments of doubt you’d never admit to. They undo me. Every damn time.

And I’ve tried, Sebastian.

I’ve tried to love someone else.

I’ve been with other boys. I’ve gone on dates and smiled at the right moments, I’ve listened when they talked, I’ve let them hold me. And I wanted to feel something—I tried to feel something.

But none of them were you.

I could no sooner remove you from my heart than I could carve it from my own body.

You are in me. In every breath, in every thought, in every moment I spend wishing things were different.

And I have long since resigned myself to the reality that this is how it will always be.

You are my best friend, and that is more important than my feelings. It has to be. Because if I ever told you—if I ever let this slip—I don’t think I could bear the consequences.

So I stay quiet.

And at night, I stare up at the canopy of my bed and let myself think about all the things I will never have.

I think about you. I think about what it would be like if I were braver. I think about how you’d react if I kissed you.

Would your eyes go half-lidded, hazy with something slow and molten? Would you pull me close, pressing me against you, against something solid and warm? Would you let me run my hands through your hair, feel the softness of it between my fingers?

I wonder how you’d taste. If your mouth would be all heat and urgency, if you’d bite my lower lip just to make me gasp. If you’d whisper my name against my skin like you’ve always known it was meant for your lips.

Would you let me have you?

I think about it at night, when it’s late and the world is quiet and I’m alone with nothing but the ache of wanting you. I press my face into my pillow, close my eyes, and let myself pretend—just for a little while—that you want me, too.

But it doesn’t really matter. Because I’ll never know.

And I know I am eighteen years old, and older people love to say that teenagers don’t know what love is. That we’re naive, foolish, that we think we’ll feel this way forever when really, it’s just a passing fancy.

But of this, of my love for you, I am more certain than I have ever been of anything.

This is not something I will grow out of. This is not something that will fade. This is something I will carry with me for the rest of my life, whether I want to or not.

And I will keep it locked away, because I would rather love you in silence than lose you forever.

So I’ll fold this letter, tuck it away, and pretend it doesn’t exist.

Because you will never know.

—Yours (though you’ll never know it),

You signed your name, sniffing as you pressed your palm against the parchment, as if you could smooth away the trembling emotions trapped in ink.

There. It’s done.

It had felt good, in a way, to let it all out. But just as you predicted, writing it down hadn’t changed anything. Hadn’t lessened the ache or made your heart any lighter. If anything, it felt heavier, the weight of your unspoken love solidified in every word scrawled across the page.

You exhaled, folding the letter carefully—almost reverently—before setting it on your bedside table. You had every intention of tucking it away in your trunk, hidden beneath layers of robes where no one would ever find it.

But exhaustion was already pressing at your bones, and you thought, I’ll do it in the morning.

So you blew out the candle, turned onto your side, and let sleep pull you under.

Sunlight streamed through the windows when you woke with a start, your stomach dropping at the realization that you’d overslept.

“Shit,” you mumbled, throwing the blankets off and scrambling to dress as your roommates bustled around, already halfway through their morning routines.

“You must’ve been exhausted,” one of them teased as you tugged your uniform into place.

You barely heard them, too busy cursing yourself for missing breakfast. By the time you grabbed your bag and rushed out of the dormitory, your mind was already occupied with the day ahead—assignments, Professor Ronen’s latest essay, and the Quidditch scrimmage planned for the afternoon.

You never even glanced at your bedside table.

Never noticed the missing letter.

Nevertheless, your day had passed by like any other.

You’d managed to dodge Sharp’s wrath over a half-finished potion, spent lunch laughing with Ominis over Sebastian’s latest disastrous attempt at sweet-talking Imelda into lending him her broom, and successfully avoided thinking too much about the letter that was supposed to be ash by now.

Everything was fine.

That was, until you walked into the Great Hall for dinner.

At first, everything seemed as it always was—the low hum of conversation, the clatter of cutlery against plates, the floating candles casting their soft golden glow over the long tables. Your stomach grumbled at the scent of roasted chicken and buttered bread, and you barely gave a thought to where you would sit as your gaze instinctively flicked to the Slytherin table.

And there he was.

Sebastian sat in his usual spot, right beside Ominis. You felt the familiar pull of his presence, the way you always did, like some unconscious part of you sought him out before you even realized it.

But then, something shifted.

Sebastian wasn’t eating.

His hands were occupied—not with a goblet or a fork, but with a piece of parchment, one he had just begun to unfold. His brow furrowed slightly as his fingers smoothed out the creases, his dark eyes scanning the words in front of him.

You barely noticed the way your heart slammed against your ribs.

Because you knew that letter.

You knew that parchment.

You knew what he was reading.

Time slowed to a crawl, your breath halting as you stood frozen in the doorway, the warmth of the Great Hall vanishing, replaced by a creeping cold that wrapped around your spine and sank its claws deep into your chest.

Sebastian’s expression went slack.

His lips parted slightly, his brows drawing together in something unreadable as his eyes flicked over the words—your words—the ones you had never intended for anyone, let alone him, to see.

Ominis was speaking beside him, his mouth moving, probably teasing him about something, but Sebastian wasn’t responding. He wasn’t reacting, wasn’t moving. He was just reading.

Your stomach twisted violently, nausea rising in your throat as panic set in.

No, no, no, no, no.

Your breath hitched, your lungs seizing in panic as your mind raced— He hasn’t finished reading it yet. He can’t have. Maybe I can get to him, grab it before he—

But then his eyes lifted. And found yours. Everything inside you froze.

His face was unreadable, his dark gaze burning into yours with something too raw, too intense to decipher. And then—

Sebastian stood to his full height.

The parchment was still in his hands, crumpled slightly in his grip, like his fingers had tightened around it involuntarily. His mouth parted, as if he were about to say something—

And that was when your body made its decision.

Run.

You spun on your heel and bolted.

You heard the scrape of Sebastian’s chair against the stone floor, the sharp inhale of Ominis beside him, the sudden uptick in murmurs as people took notice. But you couldn’t focus on any of it—only the sheer, overwhelming need to get out, to get away, to put as much distance between you and that letter as humanly possible.

Your robes billowed behind you as you pushed past a group of Ravenclaws near the entrance, ignoring their startled protests. You didn’t even know where you were going—only that you had to move.

You barely made it into the corridor when you heard it.

“Oi!”

Sebastian’s voice, sharp and demanding, echoed off the stone walls.

You risked a glance over your shoulder and immediately regretted it.

He was right behind you, his expression set in something fierce—determined. His grip was still tight around the parchment, his knuckles white, and oh, Merlin, he was gaining on you.

You whirled down a side hall, nearly colliding with a suit of armor as you ducked around a corner. The adrenaline was making your limbs feel weightless, your body moving on pure instinct. You knew—knew—that running made you look guiltier, made it clear beyond a doubt that the letter was yours, but Sebastian knew your handwriting.

There was no talking your way out of this.

So you ran.

And he followed.

“Bloody hell, will you stop running?”

No. Absolutely not.

Your heart threatened to claw its way up your throat as you rounded another corner, nearly losing your footing in your panic. You had no plan, no destination—only the singular, desperate urge to get away.

But Hogwarts was only so big.

And Sebastian Sallow was faster than you.

So you did the only thing you could think to do—you ran for the nearest exit.

The heavy wooden doors of the castle loomed ahead, and you threw yourself at them, bursting into the crisp evening air.

The temperature was cooler out here, the autumn wind biting at your skin, but you barely noticed. The sky was deep blue, streaked with the last remnants of sunset, the grounds bathed in the soft glow of torchlight.

And still, you ran.

The wide expanse of the courtyard gave you space—space to sprint, to put real distance between you and the boy who held your heart in his hands, ink-stained and utterly exposed.

But then—

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake—”

A heavy force collided into you from behind, and suddenly, the ground was no longer beneath your feet.

A startled gasp left your lips as the world tilted, and then—

You hit the grass, hard.

The weight of another body pressed down on you, solid and warm, pinning you beneath them.

For a moment, everything stilled.

The only sounds were your own ragged breaths, your pulse roaring in your ears, and the undeniable, shuddering exhale from the boy who had just tackled you to the ground.

Sebastian.

You felt him shift above you, his hands braced on either side of your head, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath.

The letter was still clutched in his fist, crumpled and worn from the chase.

And then—

“Are you absolutely mental?” His voice was breathless, frustrated—wild.

You flinched, panic curling up your spine, your body trembling beneath him.

“Sebastian,” you gasped, trying to squirm away, but he wasn’t having it.

“No.” His tone shook, his grip tightening on the ground beside you. “No, we’re going to talk about this.”

Your heart lurched. No, no, no, this wasn’t happening.

You squeezed your eyes shut, every fiber of your being screaming at you to run again, to somehow undo all of this.

But you were trapped.

Not just by his weight—not just by the way his arms and legs bracketed yours, caging you in—but by the look on his face.

His eyes.

Dark and intense, searching yours like he was trying to find an answer you hadn’t given him yet.

You swallowed, chest rising and falling too quickly, your hands curling into the grass beneath you as you tried to breathe.

Sebastian’s grip on the parchment tightened. “This—” his voice was lower now, unreadable, “—this isn’t a joke, is it?”

You swallowed, trying to force words up your throat. Your lips parted.

“I—” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t—”

“Because if it is,” he continued, his gaze darkening, intensifying, “it’s a cruel one.”

Your breath hitched, your body locking up beneath him.

A cruel joke?

"W-what?" you breathed,

Sebastian's grip on the letter was so tight now that the parchment crinkled loudly between his fingers. His other hand was still braced beside your head, his body caging you in, radiating heat, tension—something dangerous.

"You heard me," he said, his voice rough, barely controlled. "Is this a joke? Some sort of—of—prank?"

The very thought made your stomach twist. How could he—how could he even think—

"Of course not!" The words came out more forcefully than you intended, your panic spiking.

His jaw clenched. "Then why the fuck did you run?"

"Because!" You spluttered, incredulous. "You-you were- how the hell did you even get that?!"

Sebastian let out a sharp laugh, shaking the crumpled parchment between his fingers. “How did I get it? Oh, I don’t know, maybe because it was sent in the mail?!” His gaze burned into yours. “And it had my bloody name on it?!

"But I never sent it! I—" The words caught in your throat, a frantic, garbled mess of emotion and panic. You couldn't even think straight, not with him right there, not with his weight pressing you down, his breath still ragged from chasing you.

Sebastian scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Oh, so it just magically appeared in the post? Someone sent it, and seeing as it’s your handwriting, your words—your fucking confession—I’d say that narrows down the list of suspects."

Your mouth opened and closed, but your brain refused to supply a logical defense.

You had left it out.

And your roommates—oh Merlin, they must have seen it, assumed you had forgotten to send it, and done you the favor of making sure it got delivered.

Your breath shuddered as the weight of it all crashed over you, the full, awful realization that everything was ruined.

Tears burned behind your eyes, hot and humiliating, and before you could stop them, they spilled over, sliding down your temples into the grass beneath you.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, voice thick and uneven. “I—I never meant for you to see it. I was going to burn it, I swear—”

Sebastian’s entire body jerked like you’d just hexed him.

His anger—sharp and scorching only moments ago—immediately cracked, giving way to something horrified, something panicked.

“Oh—fuck,” he breathed, his grip on the parchment loosening as his weight shifted. “Shit, no—don’t—”

And then, in a blur of movement, he was off you, scrambling backward like he’d just been hit with a Stunning Spell.

You sucked in a breath at the sudden loss of warmth, blinking up at him through wet lashes as he kneeled beside you, hands lifting slightly like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know how.

“I’m not mad at you,” he rushed out, voice hoarse, urgent. “I swear, I’m not—I just—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

You buried your face in your hands, curling in on yourself as the shame closed in.

“No, it’s my fault,” you rasped, words strangled and raw. “I should have just—kept my feelings to myself. I should have never written it down, I don’t know why I—”

"Hey, hey—" His voice was softer now, no longer demanding, no longer frantic. A warm hand hovered near your shoulder, hesitant, but you were already spiraling.

"I—Merlin, why did I even listen to Witch Weekly?" You let out a miserable, watery laugh, rubbing furiously at your face as you tried—and failed—to control the mess of emotion in your chest.

Sebastian made a noise, almost like a pained laugh, but his eyes were still frantic, still burning with something raw and unsteady.

“So... it’s true?” His voice was quieter now, rough, but no less intense. “What you wrote?”

His fingers finally touched your wrist—not enough to pull your hands away, but enough that you felt it. Enough that it sent a ripple of awareness through you.

“Tell me,” he murmured, and you could hear the strain in his voice now.

Slowly, painfully, you lowered your hands from your face.

Sebastian’s gaze burned into you, desperate and unreadable.

Your throat was tight, your breath uneven.

But you couldn’t lie.

So you nodded.

A sharp exhale left him, his hand dropping from your wrist to clench in the grass beside him. His head tilted back slightly, his jaw tight, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair again.

You winced. "I know," you whispered, curling your arms around yourself. "I know. I'm sorry. You can just—just forget about it, okay? I know it's probably weird, and you don't feel the same, and I just—I'll move on, alright? I can—I can pretend this never happened, if that's what you want—"

Sebastian let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

And then he lunged for you,

Before you could even react, he was on you again, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him. The force of it knocked the breath from your lungs, your hands flying up to brace against his chest as he rolled, flipping the both of you over until you were the one on top, sprawled against the solid warmth of his body.

A startled noise left your lips as he crushed you into his chest, his arms locking around you like a vice. His heartbeat pounded beneath your cheek, wild and erratic, his breathing uneven.

"You're such an idiot," he muttered into your hair, his voice rough, still shaking with disbelief.

Your brain was struggling to keep up.

"W-what—?"

"You think I don’t feel the same?" He let out a breathless, almost hysterical laugh, tightening his hold around you. "Merlin, do you even hear yourself?"

Your stomach flipped, something warm and dangerous flooding your veins.

Sebastian's grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened, his hand splaying wide against the small of your back, pressing you even closer to him.

"You’re not moving on," he said fiercely. "You’re mine."

Your breath hitched. "Wh-what?"

Sebastian groaned, his head dropping back against the grass, his fingers flexing against you like he was barely holding himself together. "Fuck, do you even know what you've done to me?"

You swallowed hard, your fingers still curled in his robes, every inch of you hyper-aware of just how close you were.

"I—"

"You've wrecked me," he muttered, almost like an accusation. "I thought—I thought I was losing my mind. You had to know, you had to have noticed—"

"Noticed what?" you whispered, your voice barely there.

Sebastian let out a shaky breath, and then his hands slid up your back, one curling around the base of your skull, the other gripping your waist, firm.

"Noticed how fucking obsessed I am with you."

Your body locked up.

He flipped you again, faster this time, pressing you down into the grass beneath him, his weight heavy over yours. His breath was ragged, his expression wild, his eyes—

His eyes.

Dark, burning, hungry.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice almost pleading, like he needed you to hear it, to understand. "I’ve loved you for so fucking long."

"You—" The words tangled in your throat, your hands fisting in the fabric of his robes. "You don't have to say that just because you—because you feel bad—"

A sharp sound left his throat—something between a laugh and a growl, something raw and frustrated.

"Are you serious right now?" His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin through the fabric of your robes. "You think I’m saying this out of pity?"

You flinched, shaking your head quickly. "I just—I don’t understand—"

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, dropping his forehead to yours for a fleeting second, like he needed the contact just to ground himself. "You really don’t know, do you?"

Your breath was uneven, your mind spinning. "Know what?"

Sebastian exhaled sharply, and then—

He kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was a claim.

His mouth crashed against yours, desperate, consuming, like he’d been starving for this.

A shocked noise slipped from you, but he swallowed it, pressing closer, deeper, one hand sliding into your hair while the other anchored itself at your waist.

Heat flooded through you, overwhelming and intoxicating, sending shivers down your spine.

You had imagined this before—god, you had imagined this in the dark, alone, staring at your canopy and aching for him—but nothing could have prepared you for the way he felt.

The way he took. The way he gave.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he tilted your head back and kissed you again—harder, deeper, like he was trying to ruin you.

Like he needed you as badly as you needed him.

"Still think I'm lying?" he murmured against your lips, his voice a rough, wicked thing.

You shook your head, dazed, your fingers curling into his robes as you pulled him closer, your answer slipping out between gasps.

"N-no."

Sebastian smirked against your mouth, his grip tightening.