em 💗

Garrett shakes his head immediately, pulling you closer like you’ve said something insane. “No.”

“Garrett—”

“Need this,” he grinds out against your mouth. “Barely get you alone. Barely get to have you.” His grip tightens at your waist, his stare going heavier on yours. “I need this tonight, baby.”

“Okay,” you breathe as he lowers himself to your lips. His muscles tremble beneath your hands as they wrap around his biceps. You shift underneath him, arching just enough for him to realize something needs to change.

Garrett notices immediately. He wets the split in his lip, eyes narrowing with slow amusement. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Get on your back, Garrett.”

“What?” He laughs softly, still hovering over you like he thinks there’s no chance you’re serious.

“Back. Now.” You try to roll him but he grabs your wrist, pinning you to the mattress.

“You serious right now?” He whispers against your lips, letting out a raspy laugh before hissing when the smile tugs the cut back open.

“Now.”

Garrett lets out a rough breath like he’s too sore for this, shifting onto his back beneath you, broad chest rising and falling harder once you settle over his waist.

A dark bruise shadows the side of his ribs, already blooming beneath tan skin where he got slammed into the boards earlier.

His hands slide to your thighs automatically—big palms squeezing instinctively—but you catch his wrists before he can settle them there.

“Uh-uh.” Your voice comes out softer this time and he cocks an eyebrow at you, loving wherever the hell this is going. “Coach said you have to relax. R e l a x,” you breathe as you guide his arms over his head, fingers tracing over the thick muscle of his forearms until your hands lace together above him.

“I don't wanna relax,” he chuckles.

“I don't care.”

“You’re bossy tonight,” he says with a tilted smile, already breathless.

“Maybe,” you smile down at him like you already knew you’d win this. “But you’re a problem.” Your fingertips drag lightly down the center of his chest. “Not now that I’ve finally got you pinned down for once.”

Garrett lets out a short laugh through his nose, shaking his head against the pillow. “Control? You know how easily I could get it back, baby?” He tilts his head against the pillow to look at you better.

Then your hand reaches across the bed for your pink lace panties—discarded somewhere in the mess—and Garrett clocks what you’re doing about one second too late.

“Wait,” he breathes, eyes narrowing. “Hold on—” His head tips back into the pillow as you loop the lace around the headboard, knotting it around his wrists while he watches with parted lips and a slow swallow working down his throat. “You’re serious.”

“You keep hurting yourself,” you sigh as your thumb brushes carefully near the cut in his lip. “You don’t listen. All you do is fight.” You lean closer, softer now. “So now you don’t get to be in charge for a little while. Baby, you're stuck—”

“It’s a pair of pink panties.”

“And yet,” you murmur softly, tightening your grip around his wrists for a second, “look how good you’re behaving for me.”

He sucks his teeth and chuckles at that. “Behaving?” He scoffs. “Behaving. I've been getting chirped about you all night and I snapped once after he slashed me. He threw the first punch. Ten minute major. Now you’ve got me tied up in a thong. What more do you want from me?”

“Maybe I just wanted you to sit still long enough for me to take care of you,” you whisper, your mouth brushing over his. “Thank you like I’ve wanted to since you stepped into the penalty box. Does that sound so bad?”

He lets out a deep breath, nodding like that’s exactly what he needed to hear.

Your body dips lower, back arching as your ass lifts slightly while your lips trace his ear. “Maybe, I wanted to tie you up, and make you my bitch.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes out, a dark laugh breaking past his lips as he turns his head, burying himself in your neck. “M’not your fuckin’ bitch, alright?”

“You’re not?” You soften your voice and his whole body loosens beneath you.

“…Fine.”

“Fine what, baby?” You ask as your gaze meets his again, his eyes falling to your lips as you smile.

“I’m your bitch,” he says under his breath, intentionally quiet enough to piss you off.

Your mouth falls open dramatically, hand pressing against his abs, moving lower making his breathing catch. “Well, that wasn’t very convincing, baby.”

Garrett laughs again, deeper this time, turning his head like he’s embarrassed by how easy he is for you, a blush creeping across his cheeks.

“I’m your bitch, baby,” he repeats a little louder now, brown eyes sliding back to yours. “Happy?”

“Very.”

“God,” he huffs, smiling despite himself. “You like fuckin’ with me, don't you?”

“More like love, but yeah,” you tease, leaning down, lips pressing against his neck, shifting lower, soft lips trailing over his stomach, tongue teasing his v-line before your mouth dips lower, nuzzling between his thighs.

His stomach tightens instantly, thighs flexing as he lifts his head, getting a better look.

“Fuck,” he breathes when your tongue flicks over his balls, warm and slow. His thighs tighten when you take one into your mouth, then the other, stroking his thick cock with your hand while you suck softly. “Damn, baby,” he moans, head falling back against the pillow. “Gonna make me lose it.”

“How many times?” You ask sweetly, breath fanning over his spit-slick dick, feeling him twitch in your grip. You glance up at him through your lashes, looking way too innocent for your words.

“So what?” He murmurs. “You gonna tie me up and just—use me?”

“Mhmm,” you hum around him, the sound making his abs tighten again. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

Garrett swears softly under his breath as you crawl back up his body slowly, your fingertips skimming over the sculpted ridges of his abs, higher over his chest, nails scratching lightly, his gold chain flickering in the low light when he sucks in a breath.

His hands twitch against the lace when your wet pussy settles over his length again, grinding down slow, your breasts pressed against his broad chest.

“You’re so fucking hot, Garrett,” you murmur against his lips, but the smile slips through anyway.

“You have no clue how good you look on top of me,” he mutters, his voice already rough, even though the corner of his mouth still curls smugly. “You gotta stop teasing me.”

Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the bruise blooming dark beneath his cheekbone, the split in his lip still angry red. His dark curls fall onto his forehead, half brushed-back from running his hands through them, wet with sweat again.

“All fucked up and still the hottest guy I’ve ever seen,” you murmur, thumb brushing lightly near the cut. “You’re unbelievable.”

Garrett lets out a low sound at that, somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

“Unbelievable, huh?” His voice drops rough around the edges.

“So fucking greedy, Graham.”

His brows pinch immediately. “Graham?” He scoffs, finally lifting his head enough to look at you properly. “Garrett’s for you. The fuck are you callin’ me Graham?”

You just smile wider—a slow little smile. Underneath all the cockiness, Garrett loves this—the way you toy with him when you get bold enough to take control.

Your fingers drift lazily through his hair while you stay settled over his lap, watching him try and fail to keep that smug look on his face.

“Talk to me nice,” he mutters, low and warning, even though his hands are tied above his head and he’s already losing this fight. “Talk to me like you love me.”

You bite back a smile, grinding your hips on top. “Captain’s havin’ a hard night, huh?”

“Holy shit,” Garrett drags out the words like they physically pain him. His head falls back, wrists pulling taut against the lace.

“Just take it,” you breathe, mouth brushing close enough to his that he can feel the smile there. “Unless you want me to stop.”

“Don’t,” he grunts immediately, the word coming out stern and final even while his wrists tug uselessly against the lace above his head.

Garrett tests the restraints again anyway, muscles tightening beneath you, but you shove playfully at his chest before he can get too cocky about it.

“C’mon now,” he mutters, eyes glinting up at you while his tongue drags across the cut in his lip, soothing the sting. “You’re not my coach. You’re not one of the guys.” His gaze lifts to yours again, darker now, quieter. “You’re my girl.”

“I am,” you hum, moving a little closer to his lips.

“And…” he adds lower, lashes dipping for half a second before meeting your eyes again, “Garrett sounds better when you say it.”

“Yeah?” You tease softly, fingers sliding around his neck, through the damp curls at the back.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Love when you say my name—” His words cut off when your hand traces lower, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, stroking slowly. “‘Specially when you're proud of me.”

“I am proud of you, Garrett,” you praise and he takes the compliment like air. He moans when your thumb brushes over his thick tip of his dick, his brows furrowing while his lips part. “Easy, Garrett,” you murmur. “You’re getting a little needy for me.”

“A little?” He laughs softly, breath catching when your thumb brushes the tip again. “You’re pushin’ it—me. All of it.”

“The offer to stop was there—”

“Baby, I’m injured,” he complains softly. “Feels kinda fucked up not to let me cum.”

“I don't think you're ready,” you whisper as you reach down, thumb brushing along his chin where a little blood smudged. He parts his lips, eyes locked on yours as he sucks it clean. “I could get outta here if I wanted, you know. Lucky I’m playin’ nice.”

“So am I. You’re enjoying this, baby. Stop trying to play tough with pink panties around your wrists. I know you love it.”

He laughs softly under his breath at that, teeth catching briefly on the split in his lip. He watches you for a second like he can’t decide whether he wants to argue with you or watch.

“You done talkin’,” he asks hoarsely, voice rough and low, “or are you gonna keep torturing me for fun?”

You giggle against his skin. “So my panties around your wrists and my hand around your dick is—”

“One of my favorite things you’ve done, yes.”

“It was torture a second ago,” you counter with faux concern.

The tip of his cock drips precum, sliding in a lazy tear over your knuckles. “Fuck you.” He chuckles.

“You’d like that,” you grin as you lift your hand, licking his mess off the back. “Look at how relaxed you are.”

“You’re actually gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he laughs under his breath.

You move between his legs, smirk dying on your lips as your mouth parts, that dangerous look still burning in your eyes as you lick a slow line up the underside of his cock, following a vein, watching his biceps flex as he tests the panties holding him in place.

“Standing down by the glass,” he says, breath hitching as you swirl your tongue over the tip. “Playing against your ex.”

“Mhmm,” you whisper.

“You know how much shit I took. Three periods of reminding me all about his favorite things about my girl. And, I couldn't say shit. Couldn't even tell Coach why I went in the box in the first place.”

You run a line of spit down to his throbbing head as you stroke and he shivers, feeling it roll down the slit, gliding down the side.

“Been keeping this a secret for six months. Think I deserve something—Fuuuck.” His head slams back into the pillow when he finally gets it. “Yeah… that’s it, baby.”

Your lips stretch around his cock, eyes flicking up to watch his reaction. Garrett’s lashes flutter shut, mouth falling open, chest lifting as you sink down again. You moan around him, the sound making him shudder.

“So fuckin’ good,” he pants.

You wrap one hand around the base, slick with spit, and stroke as your mouth works the head, dragging your tongue along the ridge. He groans again—deep and filthy—his fists clenching above his head.

“Shit. Shit—fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he grits through his teeth, muscles locking under you. “Gonna cum in that pretty mouth—”

His whole body coils tight as you suck, slurping, gagging, throating his length as he fights back his pleasure.

A loud moan breaks past his lips, filling the room. He hisses out a breath as he feels the sharp sting, bottom lip trembling. “God, damn—just… You’re…” His voice cuts off, too far gone to finish, filthy-wet between your lips and the thick length of him—too much for you to take, but you’re trying anyway.

Garrett pitches his hips, meeting you stroke for stroke, eyes squeezed shut as his thigh muscles tremble.

“Fuck me,” he whines, your name whispering past his lips as he empties into your throat, cock throbbing while his voice breaks into a sobbing, pathetic laugh. “Shittt—oh my god—fuck—” He chokes on his words, hands twisting into fists above him.

You pull off him slow, kissing his swollen, pulsing tip. He throws his head to the side, pressing his mouth to his bicep, shuttering out a pathetic breath when you kitten-lick his cock; body jumping with each cruel flick.

“Pussy,” his voice comes out slurred. “Give it to me—fuckin’ need it, alright?”

You bite your lip, holding back a smile as you crawl up over him—tits brushing his chest, his face flushed, eyes glassy, chest heaving—you wrap your hand around him again, pumping slow as you guide him toward you.

He’s still recovering when you line him up, circling your hips just enough to tease the head against your slick folds.

“So good,” he groans, eyes rolling back. “Oh my fucking god, baby—” You slide down on him, hands pressing against his chest, feeling his heart bang underneath until you're fully sat.

“Fuck, Garrett,” you breathe as you drag your hips. His eyes lock on the wet place where you connect, lips parted like he's trying to think of something to say, but the thought dies there instead.

He tugs at the panties roughly, brows furrowing, lips snarling as he forgot for a second he was tied up. You lean forward over him slowly, chest brushing his as you lower yourself toward his mouth, smiling when his breath catches.

“Can’t even slap your fuckin’ ass—” CRACK! Your hand smacks against your own skin, cutting off his complaint, and he groans beneath you like he's getting some sick secondhand pleasure from it.

“Bounce for me,” he rasps, lips vibrating against yours. You push yourself upright again, hands slapping against the metal rail above his head, and his eyes snap back.

Your pussy swallows up the length of him, hands braced on the bed frame between his—like you own the room. Like you own him. “So fucking perfect for me—”

He curses loudly as he throws his hips up to meet you, making the whole damn bed creak.

Heat coils low in your stomach, your thighs starting to shake around him. “Yes, baby—cum like this. Use me, c’mon,” he pants. Your pussy pulses with your heartbeat, wild and quick, fluttering around him as you cum; Garrett thrusting up into you so deep your vision blurs.

“Don’t you fuckin’ stop,” he grits out, the tone of his voice proud like he knows you won't. His mouth falls open, his eyes rolling back, the muscles in his chest tight as his fists lock. “I’m cumming, shit.” The look on his face and the deep, fucked-out sound of his voice make you shatter above him.

Your head’s pounding so loud, ears ringing so high you can't hear the praise leaving his lips, but you know it's there.

He fights the restraints—the lace tearing slightly.

You smile as you start to grind again, nice and slow, swirling your hips, slick dripping down his big cock, making him suck his teeth.

Garrett’s still twitching underneath you when you finally slow down enough to breathe, his lungs still working hard beneath yours. The lace strains again when he flexes his wrists, biceps swelling, his whole body slick with sweat.

“That was perfect, baby,” he says, still breathless. You laugh softly, brushing damp curls off his forehead. You lean down, kissing his cheek over the bruise, soft and careful.

“You okay?” You ask, assessing the damage.

“M’fine, baby,” Garrett answers immediately, eyes half-lidded as he looks up at you. “And honestly? Worth it.”

“Garrett.”

“What?” A lazy grin tugs at his mouth before he winces at the split lip.

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“Guy spent three periods talking about you like he was gonna be the one here after all this.”

“He’s an idiot,” you whisper.

His eyes flick away for a second before landing back on yours. “Kept acting like he knew you better than me.”

“Baby—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “Just pissed me off.”

“He doesn’t know me better than you.”

Garrett stares up at you for a second. “Finish junior year. One more season,” he murmurs, “and it will be you and me.”

“You’ve really thought this through, huh?” You ask, cheeks burning with your smile, finger tracing absentmindedly on his bare chest.

“Been in love with you for months, baby. Had time,” he hums, leaning in for a kiss, pulling back just out of reach from where he's still bound, chasing it before he lets out a little growl of a breath.

“I love you too,” you coo, and he huffs, rolling his eyes away. Your hand comes up, grabbing his cheeks between them, squeezing just enough to pout his lips. “If I untie you,” you tease softly, “are you gonna behave?”

He takes a moment to think it over. “Probably not.”

“Garrett.”

“What?” He says, a chuckle catching in his throat, eyes warm now. You glance up toward the headboard, finally noticing the pink lace stretched tight between his wrists, strained enough now that you realize that Garrett Graham is only still there because he’s letting himself be. “Kinda getting used to it—”

“You know what?” You murmur, brushing your hands over his chest, fingers straightening his chain on his throat. “You’re right.” Garrett lifts an eyebrow as you speak. “This is exactly where you should be.”

Garrett’s eyes flick toward the stretched lace for half a second before landing back on yours. That cocky, hockey-boy smile spreads on his lips. “Why are you like this, huh?” He asks quietly.

“You’ve been behaving so well for me.”

“You done playin’ coach now?” He asks.

You open your mouth to answer him, but Garrett suddenly plants his feet into the mattress beneath you, muscles tightening hard underneath your hands— SNAP.

Garrett was currently standing outside of your dorm door, with two coffees balanced in one hand, a grocery bag hanging from the other, and absolutely no intention of leaving anytime soon.

You had barely opened the door before he was stepping inside like he already belonged there, nudging it shut with his foot while you stood there in shorts and one of his old hockey hoodies looking half asleep and completely overwhelmed.

“You look terrible,” he said immediately, his voice far too cheerful for someone who had interrupted your studying at eight in the morning.

You stared at him flatly. “Thanks."

“You’re welcome.” He leaned down to kiss you anyway, smiling against your mouth for a second before pulling back. “Did you sleep at all?”

You moved aside so he could walk further into the apartment, dragging a hand down your face. “Like… three hours.”

Garrett sighed the way he always did when you admitted things like that, disappointed but unsurprised, and headed straight for your kitchen counter to unpack whatever he’d bought. The apartment smelled faintly like coffee and printer paper and the vanilla candle you’d burned so long the night before that the wick had nearly disappeared completely.

“You can’t survive finals on iced coffee and academic validation,” he told you while pulling containers out of the bag. “I brought actual food.”

You blinked at him. “Is that soup?”

“Yeah.”

“For breakfast?”

“It has vegetables in it,” Garrett replied easily. “Basically self care.”

Normally you would have laughed harder, but your brain felt like it had been microwaved for several consecutive days, so instead you just shuffled toward the table where your notes were spread out in messy piles. Highlighters, flashcards, half-open textbooks, empty wrappers. It looked less like a study setup and more like evidence of psychological deterioration.

Garrett looked at the table and let out a low whistle.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “It looks like you’re trying to cure something or solve a cold case.”

You dropped back into your chair with a groan. “I have a paper due and an exam on Thursday, and a presentation and exam on Friday.”

“And?”

“And I’m going to die.”

He walked over behind you slowly, warm hands settling on your shoulders before his chin rested against the top of your head. The simple weight of him felt grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you needed until that moment.

“You’re dramatic,” he murmured.

“I’m realistic.”

“You’re passing all your classes.”

“You don’t know that.”

Garrett hummed thoughtfully. “Pretty sure I do," he drawled, "Considering you’ve been talking about eighteenth century political theory in your sleep.”

You turned your head slightly to glare at him. “That happened one time.”

“Twice, actually.” His grin widened when you groaned louder. “Baby, you literally sat up at three in the morning and started arguing with an invisible professor.”

Heat crawled up your face despite your exhaustion. “Why would you tell me that?”

“Because it was funny as fuck.”

“It was humiliating.”

Garrett just kissed the side of your head before moving away again, completely unaffected by your embarrassment. That was the problem with him. Nothing ever seemed capable of genuinely rattling him. He moved through life with this easy confidence that made everything around him feel calmer by association.

Unfortunately, that same confidence also made him incredibly distracting.

By the third day of him practically living in your dorm, you had realized your boyfriend was physically incapable of letting you focus for more than forty consecutive minutes.

At first, it had seemed helpful.

He made sure you ate actual meals instead of scavenging prepackaged snacks from your snack cabinet. He forced you into bed before two in the morning. He quizzed you with your flashcards while sprawled across your bed, wearing gray sweats and no shirt because, apparently, he enjoyed making your life harder.

But somewhere along the way, his helpfulness had started blending into deliberate distraction.

“You’ve been reading the same paragraph for ten minutes,” Garrett pointed out from your bed that evening.

You looked up from your laptop with narrowed eyes. “Maybe because somebody keeps talking to me.”

He looked entirely unbothered by the accusation, stretched out against your pillows with one arm behind his head. “I miss you.”

You stared at him. “I’m literally right here.”

“Not mentally.” Garrett pouted slightly. “Your brain’s been kidnapped by academia.”

You rolled your eyes and looked back at your screen. “I have to finish this.”

A moment of silence passed.

Then—

“Do you think penguins have knees?”

You shut your eyes immediately, your lips pursing as a long, heavy exhale left your nose.

“Garrett.”

“What?” His voice was innocent in the most suspicious way possible. “I'm deadass!”

“You are actively sabotaging my education.” You grumbled, swiveling in your chair to face him with sagging shoulders and narrowed eyes.

“I’m enriching your life.”

“You asked me if penguins have knees.”

“And now you’re thinking about it.”

You hated that he was right.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, quiet and tired, and Garrett’s expression softened instantly at the sound. Like he’d been waiting for it.

“There she is,” he celebrated softly.

Something in your chest tightened a little at the way he looked at you then.

Garrett had always been affectionate, always naturally warm in a way that drew people toward him without effort, but there was something different about him during this week. Softer around the edges. More attentive.

Every time you rubbed your eyes too hard, he noticed.

Every time your shoulders tensed from hunching over your desk too long, he pulled you away from it.

Every time you got too caught up studying to realize hours had passed, he appeared beside you with food or water or a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

It was difficult not to love him a little painfully for it.

Later that night, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by papers when Garrett wandered into your room again after showering, his hair damp and curling slightly at the ends.

You tried not to look at him. For your own sanity and also for the sake of your Modern Political Theory class. You knew, if your eyes lingered longer than a second you would be a goner. Your papers would end up damp under the towel that he discarded... that could not happen. Not during finals week.

Unfortunately, Garrett noticed everything.

“You're staring,” he said casually.

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

You kept your eyes firmly on your notebook. “You’re wearing just a towel and have your damn chain on.”

“And?”

“And you know I have no self control.”

Garrett laughed quietly under his breath before walking over to where you sat. He dropped down beside you easily, all warmth and solid weight, his thigh pressing against yours.

“You know,” he murmured while reaching for one of your flashcards, “most boyfriends would be offended that textbooks are getting more attention than them.”

“Most boyfriends don’t look at me while I’m studying ancient medical malpractice like they’re plotting something.”

“I am plotting something.”

You finally looked at him then. “That’s concerning.” Your eyebrows were raised, and despite trying to keep your gaze focused on his unfairly handsome face... your eyes wandered.

You traced the line of his jaw with your eyes, following the one damp strand of hair that was clinging to his neck. That, unfortunately, led you to his shoulders... his broad, sturdy shoulders that had checked guys double his size into the boards. The broad, sturdy shoulders that just a week before had scratches on them from your nails digging into him while you were underneath him.

His mouth curved slowly. “I’m trying to figure out how much convincing it would take to get you into bed right now.”

Your expression flattened immediately. “Garrett.”

“What?” He leaned closer, smiling when you instinctively leaned back. “You’ve been studying for like six hours.”

“I have an exam tomorrow.”

“You also have eyeballs that are about to fall out of your head, for once I'm not even trying to make those eyeballs roll back, I'm just trying to get you to rest them." He grinned, shooting you a wink.

You tried to ignore the warmth climbing into your face as he reached over to brush his fingers beneath one of your eyes gently.

“You’re exhausted,” he said more quietly this time.

The teasing faded from his expression then, replaced with something softer that always caught you off guard no matter how many times you saw it.

You exhaled slowly. “I can’t fail this class, I'm teetering on a B- and I really want to bring my grade up as much as I can."

“You won’t fail, you're literally the smartest person I know. If you're reciting this shit in your sleep I think you can do it when you're awake.”

“You don’t know that.”

Garrett’s hand slid to the side of your neck, thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

“I do know that,” he corrected. “Because you care too much not to do well.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then Garrett ruined the moment completely.

“But if you do fail,” he added thoughtfully, “I’ll still date you.”

You shoved him immediately, laughing despite yourself while he grinned so hard it became impossible to stay irritated.

“There you are again,” he said softly after a second.

“What?”

“That laugh.” His eyes stayed on your face. “Been waiting all day for it.”

The affection in his voice hit harder than it should have.

Your entire week had been stress and pressure and exhaustion, every hour blending into the next until you barely felt human anymore, but Garrett kept pulling you out of it every single time you disappeared too far into your own head.

Even now, sitting on the floor in the middle of your disaster of a dorm with papers scattered everywhere, he looked at you like you were still worth paying attention to.

Like you were something gentle instead of an unraveling mess.

Garrett leaned forward then, kissing you slowly before you could overthink any of it, one hand cupping your jaw while the other pulled your notebook out of your lap and tossed it carelessly onto the floor beside him.

You laughed against his mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Mhm,” he murmured. “Still dating me though.”

“Unfortunately.”

His grin widened immediately.

Then, without warning, he hooked an arm beneath your knees and lifted you straight off the floor.

You yelped, grabbing onto his shoulders automatically. “Garrett-...”

“You need sleep.”

“I need to study, I have like 15 lecture slides left!” You protested, but you knew in the end it was going to be useless, and frankly, you weren't upset that you weren't going to win this battle.

“You need both,” he corrected while carrying you toward the bedroom. “And since you apparently won’t take care of yourself voluntarily, I’m stepping in as your incredibly handsome intervention.”

You buried your face into his shoulder to hide your smile.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumbled.

Garrett dropped you gently onto the mattress before climbing in beside you without hesitation, pulling you against his chest like it was instinctive.

“Yeah,” he said easily, pressing a kiss into your hair. “But you love me anyway.”

The way he said it, so sure and so full of love, was all you needed to let the tension in your shoulders dissipate and your head fall against his warm skin.

Maybe just one night's sleep would be okay, especially in the arms of Garrett Graham.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

𝟎.𝟏 ONESHOTS.ᐟ

! breakfast soup | gf!reader

𝟎.𝟐 HEADCANONS + SMAUS .ᐟ

! nothing here yet!

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

The rink smelled like cold air, sweat, and freshly resurfaced ice, the familiar combination settling heavily into your lungs every time you pushed off the bench and stepped back onto the surface.

Your legs already ached.

The game had turned aggressive halfway through the second period after one shitty call spiraled into another, and now every shift felt sharper around the edges. Faster. Meaner. The kind of game where players stopped caring about penalties and started caring about pride instead.

You preferred games like that, if you had to be honest.

Your ponytail stuck damply to the back of your neck beneath your helmet while you skated toward center ice, adjusting your grip against your stick as the referee dropped the puck between you and the opposing center.

The collision happened almost immediately after that.

Sticks clashed. Skates carved violently against the ice. Somebody shouted from the bench behind you while bodies slammed together hard enough to rattle the boards, but your focus narrowed the way it always did during games until the rest of the rink became background noise.

You stole the puck cleanly and pushed forward.

A defender cut toward you from the left.

You dipped your shoulder, trying to slip around her.

Instead, she drove straight into your side.

The impact sent you hard against the glass with a crack loud enough to echo through the arena, pain blooming sharply along your ribs as the boards shook beneath you.

The crowd reacted instantly, and so did your teammates.

But you barely had time to register any of it before irritation outweighed the pain completely.

You shoved off the glass immediately, stealing the puck back before the defender could recover properly, and skated straight down the ice with enough force behind your strides to make your thighs burn.

Somewhere behind the opposing bench, somebody yelled, “Holy shit.”

The puck left your stick seconds later, and the goal light flashed red.

You barely had time to breathe before gloves slammed against your helmet and arms wrapped around your shoulders, the team crowding around you near the bench while the arena noise swelled louder overhead.

“You’re insane,” your captain laughed breathlessly against the side of your helmet.

You grinned despite yourself, adrenaline still racing violently through your system.

The celebration around you lasted only a few seconds before the line changed again and everybody scattered back into position, skates carving sharply across the ice while the energy in the rink climbed even higher after the goal.

You pushed a hand briefly against your ribs while skating backward toward center, testing the ache already beginning to settle beneath your padding.

It hurt.. not enough to matter, yet.

Across the arena, Logan still had not looked away from you.

He sat forward in his seat slowly, forearms resting against his knees while the rest of the crowd blurred into noise around him. The game continued moving at full speed beneath the arena lights, players shouting over one another while the referees reset the faceoff, but his attention stayed fixed entirely on you.

Dean noticed first, because of course he did.

“You good, bro?” he asked, glancing sideways from his seat beside him.

Logan barely blinked. “Who is that?”

Dean followed his line of sight toward the ice where you were circling near center.

“The defenseman?”

“The one that just got launched into the glass.”

Tucker snorted from Logan’s other side. “That doesn't narrow it down at all. They've been nasty tonight.”

Logan ignored him completely.

You pushed your helmet back slightly while talking to one of your teammates, visibly unfazed by the hit you had taken less than a minute earlier, and something about that seemed to irritate Logan further.

He wasn't irritated with you.

At the fact that nobody else on the ice appeared nearly as bothered by it as he was.

“She’s fine,” Dean said casually, mid bite of his overpriced arena pretzel. “Women’s team plays mean as hell.”

“That wasn’t a casual hit.”

Dean shrugged. “She got back up.”

“Not the point.” Logan groaned, leaning back in his seat and letting his legs spread a bit.

Tucker looked over slowly then, eyebrows lifting slightly as realization started creeping into his expression.

“Oh my God,” he muttered. “You’re obsessed with her.”

Logan finally tore his eyes away from the ice long enough to glare at him.

“I’m not obsessed.”

“You looked ready to fight somebody for checking her.”

“She hit the glass hard.”

“She also scored immediately after.” Dean piped up with a shrug and a wink.

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly.

The game resumed again before Dean could say anything else, but Logan’s attention kept drifting back toward you no matter how hard he tried to focus elsewhere. Every shift you played seemed sharper than everyone else’s. Faster. More aggressive.

You didn’t hesitate.

Most players slowed right before impact without even realizing they were doing it, bodies instinctively bracing against pain before collisions happened.

You didn’t.

You kept driving forward like fear genuinely never occurred to you.

Halfway through the third period, you slammed another player into the boards hard enough that Tucker actually winced.

“Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “She’s terrifying.”

Logan said nothing.

Your helmet turned slightly while backing away from the boards afterward, and for a brief second the arena lights caught the side of your jersey clearly enough for him to see the number stretched across your back.

Twelve.

Before he could make out the name above it, you skated off toward the bench again.

Logan leaned forward immediately.

“Twelve,” he repeated.

Dean stared at him. “What?”

“Her number.”

Dean burst out laughing. “You’re actually trying to identify her right now?”

Logan reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled his phone out without answering.

“Oh, this is bad,” Tucker said, grinning openly now. “He’s gone.”

Dean leaned over slightly while Logan opened the Briar women’s hockey roster, scrolling quickly with his thumb while the game continued in the background.

“Twelve,” Logan muttered quietly to himself.

The roster loaded slowly.

Tucker watched him with open amusement. “You don’t even know this girl.”

Logan’s eyes stayed fixed on his phone. “Working on it.”

Dean laughed under his breath. “You got all this from one hit into the boards?”

Logan finally looked back toward the ice.

You were standing near the bench listening to your coach, one glove hanging loosely from your hand while you nodded along absently, cheeks flushed from exertion and baby hairs sticking damply to your forehead beneath your helmet.

Then you smiled at something one of your teammates said.

Five minutes ago you had looked vicious enough to start a fight in the middle of the rink. Now you looked warm and relaxed. The contrast was something that Logan understood and admired.. something that was also making him constantly reconnect his wifi in the hopes that it would load faster.

Logan looked back down at the roster immediately.

“There,” Dean pointed suddenly, leaning closer. “Number twelve.”

Logan’s thumb stopped scrolling.

Your name sat there on the screen beneath your player photo.

Defense. Junior. The same number stitched across your jersey.

For some reason, finally knowing your name only made the strange tight feeling in his chest worse.

Tucker looked between Logan and the phone before laughing again.

“You’re done for, bro.”

Logan barely heard him.

Down on the ice, you stepped back into play again, completely unaware that a man several rows above the rink had just memorized your name like it was something important.

By the final stretch of the third period, Boston College had stopped looking organized and started looking frustrated.

Every pass they attempted felt rushed, every hit carried just a little too much irritation behind it, and Briar only seemed to feed off the shift in energy. The game had become brutal in the way rivalry games always did once pride got involved, fast and physical and loud enough that the sound of skates carving into the ice blended together with the roar of the crowd overhead.

Your lungs burned every time you pushed off into another sprint, exhaustion settling heavily into your legs beneath the adrenaline, but it barely registered anymore. The ache in your ribs from earlier pulsed every time you twisted too sharply, yet even that felt distant compared to the rush of momentum building around your team.

The scoreboard hanging above the rink read 5–1.

Boston looked furious about it.

You stole another pass near center ice before one of their forwards could recover properly, intercepting it so cleanly that she nearly lost her footing trying to turn around after you. The crowd reacted immediately, noise erupting through the arena while you accelerated down the ice with one of your teammates racing alongside you.

A defender moved toward you.

You waited until the very last second before sliding the puck across the ice.

Your teammate buried it immediately.

The red goal light flashed, and before you fully registered it, the arena exploded.

By the time you reached the boards again, your teammates were already swarming you, gloves smacking against your helmet and shoulders while somebody nearly crashed hard enough into your back to knock you forward.

You were laughing before you realized it, adrenaline making everything feel sharp and electric beneath your skin while the Boston goalie snapped her stick against the post in frustration somewhere behind you.

Several rows above the glass, Tucker stood abruptly from his seat with the kind of dramatic excitement only hockey players seemed capable of.

His hands coming together with immense force as his claps echoed alongside the rest of the cheers in the arena.

Dean laughed immediately beside him, though his attention shifted toward Logan a second later once he realized there had been absolutely no reaction.

Logan had not looked away from the ice.

Not once.

His forearms rested against his knees while his eyes tracked you, a small grin tugging at his lips despite the intent behind his eyes.

Dean noticed it first.

Or maybe he had noticed earlier and only now found it entertaining enough to comment on.

“Y'know,” he said slowly, “most people blink occasionally.”

Logan barely reacted.

“You’re staring at her like you’re scouting for the NHL,” Tucker added, dropping back into his seat.

“She’s good,” Logan answered simply.

It came out quieter than either of them expected.

Not dismissive. Not casual. He was just certain.

Dean glanced sideways at him then before looking back toward the ice again where you were circling near the bench waiting for the next line change.

“That is not a normal amount of interest for someone you’ve watched exactly one game of.”

Logan didn’t answer immediately.

The truth was he had stopped paying attention to the rest of the game almost twenty minutes ago. Every time you stepped onto the ice, his focus shifted toward you without thinking. The speed, the aggression, the complete lack of hesitation every time another player came near you. You played like somebody who trusted herself completely, and there was something about that confidence that had rooted itself beneath his skin almost instantly.

The final buzzer sounded not long after.

Briar won 7–1.

The entire team spilled onto the ice immediately afterward while music blasted through the arena speakers and students crowded harder against the glass cheering. Your helmet disappeared during the celebration at some point, leaving your hair flattened messily around your face while one of your teammates jumped against your side hard enough to throw both of you off balance.

You caught her automatically, laughing hard enough that Logan could see it even from the stands.

Dean leaned back in his seat slowly.

“Oh, you are fucked,” he muttered.

Logan finally dragged his attention away from the rink long enough to frown at him slightly. “Fuck off." He shoved Dean's shoulder while the two of them laughed as Logan's eyes wandered back to the ice.

You were standing near the bench now talking to your coach, your gloves tucked beneath one arm while you nodded along absently. The arena lights reflected faintly against the sweat still shining along your forehead, and even exhausted, you still looked completely awake somehow. Alive in a way that made it difficult to stop looking at you once he started.

After a short victory lap, the team slowly started disappearing through the tunnel beneath the stands while the energy in the arena softened into postgame noise. You lingered near the ice longer than most of your teammates, still talking to someone through the glass while tossing a puck over for a kid with a little Briar hockey jersey on.

Then your head turned slightly toward the stands.

Toward him.

Logan went still.

Even from this far away, he could see the brief flicker of awareness cross your expression as your eyes passed over the crowd and paused for half a second too long in his direction.

It wasn't recognition, despite the fact that he wanted it to be. It was really just awareness.. like you had felt someone watching you.

Before either of you could hold the moment long enough for it to become anything real, one of your teammates grabbed your arm and dragged your attention away again, pulling you toward the tunnel with the rest of the team.

Logan kept looking toward the empty space you had left behind long after you disappeared from sight.

The next morning felt painfully slow after the energy of the game the night before.

Campus had settled back into its usual rhythm by the time Logan crossed the quad toward his lecture hall, students moving in uneven streams through the cold while coffee cups steamed between gloved hands and backpacks bumped against shoulders in crowded walkways.

He barely noticed any of it, all he could think about was crawling back into his bed after his classes wrapped up.

Not because anything was wrong, which honestly only irritated him more, but because every time he closed his eyes he kept replaying flashes from the game in frustratingly vivid detail. The sound of skates against the ice. Your laugh during the postgame celebration. The way you kept getting back up after every hit like it genuinely offended you to stay down.

Dean had called him pathetic three separate times already that morning.

Logan still wasn’t entirely convinced he was wrong.

He pushed open the door to the lecture hall a few minutes before class started, stepping into the familiar low buzz of conversation and keyboards tapping. The room smelled faintly like coffee and winter air dragged in from outside, students already settling into seats while the projector glowed dimly against the front wall.

Logan started down the steps automatically, his hands settled in his pockets while he made his way towards the usual row he sat in.

Then, his steps came to a screeching halt.

Three rows from the front sat a navy blue Briar athlete backpack slouched beside one of the seats.

Women’s hockey was embroidered, and small along the top of the front pocket.

His eyes caught on the small keychain hanging from the zipper almost instantly.

#12.

For a second, he just stared at it. Then his gaze lifted higher.

You sat half turned in your seat talking quietly to the girl beside you, one sleeve pulled over your hand while you absentmindedly highlighted something in your notebook with the other. Your hair was perfect, and despite being beneath a helmet earlier that morning for practice, he was sure it smelled like vanilla.

Without all the gear and arena lights around you, you looked softer somehow. Still pretty enough to make his chest tighten annoyingly hard. Just… real now. Close enough to touch.

Logan stood there long enough that somebody behind him had to awkwardly step around him to get down the stairs.

He moved automatically after that, though his attention stayed fixed on you the entire way down the aisle.

You still had not noticed him.

Part of him almost preferred it that way, because now that he was actually standing in the same room as you instead of watching from the stands, he realized he had absolutely no idea what to say.

Which was new.

Logan was not usually nervous around women. Confident, relaxed, occasionally arrogant if Dean was being honest, but never nervous.

Yet suddenly he was hyperaware of everything. The sound of his shoes against the lecture hall floor. The fact that his heartbeat felt stupidly loud. The way your fingers tapped absently against your pen while reading over your notes.

He passed your row. Kept walking. Then, immediately regretted it and pretended to take a phone call to abort back up a few rows.

By the time he dropped into a seat a few rows higher, Dean — who had walked in behind him at some point — looked close to losing his mind laughing.

“Holy shit,” he whispered while sitting beside him. “You panicked.”

“I didn’t fucking panic.”

“You literally walked past her like a Victorian dude seeing an ankle.”

Logan stared straight ahead. “Shut up.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, visibly delighted. “You’re down horrendous.”

Logan ignored him, though not very successfully considering his attention had already drifted back toward you again.

You were still focused on your notebook completely unaware of the crisis currently happening several rows behind you.

Then, as if sensing it somehow, you glanced over your shoulder.

Your eyes landed on him immediately with a flicker of recognition swiping across your face almost instantly.

Logan watched the exact second you noticed him noticing you. You looked away first, and that was enough to make warmth crawl unexpectedly up the back of his neck.

Dean saw the entire interaction and looked ready to combust.

“You made eye contact,” he whispered dramatically, his eyelashes batting in a playful fashion.

“Please be quiet.”

“Are you in love?”

Logan rubbed a hand slowly over his face.

Class started before Dean could keep talking, though that honestly did not help much, considering Logan spent the first twenty minutes hearing absolutely none of the lecture.

His focus kept drifting. He noticed how you chewed lightly on the end of your pen while reading. The way you fidgeted with your necklace while listening to the professor. You wrote quickly, confidently, barely ever crossing things out or hesitating before moving onto the next line.

At one point, you stretched slightly in your seat and winced.

Subtle and quick. But Logan noticed immediately, of course he did, he was noticing everything you had done for the past 30 minutes.

Your ribs.

The hit from yesterday had clearly bruised you worse than you’d acted like it did. The thought of that was enough to bother him for the rest of class.

When the lecture finally ended, students started gathering their things immediately, backpacks zipping loudly while conversations picked up around the room.

Logan watched you zip your backpack shut carefully before standing. Then he watched two different guys notice you at exactly the same time.

One of them moved before he was able to finish fumbling to put his laptop away.

Of course he did.

Tall, confident-looking business major type. The kind of guy that was probably in a frat with a snap score of at least 2 million.

Logan felt irritation spark instantly.

The guy smiled at you while adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Hey, you’re on the hockey team, right? You played last night?”

You looked up politely. “Oh-.. uh, Yeah.”

“You were really good.”

Logan hated how genuine the compliment sounded, he was expecting this douche to be superficial and just ask for your snap to add to his roster.

You smiled softly anyway. “Thank you.”

The guy opened his mouth again, clearly gearing up to continue the conversation.

Then Logan stood.

Dean looked up immediately with the kind of excitement usually reserved for live sporting events.

“Ho-ly shit,” he muttered.

Logan ignored him completely before heading down the stairs.

He wasn’t entirely sure what his plan was, only that the idea of walking out of this room without talking to you suddenly felt impossible.

The guy was still talking by the time Logan reached the bottom of the stairs.

Something about study groups, or maybe coffee. Logan honestly was not listening closely enough to tell the difference.

Your attention stayed politely fixed on him while you adjusted the strap of your backpack higher onto your shoulder, though there was something slightly distracted about your expression, like your mind was already somewhere else entirely. Exhaustion lingered faintly beneath your eyes from the game the night before, softened only slightly by the fact that you still looked unfairly pretty standing there in your Briar hockey sweatshirt and sweatpants.

The small keychain hanging from your backpack zipper knocked lightly against the fabric every time you moved.

#12.

Logan’s eyes caught on it again before he could stop himself.

“You play unbelievable, by the way,” the guy continued. “That goal in the third period was insane.”

You smiled politely, surprised that this guy actually had gone to the game, and wasn't just using it as an excuse to hit on you. “Thanks, Boston's never an easy opponent.”

The conversation should have ended there.

You clearly wanted to end it there.

But the guy kept standing in front of you anyway, lingering just enough that Logan recognized the strategy immediately. Stretch the interaction out long enough and eventually it becomes something else.

Normally he wouldn’t have cared.

Except now he did, annoyingly so, at that.

Before he could overthink it, he stepped closer.

“You should probably ice your ribs.” The words came out naturally, low and calm, though the moment they left his mouth, you turned toward him immediately.

Recognition crossed your face faster, and it wasn't just vague familiarity, but rather memory this time.

You had seen him in the stands last night, and Logan got to watch the exact second it clicked for you.

“The guy from the game,” you smiled before seeming to realize you had spoken out loud.

Your voice sounded rougher than he expected, slightly worn at the edges from yelling over rink noise the night before.

Something about it settled heavily in his chest.

“Yeah,” Logan answered quietly.

For a brief second, the other guy still standing beside you looked deeply confused by the interaction happening in front of him.

“You know each other?” he asked.

“No,” both of you answered at the exact same time.

That seemed to catch you off guard a little because your mouth twitched faintly afterward, like you were trying not to laugh.

Logan felt warmth spread unexpectedly through his chest at the sight of it.

The other guy looked between the two of you again before apparently deciding he was suddenly no longer part of the conversation.

“Well,” he said awkwardly, adjusting his backpack strap, “I’ll see you around.”

You smiled politely again. “See you.”

The second he disappeared into the crowd of students leaving the lecture hall, silence settled briefly between you and Logan.

Up close, he noticed details he hadn’t been able to see clearly from the stands. A faint bruise near your jaw partially hidden beneath your hair. The exhaustion lingering beneath your eyes. The slight stiffness in your posture every time you shifted your weight too quickly.

You were definitely hurting more than you wanted people to notice.

“You really should ice those ribs,” he repeated more quietly this time.

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “You could tell?”

“You flinched during class.” The answer seemed to surprise you, no one besides your roommate paid enough attention to notice when you had an injury you were insistent on downplaying.

Heat crawled faintly into your expression before you looked away for half a second, adjusting the sleeve pulled over your hand.

“It’s fine,” you murmured. “Just bruised, at least nothing's broken. ”

Logan frowned slightly. “That hit looked bad.”

“It was bad.”

“Yet, you got right back up. Scoring after nearly breaking the glass is some insane shit.”

Something softer flickered briefly across your face then.

“Kind of have to in hockey.” You shrugged in amusement, a smile tugging at your lips that was much more genuine than with the frat guy from a few moments ago.

And Logan was taking that as a win.

Students continued filtering loudly around the two of you while the lecture hall slowly emptied, but Logan barely registered any of it anymore. His attention stayed fixed entirely on you, on the way you shifted your backpack higher against your shoulder or how your fingers tapped absently against the strap while thinking.

“So, you came to the game? There was more turnout than usual for our game's last night, it was fun.” you asked after a second.

The question sounded casual, though curiosity lingered beneath it.

Logan nodded once. “Yeah, I went with some of my roommates, we decided last minute because one of them wanted a fucking pretzel.”

“And now you’re giving medical advice to strangers?”

A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth. “You don’t really feel like a stranger.” The sentence slipped out before he could stop it, and immediately his eyes squinted a bit in regret, and his brows furrowed.

Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.

For one horrible second, Logan considered the possibility that he had just sounded insane, but your expression softened instead in a very subtle way.

“Well,” you hummed quietly, “you still don’t know me.”

“I know your name.”

The moment he said it, your eyebrows lifted again.

“I-... uh, looked up the roster.” Logan had the decency to look slightly guilty as the words left his mouth.

You stared at him for half a second longer before laughing softly under your breath, and the sound hit him with the same force it had the night before in the arena.

It was soft and warm, to anyone else it would be like music to their ears, but to Logan? It was dangerous.

“That’s a little insane,” you told him, playfully putting on a disapproving face that quickly dissolved into a smile.

“Yeah, no, for sure.”

The honesty of the answer seemed to catch you off guard enough that you laughed again, shaking your head while starting toward the aisle leading out of the lecture hall.

Logan naturally fell into step beside you without thinking about it. From across the aisle, Dean held up two thumbs-ups and mouthed 'Fuck yeah,' which Logan was happy to drown out with the conversation that was slowly building between the two of you.

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The second was when he assumed he’d be okay when you actually listened.

Maybe it’s because you were hurt, more maybe it’s because you wished it didn’t. Because it wasn’t like you had been dating him. There were no labels, promises or even declarations of love.

There was just Dean.

Dean, who had to get smuggled into your building past curfew at two in the morning when he ‘couldn’t sleep.’

Dean, who dragged you into his lap during movie nights at his.

And most importantly, Dean who kissed you like he meant it.

But none of that was enough to make the blonde want something real. So rather than putting up a fight, you left. Disappeared from the house and his life as if yours depended on it.

So gone were the movie nights, and sitting on his lap as the boys argued about whatever video game they were playing. Your naps on his bed while you waited for him to finish studying drills also vanished, just like his focus.

Because after eight days of radio silence, he was miserable and people noticed “this is getting weird.” Garrett announced on the ninth afternoon from where he sat eating lunch.

Logan glanced up from the couch “what is?” He furrowed his eyebrows a little confused, “she hasn’t been over in a week.” Garrett didn’t even need to say your name.

Dean froze as he grabbed a water from the fridge, knowing that they were talking about you. Nobody acknowledged how his whole body tensed, “actually where is she?” Tucker frowned as he basically lost his sue chef with your departure.

Garret couldn’t help it when he finally laughed, seeing the blonde, “oh my god.” It made Dean shut the fridge harder than usual “what did you do?” The captain added seeing how his teammate gripped his fingers around his water bottle.

Dean’s face formed a scowl “I didn’t do anything.” He grumbled, making all the boys sigh.

Logan made his way into the kitchen “that tone means you definitely did something stupid.” He pointed out as his hands rested on his hips.

The blonde rolled his eyes “guys just drop it.” He made his way to the living room, hoping the boys wouldn’t follow.

But of course they did “no seriously where’s your girl?” They knew him for far too long to know what was up “she’s not my girl.”

The words slipped from his lips too fast and too defensively, making all three boys visibly wince, “oh you definitely did something to fuck it up.

Dean’s jaw tightened as he knew they were right “I just told her I wanted to keep things casual.” It made everyone cringe when he threw himself onto the couch.

Silence took over the room as the boys sighed “you really said that to her?” Logan rubbed the back of his neck.

The blonde frowned immediately “what’s wrong with that?” He asked as the boys looked at him like he was clinically stupid “Dean.” Garrett groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Dean shrugged, “what’s wrong?” His arms crossed as he grew a little annoyed, “you know she practically lived here right?” The boys didn’t say it as a bad thing even, they loved having you around.

“And?”

Logan rolled his eyes “and you looked at her like she hung the moon.” He grumbled as if the blonde had fucked up everything for himself.

Dean scoffed but there wasn’t much conviction behind it “we were just hanging out.” He argued back as his arms crossed.

Tucker made a face “she wore your hoodie for like three days in a row.” When Dean went home once for a break the boys saw you live in the blondes clothing as it smelt like him.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

Garrett swore in that moment that if Dean wasn’t his friend, he’d hit him “you are so stupid it’s wild.” He muttered as he shook his head.

It made Deans irritation flare instantly, “she said she was fine with casual!” He grumbled, growing annoyed that he was the only one getting interrogated.

Logan let out a snort, “yeah cause every girl loves hearing that from the guy they like.” The boy had seen how you watched Dean when he went off on these tangents about hockey, it was as if his words were gold.

Dean opened his mouth to argue before he closed it again. Because that part had been obvious, hadn’t it?

You liked him, hell, Dean liked you too. Which is exactly why he panicked.

Things with you stopped feeling casual weeks ago. Somewhere between the late-night conversations and memorising how you took your coffee to waking up with you curled up against his chest. Dean realised he was in trouble.

Real trouble, where his stupidity may have lost you, and that would actually hurt.

So rather than talking through it, he tried to put distance between you both before he could get too attached. Except now you were actually gone.

And the house felt like it wasn’t a home anymore. It was far too quiet.

Dean hated how he noticed that.

He hated how he kept glancing to the front door, hoping you’d walk through it as you spoke about your day before you kissed his cheek.

Hated how nobody sat on the counter as Tucker cooked anymore.

Hated that the berries in the fridge you used to eat straight out of the punnet with Garrett were now being put into smoothies so they didn’t go off.

Hated how nobody sat handing Logan his tools as he fixed things around the house.

Most of all, though, he hated that you actually meant it.

Because usually you’d be back after a day, roll your eyes as you called Dean an idiot before you kissed him.

But this time there was nothing.

No texts, or random appearances, you were gone.

Garrett watched Dean’s expression carefully “you miss her.” His words came out slowly as his face softened.

Dean immediately glared at the brunette, “shut up.” He shook his head as there was a gasp, “you actually do.”

“I said shut up.”

Tucker couldn’t help it when he laughed, “are we witnessing Dean have actual feelings?” He teased as Logan nodded “think I’m gonna be sick.” He pretended to gag.

It made the blonde sink further into the couch “can everyone get off of my ass?” He groaned, dragging his hand down his face.

Garrett was quick to scoff “no because if you chased her off permanently, we will never let you live it down.” In a weird way, the only thought in Deans head was that if he dated you and you broke up, the boys would take your side.

Dean groaned “just fuck off guys!” He grumbled as he headed back up to his room, not wanting to talk to them anymore about it.

But that night he couldn’t fall asleep in his bed as he found himself staring at your contact. The picture was one he took of you when you convinced him to accompany you on a late-night Dairy Queen run.

You had this grin that was contagious as you held your blizzard in your hand.

The memory should have made him smile as that night turned into a make-out in the parking lot after Dean got ice cream on your nose.

But instead, he found himself staring at the fact that you hadn’t sent him any new messages. The last text sat painfully untouched.

You: thanks for tonight

Dean: glad you made it back in one piece

That should have been his first warning sign when you said you’d walk yourself back to your dorm.

It was at lunch that he ruined everything “I think we should keep things casual.” It was said with such ease that it almost made you feel sick.

He said it like it didn’t change your expression entirely. Dean remembered how your smile faltered, and the way you recovered too quickly, “oh.” You looked at your salad that all of a sudden didn’t look appetising, “okay.” Your voice was soft as his hand reached for your knee.

Like an idiot, he carried on talking, “I just don’t want things to get complicated.” He shrugged and you swore you were about to laugh.

Like things hadn’t already gotten so complicated, like Dean didn’t already know what your laugh sounded like in a crowded room. As if he didn’t sleep better, knowing you were next to him. As if he didn’t almost let “I love you” slip from his lips two weeks ago when you fell asleep on his chest.

Dean couldn’t help it when his head hit his wall as he groaned; he had royally screwed up.

By day 13 of ignoring Dean, you were finally forced to see him again. You weren’t intending on coming along to Beau and Dean’s birthday but when the former cornered you in the cafe and begged to come, you couldn’t say no. Not when he said he wanted you there because he missed you and then proceeded to apologise for whatever his friend did.

You knew that you should have said no, you should have put everything you had in yourself to keep on avoiding Dean. But when your friends found out that you were all going, that’s how you ended up in the little red dress and devil horns.

Dean’s strategy that night was to try to focus on any girl around him. The distraction worked for the first fifteen minutes, until you walked in.

The blonde swore the music stopped, “shit.” Garrett patted the boy’s back as he smirked. You looked good in those thigh high boots that Dean always used to get so frustrated trying to take them off.

Dean swore you looked so good that he forgot the conversation he was in.

You hadn’t even bothered to look at him, far too busy laughing at something your friend said. And that seemed to finally make the culmination of what Dean felt the last few days hit him like a tidal wave. He realised he let go of a breath that he had been holding in when you finally looked at him.

Dean swore his body was finally calm again when you looked at him. Through the crowd of people, it should have felt like there were more people around. But out of nowhere, you smiled, it was the sweet one which knew how to make him weak in the knees.

He was ready to walk over to you and talk this all through, but instead, you walked away. Drowning into the crowd as come boy got your attention.

Garrett laughed as he shook his head, “you didn’t think that this was going to be easy right?” The captain shook his head as he went back to get another drink.

You played Dean’s game just as he did. As he flirted with girls, you let guys pull you closer as you danced against them. Because after all, if Dean was going to set what you guys were, you were going to listen.

Which meant that when you ended up playing beer pong with some guy who looked far too happy to be with you. Dean looked like he was ready to snap the guy in half “she’s doing this on purpose.” Dean grumbled as he left some girl to go and talk to Logan instead.

It made the brunette roll his eyes “genuis, she moved on because you told her not to expect anything.” He spoke in a duh tone as he sighed.

Dean hated that sentence because the truth was that he really didn’t expect you to do it. He thought you’d still be his.

Which was stupid and selfish.

Because he had gotten used to you. Used to the late-night calls, the way your legs tangled with his, and the way your eyes used to immediately find his in a crowded room.

But now you were smiling at someone else. Letting someone else touch you. And that made something ugly crawl up in Dean’s throat.

He knew he had no right to care, but he missed you, and honestly, as you bit your glossed lip, Dean knew the taste of like it was like water, he was going to be damned if he sat around and let someone else think that you were up for the taking.

So Dean moved through the crowd before he could even think about it “oh shit.” Logan let his eyes grow wide as he looked at Garrett “should we stop him?” He asked as the older boy shook his head.

They knew they should stay close to each the blonde though, in case something did happen.

You looked up when Dean came over, “can I talk to you?” He asked as he gripped his solo cup.

You blinked slowly “I am in the middle of something.” You turned your attention back to the brunette in front of you.

Dean laughed “should I go?” The boy asked from next to you.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Both of you looked at each other “I’ll just go.” The boy nodded to himself as he had a feeling that something was going on that he didn’t want to get into.

You sent Dean a glare, “no Dean here will leave.” You nodded as your eyes narrowed at the blonde.

Dean thought about it for a minute, “fine.”

His hand wrapped around yours as he pulled you away from the younger boy, “you cannot be serious Dean!” You grumbled as you tried to plant your feet “either you come with me and we talk.”

He turned around as he licked his lips “what if I don’t?” You raised your eyebrows as you raised your eyebrows.

It taunted him like a challenge, “I’ll throw you over my shoulder and then everyone can watch us have this conversation.” The warning made your thighs squirm, knowing that he was serious.

So instead, you opted to be quiet as you finally listened to him.

He pulled you into the bathroom as he shut the door behind him “you seemed pretty comfortable out there.” Dean crossed his arms as you leaned against the counter.

His words made you roll your eyes “you could say the same damn thing to you.” You shot back knowing that you were going to regre this.

You sucked at your teeth “you’re just mad because I didn’t get upset when you decided I wasn’t worth making yours.” You stepped closer to the boy “so you don’t get to sit here and get pissy that I look good tonight.”

The words were true, and boy did Dean wish you weren’t right “that’s not what happened.” He sighed as he stepped back against the door when you stepped closer to him.

He had the perfect sight of your boobs that made the dress look perfect “so you didn’t tell me you didn’t want me?” You pressed your finger into his chest.

Dean sighed “I didn’t want to screw things up with you.” His confession made him feel small “god I fucking think about you all the time and you’re not mine.” His cheeks felt warm as he was setting all of his cards out in front of you.

It made your expression soften slightly “I was always yours, you idiot.” You grumbled as you shook your head, letting out a defeated laugh “all you had to do was say the word.” You were it was dangerous when you fell for him, but somehow you still let yourself do it.

Dean smiled “you really mean that?” His hands reached for your hair but he was careful to not touch you “unfortunately, I do.”

Dean felt his heart pound in his ears “if I let you back in you better not fuck it up.” Your warning made him nod as he finally let his hands rest on your hips.

He licked his lips “trust me, the boys would kill me.” If the last week was meant to tell him anything, it was that the boys had favourites. And in the competition between you and him, you won by a country mile.

It made you laugh, “they missed you.” His confession brought a smile to your lips; you had missed those boys a lot more than you thought you would.

“just them?”

The question lingered in the air as the boy tucked your hair behind your ear “if you weren’t here tonight, it would have killed me.” His words made you feel better because, as much as you tried to avoid it, you had felt the same as him.

You ran your fingers over his jumpsuit. Top Gun was a movie you introduced him to as it was in your top ten list of all time greats, “Goose or Maverick?” You asked as you pulled the boy closer by his suit.

Dean swore he almost forgot how to speak “whichever one you want me to be honey-” you cut him off with a kiss.

It was needy as you pulled him forward when you arched your back, “well then, take me to bed or lose me forever.”

By the time you realized Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was flirting with you, it was already too late to do anything about it.

Not because he was subtle, because he absolutely was not, but because Dean flirted with everyone in a way that made him difficult to read at first. He smiled too easily, leaned too close during conversations, carried this effortless warmth around with him that made people naturally gravitate toward him without even realizing they were doing it. Most girls at Briar noticed him immediately, and most of them reacted exactly the same way whenever he walked into a room.

You hadn’t.

That alone seemed to fascinate him more than it should have.

The first time you met him had been at a party during your sophomore year, one of those overcrowded hockey house parties where the music was too loud and the floors were sticky from spilled alcohol, where bodies moved shoulder to shoulder through dim lighting while somebody shouted along terribly to music in the kitchen.

You’d been standing near the back porch trying to escape the heat inside when Dean stepped out beside you holding two beers.

At the time, you only knew of him as one of Briar’s hockey players, though that was nearly impossible not to know considering how often everyone at this damn school talked about that team.

“You look miserable,” he’d said casually, offering you one of the beers.

You glanced at it before looking back at him. “You offer drinks to unhappy strangers at all of your parties?”

“Only the pretty ones.”

You had laughed then despite yourself, mostly because he’d said it so naturally that it didn’t even sound rehearsed.

“That line probably works on a lot of people.”

“It works better when they don’t immediately insult me after.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

There was something unfairly likable about him up close. Maybe it was the confidence that was accented by dimples, or maybe it was the fact that unlike some of the other hockey players, Dean actually listened when people spoke to him. Conversations with him felt easy in a dangerous sort of way, the kind that slipped by too quickly without you noticing.

You ended up talking with him for nearly an hour that night.

Then somehow he started appearing everywhere afterward.

Sometimes it was accidental. Other times it very obviously was not.

You’d find him outside one of your lecture halls leaning against the wall waiting for Garrett or Logan only for him to fall into step beside you afterward, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d steal the seat next to yours in class despite it being a lecture hall with plenty of open seats.

He'd distract you while you studied, complain dramatically whenever you refused to help him with assignments he definitely could have done himself if he tried hard enough.

And slowly, without either of you acknowledging it outright, he became part of your life.

It happened in pieces so small you barely noticed them.

Dean texting you first whenever something funny happened.

Dean showing up at your apartment with coffee because you mentioned once that you hated mornings.

Dean touching the small of your back absentmindedly when he moved around you in crowded rooms.

Your friends noticing the shift long before you did.

“He likes you,” your roommate had told you one night while you got ready for bed.

You rolled your eyes immediately. “Dean likes everyone.”

“No,” she drawled carefully, “I think he really likes you.”

At the time, you brushed it off.. mostly because the idea felt ridiculous.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was charming in a way that belonged to everyone around him. He laughed with everybody, flirted with everybody, made people feel wanted so effortlessly that it was hard to imagine any of it meaning something deeper.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because you never realized how serious it had become for him.

Not until much later.

Not until the night everything finally cracked open between you.

It happened in late November after one of Briar’s home games, when the campus had already started settling into winter, and the air outside the arena carried that sharp cold that made your lungs ache when you breathed too deeply.

You waited near the parking lot while students poured out around you in loud groups, bundled in jackets and scarves while snow flurries drifted lazily through the streetlights overhead.

You had almost decided to leave by the time Dean finally emerged from the arena.

The parking lot outside Briar’s hockey rink had thinned considerably over the last fifteen minutes, the loud clusters of students slowly disappearing into the snowy dark while the cold deepened around you in sharp, biting waves.

The game had ended almost half an hour ago, but postgame celebrations always dragged on longer after a win, especially when the team played the way they had tonight. They were fast and aggressive and good enough to keep the crowd screaming well into the third period.

You stood near the edge of the sidewalk with your hands shoved deep into your coat pockets, shifting your weight occasionally to keep warm while snowflakes drifted steadily from the sky overhead. They gathered in the sleeves of your coat and melted against your skin, dampening pieces of hair near your face while your breath curled visibly in the freezing air.

Your phone screen lit briefly in your hand.

11:42 PM.

You should probably go home at this point. Plus, why stick around anyway? The only people who stuck around this long were family, significant others, and girls who were hoping to get lucky with a player. You were none of the above.

That thought had crossed your mind at least four times already, especially considering Dean had no idea you were even waiting for him out here in the first place. You could still leave now before he came outside and preserve at least some of your dignity, because standing alone in a freezing parking lot after nearly midnight waiting for a boy who smiled at you a little too nicely was not behavior you were particularly proud of.

Still, your feet stayed planted where they were.

Which was embarrassing to unpack if you thought about it too hard.

The arena doors finally swung open again a few seconds later, releasing another burst of noise and warmth into the cold night air as several players filtered out alongside a few students lingering near the entrance. You looked up automatically, more out of instinct than intention.

Then you saw him.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, himself, walked out laughing at something one of his teammates said, hockey bag slung over one shoulder while exhaustion visibly weighed through the line of his posture. His damp hair curled slightly from sweat beneath the harsh overhead lights, and even from a distance, you could see the fatigue sitting heavily across his face after the game.

Then his eyes landed on you.

And his entire expression changed.

It was subtle enough that most people probably would not have noticed it unless they were looking carefully, but you did.

The exhaustion softened first.

Then his shoulders loosened slightly beneath the weight of his bag, tension easing from him in real time as warmth spread slowly across his features. The tiredness didn't disappear entirely, but something gentler replaced it now, something so immediate and instinctive that it sent an annoying little flip through your stomach before you could stop it.

“There you are,” Dean said once he reached you, his voice roughened slightly from yelling over the game and the freezing night air.

Something about the familiarity of it settled strangely in your chest.

Not the words themselves, but the way he said them, easy and certain, like he had expected to find you waiting for him outside the arena all along. Like your presence beside the rink after every home game had become something reliable to him, something normal.

You tried not to think too hard about why that affected you as much as it did.

Instead, you shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets and forced yourself to sound casual when you said, “You played decent tonight, Di Laurentis.”

Dean immediately looked offended.

“Decent?” he repeated, adjusting the strap of his hockey bag higher onto his shoulder while he stared at you in disbelief. “That’s what I get after scoring twice? And defending my goalie after he got knocked? And pointing to you after I scored? And cheering G up in the locker room?”

You shrugged, though his grin was already making it annoyingly difficult to hold onto your composure for very long. “You want me to lie and say you were amazing?”

“Yes, actually, that would be nice.”

The laugh that slipped out of you came easier than you intended, soft and visible in the cold air between you.

For a second, Dean just looked at you.

Not in the careless, charming way he usually looked at people, but openly because your amusement was something worth paying attention to. Snow caught lightly in his light hair and along the shoulders of his jacket, while the harsh lights from the parking lot reflected faintly across his face. Despite the exhaustion still lingering around him after the game, there was some playful warmth creeping back into his eyes.

The look on his face made your chest tighten in a way you were trying very hard not to examine too closely.

Without really discussing it, the two of you started walking toward Malone's together.

The arena noise slowly faded behind you with every step, swallowed by the quiet stillness settling over Briar this late at night. Snow crunched softly beneath your boots as you moved side by side down the sidewalk, your shoulders brushing occasionally whenever one of you drifted too close. The roads nearby had mostly emptied by now, leaving only the occasional headlights cutting through the dark or the distant sound of voices carrying across campus.

The snow had started sticking properly sometime during the third period.

Now it dusted across the ground in thin white layers and gathered along Dean’s hair in uneven flakes, catching briefly in his lashes whenever he glanced over at you. The cold had turned the tip of his nose pink, though somehow it only made him look more unfairly attractive.

“You waiting long?” he asked after a moment.

“Not really.”

“Bullshit. That's a total lie.”

You glanced sideways at him despite yourself. “Fine, maybe a little.”

His mouth twitched immediately, like he was trying not to smile too hard at that answer.

Then something in his expression shifted. The teasing faded first.Then the easy confidence.

What replaced it was quieter somehow, more focused, and the sudden intensity of his attention made your stomach tighten unexpectedly.

“You came to every game this month,” he said.

The observation landed softly between you, but your pulse reacted instantly anyway.

You forced yourself to shrug. “I support Briar athletics, I love that my tuition money goes towards the team throwing free shirts into the stands and paying for your overpriced locker room. I figured I should get my money's worth.”

“Bullshit, again.”

You looked away too quickly, trying to hide the smile already pulling at your mouth, but Dean noticed anyway. Of course he did.

“That smile means I’m right.”

“You’re so annoying after wins.”

“I’m annoying all the time.”

“That’s... Actually, yeah, that's true.”

His laugh came low and warm beside you before he nudged his shoulder lightly against yours.

The contact lasted barely a second.

Still, warmth spread slowly through your chest anyway, familiar now in the worst possible way.

Because that had become the real problem with Dean lately.

Not the flirting.

Not the confidence.

Not even the fact that nearly every girl at Briar looked at him like he personally hung the moon.

The problem was that he made everything feel like more than it was. Truthfully, that could have been because, in your heart, you didn't want to believe you'd fall for an athlete's charm so easily. But based on what everyone around you said, you weren't delusional in thinking that it was more than it seemed.

Every glance lingered slightly too long. Every touch carried enough softness behind it to leave you thinking about it afterward. Even his attention felt different from other people’s somehow, steady and deliberate in a way that slowly worked its way beneath your skin before you even realized it was happening.

Being around Dean felt dangerously similar to standing too close to a fire in the middle of winter.

Comforting at first.

Then overwhelming before you noticed yourself getting burned.

And lately, whatever existed between the two of you had started drifting dangerously close to becoming something real.

Neither of you talked about it.

Maybe because acknowledging it aloud would ruin the fragile balance you’d fallen into together.

Or maybe because both of you were too afraid the other person didn’t feel it too.

“You know,” Dean said eventually, quieter now, his gaze fixed ahead on the snowy sidewalk instead of on you, “Tuck thinks I’m in love with you.”

Your entire body nearly short-circuited.

You missed a step slightly before catching yourself again, your head swiveling in a double-take. “Sorry.. what?”

Dean let out a huff of a laugh under his breath, though this time there was tension underneath it that hadn’t been there before.

“That reaction’s making this just a little harder for me.”

You stopped walking for half a second before hurrying to catch up beside him again. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

The simplicity of the answer made your stomach twist sharply.

Snow continued drifting lazily around the two of you while silence settled heavily between your footsteps. Your pulse suddenly felt uneven beneath your ribs, loud enough that you were half convinced Dean could hear it if he stood any closer.

For several long seconds, neither of you spoke.

Then finally, carefully, you looked over at him. “And what did you say?”

Den exhaled slowly through his nose.

The faint smile that touched his mouth this time looked different from his usual ones somehow, smaller and quieter, almost disbelieving.

“I told Tuck he was an idiot.”

“That sounds more believable.”

“Yeah,” he murmured softly. “Except I think he might’ve been right.”

Everything inside you seemed to still at once.

Not dramatically.

Not like movies where music swelled and the entire world stopped turning.

Just enough that suddenly every detail around you became painfully sharp all at once.

The sound of snow beneath your boots. The cold wind brushing against your face. The uneven rhythm of your breathing. The way Dean was looking at you now.

And maybe the strangest part of all was realizing he looked nervous.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, who could walk into any room and immediately own it without trying, who flirted effortlessly and smiled without hesitation, looked genuinely nervous standing beside you on a dark, snowy sidewalk.

Like you had the ability to hurt him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly after the silence stretched too long, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges in a way you had never heard from him before. “Seriously, I just…” He broke off briefly, glancing away before laughing once under his breath. “I got tired of pretending this feels casual to me when it doesn’t. And trust me, it's just as crazy for me to say that as it is for you to hear that.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the honesty in that.

Because suddenly the last few months rearranged themselves inside your head into something entirely different.

Dean waiting outside your classes even when his own were across campus.

Dean memorizing your coffee order after hearing it once.

Dean always finding you first in crowded rooms.

Dean texting you every night before playing an away game.

None of it had been accidental.

None of it had ever been casual.

And maybe the worst part was realizing yours hadn’t been either.

“You fall hard, huh?” you asked quietly.

A surprised laugh escaped him then, softer than before, carrying something almost embarrassed underneath it.

“You got no idea.” He drawled, his hands pushing his hair back in more of a 'I-Don't-Know-What-To-Do-With-My-Hands' way than anything else.

The honesty of it hit you harder than anything else had tonight.

Because Dean wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t flirting. Wasn’t charming his way through another conversation with that easy confidence everyone associated with him.

He meant it.

And standing there beside him while snow gathered slowly across the shoulders of his jacket and melted into your hair, you realized with sudden, terrifying clarity that somewhere along the way, without meaning to, you had fallen hard too.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

She felt so guilty. Hannah was her best friend. Why did she have a crush of her best friend’s boyfriend? Yes, he was attractive but so were his roommates. Why couldn’t she have a crush on Dean, Tucker or even Logan.

She thought she had everything under control. One night after hearing them have their second round of sex, Y/n pulled up her notes app to come up with a plan to shake off her feelings. First, avoid one on one time with Garrett and Hannah. Second, try not to gawk when Garrett is around. Third, don’t daydream about watching a movie with Garrett. Don’t daydream about Garrett in general.

For Y/n, her crush on Garrett wasn’t obvious. But for everyone around her it was as clear as day. When she saw them together she would sprint the other way. Which made Dean comment and on the regular that maybe Y/n should consider joining the track team with how fast she would sprint out of that situation. She would also avoid eye contact with Garrett, rambling random excuses to not speak with him. Everyone knew about her little crush, even Hannah and Garrett, themselves.

So after much discussion with Hannah. She had convinced Allie Hayes to speak to you.

“Y/n, come on. I won’t judge. But the first step to overcoming this is admitting you have a problem.” Allie says sitting on the small twin size bed. Y/n forcefully laugh her eyes still glued on the computer in front of her, her physiology midterm essay glaring back at her.

“Allie, are you reciting an addict intervention script? I don’t need to overcome anything, like I said before, you are insane. Why would I have a crush on Garrett? First, he’s Hannah’s boyfriend. Second, he’s not my type? Third… I can’t think of a third because of how ridiculous this sounds.”

“You can’t think of a third because you are clearly lying and are in denial. Look, I won’t judge you Y/n. Garrett’s an attractive guy. But you need to accept that he’s in love with Hannah, so you can move on this pathetic little crush you have. You can’t avoid spending time with all of us forever.”

“I can since I'm here to get my degree. I’m not here to get shit wasted at a stupid frat party or to get accused about liking some guy by my friend. I’m not going, not because I'm avoiding Garrett and Hannah, I'm actually busy doing things?” Y/n replies shutting her computer. Allie scrunches up her face thinking of ways to deescalate the situation.

“You are starting to sound like Logan”

It was ironic. While Y/n was crushing badly on Garrett. John Logan, Garrett’s best friend, was crushing on Hannah. A full soap opera moment if you will. Y/n picked up on Logan’s crush, not because he told her, but because it was pretty fucking obvious with the way he acted around her. Then Y/n would wonder if she was also that obvious, but she would shake it off.

There were two possible options for Logan and Y/n. They could continue with their sad high school crush and avoidance, it would eventually work on the couple making them break up and date the two. or they could date each other to end each other's suffering. When the thought passes through her head Y/n doesn’t think about it twice. That’s how she found herself in John Logan’s room on a Friday night at 10:30pm.

“You told Allie what! No scratch that. How the hell did Allie believe you? You barely even speak to me.” Logan said looking down at Y/n with a stressed look on his face.

“I’m speaking to you right now, Logan.” Y/n claps back as she reads one of Logan’s notes from an Econ class.

There was a small problem with the little white lie Y/n had told Allie. Y/n L/n and John Logan, don’t get along at all. John Logan got along with loads of people, but Y/n was one of the girls that didn’t stick for him. One time she had insulted his form after a game in front of the guys and that was the start of his dislike towards her. They would constantly bicker and to the blind eye, people would consider that there was pent up sexual tension between the two, even if they both denied it.

“You know what I mean. We barely talk to each other and when we do it’s to fight about something stupid.” John replied back clearly annoyed at your comments.

“So, you admit that the things you usually say are stupid? See we are starting to get along already.” Y/n force a smile as she turns to look at the man pacing in front of her.

“How the hell would you tell her that we are together. She has to know you're lying. You clearly aren’t my type.” Logan sat in the chair in front of you tugging his hair frustrated.

“Gee thanks. Don’t worry I don’t go for condescending assholes. She always says we have this pent up sexual tension and that we should work on it. So my best bet was to say I was dating you for it to make some logic. I was helping you out because Tucker has been calling you out on your crush on Hannah and…”

“I don’t have a crush on Hannah.” Logan cuts you off. Slapping his hand on the table in front of him.

“ and I don’t have a crush on Garrett but if we work together we could put those fake rumors to rest.” Y/n replies in the same tone as him. John Logan stands up and leans toward you.

“Fine, it’s a deal. I’m not going to enjoy this. We are doing this under my rules” Logan’s hand rests between your knees pushing them apart.

“Fine.”

“First rule. If they are going to think we are together they need to hear us hooking up” Y/n feeezes, she starts nervously rambling but he chuckles. “ I don’t mean actual sex. We can fake it. Like I said, you aren’t my type.”

“Oh, really? I thought you fucked everything that has a skirt on.” Y/n replied sarcastically.

“I have my exceptions.”

Logan grabs the bottom of the bed and pushes it against the wall. He pushes it again, doing the same action repeatedly as the headboard hits the wall.

“They aren’t going to believe it if you don’t moan. Come on, I know you’re a screamer” Logan says making Y/n glare at him.

“You are a pig. That’s what you tell all your hook up’s to fake their moans?”

“Actually, I work for it. I have an impressive form when it comes to sex.”

“Just like your impressive form in hockey”

“L/n. I wasn’t the one that lied to our friends. If you want to keep this act up and make our friends believe it. No scratch if you so desperately wanted to be in a fake relationship with me, you need to put in the work. Now let me hear you.” He whispered in her ear, still continuing the moments with the bed. His arm would occasionally bump with your knee.

“Why would I be the only one moaning. You need to moan too!”

“I don’t moan.”

“Bullshit. I’ve heard you and you are pretty vocal. Come one John. Hannah and Garrett are next door. You want them to stop bothering with the crush? you better start moaning.” Logan let out a fake but impressive loud moan.

“Damn. Y/n” He let out a breathy moan. You hold in your laugh trying to take the situation as seriously as possible.

Your Saturday morning starts slow. Sunlight spills through the curtains of your room as you rest under your comforter. You can hear girls laughing in the hallway of the sorority house.

Your roommate is on the other side of the room in her bed, and you’ve been drifting in and out of conversation with her, scrolling on your phones and lazing together.

“So… you gonna tell me what happened with that guy last night?” Jada asks.

You didn’t say much when you reunited with your friends at the party after disappearing with Rafe. Jada recognized him as the jerk who spilled his drink on you, but you brushed it off, saying he apologized.

You take a deep breath.

“You can’t judge me for what I’m about to tell you,” you say, your voice low.

Jada perks up immediately, pushing herself upright. She grins, dropping her phone on her lap.

“I love it when a story starts that way,” she says. You chuckle and roll onto your side, resting your head on your hand as you look at her from across the room.

“His name is Rafe. I know him from back home,” you say. “He’s a total dick. And since he’s started trying to get with me, my friends… bet me that I couldn’t break his heart.”

“You’re kidding,” Jada says in amusement. “Why would I judge you for that? It’s never a bad thing for a guy like that to get put in his place.”

Her words are vindicating. He does deserve it. You think back to the way Rafe talked to you and touched you last night, smug like he can take whatever he wants from you.

“It did seem weird to me that you went off with him after he was so rude the other night,” she says, pointing at you. “I know you’re not one to forgive. Wow, it’s all coming together now.”

You laugh. You’ve been called many things, all by guys who felt slighted by you, and Jada affectionately implying that you’re unforgiving is nothing compared to it. You’ve built a reputation. It’s better to be the girl no one fucks with than the girl who gets hurt.

“How are you going to do it?” she asks.

Your eyes drift to the ceiling.

“I’ll make him think I like him, then act like I can’t stand him, which, honestly, I can’t, so at least that part will be easy,” you say. “I swear, the second a guy realizes you’re not dying for his attention, he tries way too hard to make you care. I’ve never wanted to make a guy fall for me, though, so that’s new territory.”

“He’s done for,” Jada says.

You chuckle again. You’ve strung along guys many times before, but this is the first time you’re doing it on purpose. You’ve never tried to hurt anyone’s feelings; keeping your distance is just how you’ve always kept yourself safe.

You feel bad for those you’ve burned, but it’s not like you promised them love or loyalty. Because you learned as a kid what happens when you give a man trust. Your father walked out like it was nothing. If your own dad didn’t stay for you, why would anyone else?

Rafe will make this easy. He’s simple, like most men. He gets a little attention and thinks a girl is powerless to him. He’s sure that you’ll let your guard down. But you don’t do that. You never have.

・・・・・

“How’s it going with her?” Mac asks.

Rafe drags his gaze away from his beer to glance at his friend. The two of them stand near the back doors of the sorority house, the air smelling like perfume.

He realizes Mac is looking at you. You’re laughing at something one of your friends said, beaming a pretty smile. For a second, it’s like he’s back in Kildare, seeing you from a distance at a party, another stranger he never bothered to know.

“Slow,” Rafe answers honestly. It was just last night that he asked for your number and you passively declined. He’s still annoyed.

“If you can’t do it, man…”

Rafe smirks and nudges his friend. He refuses to lose.

“I can, asshole,” he chuckles.

Tonight, Rafe will make you wait. By the time he finally decides to approach you, he’s sure you’ll be relieved.

・・・・・

You should’ve seen it coming. Jada mentioned she skipped dinner. She’s only had a couple drinks, but her empty stomach clearly made them hit her hard. It’s barely an hour into the party and she’s already wobbling.

Her knees are giving out every few steps, and you’re not confident you’ll be able to catch her if she goes down. In the couple of years you’ve known your roommate, you’ve never seen her so wasted.

“You should sit,” you shout over the music, hands on Jada’s shoulders.

“But I’ll fall asleep,” she slurs.

You breathe a defeated laugh.

“Let’s go home,” you decide. “You can sober up. In your bed.”

“I love my bed,” Jada sighs with a grin.

You should get her out of here and with how much she’s stumbling, you’ll need a second body to make sure she doesn’t fall over. You’ll ask one of your sorority sisters to help.

But that’s when you spot Rafe.

You weren’t planning to even look at him tonight. But you’ve learned that if you give a guy you’ve been stringing along a chance to do you a favor, he’ll always take it.

You leave Jada with your friends and weave through the crowd toward him. He’s leaning against the wall, talking to a couple guys, wearing that backwards hat he always wears. You spot Kildare Island Surfboard Co. stitched on the front.

“Do me a favor?” you ask once you close the distance.

Rafe’s head flicks toward you. A self-satisfied smirk grows on his face.

“What’s up?” he says, his voice low, eyes drifting to your lips.

“I need help getting my roommate home. You seem strong enough.”

Rafe sets his drink down on the nearest table without breaking eye contact. Then he tilts his head toward the door, a silent come on.

・・・・・

Warm night air wraps around you as the three of you step out onto Greek Row. The bass from different houses overlaps out of rhythm and the sidewalks are crowded with clusters of students.

You’ve only made a couple of steps together when Jada stumbles. She apologizes through a giggle, then leans on you so hard that you nearly lose your footing.

You grip her forearm, and Rafe’s hand is suddenly on yours, steadying Jada. His other hand settles on the small of your back.

“You can’t walk,” he snips at Jada.

You huff, feeling protective over your friend, and say, “You don’t have to be so rude.”

Rafe scoffs to himself. That’s rich coming from you.

He shifts to slide an arm under Jada’s knees and another behind her back. In one smooth motion, he lifts her off the ground and settles her over his shoulder, earning her drunken laugh.

His biceps bulge under his t-shirt sleeves, and heat rises to your cheeks as you realize how effortless this is for him.

“Which house is it again?” he asks, glancing over at you as he continues to walk forward.

“At the end of the block,” you reply. You point to the red-brick Victorian style home, having to pick up your pace to catch up to his wide strides.

Jada begins to quietly sing, laughing at herself as she stumbles over the lyrics.

“Pretty early in the night to be so wasted,” Rafe murmurs, looking over at you.

“At least she didn’t dunk her drink on anybody,” you respond, still pissed off at how he spoke to Jada. But you’re not surprised. As much as he’s trying to pretend like he’s a nice guy, you know better.

“Are you ever letting that go?” he says with a smile that you don’t return.

“Not until we’re even,” you reply.

You unlock the front door of the empty house and turn to Rafe as he shifts Jada higher on his shoulder.

“I got it from here,” you tell him.

“You kidding? She almost took you down,” Rafe says, his voice raised just enough to cut through the distant music. “Just go.”

You sigh, but as much as you don’t want to admit it, you’re relieved you won’t be the one dragging Jada up the stairs tonight.

Rafe’s eyes are fixed on your legs as he trails you up the stairs, the dim light catching the perfect shape of them with every step.

The place smells like fresh laundry, unlike the staleness settled into the frat house he lives in. And the floor doesn’t creak at all here.

“Your house is way nicer than ours,” he says.

“Probably ‘cause we actually take care of it,” you respond. He rolls his eyes to himself. Is every response of yours some kind of cut?

You reach the second floor and flick on the light in your shared bedroom. You point to Jada’s bed so he knows where to set her down.

Rafe lowers her slowly, and as you lean in to brush her curls from her face, he takes a chance to look around, quietly absorbing the details of your room.

“How do you feel?” you ask Jada.

“Dizzy,” she murmurs, eyelids half-shut.

“I’m getting you water,” you say, “and you have to drink it all.”

“I don’t want water,” she mumbles.

“Does it look like I care what you want?” you reply, but your voice is soft in a way Rafe hasn’t heard from you. He's kind of thrown by how sweet you are when you want to be.

“Do you think you’re gonna be sick?” you ask her.

“No,” she murmurs. “I’m dizzy.”

“I know that,” you say with a gentle chuckle. “Stay on your side. I’ll be back.”

You stand up to face Rafe, and just like that, the warmth disappears and the tone he’s used to returns.

“I’ll walk you out,” you say.

You brush past him on your way into the hallway, and he catches a faint whiff of something sweet; he’s not sure if it’s your perfume or your shampoo or just you, but he doesn’t like when it fades.

He follows you back into the hallway, watching the confident sway of your walk.

“You’re way nicer to her being drunk than me,” Rafe says as you start down the stairs.

“She’s my friend.”

“What am I?”

You don’t answer right away. The light catches the side of your face as you glance back at him.

“You’re… a lot of things,” you finally say.

Rafe huffs a scoff as he trails you down the last few steps. He just hauled your drunk roommate over here for you and you didn’t even thank him. You went right back to being a brat.

Fuck this. He thought he’d enjoy this chase, but you seem to have a talent for making people feel like they’re below you. He hates the thought of failing this stupid bet, but you seem impossible to win over. Why torture himself?

You reach the bottom of the stairs first, hand curling around the banister.

“I’ll stay with Jada,” you confirm in case he’s expecting you to go back to the party with him.

You take a step back toward the kitchen. And then you remind yourself you need to sweeten Rafe up. This is the perfect moment to give him just enough warmth to keep him hooked. You soften your voice, tilt your head slightly.

“Thank you for your help,” you add. “I couldn’t have done that alone.”

You offer a smile. It does something to him. Not that he’d ever be weak for you. But he gets it now, why other guys embarrass themselves for you.

“So, we’re even now,” Rafe flirts back, even though a second ago, he was planning on storming out.

You’re both standing closer to each other than either of you probably meant to be. His features are all hard, strong edges, and it’s kind of irritating because you know he knows how handsome he is.

“Until the next time you spill a drink on me,” you tease.

Rafe’s eyes flick down to your lips again, curved with that soft smile. Instantaneously, he’s been thrown back into his attraction to you, letting it consume him.

“I want to say something, but I think it’ll piss you off,” he murmurs, his voice low.

“I’m sure it will,” you say.

“Then I won’t say it.”

“Just do it, Rafe,” you sigh, resigned. He realizes he really likes hearing you say his name.

“You should smile more,” he says.

“God,” you groan, throwing your head back. “Yeah, you should’ve kept it to yourself.”

He winces a little.

“I know girls hate hearing that shit, but I’m just sayin’ you’re cute.”

“Don’t try to defend yourself,” you respond, realizing he’s even flirtier than you expected. “Just give me your phone, okay?”

His brows lift. You hold out your hand. Your number is a reward and the trick is making him feel like he earned it.

Rafe wants to make a joke about you saying please, but he keeps it in. He hands you his phone without a word. His thoughts of giving up are a distant memory now. He’s going to get you where he wants you. He’s sure of it.

You type in your number, save it, and pass it back.

“If you text me too much, I’ll block you,” you tease.

“What’s too much?” he asks, his gaze heavier than before.

You give a tiny, pitying shake of your head. It’d be adorable to him if he didn’t know your reputation.

“If you have to ask…” you breathe with a giggle.

His smile deepens. You mirror it and turn away, heading down the hallway to leave him hanging.

A moment later, you hear the front door open behind you, followed by the quiet thud of it closing. The sound echoes faintly through the hallway as you enter the kitchen.

You were right. This will be easy.

・・・・・

Rafe texts you the next afternoon asking if you’re free later.

You’re halfway through getting ready to go to the main campus library when you see his name light up your phone. Strategically, you change into something a little more revealing just to tempt him if he shows up.

You text him back that you’re about to go do schoolwork at the library and that he can join if he wants. You don’t wait for his reply.

A while later, your phone buzzes.

Rafe: You still there?

You see it. And you don’t respond.

・・・・・

The library is pretty full for a Sunday afternoon. Rafe circles the first floor twice before he finds you. Each step makes him feel more and more like an idiot, wandering around looking for a girl who didn’t even bother to text him back.

He wants to leave, but then he sees you tucked at a four‑seater table by yourself, typing on your laptop. And the work to find you stupidly feels worth it.

You don’t notice him when he comes up behind the chair opposite you. Or maybe you do and pretend not to.

But he gets a full look at you before you glance up. And fuck, you look good. Your lips are pouted in concentration in a way that makes it impossible for him not to stare, and your top dips just enough that he has to drag his eyes back up before you catch him.

Your phone is right next to your laptop. You obviously saw his text. Still, he plays it cool. The worst thing he can do right now is make you think he cares. He needs to look like he put effort in, but not too much.

He slides into the chair across from you. You look up at the movement, pulled out of your focus.

“You’re actually here,” Rafe says quietly, a hint of surprise in his tone.

“Did you think I was lying?” you ask, cocking your head. You knew he’d come. You knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself.

You lean back in your chair and it gives you a second to take him in. He’s not wearing a hat for once, his hair falling over his forehead. He looks good.

“Maybe,” he jokes, dropping his backpack on the chair beside him. “I barely know you.”

“But you’ve known of me for a long time,” you reply.

It’s a reminder of how he agreed with Mac’s insult the other night. How he later told you he’d always wanted to talk to you. You both know how small the island is and how fast gossip travels.

The word he’s heard people use to describe you rings through his head. Bitch.

But Rafe’s instinct tells him that the word feels wrong after he saw you in your bedroom last night. He can’t get it out of his head, how caring you were with your roommate.

It fucked with him. He hates how badly he wants someone to be gentle with him. And how seeing that made him realize it.

He’s been blackout drunk more times than he can count, and no one’s ever looked out for him. His friends tell him to chill when he starts swinging at parties, but nobody’s there when he’s actually losing it.

All he’s ever been told is to man up. He’s never had someone care enough to try to steady him. And seeing you do it for someone only made the constant ache in his chest deepen.

Rafe looks at you now and leans back, pretending he’s unfazed, laying on his charm.

“It’s true what they say,” he answers. “That you don’t take shit from anyone.”

You wish it didn’t flatter you. You’re not naïve enough to fall for his obviously sugarcoated words. But still, it feels good to be seen as someone who stands her ground.

“What are you working on?” he asks, leaning over to pull out his laptop.

“Discussion boards,” you sigh. Forcing thoughts about readings and replying to classmates has eaten up your last half hour. “You?”

“Fuck, I should do those, too,” he says. You blink at him. It’s already midterm season, and as far as you know, discussion boards make up a huge chunk of most course grades.

“Have you done any?” you say in half-amusement.

“One.”

You nod, not surprised he expects to coast through everything.

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmurs. “All I can type is true.”

Your laugh spills out before you can stop it. You put your hand over your mouth, looking around the quiet library, hoping you didn’t disturb anyone.

Rafe breathes a quiet chuckle, eyes focused on you. It’s the first time he’s heard you laugh like that. He’s caught off guard by how much he enjoys it because for a moment, it feels like you actually like each other.

You fall into an easy rhythm after that. You work, talk in between, occasionally catch each other looking.

And Rafe enjoys it. You’re fun. You always have a retort, challenging his sarcasm with yours, making him feel like he has the potential to be interesting to you if he tries just a little harder.

The sun dips lower outside the windows as time passes, and eventually, Rafe leans back in his chair before he says what’s on his mind.

He’s supposed to be charming enough to pull you in, but not so much that you start thinking you have any real power over him. That’s how he wins the bet. Make you feel wanted, but not too wanted.

“This isn’t what I was thinking when I asked to see you,” he says.

You look up. Technically, he asked you if you were free, but you don’t want him to think you’re hanging on his words.

“What were you thinking?” you ask.

His blue eyes are steady as he stares at you from across the table.

“I want to take you somewhere.”

“Keep it a surprise,” you respond, and Rafe smirks, because he knows that’s your way of agreeing to a date.

He starts to pack up and asks if you want him to walk you home. You agree for two reasons: because it’s dark and because you don’t want to say goodbye just yet.

・・・・・

You set out together, the campus hushed in the late evening. As you begin to walk side-by-side, your hands brush a few times. Neither of you move away. But eventually, just like last night, his strides start to outmatch yours.

“Do you always walk so fast?” you ask.

Rafe glances over, a slow grin tugging at his mouth.

“You want to take your time with me?” he says, but he still eases his pace.

You roll your eyes, but he catches your smile. His hand brushes yours again.

The two of you drift into conversation again, the quiet campus enveloping you. The lampposts cast pools of light across the pathways, and every time you step through one, you catch a different angle of Rafe. The curve of his grin, the way his eyes flick toward you, the way is hair a little messy from the wind.

But you don’t forget the years of half-knowing each other. The stories you heard long before you ever spoke to him. The things you saw back home. The moments that cemented your opinion of him.

And yet here you are, walking beside him like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You don’t like Rafe. Not a chance. He’s being somewhat tolerable today and you don’t know what his endgame is, but you’re not stupid. He definitely has one.

You refuse to believe that he’s behaving out of sincerity. But this is unexpected. You thought you’d go through this bet hating every minute with him. He’s kind of fun. Nonetheless, it’s effortless to keep your guard exactly where it’s always been.

You stop at the front door of your sorority house. Rafe stands close enough that you feel the warmth of him.

He studies you, drawn in despite himself. Even with your posture loose and your expression calm, there’s still a blankness in your face.

“You know,” he says, “you’re hard to read.”

“I get that a lot,” you reply. You’ve heard it from every guy you’ve ever been with. You’re direct when you want to be, but it’s like your inadvertent aloofness makes you some kind of mystery.

He cracks a smile. The porch light hums above you as he tilts his head, towering over you. He feels that pull in his chest again, that desire to close the space between you.

“Guess I have to ask if you’ll let me kiss you instead of just going for it, then,” he murmurs.

You blink up at him, feigning innocence, while the anticipation of his lips pressing on yours sends a rush of heat through you.

“You’re kind of desperate, huh?” you tease.

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head.

“I mean… look at you,” he responds.

The air thickens. His gaze drops to your lips for what feels like the millionth time, and it’s ridiculous how good it makes you feel. Rafe is looking at you like he’s starving for you. It’s pure lust. You feel it too, deep in your stomach.

You reach out, fingers curling into the front of his shirt just enough to tug him closer, to make it clear that if this is happening, it’s happening on your terms.

His breath stops for just a second when you kiss him. His lips are soft and hot, and his hand comes up instinctively, cupping your face with a warmth that spreads across your skin.

He leans in, trying to draw you closer, to deepen the kiss and taste more of you, but you pull back before he can to leave him wanting more.

Rafe’s eyes open slowly, darker now, fixed on you. His lips are still parted and glossed from the kiss.

You knew it would feel good, but it doesn’t mean anything beyond the physical. It’s a temporary pleasure. No spark of anything deeper.

But while you don’t like him in any real way, the mutual attraction is strong enough that you’re already intrigued by what more you can do with him.

You offer a smile and reach for the doorknob, leaving him just like you did last night, suspended in the heat of the moment, wanting more.

(to be continued)

Friday

You had thought Rafe had been joking about buying the ingredients, but one call and thirty minutes later, he showed up at your house ready to bake. He walked in already knowing where to put everything, all while watching you from a safe distance.

"I thought you weren't serious," you said as you started to measure the ingredients.

"I told you I was going to start buying you ingredients," he says, walking closer to check the recipe, to see what he could help with.

"Yeah, but this time was different." You turn to look at him, only to find him way closer than you expected him to be.

"I don't mind buying when I know I'll be asking for a few pieces to take home," he says with a small smirk. His eyes travel to your lips even if he was trying not to do that. You notice and start feeling warm inside. But before anything can happen, your mom walks in, heading to get a bottle of water from the fridge, and you step away as if you had been burned.

"What are you baking this time, honey?" she asks as she squeezes Rafe's arm as a way of saying hi to him.

"Berry cheesecake. We're having dinner at Ruthie's."

"Have fun, and bring me a piece," she smiles.

"I think with all that Rafe bought, I can make two," you smile.

"It's almost as if I did that on purpose," he smirks and leans in to kiss your cheek. You blush almost immediately. He notices the blush and feels proud of himself.

"Of course you did," you rolled your eyes, trying to relax again.

"What can I say? It's that good, plus my mom wants to try." You froze for a second. Did he talk to his mom about you?

"You can take half of the second one, and I'll keep the other half."

"Sounds like a plan," he said, grabbing a blueberry to eat.

"Stop eating stuff—I need them." You tried to swat his hand away, and he laughed.

"Princess, there's plenty."

"I don't care."

Wednesday

The morning of your birthday was always one of your favorites. Your mom always put on music to wake you up, made your favorite breakfast, or bought it for you if she wasn’t in the mood for cooking. But she had always made sure to celebrate it and make a big deal out of it, so you grew up loving your birthday. When you woke up, you already had notifications from your friends wishing you a happy birthday. You were going to answer every single one of them, but first, you needed to get ready. You put on music to start getting ready for the day, and you picked the outfit you had bought specifically for the day. While you were still getting ready, the doorbell rang, and as much as you wanted to see who or what it was, you needed to finish getting ready and clean up your room first.

After finishing up, you walked downstairs and into the dining room, a smile already on your face thanks to the scene that welcomed you. A small cake, a flower-book bouquet on the table, a few cards, and the breakfast your mom had made for you.

“Mom, this looks great, thank you!” You said as you reached for a hug.

“Happy birthday, sweetie.”

“We love you, princess,” your dad added, and you moved to hug him.

“This is great, thank you, and this bouquet! It’s literally what I have always wanted, how–” your mom interrupted before you could even finish asking the question.

“Oh, that’s not from us,” she smiled knowingly, “Rafe sent you this. Here’s the card.” Your eyes widened in surprise.

“Of course,” you said under your breath while reading the card. A genuine smile paints your face.

You hadn’t expected this from him. And maybe you should’ve, even when you two had just met, he had gifted you something, and now that you two were actually close, it should be normal. But your mind betrayed you, it made you think of how he meant all of this, was this him as a friend? Or was this just part of the fake dating to look good in front of your parents? Before you could keep thinking about it, there was a knock on your door.

“Go sit, honey, eat,” your mom said on her way to the door. You heard him before you could see him.

“Good morning, from the look on your face, I guess she didn’t see my text,” Rafe said to your mom, making you grab your phone and check. He had sent you a message about stopping by to pick you up. “Sorry for just dropping by.”

“Nonsense, you’re always welcome!” You stood up, and his face immediately brightened at seeing you. You smiled back at him and walked over. He didn’t waste a second before he enveloped you in his arms.

“Happy birthday, gorgeous,” he said next to your ear, not letting go of the hug. You closed your eyes as you unconsciously melted in his arms.

“Thank you,” you whispered, and pulled away from the hug.

“No need to thank me,” he smiled, letting you move away.

“What are you doing here?”

“Came to pick you up, no need for driving around on your birthday.”

“That’s a lovely thing,” your mom interrupted, “thank you for caring so much for her.”

“It’s very easy,” Rafe said, looking at you.

“Did you already eat?” you asked, trying to stir the conversation away from emotional topics.

“No, I had planned on inviting you because I didn’t know this feast was here,” he glanced at your mom.

“Please sit, I made more than enough.” Your mom said to him, getting him a plate and a coffee mug.

—

After breakfast, you and Rafe said your goodbyes and made it to his car. The music started playing, but you noticed it wasn’t his usual; it was yours.

“Are you stalking my Spotify, or your music taste magically matches mine now?” He chuckled and rolled his eyes.

“I was trying to be nice, but since you don’t appreciate it, I guess I’ll change it,” he smirked, and you chuckled.

“Hey, it’s my birthday, be nice.”

“Oh, I am being very nice,” he glances at you, “I remember a very thoughtful gift being delivered today.” He says with a teasing tone that makes you blush slightly, because you had forgotten to thank him for that.

“Oh God… It was! Thank you, really, it was perfect, I had wanted to get all those books for a while now.” His smile softened.

“That’s great, I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t want to ask to ruin the surprise.”

“You did great. In my experience, you’re a great gift giver.” He blushed, or at least you think you saw him blushing. Maybe you were just imagining.

“You’d have to thank my mom for that.”

“Maybe one day.”

“Since we are on the topic of gifts, do I need to bring one too on Saturday?”

“Oh no, no, this is enough. Why would you bring another one?”

“Because the rest of your family is going to be there?”

“I mean, yeah, but it’s not necessary, pretty sure my mom will tell them if she hasn’t already about today.” You paused, “Oh, also, I think I forgot to tell you, but Kelce is also coming on Saturday.” He sighed.

“Great, he will be insufferable, really sorry about telling him.”

“No, it’s fine, you were right. It’s easier if he knows, but he is being very annoying about it.”

“I know.” Both of you chuckled at the same time.

For the rest of the drive to college, you two talked about everything and nothing at all. You enjoyed his company a lot, and you hoped that even after the fake dating deal was over, you could still hang out as often as you did.

Saturday

“So he is coming today, huh?” Angie asks you over breakfast. Even if you two had been debriefing about the latest events in your lives since last night, she kept coming back to the topic of Rafe.

“Yes, he hasn’t, nor will he change his mind.”

“Just making sure I don’t miss judging his boyfriend's abilities.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“Ha ha,” you said with no energy,

“What? I want to see why he is so convincing.”

“I have told you everything.”

“Yeah, but I want to see it.” You didn’t answer her anymore; you didn’t like the idea of her judging Rafe or trying to understand the situation.

Your aunt was the first to show up; she was helping your mom finish setting up a snack table. You and Angie had been talking for a while, and she was updating you on her boyfriend, who was no longer her boyfriend but still acted like he was, and basically, they were not together, but they still were. It was so confusing that you asked only how she felt about him and what she wanted for herself and him in the future.

While you and Angie talked, your cousins walked in and met with your other family members who were already there. Behind them, Rafe walked in holding flowers. You smiled and rolled your eyes playfully. You had been clear about not having to bring anything, but he had clearly ignored your request. He walked over to where you were standing.

“Hey, you”

“Hi,” you both reached for the other at the same time to hug, but your movements misaligned, and you ended up with your faces inches apart. The blush was immediate. You moved back, he shook his head, and smiled sheepishly. Angie’s eyes darted between the two of you, a sly smirk forming on her lips.

“Well, you know Angie,” you pointed at your friend as if nothing had happened. As if Rafe hadn’t been a breath away from your lips.

“Nice to see you,” he said, giving her a polite smile.

“Nice to see you too,” she said, trying to hold back a laugh.

“I’m gonna go say hi to your parents,” he said as he placed his hand on your waist to move past you. You watched him go, your gaze staying on him for longer than you had planned. He looked like he belonged there, and it was messing with your head. You were getting used to him, too used, and you knew you shouldn’t.

“I get it,” Angie said, making you turn back to her.

“Get what?”

“The reason why they are convinced he is your boyfriend.” She nudged her head as to where Rafe was with your mom.

“He just got here.”

“And I already saw enough,”

“Right…” you said, not understanding what she thought she saw if nothing had really happened. Rafe made it back to you; he pulled you closer, and you wrapped an arm around his torso. It was easy to fall into the fake dating routine when you were at your house. You did feel a bit observed since Angie was there, but you tried your best to ignore it.

A few minutes later, two of your family members and Kelce made it, and with that, all your guests were there. Kelce gave the two of you a look when he saw you sitting next to each other on the couch, looking like a very real couple. For the rest of the afternoon, Angie and Kelce kept sharing looks. The way the two of you acted was too natural, too convincing for it to be just pretend. These thoughts were solidified in Angie’s mind when it was time for the cake.

Rafe helped your mom bring the cake over from the kitchen to the table. He stayed beside you while everyone sang Happy Birthday and helped to take pictures with your family. As the last photo had been taken, your mom spoke up.

“Kelce, come here, now you take the photos so Rafe can also have one.” Kelce wasn’t going to protest against your mom. He knew better, so he grabbed the phone and started snapping pictures. You were a bit stiff; too many eyes were looking at the two of you.

“Relax,” he said next to your ear, making you shiver while Kelce kept taking pictures. He was having the time of his life seeing how Rafe was acting around you.

“Now kiss!” one of your cousins teased. You tried your best to ignore it, but it wasn’t working as the rest of your family joined.

“Come on, just one kiss!” they all said. You turned to Rafe, as if to silently ask for his permission, and he smiled at you. You leaned in first, and he met you halfway. It was soft and innocent, but it made you aware that there were things that you couldn’t ignore anymore.

—

You spent the rest of the celebration ignoring how the kiss had made you feel. You busied yourself talking with your family, or in this moment, going to the kitchen to grab more drinks. Rafe tried his best not to follow you, but failed miserably.

“Anything I can help with?” He leaned over the counter.

“Just taking this to my mom,” You passed him the soda.

“Okay,” he nodded, and before he could set foot out of the kitchen, your mom walked in.

“There’s no ice.” She said, taking the bottle from Rafe. “Could you–”

“I can go,” you interrupted her. You needed a break from everything, and this was the perfect excuse.

“I can go, no need for you to leave your party.” You knew that Rafe meant well by offering to be the one to go get the ice, but you weren’t going to give in so easily.

“Then we go together, come on.” You said already making your way to the front door. He gave a smile to your mom, who only chuckled under her breath.

“Why are we rushing?” he said, getting to his car and opening the door for you.

“I just needed a break from all the noise,” and you, you wanted to add, but now in his car without everyone else around you, you weren’t so sure anymore.

“Low social battery?”

“Yeah, don’t get me wrong, I like being around them, I just needed a break to recharge.”

“Good thing we got out of the house then.”

“Yeah,” you said, looking out the window.

He drove to the nearest convenience store, but when you got there, it was closed, so you had to go to the grocery store, which was a bit farther from your house. When you made it to the store, he opened the door for you, and once inside, you walked around taking your time in each aisle, even if you didn’t need anything from there. Thankfully, it ended up being a good idea because your mom asked you to buy more snacks and coffee. All because she didn’t want to share her special blend with everyone at the house. As you made it to the coffee aisle, you saw someone walking past you and Rafe, and stopping a few feet away.

You glanced at the person, not expecting to know them, but to your surprise, it was Jordan. He was staring back at you already. It made you uncomfortable, even more when he smiled at you, and when you saw him taking a step forward, your brain went into fight or flight. You turned immediately back to Rafe.

“Kiss me.” Your voice came out with urgency.

“What?” He stared at you as if he had heard you wrong. There was no way you had just asked him to kiss you.

“Kiss me, now.”

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REBLOGS, COMMENTS AND LIKES ARE ALWAYS WELCOMED

Rafe shifts closer, his feet dragging slightly against the floor as he closes the space between you. His big hands find your waist automatically, sliding around you, drawing you in until your body presses to his.

He lets out a sigh of relief, his strong arms squeezing you tighter like this is exactly what he needed without having to say a word.

His head dips down, his nose brushing along the side of your neck before he breathes you in, savoring the smell of your perfume and the heat of your soft skin against his lips.

“Shit,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “That’s my shirt.”

“Mhmm,” you hum, arching your back slightly to push your body a little closer to his. Rafe’s hands fall lower, brushing the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath and moving higher until he’s gripping your ass in his wide palms. “You know how insane that makes me, yeah? Walkin’ around in my shit like that?”

“I do—” He steals the words from your lips, kissing you deep and fast, walking you back until your body hits the mattress.

His bicep swells as he braces himself on top of you, the other sliding over your shirt again—higher this time—his thumb brushing your nipple and squeezing your supple flesh as your thighs spread wide.

“You’re actually tryin’ to kill me, huh? Barely made it through class,” he mutters into your kiss. “Been thinkin’ about you all fuckin’ day.”

He pulls back, yanking his shirt over his head, muscles flexing tight, his eyes unwavering from the moment he walked in. His tongue drags over his bottom lip as he pops open the button on his jeans, tugging them down his thighs and kicking them off, clumsy and hungry for more.

You gasp when he grabs you on his way down to the bed, tugging you onto his lap, his hands landing hard on your hips as you straddle him, your knees sinking into the mattress.

He reaches up, his ringed hand wrapping around your throat to pull you into a kiss, his other hand gripping your hip, guiding you to grind your pussy on top of his stiff length.

“I missed you, baby,” you murmur against his mouth, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Yeah?” He asks, like he already knows the answer, fingers hooking around your panties at the hip, tugging rough enough to tear the material.

“Rafe,” you scold half-heartedly, and he laughs, smug and self-satisfied.

“Like I’m not gonna buy you ten more pairs,” he mumbles as his lips brush along yours, his other hand slapping your ass on the other side before he yanks them off completely.

“You look so fuckin’ good, pretty,” he says, bunching the shirt on your body up in his hand, using that grip to pull you a little closer, urging you to grind at the pace he loves.

“Lips,” he grunts, and you dive back in, feeling him groan against your mouth before his eager tongue glides between your lips.

“Take these off,” you mumble between kisses, snapping the waistband of his briefs against his tight skin, and he smiles against your lips, pitching his hips to do just that.

Your hand wraps around his cock before he can even kick them off completely; a moan rips from his throat as his head tips back when you start to stroke.

“Yes, fuck,” he exhales, already rock hard in your hand. You draw back from his lips, sitting up, stroking him in your fist, a line of spit running from your lips before he can even think about asking for anything more—moaning like that’s exactly what he wanted the second your hand starts to pump.

He reaches his hand forward, lifting your shirt over your breasts, tits bouncing with each flick of your wrist, precum pearling at the tip.

“C’mon, baby,” he mutters. “Stop teasin’ me. You started this.”

“Did I?” You ask playfully.

“Lookin’ like this, smellin’ like this, wearin’ my fuckin’ shirt, ass out, all mine—and you’re asking me that?”

You rise up on your knees, dragging his dick along the length of your soaked slit. His jaw locks, muscles tightening in anticipation; the hand gripping your shirt is firmly held in place as he watches your pussy swallow up his thick tip.

“Fuck me,” he groans, gripping your hip, pulling you down nice and slow. “There it is, baby—shit… fuckin’ made for me.”

His voice shakes at the feeling of your body hugging him tight—warm and wet—squeezing around his long cock like he’s trying to get the upper hand.

You start to move, and he loses it—eyes rolling, grip tightening, his whole body going tense under you.

“Take it off. Let me see you,” he breathes, and you peel his shirt the rest of the way off, throwing it to the floor. Your hands come up to your hair as you start to bounce.

Your wetness and the sounds of your shared pleasure fill the room. His skin smacks against yours with each lift and drop of your pussy on his cock.

He sits up, his arm wrapping around you, pressing you into him as your body starts to shake. “Cum for me, baby,” he murmurs, asking and pleading in the same breath, but you’re already there. “Yeah—just like that… that’s my girl.”

You fall apart around him, and he follows right after, groaning your name against your lips, throwing his hips up into you to work you through it with his eyes pinched shut and his cum creaming around the thick base of his dick until you’re falling into his arms, Rafe holding you tight against him.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs. “You know that?” The words come out mumbled, sleepily and satisfied, against your lips.

“That was really good,” you whisper.

“So fuckin’ good,” he answers, his head lolling back a little when your fingers come up to run through his hair, just enough for you to notice, making you giggle because you know where this is about to go.

“Fuck…” He mutters on cue, his lashes low and his lips a little pouty. “I’m so fuckin’ tired, baby.”

“Sleepy?”

He chuckles tiredly, lying back, pulling you down with him. “Let’s just—” He yawns, stretching, his muscles pulling tight again. “Let’s just nap, yeah?”

He pulls out, snagging his shirt to clean you off before his body settles in, all heavy limbs and warm skin.

You shift closer, but he nudges your hand immediately. “Scratch my hair again—love that shit.” The words slip from his lips in another yawn. “C’mon… don’t be mean,” he mumbles, already half asleep. He nuzzles into you, a little impatient. “Right there…” He murmurs. “You’re—you’re amazing.”

“Yeah,” you giggle, watching as he softens into your pillow a little more.

“My girl… My—” A soft breath finishes the sentiment. A gentle snore, quiet and steady, fills its place.

You move a little closer, pressing a kiss to his lips, and still he kisses you back, pulling you even tighter into his arms—completely knocked out, hair a mess, still unfairly hot.

And at this moment, you just can’t help but grab your phone…

[i'm so so sorry but i did not know how to transition it so i just cut to the scene lmao]

the room’s still warm.

not just from everything that just happened but from him. from the way he hasn’t let go of you for even a second.

rafe’s hand is splayed across your stomach, fingers flexing like he’s grounding himself, like if he loosens his grip even a little you’ll slip through them. the pair of you are a little sweaty, but he doesn't seem to even bat an eyelid to the still-panting condition you're in.

"hey," he murmurs, voice low from grunting, "c'mere. no, don't —" he pulls you back before you can even shift properly, dragging you into his chest like it’s instinct. like it’s not even a choice. "stay right here."

its not said harshly. just a little quiet. but there’s something in it that isn’t optional.

his nose brushes against your temple, breathing you in like he needs it. like it does something to him. his thumb starts moving against your side: slow, repetitive, almost restless.

“where you goin’?” he murmurs, voice low against your ear.

“i’m not—” you huff softly, trying to adjust. “rafe, i just need to—”

“nah.” his arm tightens. “you’re good right here.”

you let out a quiet breath, half annoyed, half something else. “you’re literally trapping me.”

“yeah,” he says, like that’s not a problem at all.

his hand spreads across your stomach again, thumb dragging slowly like he’s calming himself down through you.

“you okay?” he adds, but it’s quieter now. more serious. “don’t just say yes,” he adds, quieter. “mean it.”

there’s a second where he just looks at you. really looks at you like he’s checking for something. like he’s searching for any sign that you’re not okay, not his, not here. you can't believe you're seeing it, really, though you know rafe doesn't come short when it comes to surprising you.

you hesitate, just for a second. “i’m fine.”

he goes still.

then his hand slides up, fingers pressing gently—but firmly—against your jaw, turning your face toward him.

“don’t do that,” he says, low.

“do what?”

“that.” his eyes narrow slightly. “that ‘i’m fine’ thing when you’re thinkin’ too much.”

you blink at him. “i’m not—”

“you are.” he cuts you off, not harsh, just certain. “i know you.”

there’s a pause. his thumb brushes under your eye, slow, almost distracted. “just tell me,” he mutters.

you swallow slightly, then quieter, “i’m just a little overwhelmed, okay?”

something in his expression shifts instantly. not softer, worse than that. more focused, like he's trying to pin-point it very directly.

“overwhelmed how?” he asks, leaning closer. “like too much, or—”

“no,” you shake your head quickly. “no, not bad. just… a lot.”

his jaw unclenches a little.

“okay,” he breathes out, nodding once. “okay, that’s fine. i got you.”

his hand slides down your back again, slower this time, deliberate.

“c’mere,” he murmurs, even though you’re already right there, pulling you impossibly closer anyway.

you let out a small laugh under your breath. “rafe, there is literally no space left.”

“good,” he says immediately.

you tilt your head slightly to look at him. “you’re insane.”

“yeah,” he shrugs faintly, eyes locked on yours. “about you.”

your stomach flips at that, but you try not to show it. “you don’t have to be this intense all the time,” you mumble, but it's half-hearted. he knows you love it, so he goes quiet for a second. then just mutters, “yeah, i do.”

it’s not defensive. just rue and final. his fingers tighten slightly at the back of your neck, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there.

“you don’t get it,” he adds, voice dropping. “when you go all quiet like that, i start thinkin’ you’re pullin’ away or somethin’.”

you frown a little. “i wasn’t pulling away.”

“i know that now,” he says quickly. “but in my head? different story.”

there’s a flicker of something raw there, gone almost as fast as it came. you soften a little. “rafe. . . ”

“just —” he exhales, dragging a hand down his face before settling it back on you. “just stay with me, yeah?”

you study him for a second, then nod. “i am with you.”

he watches you like he’s checking if you mean it. “say it again.”

you blink. “what?”

“say it again.”

“i'm with you.”

something in him settles at that. not completely — but enough.“yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “yeah, you are.”

his forehead presses against yours, eyes half-lidded but still locked on you like he can’t look away.

“you feel that?” he says, guiding your hand to his chest.

your fingers rest there, feeling his heartbeat — still fast, still uneven.

“that’s you,” he adds quietly. “that’s what you do to me.”

you let out a small breath. “that can’t be healthy.”

he huffs a faint, almost amused breath. “don’t care.”

his lips brush your temple, slower this time, lingering. “you’re mine,” he murmurs, certainly.

you pull back slightly at that, raising a brow. “am i?”

his eyes flicker. for a split second, something dangerous — uncertain —flashes there. then his hand tightens gently at your jaw, pulling you back in.

“yeah,” he says, quieter now. “you are.”

a pause. then, softer — “unless you don’t wanna be.”

the words hang there, heavier than everything else he’s said.

you look at him properly this time. "i didn't say that, baby."

his breath stutters slightly, barely noticeable, but it’s there.

“good,” he mutters.

and then he’s pulling you back into him again, like he can’t help it, like space between you is something he refuses to allow. his hand finds yours, threading your fingers together, holding tight. “don’t go anywhere,” he murmurs.

you huff quietly, but you don’t pull away. “not after that.”

“yeah,” he says, pressing a slow kiss to your temple. “just makin’ sure.”

© bittersweetlyblue

Alyssa, an old “friend” from university who’d always given back-handed compliments, caught you and your friends at the club when she gave a high-pitched greeting and inserted herself in the bubble your friends had created. She leaned in like she always does, too close for anyone's liking, and far too interested in what you had to say, as if she’d catch something that she could pick apart under the disguise of joking around. 

As you sipped your cosmopolitan, completely zoned out, you heard your name being called and with a sugar-coated mocking laugh, “God, and I remember in uni, you had absolutely no game when it came to getting guys.” 

You almost laughed, but all you could muster was a forced smile, knowing that there hadn’t been someone in a long time. A couple of people nearby go quiet, subtle but enough that you could feel the shift in their curiosity and pondering. Alyssa tilted her head, studying you like she’s flipping through the old version of you, before her smile sharpens. “I’m sure you’re just as… free-spirited now.” 

It lands exactly how she wanted it to, a realization you felt when your fingers tightened slightly around your glass. Though you’d thought it’d been enough time to mature enough not to let her comments affect you, something in you couldn’t shake off the way she’d gain the satisfaction of being right and, once again, making you look inferior. So, you tilted your head to meet her gaze, confidently saying, 

“Actually, Alyssa, I’ve been seeing someone.” You take a slow sip, smirking to yourself when you see a look of her composure slipping for a split second flicker across her face, then set your glass down, “But thank you for your concern.” 

Her brows lift slightly, curiosity slipping through the cracks of that practiced smile. “Oh?” You can feel the attention now, the entire group now listening while looking at you, shocked that you hadn’t brought it up at all. 

“Who?” A friend asked, softer this time. There’s a second—a small, quiet second—where you could still take it back. Perhaps try to say something vague or laugh it off, all in all, to let her win. Instead, you shrug, like it’s nothing, when your eye catches someone from your past, standing across the club. 

“Rafe.” 

The name drops easily, far too easily for your liking, then her expression contorts to full-on disbelief, making you mentally pat yourself on the back. “Rafe? As in Rafe Cameron?” She echoed, stunned. “The same Rafe that I liked?” 

Still, you hold her gaze, steady and unbothered. “Yeah.” 

“Since when?” You tilt your head slightly, letting the corner of your mouth lift. “Since it stopped being your business.”

Inside, your mind was running a million miles a minute while everything felt like it was a burning dumpster fire. That one landed surprisingly well, except you knew it was so out of character for you, making you hyperaware of every glance that lingered a second too long. Of course they noticed, you never snapped like that, and you definitely never brought up the fact that you were seeing someone. Let alone him. You see it—the way Alyssa’s smile tightened, the way she didn’t have a clean way out of it without pushing too hard. So she exhales, light and dismissive, like she’s the one choosing to drop it. 

“Wow, I uh- didn’t expect that,” Alyssa says, before letting out an awkward cough, “I should uhm- get going.” 

As soon as she was out of sight, your friends all looked at you, before one spoke up. “So, when were you going to tell us you were seeing Rafe?”

Now, looking at the melting ice in your drink, you simply stated with all the confidence you could muster up, “When the time was right. I didn’t want to make it a big thing.” 

Except, it had become a big thing, even after you’d gotten off the hook, when you were back at the bar, waiting for your drink as a tall figure came to stand close beside you. The moment you turned to tell the person for invading your personal space, you’re stunned to see none other than Rafe, looking back at you with a pointed look. 

“Care to explain why I jus’ found out from someone else that we’re dating?” His voice sent chills down your spine, the familiar roughness that you’d once adored.

“Nope,” you tried to play it off as heat rushed to your cheeks in embarrassment. “No clue what you’re talking about.” 

“Really?” He cuts in, stepping closer to where your bodies are pressed up against each other. You can already feel your friends’ gazes on your back, taking in the scene between you and Rafe, which you’d noticed he’d caught on too as he looked in their direction. “Because I can go ahead and tell your little group that’s giggling over there that you lied, as well as everyone else who’s been asking.”

Your heart began to beat faster at the potential aftermath, knowing it would be even more embarrassing for you if Alyssa ever found out. With a heavy sigh, you look at him in the same blue eyes you’d gotten used to.

“It was just to get someone off my back,” you say. “I needed a name.”

He lets out a quiet, humourless laugh. “And you picked mine.”

You crossed your arms. “Obviously, you weren’t supposed to hear about it.” Rafe tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Yeah?” his voice lower now. “That your plan? Use me and hope I don’t notice?”

A beat passes by. Clearly, this became a lot bigger than you’d anticipated. “We’re not even—” he gestured vaguely between you, frustration slipping through, “—that anymore.”

The shame built up in you as the memories came rushing back, the ones of hushed words, lingering secret touches, and soft moans filling the atmosphere in each other’s dorms. You’d never let yourself pretend it meant anything more than convenience, or timing, or the kind of thing that only worked in dim lighting and closed doors.

Your jaw tightens slightly, forcing the memories back where they belong. “That was a long time ago,” you said, quieter now, like saying it softer might make it more true. Rafe lets out a short breath through his nose, something almost like a laugh but without any humour in it. His gaze drags over your face, searching, like he’s trying to find where exactly you decided that.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Funny how you only remember that now.” You looked deeper into his gaze, steadying yourself despite the way your pulse won’t quite settle. For a second, it would be easier to fold and smooth things over to move on and get over the predicament you’d gotten yourself into, but you don’t. You’d never been the type to beg, and you sure as hell weren’t about to start now, so instead, you held his stare, chin lifting just slightly. 

“Fine. Forget it, I’ll fix it myself.” You went to walk past him, already thinking of the excuses you could give to your friends about why you’d said Rafe’s name in the first place while also saving your dignity, when his hand caught your wrist. His grip, not rough but firm, still made your heart pick up its pace as you stared at his hand in confusion. 

“Too late,” Rafe said, pausing before looking at you again. The music from the club didn’t feel as loud as his heart was thumping in his chest, and he hoped you couldn’t hear it. “You already said it.” 

“So?” You challenged, your brows furrowing in confusion. You noticed Rafe’s eyes flick down your face to your lips, then back up, making your breath hitch as he said, “So we give people a show.” 

It’d been months since then, long enough for the looks to stop being questioning at the sight of you both and start being more recognizable. Your name now fell next to his without hesitation, and somewhere along the way, you found yourself feeling like it was less of a lie and more real for yourself. You’d gotten used to him again, to the way he’d show up without warning and stand a little too close when it mattered. That was, until you’d feel him instantly become cold and distant the second the spotlight was off of you two, and he’d pull away. Though still, whatever tension there was between you both before had snapped and settled into something more cordial. 

“Just bring him.” Your friend pushed as you groaned, dragging your hand down your face as your friend talked over you for what felt like the tenth time, her insistent nature not backing down. “It’s your birthday. You’re not showing up without your boyfriend.” 

“Okay, and whatever happened to being your own person? I can celebrate my birthday without him, too.”

“Don’t start,” she cut in. “You tell him, otherwise I’ll tell Rafe myself.” 

You exhaled, already regretting the entire thing. “Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll tell him.”

It’s where you found yourself now, in the midst of the crowd with your friends as you laughed along with them. The party was already in full swing by the time Rafe arrived—the music low but steady, drinks flowing, and small groups of people weaving in and out of conversations that blur together. It’s a bit more than you wanted, but still exactly what you expected. For a while, you’d completely forgotten you even had a “boyfriend” as you revelled in the company of your friends around you. 

Rafe didn’t rush when it came to coming; he never did when it came to things like this when he never felt the urgency to. As he stepped into the space, his eyes scanned the room lazily, late and unapologetic, until they landed on you. The shift in the atmosphere felt all too sudden as he took the sight of you in while you were completely unaware of his arrival. Rafe’s gaze dragged over you, slower and more deliberate, as he took in the way your dress draped over your body just right, or how you’d clearly put in more effort into tonight than you’d ever admit out loud, even though he felt like you didn’t need to. 

Rafe swallowed, his jaw tightening just slightly as his eyes flicked away for half a second, like he didn’t know he ever needed this. He shouldn’t be standing there, feeling his chest pull tighter than it should, trying to replay every version of you that he’d tried to keep separate from what you were right now, but it all blurred into one under the rose-tinted lens he was looking through. The realization hit him, quiet and unwelcome, that whatever he felt for you had gone far past he’d ever meant it to be. 

Rafe couldn’t point it out, but suddenly, he felt more conscious of who was thinking about you in the same way he was, or whose eyes were lingering a second longer than he’d like. You were suddenly startled by Rafe’s lips on your cheeks as he greeted you with a kiss, then offered his apologies for being late to your friends as they swooned over the affection he was giving you. As the conversation flowed, he leaned in, lips brushing over your ear as he whispered, “You didn’t tell me you were wearing that.” 

Your stomach flipped, but as nonchalantly as you could, you shrugged, “Didn’t know I had to.”

Rafe felt the heat rise in his body as his mind found itself wandering to places he’d once been but definitely should be now, scolding himself to prevent his blood from rushing down into that one specific area. For the rest of the party, Rafe’s hand was always on you, whether it was on the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd or rested on the curve of your waist when standing together. It felt oddly natural and domestic as Rafe got along with your friends, except when a guy got a little too comfortable. Suddenly, every question directed to you was answered by Rafe instead. 

“You’re working in corporate now, right?” someone asked, smiling a little too easily. Rafe didn’t even look at him, simply responding, “Yeah.” 

You blinked, turning slightly. “I can—”

“She’s been busy,” he added, cutting in smoothly, his grip on your waist tightening just enough to be felt, but not enough to make a scene. Just enough to make a point. “Especially with quarter-end coming up and everything.” 

The guy laughs awkwardly, backing off, and Rafe finally glanced at you, brief and unreadable. The worst part was that you didn’t stop him. You knew you should have, but there was something about the way he did it, quiet and controlled, like he wasn’t even trying. It made your stomach twist in a way that made you not want to think too hard about the way he claimed space around you without asking. Even more so, how you’d found yourself even more drawn to him. 

You barely had time to process it before the lights cut, a chorus of voices rose instantly, laughter and cheers blending as the only source of light came from the candles that appeared from the kitchen. Soft, flickering light illuminating the cake as your friends carried it toward you, singing loudly, off-key, completely unaware of the way your entire body had gone just a little too still. You laughed, shaking your head and already overwhelmed. “Okay, okay-” 

Before you could say anything else, Rafe pressed himself against you again, his hands finding your waist again, firmer this time. He’d grounded you as the warm glow of the candles flickered across your face. 

“Make a wish, baby,” he murmured, low and soft. Heat rushed to your face as you stood there, your heart beating way too fast for something that was supposed to mean nothing. Once everyone’s eyes fell on you, you leaned forward, blowing out the candles in one breath before coming back up. Cheers erupted instantly, but you could barely hear it when you stood back up, only for Rafe to kiss your neck in a way that felt more loving than it was supposed to. 

The car was quieter than you would’ve liked, the silent hum of the motor occupying the silence that sat between you and Rafe. City lights passed through the windows, soft and flickering, while you were still a little wound up from the night and the attention from Rafe. So you said, in a teasing tone, “I gotta admit, you’re really good at selling it.” 

Glancing over, you see Rafe’s jaw tightened as he kept his eyes on the road, still not having said a word. Only after some time does he say, “Yeah.” 

You frown slightly, his response feeling off. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Rafe’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, then he exhaled slowly. “It means,” he said, voice lower now, “you think that was acting?” 

Your pulse picked up, “Well—yeah. That’s the whole poin—” 

“I wasn’t acting.” The words landed heavier than Rafe had intended, clearly as he looked at you, astonished at the confession. Without letting another second pass by, he pulled the car over, his heart racing as he waited for you to say something, anything. Soon, it felt like Rafe’s decision was a lot more irrational than he’d intended, and more like something he’d regret. 

“Listen,” his voice softens as he says your name, “I didn’t mean to drop it on you like that. I just fel-” Rafe was abruptly cut off as you placed your hands on either side of his face, pulling him in for a kiss. 

The kiss was messy, desperate—a collision of months of pent-up tension and unspoken words. It wasn't soft or tentative; it was a frantic clash of teeth and tongues, a silent admission that everything you'd been pretending was real. His hands flew from the steering wheel to your face, his thumbs stroking your jawline as he deepened the kiss, a low groan rumbling in his chest. You shifted in your seat, the awkward angle of the console between you a frustrating barrier as you felt yourself needing more.

Breaking the kiss, both of you were breathing heavily, the air in the car thick and charged. "This is insane," you panted, but your hands were already moving, sliding down his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart under your palm. "Probably," Rafe agreed, his voice rough and strained. His eyes were dark, fixed on your mouth, then drifted down to the dress that had been driving him crazy all night. "Get over here."

The console was still in the way, a stupid hunk of plastic and leather. With a frustrated huff, you swung one leg over, trying to maneuver yourself onto his lap. The movement was clumsy, your dress riding up your thighs. Rafe's hands were there instantly, gripping your hips, helping you, his touch searing through the thin fabric. You ended up half-kneeling on the passenger seat, your torso draped over the console, your body pressed awkwardly against his.

"Fuck this," he growled, and then his hands were on your ass, pulling you flush against him as you settled over his lap. You could feel him, hard and insistent, through the layers of your clothes. The friction was immediate and electrifying. A gasp escaped your lips as you instinctively rolled your hips, grinding down onto him. The rough denim of his jeans against your thin, lace panties created a delicious, maddening pressure that sent a jolt straight to your core.

"Rafe," you whimpered, burying your face in the crook of his neck. You did it again, slower this time, savouring the way his body tensed beneath you. His hands roamed, one sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, holding you in place as you moved against him. The car was filled with the sound of your ragged breaths and the soft rustle of fabric. Every drag of your clothed core against his hard cock was building a coil of heat low in your belly, tighter and tighter. It was desperate and raw, a frantic dry-humping session in the front seat of his car, and it was the most turned on you'd ever been.

He could feel it, the way your movements were becoming less controlled, more desperate. "That feel good, baby?" he murmured against your ear, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated through you. You could only nod, biting down on his shoulder to muffle a moan as a particularly good grind sent sparks shooting behind your eyes. But it wasn't enough. The barrier of clothing was infuriating. You needed to feel him, all of him. As if reading your mind, Rafe's grip on you tightened. "Move back," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You scrambled back over the console, settling into the passenger seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You watched, breathless, as Rafe didn't bother with his door. He threw his long leg over the console, his movements surprisingly fluid and athletic, and then he was on top of you in the passenger seat, caging you in. The space was cramped, his elbows bracketing your head, his knees pressing into the seat on either side of your thighs. The sheer size of him, the way he filled the small space, made your head spin.

He looked down at you, his eyes burning with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. His gaze was soft for a moment, tracing the lines of your face, a stark contrast to the rough way he was positioned over you. He reached down, his fingers gently tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "You have no idea what you do to me," he whispered, the raw honesty in his voice making your chest ache.

Then, the softness was gone. His hand moved to the hem of your dress, bunching it up around your waist with rough, impatient movements. He hooked his fingers into the sides of your panties and pulled them down your legs, tossing them carelessly into the driver's seat. His eyes devoured the sight of you, exposed and ready for him in the dim glow of the streetlights. He fumbled with his own pants, the sound of his zipper echoing loudly in the quiet car. He freed himself, his cock thick and heavy in his hand, and your breath hitched. He stroked himself once, twice, his eyes locked on yours.

He didn't ask; he didn't feel the need to. He positioned himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. He paused, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing harsh and uneven. It was a moment of silent question, of final permission. You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Please, Rafe," you begged, the word barely a whisper. That was all it took. He pushed into you in one long, deep stroke, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt. You cried out, your back arching off the seat at the sudden, overwhelming fullness. It was a stretch, a delicious, almost painful burn that felt impossibly right.

He gave you a second to adjust, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. Then he started to move. His thrusts were deep and powerful, claiming every inch of you. The cramped space meant he couldn't pull back far, so each movement was a grinding, possessive roll of his hips that hit that perfect spot deep inside you over and over again. It was rough, the way the seat creaked in protest, the way his hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises. But it was also soft, the way he peppered your face and neck with kisses between ragged breaths, the way he murmured your name like a prayer.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice thick with emotion. You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze in the darkness. "Mine," he grunted, punctuating the word with a particularly hard thrust that made you see stars. "You're fuckin’ mine."

And in that moment, with him moving inside you, filling you completely, you knew he was right. You had been all along. The lie had become the truth, and there was no going back. The coil in your stomach snapped, and you came with a silent scream, your body convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. He followed you over the edge a moment later, burying his face in your neck as he spilled inside you with a final, shuddering thrust. 

You lay there tangled together in the passenger seat, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the sound of your slowing heartbeats the only noise. Rafe shifted, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, a stark contrast to what had just occurred.

"Happy birthday," he murmured against your skin, and you couldn't help but laugh, a real, genuine laugh that came from deep in your chest.