established!Rabbot X Reader, Jack Abbot X Reader, Michael Robinavitch X Reader
Summary: Robby âhatesâ his new resident so much that he notices something very interesting about her
Warnings: Praise kink, BDSM in a non-sexual setting, non-sexual submission, non-sexual intimacy, very soft jack abbot, small bit of an asshole michael robby robinavitch,so many pet names, mentions of workplace bullying, mentions of suicide and medical procedures
Wordcount: 4,021 words
A/N: This is all disgustingly self-indulgent. I am writing this while very sleep deprived and very lonely and just in need of a little comfort. Please let me know if anyone is too OOC!! Also i stole samira's case from ER đđ
Abbot gif is from @ho-ii and i'm not sure where Robby's is. If anyone knows lmk!!!
Robby wanted it to be known that he really, really, really did not want to like you.Â
You, who was headstrong, stubborn and particular. You were a Presby transfer, one of their prized senior residents who just didnât get along with their team. It was hard and impacted your ability to work and after one too many cruel schoolyard jokes, you jumped ship. You took to the teaching hospitalâs ways and its momentum quite quickly. You didnât hesitate to correct an intern or med student. You never gave a second thought to questioning an attending or fighting a call someone made that you didnât agree with.Â
You, who was also patient and kind. You took extra time with struggling interns, calling them into labs to practise sutures or to go over procedures they couldnât seem to crack after your shift - time you knew you wouldnât be paid for. Any mistake a student made during procedures was gently amended, be it by putting your hand on theirs to guide them or just by giving additional verbal instructions.
This was all mostly fine to Robby. Really, he told himself he could handle it for someone Presby was borderline crying over losing.
It was all fine until you walked in on him absolutely whaling on Samira Mohan.
You stood at the door, expression changing immediately. You gawked at him when he told you he was busy, and to ask Dana if you needed something.
Mohanâs case was not too complicated, all things considered. A lady came in after being hit by a car. The car wasnât going all that quickly, so she wasnât too badly injured. You had overseen Whitaker doing some of her sutures and knew they had it handled. No internal bleeding, great GCS level, maybe a minor concussion at most.
Nobody had accounted for her general melancholy throughout the procedure. She was lamenting about how late sheâd be for work. There wasnât much anyone could say to that, she needed treatment and she was getting it in a very busy, very understaffed ER. Mohan ran it by you afterwards and you approved the discharge.
She was back in maybe an hour later. She had jumped from a three-storey height. It was hopeful when she first arrived, but things turned complicated and she never even made it to surgery. Time of death, 6:12PM.
Robbyâs brows were so furrowed they were pretty much touching. He was going on and on about missed signs and how the car accident had clearly been a suicide attempt. You stood up and argued back - how could she possibly have predicted someone would do that? Her sadness was chalked up to the adrenaline leaving her system, and why wouldnât that have been the answer? She was just in a car accident!
You sent Samira out, and he reminded you that you had absolutely no authority to do that. You told her to go, anyway. The two of you went back and forth and back and forth until he finally relented. This wasnât anybodyâs fault. Youâre doctors, not mind-readers.
After that âblatant disrespectâ he had suffered, he was doing everything he could to try and find fault with you. He needed something to write you up, to ride you about. He needed to even the score, and remind you he was top-dog around here.
He followed you from case-to-case, watching how you spoke to everyone and did everything. This was when he noticed something about you.
You were very, very quick to dole out praise.
Whitaker assisted you in a really clean intubation? âGood man, thatâs exactly what we want.â
Javadi catching a small symptom that could have turned fatal? âAmazing catch, weâd be lost without you.â
None of it was sarcastic or felt over-the-top. It was warm and fond and real. You loved teaching them, you loved seeing them gain their confidence.
You were shy, too. Not usually, but sometimes. When you got a taste of your own medicine with a âgood saveâ or a ânice jobâ, you got so bashful. All red and quiet, for once. He filed this information away, although he really didnât know why.
You werenât warm to him. You were strictly professional after you caught him with Mohan. You seemed to be good friends with her. He liked Samira, he really did. She was talented and could be brilliant if she applied herself like he wanted. Maybe he pushed too hard, she seemed to perform perfectly with you.
Abbot really liked you as well. You worked a double in your first week and you - unsurprisingly - got along just as swimmingly with the ânight crawlersâ as you did with the day shift. It was starting to piss him off at this stage.
Every time he and Abbot met up at home, you were the first topic of conversation. He ranted and raved about what you did and what you didnât do and why it annoyed him and why he didnât think you were gonna be a good fit in the long run.
His husband listened, of course, and empathised with him. Itâs hard to work with someone you donât seem to like at all. But days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. This time, when Robby started, Abbot had to intercept.
âMike, baby. This is becoming an obsession." When Robby opened his mouth to argue back, Abbot couldnât help but take notice of the slight flush on his cheeks. The same flush he had had every time he brought her up recently.
At first, he had assumed that he was just getting worked up about you, but nowâŚ
âHoney, I think you might have a little crush.â Abbot said softly. Robby scoffed in response.
âWell, Iâm hardly gonna leave you at this stage.â He put his palms on his eyes and pressed hard. Abbot leaned over and gently lowered them before he hurt himself.
âSheâs fake as fuck, brother. You should hear how she talks to the others. Itâs like a fucking kindergarten.â He groans, squeezing Abbotâs hands.
âWhat, all this âcause she wonât call you a good boy?â He joked, but he smiled when Robby blushed harder.
âOhhhh, brother.â He laughed, scooping Robby up into his arms and squeezing him. âYou got a crush, itâs okay.â
âIâm married.â Robby whispered into his shoulder.
âYeah, I know, champ. I was there.â Robby raised his head to glare at him.
âI wouldnât want her to be anywhere else. I meanâŚâ Abbot looked down at Robby, wiggling his eyebrows emphatically. âI wished sheâd have preferred nights for a while.â
Now, Robbyâs head flew up.
âYouâve thought about her?â He asked.
âNot as much as you, hon. But, yeah, I have.â Abbot squeezed him gently again.
âW- why?â Robbyâs question was fair. Theyâd swung for a bit, yeah. But Abbot didnât go for women. Not after his late-wife. Robby fiddled with Abbotâs blackened out band, resting underneath their matching ones.
âWell, sheâs pretty. Seems like sheâs a good girl, too.â Abbot said, shrugging off his concern.
âDonât tell her that.â Robby huffed, rolling his eyes. âIt fucks with her flow.â
âDoes it now?â Abbot intoned. He found that very, very interesting.
It had been a few weeks since you last ran into Jack Abott. Robby was off and Shen had covered the day. He did a hand-off and ran for the hills. Abbot is secretly glad he doesnât prefer the days. Heâs a pretty vital part of his crew. Abbot met you just as you were surveying the board for the last time.
âAnything you need to warn me about?â He asked. You laughed, this guy was a sucker for gossip.
âNothing too interesting. Central 12âs a biter, though. Relative distance is recommended.â You supplied, lips thinning even with your smile.
âDoinâ anything for the night?â
âNothing, just sleeping.â You responded, sighing. This little tell was the closest to complaining heâd seen you. Abbot nodded. You looked like shit.
âEat something nice and go straight to bed.â He didnât quite order you to do it, but it definitely wasnât a suggestion either.
âSir, yes, sir.â You gave him a mock salute, standing up straight.
âGood girl.â He said, patting your shoulder and walking away. He looked back after a moment to look at you and sure enough, you were short-circuiting.
Like Robby had been doing for you, you very much actively tried to avoid him. Which didnât typically work. You couldnât seem to stop running into him.
Your frosty demeanor didnât waver with him, but his had softened greatly with you. He had taken to sticking around for your procedures again, nodding affirmatively when you did the right thing, or offering a gentle âah-ahâ when doing something he thought wrong.
He often went to you after a tough patient, asked if you needed anything or if you wanted to talk. You tried to be open to it, you really did. But he got under your skin. You were waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You had spoken to Samira about how Robby was when first started, kind and encouraging. How quickly he turned cruel and empathetic when he found a new âstar studentâ. You didnât want to be his star student, but you seemed to have had most of his attention recently.Â
You knew heâd turn on you again, and when he did the others would follow. It happened at Presby, and itâll happen here. You could feel it in your bones, you wouldnât let them get the leg up on you like that.
The day finished up and like always, you searched the board. You wanted any reason to stick around for a bit, to chat to someone, to be useful to someone else. Robby walked over and prattled on about his weekend plans. Him and Abbot were both off, something that almost never happened.
âCâmon, you got here early. Iâm not gonna let you do any overtime.â Hands on your shoulders, he gently steered you towards the exit. You hadnât brought in anything other than your worn hoodie and your phone, both of which were in your possession, so you had no excuse to not follow.
âYou got a ride?â He asked, eyeing your lack of keys.
âCarâs at the shop.â You admit sheepishly. âIâm walking today.â
Robby frowned.
âNo, youâre not. Iâll give you a ride.â He shook his head, hand going to your shoulder to hold you in place before crossing the road. He used the same hand to lead you across the road. You couldnât help but relax a little at the action. You liked just following along with whatever people wanted at the end of the day. I mean, your whole job revolved around making choices to save lives, who would want to make a decision about themselves after that?
âYou really donât have to, Dr. Robby.â You murmured.
âHeâs not, I am.â A gravelly voice caused you to look up. Jack Abott stood by their car, dangling the keys until they made a jingleing noise. You clearly werenât the only one surprised. Robbyâs eyebrows shot up. He went over and kissed Abbot on the cheek.
âWe actually had a question for you.â Abbot spoke, hand rubbing Robbyâs back.
âIf you donât have plans tonight, would you have dinner with us?â Your brows shot up this time.
âBut- youâŚâ Your eyes shifted between Abbot and Robby several times.â
âWant you to have dinner with us? Yes.â Robby finished off what he assumed your sentence would have been.
âI- Iâd hate to intrude.â Was all you could think to say, because one part of your brain immediately wanted to say âyes!â.
âGood thing you wouldnât be, then.â Abbot smiled at you, winking. âLook, if you donât want to, you donât have to. We want you to, but your word is final. We wonât be offended.â
âWe can pretend this never happened. We drive you home and we donât talk about it again.â Robby confirmed softly.
âNo, I- I donât have any plans. Dinner would be niceâŚâ You admitted, stomach starting to grumble. Robbyâs did too, causing Abbot to laugh.Â
He ushered both of you in the car and drove to what you could only assume was their house. A real nice, big townhouse a little ways outside the city. It was quiet, but thoughtfully decorated. The lawn was stunning and the colour pleasing to the eye. You were invited inside to see the gorgeous interior. The kitchen was a mix of modern furniture with retro colour schemes - reds, blacks and blue used interchangeably. The house seemed to be lit according to mood, with the kitchen lights on full whack and the dining room a little dimmer.
âI actually have it all ready, just sit down anywhere.â Abbot instructed, not caring that he admitted he assumed you were going to say yes.
âCan I help?â You asked.
âYes, by sitting down.â Robby replied, pointing to one chair in particular. Right to the head of the table.
Abbotâs voice rang out again - âDo you drink wine?â - Upon hearing your affirmative, his head popped through the doorless frame.
âWhite or red?â
âRed, please. Will I help set out the drinks?â You asked for the second time.
âYou can stay right where you are, please.â You are told for the second time.
After what feels like an eternity (it was 5 minutes), a small bowl is placed in front of you and your wine is topped up just slightly. Robby took the seat in front of you and Abbot beside you, at the head.
All three of you ate in relative silence, before you broke it to compliment the soup. It was potato and leek, so creamy and starchy that you didnât even feel the crunchy onion-y texture.
âThank you, youâre very sweet.â Abbot smiled at you. You tried to control your blush, ducking your head modestly.
âIsnât she just?â Robby agreed, as you hurriedly spooned another mouthful of soup into your gob.
The first course passed quickly after that. Robby collected the bowls, pushing you down in the chair when you got up to help him. He disappeared into the kitchen.
âYou donât know when to give up, do ya?â Abbot asked, laughing slightly.
âIâm not good with being idle.â You admitted, laughing along. He stared at you for a bit.
âYou can relax, you look so tense. Did you have a bad day?â He asked kindly.
âNo, no. Everything went very well. Iâm just⌠Iâm just like this.â You laughed again, albeit a bit more nervously this time.
âUh-huh, well, I want everyone who walks in here to feel better when they walk out. Is there anything I can do for you?â His gaze followed yours, ducking his head to look you in the eyes. Itâs hard to ignore the husky undertone in his voice.
âLook up at me, please. Itâs not good to slouch.â He gently corrected and you rushed to remedy yourself.
âSorry, Dr. Abbot.â
âYouâre okay, I just donât want your back to get sore. And, call me Jack when weâre not working.â
âYes, sorry Jack.â
âGood girl, youâre okay.â He doesnât miss the way the tension leaves your shoulders. You stare at him for a moment, your eyes almost glazing over before Robby returns.
âRoast should be ready in 20.â He murmured, squeezing Abbotâs shoulder as he passed him. Him and Abbot exchanged a few looks before Robby began again.
âYouâre a very smart girl.â He stated simply, you couldnât help but whip your head over to him.
âSettle.â Abbot huffed a small laugh.
âIâm sure you can see we didnât call you just to eat with you.â You didnât know what to say to that. You simply hummed and nodded for him to continue.
âJack and I have a particular⌠void that needs filling. And you seem to be the perfect candidate.â Robby continued, watching your face very closely. He saw your brows furrow.
âWe arenât asking you to have sex with us.â Abbot spoke very quietly, âThat isnât what we want.â
âThen what is this âvoidâ?â You asked cautiously, not sure if you felt relieved or disappointed you attendings didnât want to have sex with you.
âWeâre old men, who make a lot of money and donât have family to look after. We want someone to take care of.â Robby informed you.
âYou want me to be your sugar baby?â You asked, a bit incredulously.
Simultaneously, you heard a ânoâ and a âsort ofâŚâ. Abbot glared at Robby.
âAre you familiar with BDSM dynamics, honey?â You tried not to react when Abbot called you honey but judging by the way he looked at you, you failed.
âI-yes, I am.â You mutter, looking down again.
âAh-ah, look up.â Abbot couldnât help but remind you. Robby gawked at him, but you looked up automatically. Abbot tipped your chin encouragingly.
âHave you had any experience with it?â He asked and Robby turned his attention back to you.
âUh, a bit, yeah.â You admitted in a whisper. God, this was so fucking embarrasing. Robby reached across the table for your hand, which had clenched around itself. He unwinded your fingers and placed his hand on top of yours, rubbing circles onto it.
âCan you tell us what you were doing?â He asked softly. Suddenly, it was hard for you to remember why you didnât like Robby.
âI was- I was a submissive. Sometimes for sex, but usually domestically.â You murmured, feeling a bit lost in his gaze.
âThank you for answering. You had a regular dom then?â He asked. You blinked up at him slowly.
âNo, I was a part of this, like, group. You texted in and someone usually responded. I knew a few of them well but not all of them. I just⌠I just needed to be out of my head.â You shared, feeling a bit like a common whore. You went to look down again, but Robby clicked his tongue.
âI believe Jack asked you not to do that.â
âSorry, Dr. Robby.â
âMichael, please.â
âSorry Michael.â You murmur automatically.
âNo apologies necessary, sweet girl. That must have been hard to tell me.â You nodded without thinking. Abbot piped up again.
âThatâs exactly what we want. A submissive. You donât have to fuck us. We want to feed you, bathe you, dress you up. We want you to listen, and do as youâre told, and to feel free.â Abbot took your other hand, thumb rubbing up and down your wrist.
âYou donât have to even try it. If youâre not interested, we eat dinner, drop you home and pretend none of this happened.â Robby promised, squeezing your hand.
âNo pressure. If you want to think about it, then same thing.â Abbot assured.
âI⌠I do want to try. I havenât done it in a bit, I might be a bit shit at it.â You admitted, feeling a bit exposed.
âYou have been doing absolutely wonderfully.â Robby reassured you quickly.
âYou wouldnât have to worry about a thing, weâd do that for you.â Abbot added.
âOkay, Iâll try it with you. But if I donât fall deep, donât be upset.â You warned
âStop getting in your own head about this, weâll take it as we go, babe.â Robby brought your hand to his lips, kissing each finger between words. You revelled in the attention for a moment, and you knew they knew. You felt yourself settle down, the weight rolling off your shoulders.
You didnât notice Abbot getting up beside you, so you jumped when a plate was placed in front of you. Abbot petted your hair soothingly.
âHush, itâs only me. Here, MikeâŚâ As he passed Robby his own. He placed his own down and quickly plucked the cutlery from your hands.
âWould you like it if I fed you, hon?â Abbot asked quietly, waiting for your response. You nodded slowly.
âBrave girl.â He noted you must have been wrecked to give in so easily.
The plan had initially been to just ask you tonight. Talk to you a bit about it, get to know you. Youâd talk about expectations and fears and all of you would set a schedule. Which would still need to be made, but tonight was not the night. Abbot really hadnât meant to start domming you before youâd even discussed it, but you were plain irresistible. It irritated him how you couldnât see it. He could see you needed it tonight, Robby could too. You were barely hanging on.
âDo you like to try everything separately first or do you usually go straight in with your meal?â Robby asked before Abbot began.
âSeparately, if itâs not too much trouble.â You disclosed, reaching to take the fork from Abbotâs hand preemptively. Abbot gently lowered it.
âHands on your thighs or on the table, please. Thank you for telling me, Iâd like to feed you.â They had a feeling you would need more than a simple instruction. You seemed to be a lot more insecure in yourself than they originally thought.
Clear instructions, easily-won praise often, and many reminders of the initial order or rules. They could remedy that, if you would let. They could only hope you would.
Abbot handfed you every bit, stopping every few to take some himself. When he was eating, Robby took the opportunity to feed you some of his own.
âYou are taking this so very well.â He murmured, rubbing your cheek after a bit.
You had cleared the plate before you knew it, and Abbot smiled wide.
âVery, very good. Do you want anymore?â You shook your head lightly, muttering a small âno thank youâ.
âThank you for being so polite, sweet girl. You are doing so well. Itâs hard to let someone take care of you, isnât it?â Abbot asked empathetically, taking both of your hands in his own and kissing them. He turned to Robby, who was only watching.
âMike, could youâŚâ He asked Robby something, but you didnât quite catch it. You watched him stand up and walk around to you.
âCâmere⌠Thatâs a good girl.â Robby spoke, bringing you into the living room. He plopped himself down on the middle of the couch and when he went to pull you into his lap, he was surprised to find you on the floor. You knelt between his legs, not needing to be told to get into position and falling into total habit for the first time tonight.
âArenât you a high achiever?â He crooned into your ear, petting your hair. He grabbed a pillow from the end of the couch and quietly ordered you to move for a moment. He could see the panic in your eyes and dropped the pillow. He brought his hands to your hips and looked up at you.
âI just wanted to move this underneath you so youâre not in any pain. Youâre not in trouble, weâre all okay.â He assured quickly, thumbing circles onto your hip bones. You nodded and lowered yourself onto the pillow when he had it placed.
âIs that much better, honey?â He cooed at you from above.
âMhm-hmm. Thank you, Michael.â You instinctively leaned against his left leg. He continued cooing at you until Abbot came back in. They said something to each other, but you werenât listening. You didnât feel like you needed to. You werenât told to pay attention to anything.
âFeeling okay, baby?â Abbot looked down at you, gently tugging your chin upwards to meet his eyes. He was sitting on Robbyâs left side. You nodded slowly, eyes glazed over. You smiled softly at him and he released his hold, letting your head fall back to where it was.
âBest girl.â He said, scratching your scalp, while Robbyâs leg supported your body weight.
In the morning, you would hope and pray tonight was not a fluke and that you impressed them. But tonight, you werenât worried about that. You werenât worried about a thing at all.
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SUMMARY: A frustrated figure skater who transferred from Illinois has only one goal: keeping her athletic scholarship this season, and sheâll do anything to change the way people on campus see her â especially if it means improving her image for pairs skating. Even if it costs her a fake relationship with the same person who spread the nickname that turned her into âIce Heart.â
WARNING: SMUT AHEAD CONTENT RELATED TO SEX, RELATIONSHIPS, AND DISORDERS CONTENT CONTAINS FACTS, BUT REMEMBER THIS IS FANFICTION, IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, LEAVE!
MASTERLIST
1.2 Fucked
My legs parted instinctively. I hooked my heels against his back, pulling him closer, and tipped my head back as he trailed kisses and gentle nips along my neck. A shiver ran through me as his hands wandered over every curve of my body.
âWe need to keep quiet.â
A low moan slipped from my lips, but he didnât seem to care. In one firm motion, he lifted me onto the counter and started unbuttoning my jeans, sliding them down my legs.
Loganâs gaze met mine as he knelt in front of me. His lips brushed against my thighs without breaking eye contact. Caressing me over the delicate lace of my panties, he let a dangerously beautiful smile appear.
âSo wet for me...â The words came out in a husky whisper as he pressed another kiss to my skin. âAlways so good for me.â
When I felt his touch grow more insistent, a shiver shot through me, drawing an involuntary whimper from my lips. My head fell back.
âJohnny...â
âWant me to taste you, gorgeous? I really want to know what you taste like.â His voice reached my ears, and all I could manage in response was a hurried, embarrassed âMhm,â which made a low laugh escape his lips. âIâm going to give you everything you want, beautiful.â
His tongue then brushed against my clit before licking a stripe through my wetness. Just as I started nearing my climax, a knock at the door made me open my eyes and huff in frustration at not having gotten to come.
âYes?â
I shouted, still lying down, and heard Hannah say:
âCan you come deal with whatever is wrong with Logan? Because heâs been standing outside our door for fifteen minutes saying he needs to see you, and not even Garrett can make him leave.â
I frowned and looked down at my fingers, which now seemed dirtier than they had five minutes ago because the guy starring in my sexual fantasies was standing at my door.
What a fucking pervert.
âAre you listening to me?â Hannah asked from the other side of the door.
âUnfortunately, yes.â
âGreat. Then come deal with this.â
I closed my eyes.
Took a deep breath.
Opened them again.
I got out of bed and ran my hands through my hair. Trying to rearrange the face of someone who had been seconds away from coming.
Trying to forget the last five minutes. Trying to forget that the man at my door had just starred in an extremely inconvenient fantasy.
âDid he say what he wants?â
âYou.â
Great.
Fantastic.
Wonderful.
âAnything else?â
âNo.â
âThatâs it?â
âBasically.â Hannah paused. âBut he looks nervous.â
That caught my attention immediately. So I walked to the bedroom door. When I opened it, Hannah was leaning against the hallway wall with her arms crossed. The amused smile that appeared on her face made me instantly suspicious.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â
âHannah.â
âNothing.â
She was definitely lying. I rolled my eyes. Then walked past her. Across the hallway. Across the living room.
Every step seemed to make my heart beat a little faster.
When I reached the apartment entrance, I could hear muffled voices on the other side of the door.
When we entered the living room, Hannah immediately walked over to Garrett. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his arm.
âGood luck,â she said, trying to hide her amused smile.
I rolled my eyes, and Garrett chuckled.
âDonât kill each other.â
âWe already raised the white flag. Relax.â
They said goodbye to Logan and headed down the hallway. A few seconds later, Hannahâs bedroom door closed. Silence settled over the apartment.
When I turned my attention back to Logan, I found him standing near the entrance, his hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. He shifted his weight between his heels and the balls of his feet.
Nervous.
Restless.
And, for some reason, it was adorable.
A snort of laughter escaped me before I could stop it.
Logan immediately narrowed his eyes.
âWhat?â
I shook my head.
âNothing.â
âYouâre laughing at me.â
âMaybe.â
âThatâs rude.â
One corner of his mouth lifted, but the tension was still there.
I crossed my arms.
âWhat are you doing here, Logan?â
Instead of answering, he blurted:
âDid you sleep with him?â
I blinked several times.
âWho?â
âThe guy who was at your door when I dropped you off. Who was he?â
âMy ex.â
The answer seemed to hit him square in the chest.
âYour ex?â
âYes.â
His jaw tightened.
âFunny. For someone nicknamed Ice Heart, a lot of men have passed through your life.â
A laugh escaped before I could stop it.
And that clearly caught him off guard.
âDefinitely.â
His eyes swept across my face.
âDid you sleep with him?â
I frowned.
âWhy would I do that?â
âI donât know, I...â He ran a hand over the back of his neck. âI donât know.â
I watched him for a moment.
The restlessness. The tension. The way he seemed to be fighting against his own thoughts.
âWhat are you doing here, John?â My voice came out softer this time. âItâs really late.â I paused. âLike, really late.â
He let out a breath through his nose, as if only then realizing the time. His gaze faltered for a second.
Then returned to me.
Steady.
Determined.
âI needed to talk to you. I told myself I'd text you, but I'm still blocked.â
Logan let out a frustrated laugh and dragged a hand down his face.
âAnd when you didn't answer my messages, I just... freaked out.â
He shook his head, staring through the windshield for a second before looking back at me.
âBecause all I could think was, fuck. She's fucking with him. She's actually with him.â His jaw tightened. âAnd the worst part was knowing I had no right to be angry about it. Because I was the asshole first. I was the idiot who couldn't get his shit together long enough to tell you the truth.â
The room fell silent. Logan swallowed hard.
âCouldn't tell you that I was in love with you too.â My breath caught. He laughed once, humorlessly. âDo you know how pathetic that sounds? I spent an entire week trying to convince myself I was fine. That this was fine.â
His eyes finally met mine.
âI couldn't sleep.â The confession came out almost as a whisper. âI kept thinking about you. Thinking about us. Thinking about all the ways I'd screwed this up.â
He looked away for a moment before continuing.
âAnd I wanted to tell you in the car.â
His voice cracked slightly.
âI wanted to tell you that not answering you that day was one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made.â
The air inside the truck felt impossibly small.
âBecause I'm falling in love with you too.â
The words settled between us.
Raw. Unavoidable.
âAnd fuck, it's terrifying.â
He let out a shaky breath.
âI don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to do this.â
His eyes searched mine.
âBecause what if I get everything I've ever wanted... and it's you?â
For a second, I was sure Iâd heard him wrong. The entire apartment seemed to fall silent. The clock on the wall. The refrigerator. My own breathing. Everything disappeared. Only those words remained.
Because Iâm falling in love with you too.
Logan looked just as surprised to have said them as I was to hear them. His chest rose and fell rapidly.
His shoulders tense. His eyes locked on mine as if waiting for the impact. As if waiting for me to laugh. Or throw him out.
Or tell him heâd lost his mind.
But I did none of those things.
I just stared at him.
Because suddenly my brain had forgotten how to function.
The tension on his face grew with every second I remained silent.
âOkay.â
He nodded once. Without humor.
âYeah, this silence is definitely not a good sign.â
That pulled a small laugh from me. Small. But enough. His shoulders relaxed almost instantly. Almost imperceptibly.
âWell, now you know exactly how I felt when I told you.â
âFuck, Iâm sorry. This is awful.â
âLogan, I donât... I donât know what to do. Are you doing this out of pity?â
He spread his arms.
âIâm standing here looking ridiculous in front of you and youâre asking if Iâm telling you Iâm falling in love with you out of pity?â
My laugh escaped before I could stop it. And for a moment, the tension eased. Just a little. Just enough for me to breathe.
Logan watched me silently. The smile faded slowly. Giving way to something more serious. More vulnerable.
âI didnât come here expecting an answer.â
My eyes met his.
âNo?â
He shook his head.
âNo.â
His voice was steady.
âI just needed you to know.â
My heart tightened.
âBecause you deserved to know.â
Silence settled between us again.
But it wasnât uncomfortable.
It was different. Like we were standing at the edge of something important, without knowing exactly how to cross it.
âDid you really stay awake thinking about it?â
The question slipped out before I could stop it. A smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
âAre you talking about the confession or the part where I was spiraling because your ex showed up again?â
âBoth.â
âThen yes.â
I rolled my eyes. But I couldnât hide the warmth spreading through my chest. Logan watched me for a few more seconds.
Then took a step toward me.
Small.
Careful.
As if giving me space to back away if I wanted to.
âIâm not asking anything from you right now.â
My breath caught.
âIâm not asking you to decide anything today...â
But I wasnât listening anymore. Because something inside me had simply broken. Or maybe finally clicked into place. Before I could think better of it, I took two long strides toward him. I saw surprise appear on his face.
Saw his eyes widen. And then I pressed my lips to his. For a second, Logan froze. As if he couldnât believe it was really happening.
As if heâd spent so much time imagining that moment that he needed a second to understand it was real. Then his hands found my waist. And he kissed me back.
For a few seconds, there was nothing else but the feeling of finally stopping the fight against what we felt.
He pulled me closer, as if he were still trying to believe that this was real. My hands moved up to his neck, my fingers getting lost in his curls as I smiled against his lips.
When we pulled away, it was just enough to catch our breath. His eyes found mine immediately.
Gentle.
Almost incredulous.
As if they were waiting for me to change my mind at any moment. "I'm tired of pretending that I don't care about you. I had enough time to think if I hated you."
"So..."
His voice came out hoarse.
"Was that a yes?"
I couldn't contain my laughter.
"You're a college hockey player and you still need confirmation?"
"I need to."
His smile widened.
"Lots of confirmation."
I nodded my head, still smiling.
Then I touched his face with the tips of my fingers and he looked at me and held my face between his hands and kissed me again. Not with urgency. But with the certainty of someone who had spent too much time wanting to do it. My heart raced.
And, for the first time in weeks, it didn't seem scary.
It felt right.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and smiled against his lips.
Logan let out a low laugh.
"You're smiling."
"Maybe."
"I can feel it."
"Stop complaining."
"Never."
I rolled my eyes.
So I held his hand.
Intertwining our fingers.
And I started pulling him down the hallway.
His eyes followed my every move. As if he were still trying to process that it was real. When we reached the door of my room, I stopped.
For a moment, we just stood there. Staring at each other.
His smile was so ridiculously happy that I couldn't help but laugh again.
"What?"
He asked.
"Nothing."
"Lies."
"You seem like you won something."
"I actually did."
My heart stumbled. Because he answered without hesitation. No joking.
No sarcasm.
Just looking at me.
As if that were the most obvious thing in the world.
And, suddenly, I couldn't look away. Nor did I want to.
Because after so many misunderstandings, so many interrupted conversations, and so many missed opportunities, we were finally in the same place.
"What were you doing before I arrived?"
The question caught me completely off guard. I felt the heat rise immediately up my neck. Up my cheeks. And the reaction was so obvious that a laugh escaped my lips as they curved into an involuntary smile.
Logan noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His smile grew at that very moment.
Slow.
Too funny for my taste.
"Oh my. What were you doing? "
"Shh, stay quiet."
I pushed lightly against his chest, and he fell back onto the bed with a laugh. The sound filled the room.
That warm, carefree laugh I'd missed more than I cared to admit.
"Are you trying to silence me?"
"I am."
"It's not going to work."
"It's worth a try."
I shook my head, unable to hide the smile. Logan raised an eyebrow.
"So this is how it's going to be now?"
"How?"
"You smiling at me."
My heart stumbled.
Because he seemed so happy with something so simple.nSo genuinely happy.
"It was kind of difficult, to be honest."
I commented, settling into his lap.
"What?"
"Not smiling at you. Your face is very annoying, it makes me want to laugh at her all the time."
"Oh, for sure. That's why you're looking at me with so much disgust now. "
"Uh-huh."
I grumbled and went back to kissing him slowly. I slid my lips along his jawline covered by stubble and continued to his neck, teasing him near his ear. A low moan escaped him before his hands found my neck, guiding my face back so I could look at him.
"If you keep doing that, I'm going to come in my pants."
The statement made me burst out laughing. I hid my face in the curve of his neck, still laughing.
"Well, you should come somewhere else then..."
I murmured near his ear. Slowly, I got off his lap and stood in front of him. Then I took off the shirt I had put on just to answer the door and Logan's gaze immediately swept over my body.
His breath caught.
For a moment, he just watched me.
"Do you really want this?"
The voice came out quieter than usual.
Weaker.
More sincere.
I took a few short steps to position myself between his legs, allowing his hands to find my waist.
"I think you can imagine where my fingers were when you arrived and interrupted me."
The effect of my words was immediate. His eyes darkened and, for a second, John simply stared at me.
"Tell me what you were imagining before I got here, gorgeous," he whispered, pressing soft kisses and lingering touches down the center of my body.
"You were... um..." I stammered, my cheeks burning. "You were going down on me."
His eyes lifted to mine, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.
"Was I?" he asked softly. "What was I saying to you?"
I closed my eyes, breathing unevenly as I felt his breath ghosting over my skin.
"You said..." I swallowed hard. "Fuck, Johnny. You said you loved the way I tasted. That you..." I broke off, heat rushing to my face. "That you wanted to taste me."
"I do want you. I have since the very first time I had to pretend I was fucking you when this fake relationship started."
As if he were trying to decide whether it was real or just another one of the fantasies he had been having about me. Then, in a swift motion, he leaned in to kiss the valley between my breasts once again, slowly moving up and making the friction of his beard against my skin send shivers down my spine.
"Uhum..."
I moaned, my fingers already tangled in his hair.
"God, I love your mouth."
He lifted his head just enough to look at me, a smug smile tugging at his lips.
"So tell me, gorgeous. Is this better than what you imagined?"
His arms wrapped around my thighs, opening me even more for him, and when his mouth focused exactly on the right spot,exploring my wet pussy, sucking, drawing with a pressure that bordered on obscenity, a loud moan escaped from me before I could stop it.
´´Fuck yeah.´´
"Shh," he murmured against me, and the vibration of his voice made my entire body tremble. "You're going to wake up our friends."
"I don't care. Hannah and Garrett are loud as fuck too."
He laughed, a low and dirty laugh, and shoved his tongue inside me. My jaw dropped back. My hands gripped his hair so tightly that he moaned, and that sound, the sensation of his tongue fucking me while I writhed, was almost too much.
"Logan," I gasped. "Fuck, Logan."
He stepped out just enough to speak, his lips glistening, his gaze fixed on mine. "Do you have any idea how good you taste?" he said, his voice hoarse.
"So sweet."
My response was a shameful whimper, what made him smile, dangerously, and returned to me as if he were starving. This time, he wasn't playing around. Two fingers entered me along with his tongue, and the air escaped my lungs in a gasp. He fucked me with his fingers while sucking me, rhythmic, cruel, perfect. Each thrust made a wet and obscene sound that filled the room along with my muffled moans.
"Come on, cum on my face," he ordered against me, his eyes raised to mine. That was what broke me.
My body arched violently, a scream caught in my throat as the contractions overwhelmed me. Logan didn't back away an inch, he licked me thru it all, drooling and dirty, licking every drop as if it were precious.
When I finally stopped trembling, he slowly climbed up my body. The wet lips. The chin shining. The smile of someone who had just won a prize.
"Look at what you've done," he murmured, running his fingers over his own lips and then bringing them to his mouth. "I messed up my whole face."
"You are disgusting," I managed to say, breathless.
"And you love it."
He leaned in and kissed me, and I felt my taste on his lips. I felt his saliva mixed with mine. I felt his tongue sliding against mine as if he were showing me exactly what he had just done. When we separated, we were both breathless.
"My turn," I said.
Before he could react, I pushed his chest. John fell back onto the bed, surprised, and I was already climbing on top of him. My body slid against his, and I felt his underwear wet, not just from me, but from him, because damn, he was leaking just from sucking me.
"Look at that," I whispered, running my hand over the fabric. He moaned, his hips pushing against my palm. "You're as dirty as I am."
"That's your fault," he managed to say, his voice faltering.
"I know."
I slowly pulled the elastic of his underwear down, feeling every inch of warm skin appearing, and when he was finally naked in front of me, my mouth watered as I watched every inch of his hard cock.
Hard. Wet. Throbbing.
I ran my tongue from the base to the tip in a slow motion, and the moan that escaped him was so loud that I was sure Hannah heard it.
"Quiet," I teased, using his words against him. "You're going to wake everyone up."
"Fuck it," he gasped and i smiled.
So I stuffed it whole into my mouth faster than he expected it to happen.
Logan's body arched entirely on the bed, his hands flying to my hair with a desperate urgency. Not to push me away, to hold on.
"Fuck," he hissed, his voice coming out in a whisper. "Fuck, gorgeous."
I kept it deep in my throat for a second, and two. And that was enough time to feel him pulsing against my tongue, enough time to hear the strangled moan that escaped his lips.
When I slowly went up, sucking hard along the way, Logan let out a sound that was almost a sob.
"You are going to kill me," he managed to say.
I looked at him thru my eyelashes, the mouth still around the head, the lips slippery with saliva. His gaze was fixed on me, his dark eyes and jaw slack.
"That's the idea," I murmured, and the vibration of my voice made his hips rise from the bed. I laughed, a low and satisfied sound, and returned to him eagerly.
This time there was no delicacy. I sucked him as if I were starving, as if the only thing that mattered in the world was that salty and masculine taste on my tongue. My hand wrapped around what didn't fit in my mouth, twisting on the way up, squeezing on the way down, and the sound I made was obscene, wet, greedy, erotic.
Logan was lost. His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling hard every time I got too close to the edge. His moans were constant now, guttural, uncontrollable.
"Stop," he gasped suddenly, pulling my hair harder. "Stop, stop, stop, if you keep going, I'm going to come in your mouth."
I raised my eyes to him.
And I didn't stop.
"Y/n!" he warned, his voice faltering.
I continued. Faster. Deeper. My hand and my mouth work
He laughed, a low, satisfied laugh, and pressed my hips against him.
"Shit, I'm screwed, totally fucked."
John Logan said, both hands on his head, and glancing down at me.
"Literally."
"Literally."
"Literally!"
English isn't my first language, so pls go easy on me.
This chapter wasn't written very well, and I want to apologize for that in advance. When they actually fuck, I promise I'll be able to write a proper smut scene for you guys, just like I always do with my other smuts.
I think that from now on, you can either be happy... or sad. Because the story is finally heading in a happier direction, which means we're also getting close to the end. Stick around, though. We still have more chapters coming throughout the week.
authorâs note đ requested by @myst3ryin0rperated đ this ended up being way longer than planned, but honestly? tuck deserves the attention. i love parts of this, but iâm also not fully sure how i feel about it yet, so iâd love to know what you think <3
ââ ââ ââ â ââ
The first time Tucker saw you, you almost took out an entire row of glasses at Maloneâs. Not one, not two, but an entire row.
It happened on a Friday night, which meant the bar was already packed with students pretending they didnât have assignments due, hockey players pretending they werenât exhausted from practice, and Della behind the counter pretending she wasnât five seconds away from throwing someone out for ordering another round only to forget what theyâd asked for immediately.
You were new, and that much was obvious. Not because you were bad at the job, exactly, but because you still had the bright, nervous energy of someone who hadnât yet learned that Maloneâs on a Friday night was less a bar and more a sticky-floored battlefield.
You came out from behind the counter with a tray balanced carefully in both hands, brows pinched in concentration as your bottom lip caught between your teeth. You were wearing black jeans and a Maloneâs blue shirt, your hair pulled back messily, as if youâd done it in a rush, and Tucker found himself noticing you before he could think better of it.
He noticed the way you smiled at a customer who was definitely being too loud. He noticed the way you thanked Della twice when she moved around you. He noticed how hard you were trying to do everything right.
And then you set the tray down on the bar too quickly, caught the edge of a napkin holder, and sent three clean glasses tipping into each other with a loud, terrible clatter.
Everyone at the table flinched. Dean was the first to turn around, Garrettâs attention snapped away from whatever Hannah was saying, and Logan started laughing before heâd even fully figured out what had happened.
You froze immediately.
âOh my god,â you said, hands flying up like you were surrendering to the glasses. âIâm so sorry. I swear Iâm usually less of a disaster when no oneâs watching.â
Della sighed, though there was already affection in it. âSweetheart, nobody expects grace here. Just survival.â
Dean grinned from the booth where he sat with the boys. âTen out of ten entrance.â
Garrett kicked him under the table without even looking at him.
You winced, cheeks burning, and immediately started gathering the glasses before any of them could fall off the bar.
Tucker was on his feet before heâd even thought about moving.
âHere,â he said, already grabbing a stack of napkins from the end of the counter and stepping closer. âI got it.â
You looked up at him, startled, like you hadnât expected someone to help instead of laugh. Something weird shifted in Tuckerâs chest.
âOh,â you said, your voice softening. âThank you.â
âDonât worry about it,â he said, steadying one of the glasses before it could roll off the edge. He gave you a small smile. âFirst Friday?â
âIs it that obvious?â
âOnly a little,â he said, smile tugging at his mouth.
Your mouth curved into an embarrassed but sweet smile, and Tucker noticed the way your whole face seemed to warm with it.
Dean, because of course he did, leaned over the booth and said, âCareful, Tuck. She might make you work for free.â
You glanced between them, your smile still lingering. âTuck?â
âTucker,â he said, handing over the glass heâd rescued. âJohn Tucker.â
You took it from him, your fingers brushing against his for half a second.
âIâm [Y/N],â you said. Then you looked down at the glasses, sighed, and added, âApparently also a public safety hazard.â
Tucker laughed, not because it was that funny, though it was, but because you were smiling at him like you were happy he had.
That was the first thing Tucker noticed. Not that you were the prettiest girl in the room, though you were. Not that you were the clumsy new waitress, though the boys would absolutely bring that up later. Not even that you were the transfer student Hannah had mentioned once, the one whoâd started working at Maloneâs because she needed extra money, and Della liked hiring people she could boss around.
The first thing was that you looked at Tucker like he was the one you were talking to â not the guy beside Dean, not Garrettâs friend, not one of the hockey boys. Him.
It was a stupid thing to notice, so of course Tucker noticed.
Over the next few weeks, you became part of Maloneâs the way some people became part of a song â slowly at first, then all at once.
You were there on Fridays and sometimes Saturdays, always with your hair tied back in a way that never lasted more than an hour before pieces started falling loose around your face. You learned the regularsâ orders faster than anyone expected. You learned Dellaâs moods, learned that Dean always said he wanted something different before ordering the same beer anyway, that Logan would steal fries from whoever sat too close, that Garrett was polite because Hannah elbowed him when he forgot, and that Allie always tipped too much because she knew what the job felt like.
And Tucker â you learned his drink by the third Friday. That shouldnât have affected him. It did anyway.
âYou want the usual?â you asked, already reaching for it as he and the boys slid into their booth after the game.
Dean stopped mid-sentence and turned slowly toward Tucker, wearing the most irritating smile imaginable. Logan looked absolutely delighted. Garrett looked like he was trying very hard not to seem delighted. Tucker ignored every single one of them.
âYou remembered?â he asked, which was the wrong thing to say because it made him sound surprised.
You blinked at him, then smiled. âYou order the same thing every time.â
âSo does Dean,â Tucker said.
âYeah, but Dean changes his mind three times before going back to the same thing. You have to prepare for that emotionally.â
Garrett laughed quietly into his drink.
Dean put a hand over his chest. âI feel attacked.â
âYou should,â Allie said, appearing beside him like sheâd been summoned by the opportunity to tease him. âIt was accurate.â
You grinned and slid Tucker his drink first, and he hated how quickly he liked itâhated how his eyes followed you when you walked away to help another table. Hated even more that Dean noticed immediately.
âOh, youâre so in trouble.â
Tucker glanced at him. âShut up.â
âI didnât even say anything specific,â Dean said.
âYou didnât need to.â
Logan leaned forward, as if this were crucial evidence. âShe gave you your drink first.â
âBecause I was sitting closest.â
âYou werenât,â Garrett said.
Tucker shot him a look. âArenât you supposed to be mature now?â
Garrett shrugged, his arm around Hannah. âIâm in a relationship, not dead.â
Across the room, you laughed at something Della said, nearly dropped a pen, caught it against your chest, and looked far too proud of yourself for saving it.
Tucker tried not to smile, and failed.
Dean pointed at Tuckerâs face as heâd just found evidence. âThat. Right there. Thatâs pathetic.â
Tucker picked up his drink, unimpressed. âYouâre literally dating Allie.â
âYes, and I became pathetic in public. Itâs part of the process.â
âIâm not becoming anything,â Tucker said.
âSure,â Dean said.
Tucker knew exactly what they thought.
He knew how it looked: new girl, pretty smile, sweet enough to make everyone in the room feel like she was happy to see them. Of course, he liked her. Everyone probably liked her. You were the kind of person people noticed because you made it easy for them. You asked questions, laughed without trying to seem cool, apologized to chairs when you bumped into them, and once gave a drunk sophomore a full pep talk because he looked sad over mozzarella sticks.
You were sunshine in a place that mostly smelled like beer and fried food.
Tucker told himself that was all it was: you were friendly, and he was interested because of it. It didnât mean you were interested back.
Girls usually went for guys like Dean: loud, confident, easy to flirt with because he did half the work for them. Or Garrett, with the captain thing and that accidental golden-boy charm, even though Hannah would probably murder anyone who tried. Or Logan, who looked like trouble and knew exactly how to make it work.
Tucker was the nice one, the safe one, the one girls asked to hold their coats while they danced with someone else.
Heâd made peace with that a long time ago â mostly. Then, on the fourth Friday, you proved you were going to be a problem.
It was later than usual, with the crowd thinning out around midnight and the booths left sticky and half-empty. Tucker had ended up at the bar while the others argued over whether to go back to the house or order food. You were wiping down the counter with your sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed from the long shift.
âYouâre staring again,â you said, not even looking up.
Tucker blinked at you. âWhat?â
You glanced at him, eyes bright with amusement. âI said youâre staring.â
âI wasnât,â he said.
âYou were,â you said.
âI was just thinking,â he said.
âAbout the counter?â you asked.
âItâs a very interesting counter.â
You smiled, and Tucker felt stupidly pleased with himself for being the reason.
âYou always do that,â you said, still smiling.
âStare at counters?â he asked.
âNo,â you said, leaning your hip against the bar. âMake jokes when I catch you looking at me.â
Tuckerâs throat went dry.
That wasnât fair. You couldnât look that sweet and then say things like that.
âI have no idea what youâre talking about.â
You hummed like you didnât believe him, which was fair, considering he sounded ridiculous.
Dean appeared at Tuckerâs shoulder at the worst possible time, because of course he did. âHe never does.â
Tucker closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. âGo away.â
Dean grinned at you because, apparently, subtlety had never been an option. âHas he asked you out yet?â
Tuckerâs head snapped toward Dean. âJesus Christ.â
You froze for half a second before your face went pink.
Dean looked like Christmas had just come early.
âOh,â Dean said slowly, looking far too pleased. âInteresting.â
âDean,â Tucker said, warning clear in his voice.
You cleared your throat and turned back to the counter, trying to hide your smile. âDoes he need help with that?â
Tucker stared at you, Dean made a sound like heâd been shot, and Garrett yelled from the booth, âWhat happened?â
âNothing,â Tucker said, far too quickly.
Dean turned back toward the table. âTuckerâs dying.â
âIâm fine,â Tucker said.
You were still smiling down at the counter like you hadnât just caused chaos.
Tucker didnât recover for the rest of the night.
After that, things changed. Not dramatically, and not enough that anyone else wouldâve called it obvious â except maybe Dean, who called everything obvious if it helped him be annoying. But Tucker felt it.
You started lingering near him when the bar slowed down. You leaned across the counter when you talked to him, chin propped in your hand and eyes warm with focus. You asked about his classes. His practices. His stupid sandwich preference after Logan tried to convince you Tucker had âboring taste,â which somehow turned into a ten-minute argument about whether turkey counted as a personality flaw.
You also started touching him. Not much, just enough to ruin him.
Your fingers brushed his wrist when you set down his drink. Your knee bumped his when you sat beside him for five minutes during your break. Your hand landed briefly on his shoulder when you squeezed past him behind the bar, soft and apologetic and completely unnecessary.
Tucker told himself you were probably like that with everyone, right up until he watched you tell Dean to stop leaning over the bar because he was âruining the ecosystem,â and decided maybe you werenât.
By the sixth Friday, Della had started looking at both of you like she knew something neither of you had admitted yet.
That was also the night everything finally clicked into place.
The boys came in late after an away game, tired and loud, their faces flushed from the cold. Hannah and Allie were with them, bundled in coats and already claiming a booth while Dean declared he was starving with the drama of a man who hadnât eaten in years.
You were working closing again, and Tucker tried very hard not to look too happy about that. Failed, probably.
From behind the bar, you caught his eye and smiled so brightly that his chest went warm.
âThe usual?â you asked.
Dean groaned, as if he were personally offended. âThis is disgusting.â
You laughed, confused. âWhat?â
âHeâs smiling like an idiot,â Dean said.
Tucker elbowed him in the side.
You looked at Tucker, smile softening as you asked, âAre you?â
âNo,â Tucker said.
âHe is,â Logan called from the booth.
âHe absolutely is,â Garrett added from the booth.
Tucker stared at Garrett. âYou too?â
Garrett lifted his hands in surrender. âIâm just observing.â
You set his drink down in front of him, fingers brushing his for a second too long. âFor the record, I donât mind.â
Tucker forgot how to speak, and you walked away before he could find a response.
Dean leaned closer, his voice low enough that only Tucker could hear. âIf you donât ask her out tonight, Iâm doing it for you.â
âYou are not doing anything,â Tucker said.
âThen do something,â Dean said.
Tucker looked toward the bar, where you were reaching for a stack of napkins and laughing at something Hannah had said. You nearly knocked over a bottle with your elbow, caught it just in time, and then looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
Tucker had. You saw him seeing you, and your nose scrunched with embarrassment. He smiled before he could stop himself.
Dean sighed, as if this were personally exhausting. âGod, you two are unbearable.â
Tucker looked away, like that settled it. âSheâs just friendly.â
Dean stared at him.
âWhat?â
âAre you actually stupid?â
âWow. Very helpful.â
âIâm serious,â Dean said, glancing toward you before looking back at Tucker. âThat girl has been making heart eyes at you for a month.â
âSheâs nice to everyone,â Tucker said.
âShe threatened to pour soda on Logan last week,â Dean said.
Logan looked up from stealing Allieâs fries. âI deserved that.â
Dean continued, with the patience of someone explaining something painfully obvious, âShe likes you.â
Tucker shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of the words. âYou donât know that.â
Deanâs expression softened slightly, which was somehow worse. âTuck.â
âDonât,â Tucker said.
âIâm just saying,â Dean started.
âI know what youâre saying,â Tucker said, his voice coming out lower than he meant. âBut sheâs new. Sheâs nice. And she has all of you literally sitting here every week. Iâm not going to assume sheâs looking at me like that just because I want her to.â
For once, Dean went quiet.
Tucker regretted saying it immediately. Not because it wasnât true, because it was, but because heâd never said it out loud before. And, of course, because timing apparently wasnât on his side, he looked up and saw you standing a few feet away with a tray in your hands, your expression caught somewhere between surprise and something softer.
Tuckerâs stomach dropped. You had heard. Maybe not all of it, but enough.
You blinked once, then gave him a small smile, the kind that didnât quite reach your eyes. âDella said last call.â
Then you turned and walked back to the bar.
Dean leaned back slowly, the teasing finally slipping from his face.
Tucker dragged a hand over his face, guilt hitting all at once. âFuck.â
âYeah,â Dean said, quieter now. âThat one might be on you.â
The next twenty minutes were horrible. You werenât rude, and somehow, that made it worse. You were still sweet when you cleared the table, still smiling when Hannah hugged you goodbye, still telling Logan he couldnât take the basket of fries with him because it was ânot a souvenir.â But you didnât linger near Tucker, didnât brush his hand, didnât smile at him first.
By the time the others left, Dean gave him one very pointed look from the door. Tucker ignored it, mostly because he deserved it.
He stayed behind while you wiped down the bar, sitting at the end with his coat folded beside him like he wasnât sure where else to put himself. Della had disappeared into the back, clearly on purpose, and without the usual noise, the bar felt strange. Softer. Too quiet.
You didnât look at him for a while, and Tucker let you have that.
Eventually, you set the rag down with a sigh. âAre you waiting for Della or me?â
âYou,â he said. You glanced up, and he swallowed. âIf thatâs okay.â
You looked at him for a moment before nodding. âOkay.â
âIâm sorry.â You seemed surprised by that, so Tucker kept going before he could lose his nerve. âFor what I said earlier. You werenât supposed to hear it.â
âWould it be better if I hadnât heard it?â
âNo,â he said, looking down at his hands before meeting your eyes again. âProbably not.â
You crossed your arms and leaned against the bar. âDo you really think Iâm just being nice?â
Tucker hated how gentle your voice was.
âI think you are nice,â he said.
âThatâs not what I asked.â
A small smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. âNo, it wasnât.â
You waited, giving him time to answer.
Tucker exhaled slowly. âI donât know what I think. I guess Iâm trying not to assume.â
âAssume what?â you asked.
âThat youâd choose me.â
The words settled between you, quiet and honest and too exposed.
Your expression softened when you said his name. âTucker.â
He let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. âI know. It sounds stupid.â
âIt doesnât,â you said.
âIt kind of does,â he said.
âNo,â you said, walking slowly around the bar until you were standing in front of him. âIt sounds like you donât see yourself clearly.â
He looked at you then. Really looked. Your face was still flushed from work, hair coming loose around your cheeks, your eyes tired but warm. There was nothing teasing in them now.
âYou keep acting like Iâm looking past you,â you said, voice soft. âIâm not.â
Tucker went completely still.
You swallowed, a little nervous now, and somehow that made the words hit even harder. âI saw all of them first. I still looked at you.â
For a second, Tucker couldnât speak. Heâd imagined you saying a lot of things. Not that. Never that.
â[Y/N],â Tucker said quietly.
Your smile wobbled slightly. âToo much?â
âNo,â he said, voice rough. âNo, not too much.â
Della chose that moment to appear from the back, took one look at the two of you, and turned right back around. âI forgot absolutely nothing. Continue.â
You laughed, breaking the tension just enough for Tucker to breathe again.
He stood and grabbed his coat. âLet me walk you home.â
Your eyes lifted to his, softer now. âOkay.â
Outside, the cold air hit your face, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. Tucker walked beside you, close enough for your shoulders to brush every few steps, but not close enough to crowd you. The streets around Briar were quieter now, wrapped in the kind of late-night stillness that made every little sound feel louder â your shoes on the sidewalk, Tuckerâs breath in the cold, the distant noise from another bar down the street.
For a minute, neither of you said anything, and then you laughed softly.
Tucker looked over at you. âWhat?â
âI just realized I basically confessed to you in front of a bar counter that still smelled like spilled beer.â
His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. âVery romantic.â
âIâve always been known for my elegance.â
âYou did knock over four glasses the first night I met you.â
âThree,â you said, pointing at him. âIt was three.â
âOne almost fell off the counter,â he said. âIâm counting it.â
âYouâre cruel,â you said, trying not to smile.
âI did help.â
âYou did,â you said, your voice softening. âThatâs why I remembered you.â
Tuckerâs chest tightened at that.
You kept walking for a few more steps before adding, âEveryone else laughed. Not in a mean way, but still. You just helped.â
âIt wasnât exactly heroic.â
âIt was to me,â you said quietly.
He didnât know what to do with that, so he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and looked down at the sidewalk like it might tell him what to say.
You smiled at him, and somehow Tucker felt it even without looking.
By the time you reached your apartment building, the tension had changed shape again. It was still soft, still warm, but there was something electric underneath it now, something that had been building for weeks across bar counters, half-finished conversations, and every smile youâd given him like it wasnât ruining his day in the best way.
You stopped when you reached the door.
âThis is me,â you said.
Tucker nodded, like he knew that and still wasnât ready to leave. âYeah.â
Neither of you moved. Then you looked up at him. âDo you want to come in?â
His eyes lifted to yours. The question was quiet, but there was nothing unclear about it.
Tuckerâs voice dropped when he asked, âDo you want me to?â
You stepped closer, your eyes still on his. âYes.â
That was all Tucker needed.
The elevator ride was silent, broken only by your uneven breathing and the small ding of each floor passing. Tucker stood beside you with his hands at his sides, not touching you yet, though the restraint in him was obvious. You could feel it â in the tight line of his jaw, in the way his eyes kept flicking to your mouth before he forced them away, in the way he seemed to be waiting until you were somewhere private before letting himself want you properly.
Somehow, it only made you want him more.
Your apartment was small and warm, a little messy in a way that made you immediately wince as you unlocked the door.
âDonât judge,â you said as you stepped inside. âI wasnât expecting company.â
Tucker looked around at the books stacked on the coffee table, the blanket slipping off the couch, the mug in the sink, and the tiny lamp glowing in the corner before looking back at you.
âI like it,â he said softly.
You smiled at him. âYouâre very easy to impress.â
âOnly when itâs you,â he said.
The words were quiet and simple, and they stole the air from your chest.
You closed the door behind him, then turned the lock.
Tuckerâs eyes dropped to the movement, and his expression shifted. When he looked back at you, something had changed. He was still Tucker â still warm, still steady â but the softness in him had sharpened into something more focused.
You swallowed, voice suddenly smaller. âHi.â
His mouth curved, just barely. âHi.â
âYouâre standing very far away,â you said.
âIâm trying to be respectful,â he said.
You stepped closer, eyes on his. âYou can stop.â
His eyes darkened at that. âYeah?â
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
Tucker moved then, closing the small space between you in two steps. His hand came up to your jaw, gentle at first, like he was giving you one last second to lean away.
You leaned into his touch.
After that, the kiss wasnât gentle. It was warm, deep, and immediate, like weeks of almosts had finally found somewhere to land. Tuckerâs hand slid into your hair, the other settling at your waist as he pulled you close enough for your chest to press against his. A soft sound slipped out against his mouth, and Tuckerâs grip tightened.
âThere you are,â Tucker murmured against your mouth.
Your stomach flipped at the sound of his voice.
You kissed him harder, your hands sliding up his chest and feeling the solid warmth of him beneath his jacket. Tucker walked you back until your spine met the wall near the door, his body caging yours in without ever making you feel trapped.
âYou have no idea how long Iâve wanted to do this,â he said, his mouth brushing your jaw.
Your head tipped back as his lips moved to your neck. âI wanted you to.â
His hand tightened briefly at your waist.
âYeah?â His voice dropped lower. âWanted me to walk you home?â
âYes,â you breathed.
âWanted me to come upstairs too?â
âYes,â you breathed.
His mouth hovered near your ear, voice low. âWanted me to touch you?â
Your breath caught before you could answer. âTuckââ
He kissed the spot just beneath your jaw, pulling a sound from you that was almost a whimper.
His voice went rough. âSay it.â
You swallowed, your fingers curling into his shirt. âYes. I wanted you to touch me.â
He groaned, low and restrained, before his mouth found yours again, hungrier this time. Your hands pushed at his jacket, clumsy with urgency, and Tucker helped you pull it off before shrugging out of it and tossing it somewhere near the couch.
You laughed breathlessly as it knocked into a chair.
âSorry,â you breathed.
âDonât care,â Tucker murmured, already kissing you again.
Your back hit the wall hard enough to make your whole body light up, but not enough to hurt. Tuckerâs thigh slid between yours, and the second you rocked down against it without thinking, his hand tightened on your hip.
âFuck,â he breathed against your mouth. âYouâre going to make me forget how to be nice.â
Your lips curved against his. âMaybe I donât want nice.â
His eyes lifted to yours, and there it was again â that quiet intensity.
âI can do both,â Tucker said, voice low.
The words went straight through you, sharp and warm all at once.
His hands slipped beneath your shirt, his palms warm against your skin. He touched you slowly at first, almost reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. Then your hips moved against his thigh again, and his control slipped just enough that his fingers pressed into your waist.
âYouâre so pretty,â he murmured, voice rough. âIâve been thinking that since the first night.â
âWhen I dropped the glasses?â you asked.
âEspecially then,â he said, like it was obvious.
You laughed, only for it to break into a gasp when his mouth found your neck again, his teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothed the spot.
âTucker,â you breathed.
âI know,â he murmured, his hand moving higher until his fingers brushed the underside of your breast through your bra. âTell me if you want me to stop.â
You shook your head quickly, voice barely steady. âNo.â
âNo?â he asked, voice low.
âDonât stop,â you whispered.
His eyes darkened at that, and then he kissed you like those words had undone something in him. The warm, steady Tucker from Maloneâs was still there, but this version of him felt different â more confident, more direct. His hands knew exactly where they wanted to go, his mouth knew how to make you melt, and every quiet groan he gave you made your knees a little less reliable.
He pushed your shirt up slowly, and you lifted your arms for him. The second your shirt hit the floor, his gaze dropped to your chest, and his jaw flexed.
âJesus,â he breathed.
You almost made a joke. Almost. But the way he looked at you made it hard to hide behind one.
His hands came up to cover your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing slowly over the thin fabric. Your back arched off the wall as a soft moan slipped out before you could stop it.
Tuckerâs mouth parted slightly, his voice rough. âDonât hide that.â
âWhat?â you breathed.
âThose sounds,â he said, his thumb moving again just to make your breath catch. âI want to hear them.â
Your cheeks warmed, but your body answered before your mouth could, another quiet whimper slipping out when he leaned down and kissed the top of your breast.
âLike that?â Tucker asked, voice low.
âYes,â you breathed, your fingers tightening in his shirt. âLike that.â
He undid your bra carefully, sliding the straps down your arms before letting it fall between you. His eyes moved over you more slowly this time, and something about the softness in his face made your chest ache.
Then his mouth closed around your nipple, pulling a moan from you as your head knocked back against the wall.
Tucker groaned against your skin, one hand firm at your waist while the other covered your breast, fingers rolling your nipple until you started shifting against him, needy and restless.
âYouâre so responsive,â Tucker murmured, kissing across your chest. âDo you have any idea what that does to me?â
You swallowed, surprising yourself with how steady it sounded. âTell me.â
His eyes flicked up, and for a second, he looked surprised. Then his expression shifted, a small, almost dangerous smile tugging at his mouth.
âIt makes me want to take my time,â he said, voice low. âMakes me want to find out every way to make you sound like that again.â
Your thighs pressed together, and Tucker noticed immediately. Of course he did. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers pausing at the button of your jeans.
âCan I?â he asked, voice low.
âYes,â you whispered.
He unbuttoned your jeans slowly, eyes fixed on your face as he pushed the denim down your hips. You kicked them off awkwardly, nearly tripping in the process, and Tucker caught you with a quiet laugh, his hands steady on your waist.
âStill clumsy,â he murmured.
âYouâre very distracting,â you said.
âGood,â he murmured.
You were about to answer, but then his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, and every thought disappeared.
He touched you over your panties first, two fingers pressing against the wet fabric, and his breath caught.
âFuck,â he breathed. âYouâre wet.â
Your face burned at the way he said it. âYou sound surprised.â
âIâm not,â he said, fingers moving slowly over your clit through the soaked material. âJust trying to process the fact that you wanted me this badly.â
âI did,â you whispered.
The admission came out soft and honest.
Tuckerâs eyes lifted to yours. You held his gaze, even though it made you feel exposed.
âI wanted you,â you said again, softer this time.
Something shifted in his face. Then he kissed you hard, fingers pushing your underwear aside and sliding through your wetness. The first touch of his skin against your cunt pulled a gasp from you, your hips bucking toward his hand before you could stop them.
âThere you go,â he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. âThatâs what I wanted.â
His fingers circled your clit slowly, steady and precise, and you clung to his shoulders as pleasure sparked low in your stomach.
âTuck,â you whimpered, fingers tightening on his shoulders.
âRight here,â he murmured, his forehead touching yours. âIâve got you.â
He slid one finger into you, eyes fixed on the way your lips parted, then added another when your hips rolled against his hand. The stretch pulled a louder moan from you, and Tuckerâs jaw tightened like the sound was testing every bit of his restraint.
âFuck,â he breathed, voice rough. âYou sound so pretty.â
His touch grew deeper and more deliberate, his thumb finding you again as you stayed pressed against the wall, nearly bare while Tucker was still fully dressed. The imbalance should have made you embarrassed.
It didnât. Not with him looking at you like that, not with his hand between your thighs, his mouth at your jaw, and his voice low in your ear.
âTell me what feels good,â he murmured.
Your breath shook around the answer. âYour fingers.â
âYeah?â he murmured.
âYes,â you breathed, gripping his shirt tighter. âRight there. Donât stop.â
His fingers curled again, and a moan broke from you into the quiet room.
âThatâs it,â he murmured, voice rough. âLet me hear you.â
The pleasure built faster than you expected, heat tightening through your stomach and thighs, but just before it could break, Tucker pulled his fingers away.
A frustrated sound slipped out of you. âWhyââ
He dropped to his knees, and your mouth went dry as Tucker looked up at you from the floor, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs.
âIâm not done with you yet.â It should not have sounded as hot as it did.
Then he pulled your underwear down, slow and deliberate, before lifting one of your legs over his shoulder.
âTucker,â you breathed, fingers tightening in his hair.
His mouth pressed against the inside of your thigh. âHold onto me.â
Your fingers slid into his hair, and then his mouth found your cunt.
The first stroke of his tongue made your whole body jerk, a sharp moan slipping out as his hands tightened on your thighs. He ate you like heâd been waiting weeks for it, slow and deep at first, tongue dragging through your wetness before flattening over your clit.
âOh my god,â you gasped.
He hummed against you, the vibration making your knees buckle slightly, and Tucker held you up.
His mouth worked over you with a patience that felt almost unfair, tongue circling your clit, lips sucking softly while his fingers dug into your thigh every time you tugged his hair. You could feel how wet you were, could hear it too, and the sound made your face burn even as your hips started moving against his mouth.
âTuckâfuck, right there,â you gasped.
He groaned like the words had gone straight through him, focusing there until the pleasure turned sharp and bright. Your head fell back against the wall, one hand still buried in his hair while the other braced beside you.
You were close, close enough that your thighs started trembling.
âTucker,â you gasped. âIâmââ
He didnât stop. He didnât slow down. He only held you tighter, mouth sealed over your clit until you came with a broken moan, hips jerking against him as pleasure rolled through you. He stayed with you through it, easing the pressure when you started to shake and pressing kisses to your inner thigh when you finally whimpered from the sensitivity.
When he stood again, his mouth was wet and his eyes were dark.
You could only stare at him.
He wiped his thumb across his lower lip before leaning in to kiss you. You tasted yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth as Tucker made a rough sound against you.
âBedroom,â he said, voice rough.
You nodded quickly.
The walk there was not graceful. You bumped into the side table, Tucker knocked into the doorframe, and you both laughed against each otherâs mouths until the laughter turned into another kiss the second you reached your room.
Tucker pulled his shirt off, and you finally got to touch him properly.
He was warm beneath your palms, solid and broad, and his stomach tightened when your fingers dragged lower toward his belt.
âYou okay?â you asked, a small smile tugging at your mouth.
His eyes met yours, dark and unsteady. âIâve been better.â
You laughed, but then your hand brushed over the hard outline of him through his jeans, and his smile vanished.
âOh,â you whispered, your smile fading too.
Tucker caught your wrist gently, his voice rough. âCareful.â
You looked up at him, pulse jumping. âOr what?â
His expression shifted again, that quiet confidence settling over him like he knew exactly what you were doing.
âOr Iâm gonna fuck you against that wall before we even make it to the bed.â
Your stomach dropped, but you held his gaze. âMaybe Iâd like that.â
For a second, neither of you moved. Then Tucker kissed you hard enough that you stumbled backward.
Your back hit the bedroom wall, his body pressing close while his hands lifted you by the backs of your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, and Tucker groaned when you rolled your hips against him.
âCondom?â he asked, his voice strained.
âNightstand,â you said, breathless.
He carried you to the nightstand just long enough to grab one before returning you to the wall, laughing low when you kissed his neck impatiently.
âEager,â he murmured.
âYouâre the one who mentioned the wall,â you said.
âI did,â he said, voice low.
âThen stop talking,â you breathed.
Tuckerâs mouth curved, slow and dangerous. âYes, maâam.â
He shoved his jeans down just enough to roll the condom on, then stepped between your thighs again, one hand sliding over your hip while his other arm kept you steady against the wall.
The head of his cock brushed through your wetness, and for a second, both of you went quiet.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders, voice barely steady. âTuck.â
His forehead pressed to yours. âI know.â
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open while holding you like you were something precious and something he wanted badly enough to ruin all at once. The angle was intense, your back against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, his body doing all the work as he filled you completely.
Your mouth fell open, breath catching in your throat.
Tucker groaned, the sound rough against your mouth. âFuck, you feel good.â
âYou too,â you breathed, fingers digging into his shoulders. âYou feel so good.â
His eyes squeezed shut for a second before he started moving. Slow at first. Controlled. Deep enough that every thrust stole your breath, his hips pinning you to the wall while his hands kept you steady. You were still sensitive from his mouth, still wet and aching, and every drag of his cock pulled another moan from you.
âTucker,â you gasped.
âI know,â he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw. âIâve got you.â
âYou keep saying that,â you breathed.
âBecause I do,â he said, voice steady.
Your chest tightened, but then his hips snapped a little harder, and the feeling turned back into heat.
âOh, fuck,â you gasped.
âThere?â he asked, his voice rough.
âYes,â you gasped.
He adjusted his grip, holding you higher before hitting the same spot again, and your head fell back against the wall with a moan.
Tuckerâs eyes locked on your face. âThatâs it.â
His pace built slowly, not rushed but intense, every thrust dragging sounds from you that you couldnât hold back. The wall was cold against your back, his skin hot against yours, and your whole world narrowed to Tuckerâs hands, Tuckerâs mouth, Tuckerâs cock moving inside you like heâd been waiting weeks to prove exactly how well he could ruin you.
âYou have no idea how hard it was,â he murmured against your throat, âwatching you smile at me from across that bar.â
A whimper slipped out of you before you could stop it.
âThinking you were just being nice,â he said, hips driving into yours harder until you gasped. âThinking I was making it up.â
âI wasnât,â you breathed, clinging tighter to his shoulders. âI wasnât looking at them.â
Tuckerâs grip tightened, and you pulled his face to yours, kissing him messily. âI wanted you.â
He groaned against your mouth.
The next thrust nearly tore a cry out of you.
âSay that again,â he rasped.
âI wanted you.â The next thrust hit harder, stealing the rest of the sentence from you. âTuckerââ
âAgain.â
âI wanted you,â you moaned, nails dragging down his shoulders. âI wanted you so badly.â
That broke something in him. His pace turned rougher, still controlled but less careful now, hips snapping into yours as he held you against the wall. You clung to him, moaning his name, letting him hear every gasp and broken sound because he seemed to need them as badly as you needed the way he moved.
âTouch yourself,â he said suddenly, and your breath hitched.
His eyes met yours, dark and intent.
âI want to feel you come around me.â
Your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the first circle made your whole body jolt. Tucker cursed, forehead dropping to yours as you clenched around him.
âFuck, thatâs it.â
Your fingers moved faster, clumsy from how badly you were shaking, but the pressure built quickly with him still fucking into you, his voice low and constant in your ear.
âLook at you,â he murmured against your ear. âYouâre so pretty. Doing so good for me.â
Your breath broke.
âCome on, baby.â His grip tightened. âLet me feel it.â
The orgasm hit hard, your body tightening around him as your moan broke into something helpless. Tucker held you through it, thrusting deep and uneven as you pulsed around him, until he followed with a rough groan, hips jerking as he came.
He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard against your neck, holding you up like letting go was not an option. Then he laughed softly.
You opened your eyes, still trying to catch your breath. âWhat?â
âNothing,â he said, his mouth brushing your shoulder. âJust thinking Deanâs never going to shut up if he finds out.â
You laughed, still breathless and warm. âThen donât tell him.â
âHeâll know,â Tucker said.
âWhy?â you asked, smiling against his skin.
Tucker pulled back just enough to look at you, his smile softer now. âBecause Iâm not going to be able to stop smiling.â
Your heart did something stupid in your chest.
After that, he carried you to the bed and set you down carefully before disappearing to clean up. When he came back, he had a damp cloth in his hand, cleaning you gently and murmuring an apology when your thighs twitched from sensitivity.
âYou okay?â he asked softly.
You nodded, still a little breathless. âVery okay.â
His mouth curved. âGood.â
He lay beside you, and for a second, a strange shyness settled between you again. Not awkward. Just new.
You turned onto your side to face him. âYou can stay.â
His eyes softened at that. âYeah?â
âIf you want.â
âI want,â he said, without hesitation, and the answer came fast enough to make you smile.
Tucker pulled the blanket over both of you, and you curled into his side like it already felt familiar. His arm came around you, warm and steady, fingers tracing slow lines down your back.
For a while, neither of you said anything. Then you whispered, âI meant it, you know.â
His hand paused against your back. âWhat?â
âI saw all of them,â you said, tilting your head up to look at him. âI still looked at you.â
Tucker stared at you for a second, something tender and disbelieving crossing his face. Then he kissed you, soft this time, slow, like he finally believed you.
The next morning, Tucker woke with your leg thrown over his and your face tucked against his chest.
For a second, he didnât move. He just looked at you â at the sunlight slipping through your curtains, your hair messy against his skin, the tiny crease between your brows like you were arguing with someone in your sleep.
He smiled before he could stop himself, which, as it turned out, was exactly the problem. Because when he finally left your apartment in yesterdayâs clothes and walked into the hockey house just before noon, Dean was sitting on the couch with a bowl of cereal.
Dean looked up. Tucker froze. The spoon stopped halfway to Deanâs mouth as a slow, terrible smile spread across his face.
âNo way.â
Tucker sighed. âDonât.â
Logan appeared from the kitchen immediately, because he had a sixth sense for chaos. âWhat? What happened?â
Dean pointed his spoon at Tucker. âOur boy didnât come home last night.â
Garrett looked over from the table, his brows lifting.
Loganâs face lit up. â[Y/N]?â
Tucker tried to walk past them. âIâm leaving.â
âYou just got here,â Dean said, delighted.
âThen Iâm leaving again.â
Garrett laughed under his breath. âGood for you, man.â
That was somehow worse than the teasing. Tucker shook his head, but he was smiling, and Dean noticed, because Dean noticed everything that made life unbearable.
âOh, he likes her likes her.â
âShut up.â
Logan grinned, leaning in like this was the best news heâd heard all week. âDid she finally get tired of waiting for you to make a move?â
Tucker paused at the stairs. Thought about your smile, your apartment, your voice saying, I still looked at you. Then he turned just enough to say, âActually, she made the move.â
The room exploded. Dean yelled, Logan swore, and Garrett laughed properly this time.
Tucker headed upstairs before any of them could ask anything else, but he still heard Dean call after him.
SUMMARY: A frustrated figure skater who transferred from Illinois has only one goal: keeping her athletic scholarship this season, and sheâll do anything to change the way people on campus see her â especially if it means improving her image for pairs skating. Even if it costs her a fake relationship with the same person who spread the nickname that turned her into âIce Heart.â
WARNING: SMUT AHEAD CONTENT RELATED TO SEX, RELATIONSHIPS, AND DISORDERS CONTENT CONTAINS FACTS, BUT REMEMBER THIS IS FANFICTION, IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, LEAVE!
MASTERLIST
1.0 Doped
One of the few good things about being back in Delaware was knowing my father was buried there, beneath that stretch of land covered in soft grass where I had cried once before⌠and was crying again now.
Sitting in front of his headstone, I lowered my gaze to my hands and let out a heavy sigh.
Dad had been one of the best people in my life. He could be just as disciplined as mom, but unlike her, he carried light wherever he went. People changed when he walked into a room. The atmosphere shifted with him. And staying away from this place for two years straight only reminded me of how deeply his death had carved a hole into my heart.I still remember the first time I watched him win over an entire crowd with nothing but a smile. That was the moment my whole perspective on skating changed forever. After confessing everything that had been trapped inside my head to Logan, I changed clothes quickly, threw on something comfortable to run in, and an hour later found myself standing in the cemetery.
By the time I finally got home, it had to be close to twelve thirty. I could hear Tuckerâs voice coming from the kitchen along with Beauâs and Garrettâs, while Logan and Dean were sprawled across the couch in front of the television with their backs turned toward the staircase. My only goal was to make it upstairs unnoticed, but the step betrayed me with a loud creak that made both Dean and Logan glance over their shoulders.
Dean immediately turned his attention back to the TV.
Logan didnât.
He kept staring at me in silence, as if he were trying to read every thought moving through my head, only snapping out of it when Dean nudged him discreetly with his elbow.
I looked away quickly and headed upstairs. I found Hannah and Allie in the room Allie was staying in, both of them finishing getting ready while talking about something completely unimportant. I stopped in the doorway and forced a smile.
âAre we going out?â
âObviously. Weâre heading to the pier after Tucker finishes breakfast.â
Allie answered excitedly, and I let out a quiet laugh through my nose.
âYou guys do realize itâs almost one in the afternoon, right?â
âThey said itâs never too late for food.â
Hannah shrugged, and I nodded faintly, too drained to argue.
âAlright⌠Iâm going to take a shower.â
I said it while walking toward the room I shared with Logan, though honestly, I didnât think I could survive another night beside him after everything that had happened. Still, I didnât have the courage to ask one of our friends to switch rooms and ruin their trip because of my emotional mess.
I grabbed a light dress from the bottom of my suitcase along with a bundle of underwear and stepped into the bathroom, turning on the shower a second later. I stayed under the water for a long time, letting the heat run over my shoulders while I tried to untangle the chaos inside my mind. But it didnât work.
Every time I closed my eyes, I was back at the cemetery. Back in front of my fatherâs grave. Back to the suffocating ache in my chest after talking to Logan. I pressed my hands against the shower wall and took a deep breath.
I was exhausted from feeling everything so intensely.
The voices grew louder as I approached the kitchen.
Tucker was placing pancakes onto a serving tray while Beau stole pieces before they even made it to the table.
âYouâre so fucking annoying,â Tucker complained, smacking his hand away.
âYou cook way too well to expect manners.â
Garrett laughed softly from where he sat on the counter, and even Dean seemed invested in the stupid argument.
For a moment, watching all of them like that almost felt normal.
Almost.
Logan was leaning against the refrigerator with his arms crossed, and his eyes locked onto me the second I stepped into the kitchen. My stomach twisted instantly.
âWell, look who decided to come back to life,â Dean commented.
I rolled my eyes.
âVery funny.â
âOoh, sheâs in a bad mood,â Beau muttered while grabbing another pancake.
âThatâs literally the point,â Garrett agreed calmly before taking a sip of coffee.
Despite everything, I ended up laughing softly again. Small. Automatic. And Logan noticed. Of course he noticed.
His expression softened for a second, as if hearing that sound had lifted some invisible weight off his chest. I looked away before he could mistake it for hope.
âI was thinking we should light the bonfire outside tonight and make some sâmores. Thatâd be fun, right?â Beau said, clapping his hands and pointing at Dean, clearly far too excited about his own idea. Allie let out a squeal and immediately looked at me.
âLike old times!â
She said it, and I laughed, throwing my head back.
âSeriously? You actually suggested that?â
âYeah!â Allie replied, already laughing. âOkay, so when we used to play Sâmores All Fours, everyone made their own sâmore however they wanted, and then someone from the group had to guess what ingredients were inside it.â
âOkayâŚâ Hunter murmured slowly. âAnd where exactly is the fun part?â
I rolled my eyes and moved to stand beside Allie.
âEvery guess came with a challenge attached to the round,â I explained. âSo if you guessed someoneâs ingredients right, you were safe and everyone else had to do whatever challenge you picked.â
Allie raised a finger, adding:
âBut if you guessed wrong, you were the only one doing the challenge.â
âAnd obviously,â I continued, âif you lose, you stop drinking because thatâs the punishment for being stupid.â
Dean burst out laughing.
âWhat kind of challenges?â
Allie instantly flashed a wicked smile.
âYou choose. You can make people in the circle do whatever you want. Or dare someone to run into the ocean naked.â
âSend nudes to someone.â
âFlirt with the neighbor and steal a bottle of wine,â I added.
âReveal a secret.â
Hunter nearly choked on his drink.
âSorry...what?â
Allie shrugged as if that were completely normal.
âThe rules always got more interesting after the third round, once everybody started losing.â
I shrugged while sitting on the backrest of the couch and shooting Allie a conspiratorial look.
âThey scare me sometimes.â Hannah groaned, and both Allie and I looked at her.
âBaby, youâre on our team.â I said it, and she laughed. She raised her hands in surrender.
âOkay, thatâs honestly even more terrifying.â
When we came back from the pier hours later, slightly drunk, the sky was already dark and the sound of waves crashing against the sand seemed louder in the nighttime silence.
The guys lit the bonfire behind Deanâs beach house, close enough to the shore for the ocean breeze to reach us, while Tucker and Garrett divided pizza boxes across the outdoor table.
The smell of smoke, saltwater, and melted cheese drifted through the air.
For some reason, it all felt dangerously comforting.
Allie was sprawled across a beach chair with her legs tossed over mine while we shared a joint, Dean argued with Beau about what music to play through the speaker, and Hannah filmed Tucker trying to set an entire marshmallow on fire. I had spent the entire day avoiding Logan.
Avoiding looking directly at him. Avoiding answering anything beyond what was necessary. Avoiding standing close enough to catch his cologne or remember the conversation from that morning.
And to a certain extent⌠it worked.
It worked while I stayed distracted.
While there was noise.
While everyone was laughing too loudly.
While my mind still had room to run from him.
But now, sitting beside the fire with my head light from the mix of weed and alcohol in my system, thinking about Logan felt unavoidable.
Worse.
It felt impossible to think about anything else.
I lifted my eyes without meaning to. He was sitting across the fire, sunk low in a beach chair with a drink balanced against his thigh, the flames reflecting against the sharp line of his jaw.
Beautiful.
Ridiculously beautiful.
As if the universe genuinely enjoyed punishing me. And as though he could feel me staring, Logan looked up at me that exact second.
My chest tightened painfully and i looked away too fast, grabbing the beer beside me just to pretend I was searching for something.
âOkay!â Beau clapped loudly, breaking the brief silence. âTime for Sâmores All Fours.â
âThat sounds like the name of a porn site,â Dean commented immediately.
âWe literally named it that because...â
I started to say, but Allie slapped her ring-covered fingers over my mouth before I could finish, widening her eyes dramatically.
âYou litlle crazy thing, shut up.â
âSorry.â
My voice came out muffled behind her hand, and she finally let go while laughing and lightly shoving my face away.
âYou get dangerously honest when youâre high.â
âAnd you get bossy.â
âBecause someone here has to maintain at least a little dignity.â
Dean pointed at both of us with his beer.
âYou two are assuming thereâs still any dignity left in this group.â
The bonfire burned in the middle of the sand, crackling softly while the wind shifted the smoke every few seconds. Closer to the water, the waves rolled in with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, and the lights from the house behind us cast everything in that strangely nostalgic glow that only beaches at night seem capable of creating.
The pizza boxes were already half empty.
So were the beers.
Allie stood from her chair and walked over to the table where the ingredients were spread out.
âOkay, listen carefully because Iâm not explaining this twice.â
âThat sounds threatening,â Hunter commented.
âBecause it is.â
She pointed dramatically at the ingredients like a completely unhinged cooking show host.
âEveryone makes a secret sâmore. The rest of the group has to guess whatâs inside.â
âAnd then comes the concerning part,â I added. Allie smiled slowly.
âEveryone also writes down a challenge.â
Beau threw his head back laughing.
âMy God, this is genius.â
âDonât encourage her,â Tucker muttered. Dean grabbed the notepad from Allieâs hand.
âHow bad can these challenges really get?â
Allie and I exchanged a look immediately.
Hannah noticed right away.
âOh, you two have history with this.â
âUnfortunately,â I answered.
Logan laughed softly from the other side of the fire while absentmindedly turning a marshmallow skewer between his fingers. The sound cut straight through my chest in the most irritating way.
Because he laughed at me yesterday, just like that, when we raised a white flag declaring peace between us⌠until the flag was stained with blood eight hours later. How is that even possible?â
I looked away before I could think too much about it.
Beau was already building some kind of culinary monstrosity while narrating his own choices like he was hosting a cooking competition.
âSweet, salty, spicy⌠this is emotional depth.â
Hunter grabbed a jar and frowned.
âWhy are there pickles?â
âWhy wouldnât there be?â Allie replied.
âOkay.â Dean clapped once. âImportant rules: nothing illegal, nothing that could get us arrested, and nothing involving calling my mother.â
âOddly concerning that you had to specify that,â Hannah commented.
Allie took the pen back.
âPerfect. Now write your challenges.â
Everyone grabbed paper plates and started building their sâmores while music played softly behind us and the ocean crashed nearby.
The fire crackled louder whenever the wind picked up.
And despite everythingâŚ
Despite the cemetery.
Despite the conversation with Logan.
Despite the constant knot twisting inside my chest.
I was having fun.
Even if only for a few minutes.
I watched Hannah hide something inside the chocolate while trying to suppress a guilty smile. Dean stole ingredients off everyone elseâs plates. Beau narrated his own decisions like he was on a reality cooking show. And LoganâŚMy stomach tightened involuntarily when my eyes landed on him again. He was too focused on assembling his sâmore, sleeves pushed up to his forearms and a cigarette balanced between his fingers.
Beautiful in the most irritating way possible.
Ridiculously irritating.
As if simply noticing that wasnât slowly destroying my sanity.
âOkay!â Allie clapped. âFirst victim.â
âWhy did you say that like a saw host?â Hunter asked.
âBecause it fits.â
She picked up one of the plates and lifted it dramatically.
âWho wants to start?â
âMe!â
Beau jumped up from his chair, pointing proudly at his own chest like heâd just been selected for a reality TV show. He grabbed the plate holding his sâmore and stood in the center of the circle, staring at all of us with far too much excitement.
âAlright, you fuckers,â he announced. âI wanna know whoâs brave enough to guess my sâmore.â
Allie was already laughing before the game had even properly started, and Dean immediately stood up to inspect Beauâs sâmore, crossing his arms with ridiculous confidence.
âI can do this,â Dean said, already getting to his feet before heâd even finished the sentence.
He dragged a hand over his mouth while staring at Beauâs sâmore like it was a matter of personal honor.
âI know what this asshole put in here.â
Beau let out a short laugh.
âEverybody thinks that right before they fail spectacularly.â
Dean ignored him, stepping farther into the glow of the bonfire.
âIf I loseâŚâ he continued, pointing his chin toward the plate while trying to hold onto his confidence, ââŚIâll do whatever challenge you guys choose.â
Allie grinned instantly, leaning forward in her chair.
âNow weâre talking.â
Dean paused briefly, looking around like he was actively choosing his fate.
âBut if I get it rightâŚâ he added more slowly, ââŚyou all spend one full round doing whatever I tell you.â
A brief silence settled over the group. Beau lifted an eyebrow.
âOkay.â
Dean stood there a second longer than necessary, like part of him still wanted to back out of his own bet.
But nobody there believed in regret.
Allie already had that dangerous smile of someone who lived to watch people suffer during group games. Beau held the sâmore like it was evidence in a criminal investigation. Tucker watched silently with the expression of someone who had already accepted that this would end badly somehow.
Dean inhaled sharply through his nose and pointed accusingly at the dessert as if that would help.
âThereâs chocolate, obviously. Marshmallow⌠obviously. AndâŚâ he narrowed his eyes. ââŚis that pickle?â
Beau burst into immediate laughter.
âI didnât say anything.â
âYou didnât have to,â Dean shot back, already losing some confidence.
âOkay, for the record, thatâs actually not terrible.â
âThat is not a compliment, Allie,â Dean muttered.
He hesitated again, trying to figure out the final ingredient.
âAnd⌠something sweeter. Like caramel⌠or Nutella.â
Silence.
Beau was already laughing before the answer even came.
Allie crossed her arms.
âFinal answer.â
Dean closed his eyes for half a second.
âChocolate, marshmallow, pickles, potato chips, and caramel.â
He opened his eyes again.
âThatâs it.â
Allie snatched the sâmore from his hand without ceremony.
âWrong.â
The word was far too simple. And more than enough. Beau exploded into laughter.
âI FUCKING KNEW IT.â
Dean dragged a hand down his face.
âJust tell me what was in it.â
Allie counted on her fingers slowly, enjoying every second of it.
âChocolate, marshmallow⌠yes, pickles. But also chili flakes, salt, and peanut butter.â
Tucker let out a disbelieving laugh.
Everyone took a shot afterward, and Dean made the most genuinely devastated noise imaginable over losing.
âFuck my life.â
Dean ended up having to go to the neighborâs house to ask for a glass of milk while completely naked, and Allie already had her phone raised like she was documenting a historical event
âThis is absolutely going on my story,â she announced with way too much seriousness for the situation.
âDonât even think about it!â Dean shouted while running back to us with a cup of milk.
âOh, Iâm definitely thinking about it!â Beau yelled back, laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.
And honestly, nobody there even looked shocked â like there was some silent agreement that everybody on campus had already seen enough of Dean at some point in life for this not to count as news anymore.
The game only got worse after that.
Or better.
Depending on who you asked.
Allie somehow managed to make Hunter lose in the most ridiculous way possible, and the punishment turned into everyone stripping down to their underwear after correctly guessing his sâmore â which immediately caused complete chaos filled with yelling, arguing, and somebody desperately trying to defend rules that had clearly never existed.
For some inexplicable reason, Tucker ended up with a challenge involving posting a story saying he âloved turkey in his mouth,â which left him staring at his phone for a solid ten seconds before accepting his fate with every ounce of dignity destroyed.
Hannah lost next, and without even arguing, ended up on Deanâs porch loudly serenading the other neighbor like it was a private concert â and the worst part was that she wasnât bad enough to be ignored.
Garrett, laughing like he was watching a social experiment unfold in real time, eventually had to swap clothes with whoever was sitting to his right, which sparked a series of protests and negotiations nobody took seriously.
And then⌠the game reached him.
Logan. The atmosphere shifted slightly the moment Allie turned the plate toward him with a slow smile, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction.
âOkay,â she said, pointing. âYour turn to guess Hannahâs sâmore.â Logan stared at the sâmore like he was already exhausted by his own existence.
Then he looked at all of us. He let out a quiet sigh, dragging a hand through his hair before looking back down at the plate again.
And for a second, before any guesses or challenges, he just picked up the sâmore far too calmly.
âAlright,â Logan murmured. âLetâs get this over with. I donât think youâd be evil enough for this, Hannah.â
Hannah smiled like she already knew this was about to get interesting.
âYou are severely underestimating me.â
âNo,â Logan replied lazily. âI think you used graham crackers, marshmallow, and chocolate.â
âThatâs your final answer? Basic?â
She narrowed her eyes at him and he narrowed his right back.
âTake the shot.â
âWrong! I added bananas too.â
Allie lifted the notebook again, already enjoying herself while Logan raised his hands in surrender and laughter echoed across the beach.
âFucking bananas, Wellsy?â
Logan was drunk, but it was a different kind of drunk than the one Iâd seen during all those months at Briar U. He was relaxed, and unlike every other time when he always carried himself guarded and tense, his shoulders were loose now, like he was actually breathing for once. Which was agonizing, because looking at him stole the air from my lungs.
âChallenge.â
This time Logan didnât even sigh. He just nodded once.
âGo ahead.â
Allie read it slowly, deliberately taking longer than necessary.
âYou have to choose someone here to feed with your sâmore⌠and then take a body shot off them.â
Silence fell immediately.
Different from before.
Heavier.
Sharper.
Dean let out a low âoooh.â
Beau was already grinning like this was premium entertainment. Hannahâs eyes widened, clearly proud of herself.
And LoganâŚ
Logan stayed still for one second too long. His eyes moved slowly across the group. Until they stopped on me.
Again.
But this time there was no teasing there. No distraction. It was direct. Intentional. He took one step forward. Then another. The crackling of the fire sounded louder as he approached.
And when he finally stopped in front of me, he lifted the sâmore slightly, like he was waiting for some kind of reaction before doing anything.
âWhat? Why do I have to suffer through their punishments too?â
âItâs the game, baby.â
I heard Allie say it, and I rolled my eyes upward â straight into Loganâs gaze, the same eyes Iâd been crying over earlier that day.
âOpen your mouth.â he said quietly, lifting a finger to my chin and brushing his thumb against my skin in a way that almost made me want to cry again.
âYou donât even say please?â
His eyes dropped to my face, and the corner of his mouth lifted into the faintest smile.
âPlease, baby,â he murmured softly. âDo it for me.â
No teasing. No smirk. Just⌠Logan. The touch was gentle. Almost too careful.
His fingers slid beneath my chin while he held the sâmore in his other hand, patiently waiting for me to open my mouth. And that⌠that ruined me in a way teasing never could have. Because i notice that Logan was never gentle with me when he was confused. He became distant. Cold. Closed off. But now, drunk and staring at me like that, he looked dangerously sincere. I opened my mouth without complaining. Without even being capable of complaining.
Logan slowly brought the sâmore closer, and I took a small bite, immediately tasting sweet chocolate mixed with cinnamon. Around us, the group instantly started making noise on purpose.
âUgh, this just turned pornographic.â
One of their voices made me tear my eyes away from Logan and roll them at the group.
âThat sounds like a your problem.â
I answered, and that was apparently Beauâs cue to grab a shot. I looked at him and shook my head.
âNo. Pick someone else.â
Everyone around us laughed immediately.
âOh please,â Dean said with a grin. âYou two might technically be nothing right now, but Loganâs probably licked you a million times already. Donât act like this is groundbreaking.â I laughed nervously, the sound unsteady and drunk.
âSure.â
I muttered while looking upward and pushing myself out of the chair. The wooden table on Deanâs porch was sturdy enough to hold me, so I climbed onto it while Logan grabbed my waist and helped me sit before laying back against the surface.
âYou want me to choose someone else?â he murmured quietly. I looked at him coldly, trying not to reveal too much.
Beau handed me a lime wedge to hold between my teeth, and I answered before biting down on it.
âJust do the challenge, Logan.â
Then Loganâs fingers hooked into the waistband of my shorts, tugging the fabric down just enough to expose my stomach.
The cold beach air hit my skin immediately. Beau appeared beside the table holding the shot glass with a criminally excited grin.
âThis officially turned into a banned reality show episode.â
âShut up and pour it already,â Dean replied through laughter.
The cold liquor spilled directly into my belly button, making my entire body tense from the sudden temperature. I instinctively tilted my head back, staring at the dark sky scattered with stars while trying to ignore the way Logan was still holding my waist like he was steadying me.
Like I actually needed it.
And then I felt his mouth.
His warm tongue slid slowly against my stomach, collecting the alcohol while a violent shiver raced up my spine.
âFuckâŚâ someone muttered near the fire.
The laughter grew louder. So did the comments.
But everything felt distant the moment Logan lingered longer than he needed to. Longer than the game required. Longer than anyone there shouldâve noticed.
My breath caught when his lips slowly moved upward along my skin until they reached mine. Or rather...the lime trapped between my teeth.
His eyes lifted to mine in that exact moment.
Dark.
Heavy.
Dangerously drunk.
And Logan stayed there for far too long. Too close. His warm breath mixing with mine while he slowly took the lime between his teeth with absolutely no hurry to pull away.
Like heâd forgotten the entire audience around us.
Like for a few seconds, only the two of us existed.
The lime finally left my mouth in a movement far too slow to be accidental. And when Logan finally pulled away, still close enough for me to smell alcohol mixed with his cologne, the entire group exploded around the bonfire.
Allie was doubled over laughing in her chair. Dean pointed at both of us like heâd just witnessed his own personal Super Bowl.
âYou two seriously have unresolved issues.â
I let out a nervous laugh, still trying to catch my breath while Logan kept his hand on my waist one second longer than he should have before finally stepping away.
I climbed off the table dizzy and smiled at everyone, giving them a sarcastic little bow.
âYouâre welcome for the entertainment.â
Twenty minutes later, everyone started getting sleepy, and we eventually moved inside once the cold settled in.
As people started heading upstairs to their rooms, I stayed curled up on the couch pretending to be distracted by my phone until only Hannah remained, carrying a bottle of water upstairs with her.
âYouâre not coming up?â
âI will. Iâm just looking at something important. Goodnight.â
I answered, my eyes already struggling to stay open, and then she left. But I wasnât going upstairs.
I refused to lie next to Logan that night, not while I was still carrying the ache from earlier that day and the lingering heat of his mouth against my stomach.
So I ended up on the couch instead. I told myself it was temporary, that Iâd just close my eyes for a minute. But I fell asleep before I even had the chance to decide otherwise. Or maybe I did decideâI just didnât want to admit I couldnât handle being in the same room as him without reaching for him.
Because I knew I wouldnât make it up those stairs without feeling dizzy at the simple fact that Logan was thereâtoo close, and still someone I wasnât supposed to want like that.
After I blacked out, the next morning was worse.
When I woke up upstairs in his bed, wrapped in soft, unfamiliar blankets, and saw Logan asleep on the floor, something twisted in my chest. Not relief. Not comfort. Something heavier.
And somehow, that might have been almost worse than him not agreeing with me the morning before.
English isn't my first language, so pls go easy on me.
I really had fun writing this chapter. Maybe also knowing that things are going to get better.
pairing â garrett graham x reader
summary â four times garrettâs chain causes problems, and one very smug hockey captain pretends he isnât loving every second of it.
warnings â suggestive content, making out/grinding, mild sexual references, implied oral sex, drinking, party setting, garrett being smug and whipped.
notes from me â as part of my 1k celebrations, here's the top requested fic!! enjoy đŤśđź
word count â 5k
navigation â masterlist | taglist
The first time Garrett realises his chain is a problem, they're in his room with the door locked, the bass from downstairs moving through the floorboards in lazy, uneven pulses and the old house doing what the old house always does around a party, which is pretend itâs not seen worse.Â
There are voices below them, Loganâs laugh cutting through once in a bright, drunken bark, Dean yelling something that sounds like an accusation and Tucker answering with the sort of dry, patient tone that means someone is absolutely about to be called an idiot.Â
But up here, everything has gone smaller. Warmer. The room narrowed down to Garrettâs weight between her thighs, the soft give of his mattress under her back, the skirt shoved high enough on her hips that there's no point pretending itâs even a skirt anymore, and his mouth dragging over hers like he has all night and no better use for it.
He kisses like an athlete too, which is deeply annoying information to have about him because it makes too much sense. Confident, paced, unfairly good at changing pressure right when she starts thinking sheâs adjusted to him.Â
One hand is braced beside her head, the other curled around her thigh, thumb pressing absent little circles into skin like he doesn't know itâs making her thoughts get weird and slippery around the edges. Heâs still wearing his t-shirt, which feels rude considering sheâs in a bra and skirt and whatever dignity survived the trip up the stairs is now lying somewhere dead near his laundry basket.Â
His chain has slipped out from under his collar while he kisses her, warm gold catching against the side of her throat every time he grinds down into her and makes her breath come out embarrassingly thin.
âGarrett,â she gets out, though it doesn't have much purpose beyond giving her mouth something to do when his is suddenly leaving it.
He hums like heâs heard her and decided to take it under advisement at a later date. His mouth drifts to her jaw, then lower, slow and pleased and entirely too smug about the way her body moves before she can stop it.Â
He kisses down her throat, over the spot where her pulse is doing something humiliating, then lower still, along the top edge of her bra, and she should probably let him. She should probably enjoy the fact that Garrett Graham, Briar hockey captain, walking campus hazard, has decided her chest deserves sustained attention.Â
But the second his mouth leaves hers properly, some spoiled little part of her lights up in objection.
âNo,â she whines, which is not her proudest moment, and is made worse by the fact that Garrett pauses against her skin like heâs trying not to laugh. She reaches down and gets her fingers in his hair, gentle but insistent, tugging him back up until his face appears over hers again, curls mussed, mouth shiny, eyes bright with the kind of amusement that makes her want to either kiss him harder or shove him off the bed. âCome back.â
His grin spreads slowly. âBossy.â
âYou stopped kissing me.â
âI was kissing you somewhere else.â
She pouts. âWrong somewhere.â
He gives one of those little laughs that starts in his chest before it reaches his mouth, warm and low and stupidly pleased, and then he comes back happily, because thatâs the worst part of Garrett.Â
He has all this cocky-boy resistance in theory, all this mouth and attitude and captain-of-every-room energy, and then she asks for him directly and his body gives him away before his ego can file an appeal. He kisses her again, deep enough that the complaint evaporates under her tongue, and for a few seconds she forgets about the chain entirely.
Then he pulls back to sit up on his knees, one thigh planted on either side of her hips, and reaches behind his neck for his shirt.
âOh,â she says before she can stop herself.
Garrett pauses with the hem already half up his stomach, eyebrows lifting. âOh?â
âShut up.â
âI didnât say anything.â
âYou were about to.â
His teeth catch at his bottom lip. âI was about to ask if you needed a minute to process.â
She narrows her eyes at him, which would probably have more force if she were not lying under him with her skirt bunched around her waist and her hands already drifting up his exposed stomach. âYouâre so annoying.â
âYeah, but youâre still looking.â
And she is. Tragically. Openly. With no legal defence. The shirt comes off the rest of the way and lands somewhere near the chair, and Garrett is there above her in the soft lamplight, shoulders broad from hockey, stomach tight under her palms, chain resting against his chest like itâs been placed there for the express purpose of ruining her life.Â
It's not even that fancy. Thatâs the insulting part. Just a gold chain. Simple. Warm from his skin. Sitting right at the base of his throat.
Her hands slide up his stomach, over the hard shift of muscle when he breathes, and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth without meaning to.
Garrettâs grin softens into something more dangerous because he knows. Because Garrett is many things, but oblivious is not one of them, especially not when a girl is looking at his chest like sheâs discovered a new academic field.
âBaby,â he says, amused.
She doesn't answer. She hooks two fingers under the chain and pulls. Garrett comes down with it, one hand shooting to the mattress beside her head, the other catching her waist as he laughs into the space above her mouth. âJesus. Okay.â
She smiles, breath already uneven again. âCome here.â
âI was here.â
âCloser.â
His mouth hovers over hers, his chain trapped between her fingers, the metal a little warm, a little slick where itâs been resting against his skin. âYou always this demanding?â
She tugs again, smaller this time, mostly because she likes the way his eyes drop to her mouth when she does it. âOnly when youâre slow.â
Garrett stares at her for one beat, and then the smile goes all bright and helpless at the edges, like sheâs pleased him against his will.Â
âYeah,â he murmurs, bending until the chain brushes her collarbone and his mouth is almost on hers again. âThatâs gonna be a problem.â
The second time is quieter, though quiet in the hockey house is a relative concept and mostly means no one is actively breaking furniture within their line of sight. They're downstairs on the couch after dinner, the living room dim except for the television throwing blue-white light over everyoneâs faces and the standing lamp Tucker keeps insisting gives the room ambience, which Dean keeps calling divorced dad lighting.Â
A movieâs on, something Logan picked with the confidence of a man who would be asleep within twenty minutes, and sure enough heâs already slumped in the armchair with his head tipped back and one socked foot on the coffee table, snoring faintly through the loudest action sequence anyone has ever failed to respect.
Garrettâs stretched out behind her on the couch, one arm tucked under her head like a pillow, the other lying heavy over her waist. Sheâs settled half on top of him, half against him, legs tangled beneath the old throw blanket that smells faintly like fabric softener and Garrettâs laundry detergent and whatever popcorn crime Dean committed earlier.Â
The whole room has that late-night, lived-in warmth to it. Empty bowls on the coffee table, Tucker leaning on the other end of the couch with his phone in one hand and his attention somehow still half on the movie, Dean sprawled on the floor with his back against Allieâs legs while she runs her fingers lazily through his hair like sheâs rewarding a large, badly behaved dog.
Garrettâs chain has worked its way out again. She doesn't mean to start fiddling with it. Her hand is just there, resting against his chest, and the chain is right under her fingertips, cool at first and then quickly warming up.Â
Her thumb catches the tiny curve of one link. Then another. Then sheâs sliding it back and forth lightly against his skin, not really thinking, only listening to the movie and the steady sound of his breathing under her cheek and the occasional thud of Dean kicking the coffee table because he refuses to understand where his legs end.
Garrett lets it happen for a while. Long enough that she forgets sheâs doing it. Long enough for the metal to move in a tiny, repetitive drag under her fingers, a private little rhythm tucked beneath explosions and the muffled rain starting against the windows.Â
His chest rises under her palm. His hand at her waist flexes once, absent, and she shifts closer without lifting her head. Then his fingers close around her wrist. Warm and sure, stopping the motion.
She glances up. âWhat?â
Garrett looks down at her with the deeply patient expression of a man being tortured in a way heâs not allowed to enjoy too obviously. âYouâve been doing that for ten minutes.â
âDoing what?â
His eyes flick to the chain. Then back to her. âThat.â
âOh.â She looks down at her hand, caught in his like evidence. âWas I annoying you?â
âNo.â
âYou stopped me.â
âBecause,â he says, lowering his voice as Dean makes a disgusted noise at the movie and Allie tells him to stop talking before she smothers him with a cushion, âyou keep touching my neck, and Iâm trying to be a decent citizen in a communal living space.â
Her mouth twitches. âYour neck?â
âMy chain is on my neck.â
She bites back a smile. âThatâs very scientific of you.â
âI go to college.â
âFor hockey.â
He sucks at his teeth, a grin spreading across his face. âFor hockey and the pursuit of knowledge.â
She laughs into his chest, and he immediately looks pleased with himself in that quiet Garrett way, like making her laugh while half the room is asleep counts as a personal win.Â
His hand slides from her wrist to her fingers, lifting them to his mouth. He kisses her knuckles once, soft and warm, then again, slower, like he can get away with it because nobodyâs looking directly at them. The contact sends a stupid little wave through her, low and gentle, a sudden looseness in her ribs and the sense that her body has settled another inch into his.
âStop playing with it,â he murmurs against her hand.
âI didnât know it was an activity with rules.â
âIt is now.â
âSounds controlling.â
âSounds like youâre too hot for your own good and Iâm a responsible man.â
She lifts her head just enough to look at him properly. âYouâre so full of shit.â
Garrett smiles like thatâs his favourite thing sheâs said all day. âA little, yeah.â
Then he threads his fingers through hers and brings their joined hands down to rest against his stomach, trapping her there with him. Garrettâs hand stays wrapped around hers. Firm. Warm. His thumb moves once over the side of her finger, slow enough that it feels accidental and deliberate at the same time.
The third time, she should know somethingâs wrong with the whole arrangement because Garrett offers it too easily. It's the morning of her exam, a big one, the kind that has lived in the back of her head for three weeks like an unpaid bill and ruined several perfectly good evenings by existing near them.Â
Sheâs already eaten half a banana, stared at her notes until the words lost meaning, changed shirts twice, and accused Garrett of breathing too loudly while he sat on her bed watching her spiral with the sort of affectionate calm that made her want to throw a highlighter at him.
âYou studied,â he says, for maybe the fourth time, lying on his side with one elbow propped under him and his curls still damp from the shower. âLike, a disgusting amount. I know because you made me quiz you last night and I learned things against my will.â
She stands in front of the mirror, smoothing her top down and then immediately undoing the smoothing because now it looks too deliberate. âThat doesnât mean I know it.â
âThatâs actually exactly what studying means.â
âNo, studying means I knew it at midnight in your bed while you were half asleep and kept pronouncing things wrong on purpose.â
âI was keeping morale up.â
She turns to glare at him, and he grins at her from the bed, annoyingly gorgeous and unhelpfully relaxed, his chain sitting against his bare collarbone because he hasnât put a shirt on yet. Which is also rude. Honestly, the whole morning has been a campaign of emotional terrorism.
âIâm serious,â she says, and the words come out thinner than she wants.
His face changes then. The grin doesn't disappear entirely, because Garrett without some amount of grin would be genuinely concerning, but it settles. He sits up properly, feet hitting the floor, and reaches for her when she comes close enough. His hands land at her hips, warm through the fabric, thumbs pressing once like heâs reminding her she has a body and it's standing here, not drowning somewhere in the imagined future of a badly answered essay question.
âI know you are,â he says. âI also know youâre gonna kill it.â
âDonât say that.â
âWhat, kill it?â
âYes.â
âFine. Youâre gonna⌠respectfully and academically dominate.â
âGarrett.â
He laughs under his breath and tugs her closer until sheâs standing between his knees. Then, with the sudden seriousness of someone remembering an ancient ritual and not a bit he came up with seven seconds ago, he reaches behind his neck and unclasps the chain.
She looks down at it. âWhat are you doing?â
âGood luck.â
Her eyes lift to his. âWhat?â
He holds it up between them, gold catching the morning light from her window. âItâs lucky.â
She stares at him. âYour chain is lucky?â
âExtremely.â
âYouâve never said that.â
He looks almost offended. âI donât tell everyone my deeply personal athletic superstitions.â
âYou told Dean you had to wear the same socks for playoffs.â
âThat was different. He touched them.â
âThat feels like a public health issue more than a superstition.â
Garrett ignores this, and gestures for her to turn around. She does, suspicious but too nervous to fight him properly. He stands behind her, and for a second the mirror catches both of them: her in exam clothes and stress, him shirtless and too calm, chain hanging from his fingers.Â
He lifts it around her neck, his knuckles grazing the sides of her throat as he brings the clasp together. The metal lands cool against her skin, heavier than she expects, and something in her chest gives one stupid little pull.
âThere,â he says, hands settling briefly on her shoulders. âGuaranteed.â
She touches the chain with two fingers. âGuaranteed?â
âYeah.â
âIf I fail, Iâm blaming your jewellery.â
âIf you fail, Iâll fake my death and start over somewhere chainless.â
She laughs then, finally, and it comes out shaky but real. Garrettâs eyes meet hers in the mirror, his mouth tipped in a way thatâs half smug and half proud of having pulled the sound out of her.Â
He bends and kisses the side of her head, quick, easy, like he doesn't know the chain suddenly feels like some ridiculous little anchor against her collarbone.
âGo,â he says. âAce it. Then come back and be unbearable about it.â
She does ace it.
She walks out of the exam hall two hours later with the weird, floating, slightly manic clarity of someone who knows the questions landed exactly where she needed them to, who wrote until her hand cramped, who remembered the thing from the bottom of page seven that she had absolutely expected to die with no audience.Â
She calls Garrett from the sidewalk and says, âI think I nailed it,â and he shouts so loudly through the phone that a girl walking past looks over in alarm.
âTell the chain I said thank you,â she says later that night, when sheâs in his room again, sitting cross-legged on his bed with takeout containers open between them and his hoodie swallowed over her exam clothes because the adrenaline crash has finally arrived and brought a mild existential fog with it.
Garrett looks up from stealing one of her fries. âWhat?â
âThe chain.â She taps it where it still sits at her throat. âYour ancient family luck charm.â
There's a pause. It's tiny. Almost nothing. But Garrett Graham has many gifts, and hiding guilt from his girlfriend while his mouth is full of stolen fries is not one of them.
Her eyes narrow. âGarrett.â
He chews slowly.
âGarrett Graham.â
He swallows. âOkay, before you get madââ
âOh my God.â She sits up straighter. âItâs not lucky?â
âItâs, uh, lucky adjacent.â
âWhat does that mean?â
âIt means Iâve worn it to some good games.â
âYou told me it was extremely lucky.â
âI was trying to get you out of your head.â
âYou lied!â
âI motivated.â He points at her with a fry. âAnd you crushed your exam, so actually, whereâs my thank you?â
She stares at him for one second. Then another. The chainâs warm now from her skin, and the fact that he made it up should be annoying. It is annoying.Â
It's also so Garrett that something in her gives up and goes soft around the edges despite herself, because he saw her standing in front of the mirror two seconds from vibrating through the floorboards and decided the solution was to hand her something of his and make it sound official enough for her nervous system to believe him.
âYouâre unbelievable,â she says.
His grin comes back immediately, bright with relief and bad ideas. âBut effective.â
âYouâre never getting this back.â
âBaby, I look really good in that chain.â
âI look better.â
He studies her for a second, eyes dropping to where the gold sits against the oversized neckline of his hoodie, and his mouth does something slower.Â
âYeah,â he says, voice rougher. âYou do.â
Her fingers move to the chain. His eyes track the motion. The takeout goes forgotten between them, steam thinning in the cartons, the lamp laying warm light over his bed and the stupid little lucky-not-lucky object at her throat.
She crawls toward him, slow enough to make his brows lift.
âWhat?â he asks, though his hands are already moving to her waist when she pushes the cartons aside with the care of someone who doesn't want to get sauce on his sheets but absolutely does want to ruin his evening in other ways.
âYou want a thank you?â
Garrettâs mouth opens, then closes. He tilts his head, trying for casual and missing by a heroic distance. âI mean, Iâm not gonna say no to gratitude.â
âGood,â she says, and leans in to kiss him once, soft enough that he follows when she pulls away.
His hands tighten on her hips. âGood?â
âMhm.â
Then she slides off the bed onto her knees between his legs, and Garrett goes very, very still. For once in his life, he doesn't have a comeback ready.
She looks up at him, the chain hanging forward from her neck, gold swinging slightly in the space between them, and his eyes drop to it like heâs experiencing several personal revelations at once.
âStill think itâs lucky?â she asks.
Garrett exhales through his nose, a smile breaking helplessly at one corner of his mouth as his hand comes up to brush her hair back, careful and warm and already a little wrecked.Â
âBaby,â he says, voice low with absolute reverence and zero shame, âIâm about to start fucking worshipping it.â
The fourth time is after a home game, which means the hockey house is operating at a volume level that could probably be reported to local authorities if local authorities hadn't long ago made peace with the fact that Briar hockey players were simply going to make too much noise.Â
The living room is packed in that loose, post-win sprawl of bodies and beer and boys shouting over one another from distances that donât require shouting at all. Someone has put the game highlights on the television and every single person in the room is pretending they're not watching themselves while absolutely watching themselves.Â
Logan is arguing with a guy from the second line about whether his assist should have been cleaner, Tucker is sitting on the arm of the couch with a beer in hand and the calm expression of a man who played very well and doesn't need to scream about it, and Dean is stretched in the middle of the room like a Renaissance painting sponsored by bad decisions, loudly explaining to Allie that his defensive effort has layers.
Garrettâs on the couch below her, sitting with his legs spread, one arm hooked along the back cushions, hair still damp from the post-game shower and curling messily. He looks good in the obnoxious, lived-in way he always does after a win. Tired under the eyes, mouth lazy with satisfaction, hoodie pushed up at the forearms, chain glinting at his throat every time he turns his head to answer someone.Â
There's a faint bruise starting near one cheekbone and stiffness in the way he holds his shoulders that heâs pretending doesn't exist because men who willingly block shots with their bodies have a complicated relationship with the concept of pain.
Sheâs standing behind the couch with her arms looped around his shoulders, her cheek resting against the side of his head, close enough that when he laughs she feels it before she hears it. The room smells like beer and aftershave and pizza grease and wet pavement dragged in from outside.Â
Her chin is tucked near his temple, and his hand comes up every so often to touch her wrist where it crosses his chest, as if checking sheâs still there even though sheâs been draped over him for fifteen minutes like an affectionate scarf.
âYouâre tense,â she murmurs near his ear.
Garrett tilts his head slightly toward her. âI got checked into the boards by a guy built like a refrigerator.â
âI saw.â
âYou also yelled âget upâ at me.â
âYou did get up.â
He huffs. âSupportive.â
âIâm very motivational.â
He smiles, eyes still on Logan across the room. âYeah, Coach, youâre a real asset.â
She presses her thumb into the muscle at the top of his shoulder before he can get too smug, and his mouth shuts in the middle of whatever he was about to say. Thereâs a small drop in his posture, a breath leaving through his nose, his head tipping forward half an inch because the pressure hits somewhere useful.
âOh,â she says softly, pleased. âThere he is.â
âDonât sound so happy about my suffering.â
âIâm happy about being right.â
He hums quietly. âYou usually are.â
She starts working at his shoulders properly, thumbs pressing slow circles into the hard knots there, fingers sliding under the edge of his hoodie collar. Garrett tries to keep participating in the conversation around him, because Garrett Graham could be dying and still find time to chirp a teammate, but she feels him lose focus by degrees.Â
His answers get shorter. His hand drops from his beer to rest loosely on his thigh. When she presses into the muscle beside his neck, he makes a low sound under his breath that is almost nothing and somehow still deeply satisfying.
Dean notices, of course. Dean would notice a private moment through drywall.
âOh, thatâs cute,â he says from the floor, voice carrying with surgical precision. âCaptainâs getting a little spa treatment.â
Garrett doesn't open his eyes. âYou jealous, Di Laurentis?â
âOf a shoulder rub? No. Of your girlfriend looking at you like you just returned from war? Little bit.â
Allie leans around him. âHe did get slammed pretty hard.â
Dean points at her. âSee? This is why I date women. Compassion.â
Tucker takes a sip of beer. âYou date Allie because she tolerates you.â
âThat too.â
She ignores them, and keeps working her thumbs into Garrettâs shoulders. The only problem is the chain. It keeps getting in the way, slipping under her fingers every time she moves toward the base of his neck, catching lightly against her knuckle, dragging sideways over his skin. She shifts it once. Twice. The third time, Garrett reaches up without looking, catches her wrist, and then lifts his other hand to the clasp.
âHere,â he says.
She pauses. âWhat?â
He takes the chain off in one smooth motion, turning his head enough to glance up at her with that soft, amused look that always feels worse when other people are around because it's not performative. It's just his face, open for one second before he remembers to make a joke. âHere, baby. Wear it before you strangle me with it.â
The room hears baby. Naturally. The room reacts with the dignity of wolves spotting an injured deer. Loganâs head snaps over. âOh, wow.â
Dean sits up so fast Allie has to move her knees. âDid he just give her the chain?â
Tuckerâs mouth twitches. âBig night.â
Garrett points vaguely at all of them without turning around. âEverybody shut up.â
No one shuts up. That would go against the entire founding philosophy of the house.
She bends down anyway, smiling despite herself, hair falling forward over one shoulder. Garrett lifts the chain around her neck from where he sits, reaching back and up, his fingers careful as they brush the sides of her throat. It's an awkward angle, and he fumbles once with the clasp.
Dean gasps. âHeâs putting jewellery on her. In public. Garrett Graham has fallen.â
âI will throw this beer at you,â Garrett says.
âNo, you wonât. Your girlâs wearing your chain and touching your shoulders. Youâre domesticated now.â
Logan lifts his cup. âRIP to a slut.â
Garrett finally opens his eyes and looks over. âIâm still alive, asshole.â
She laughs into Garrettâs hair before she can stop herself, and his hands settle briefly at her collarbone once the clasp is done, thumbs brushing over the chain where it sits against her skin.Â
The touch is quick. Almost hidden. But his eyes stay there for a second too long, and the whole loud room blurs slightly at the edges in that private way it sometimes does around him, even when Dean is three feet away preparing to be the worst person alive.
The chain is warm from Garrettâs skin when it lands against her throat. Something about that should not matter as much as it does.
Garrettâs head tips back until he can look up at her. âGood?â
She nods, fingers touching the chain. âGood.â
âCan I have my massage now, or are we hosting a ceremony?â
âCeremony,â Dean says immediately. âI have a speech.â
âNo one wants that,â Tucker says.
âI do,â Logan contributes, raising a hand.
Garrett groans and drops his head forward again, but she can see the grin at the corner of his mouth, tucked away where the boys cannot fully get to it.
She goes back to his shoulders, the chain now resting against her instead of him, rising and falling gently with her breathing as she works the tension out from under his hoodie.
The boys keep going, because of course they do.
âWhipped,â Dean says.
âTragically,â Logan adds.
âClinically,â Tucker says, which makes Allie laugh so hard she almost spills her drink.
Garrett lifts one hand just enough to flip them off without opening his eyes. âKeep talking. Iâm cutting all of you from the power play.â
âYou canât cut me from the power play,â Dean says. âI am the power play.â
She leans closer, thumbs pressing into Garrettâs neck, and murmurs, âTheyâre not wrong, you know.â
His eyes open slightly. âCareful.â
âWhat?â she says, voice innocent near his ear. âYou gave me your chain in front of everyone.â
âYou were choking me with it.â
âI was massaging your shoulders.â
âPoorly.â
She pinches him lightly.
He laughs, catching her wrist and bringing her hand down just long enough to kiss the inside of it, quick and warm and entirely too natural for a room full of men actively trying to ruin his reputation. Then he lets her go and sinks back against the couch, shoulders finally loosening under her hands.
Across the room, Logan makes a wounded noise. âOh my God. He kissed her hand. We lost him.â
Dean presses his beer to his heart. âHe was so young.â
Tucker, dry as dust, says, âHe died doing what he loved. Pretending he wasnât in love.â
Garrettâs jaw ticks once, but the smile wins. She feels it more than sees it, the small shift under her cheek when she bends down again and rests against him for a second, her arms around his shoulders, his chain warm at her throat, the whole loud, stupid house moving around them.
âLove is a strong word,â Garrett says, which is exactly the sort of thing Garrett says when everyone is looking and the truth has wandered too close to the middle of the room.
She smiles against his cheek. âMm.â
His hand comes up and covers her forearm, fingers curling there, thumb sweeping once over her skin in a slow little pass that says more than his mouth is willing to risk with Dean waiting to pounce.
Around them, the boys keep chirping, the television keeps replaying Garrettâs goal from the second period, someone in the kitchen shouts about beer pong, and the chain rests against her collarbone like a tiny, ridiculous victory.
Garrett turns his head just enough that his mouth brushes near her temple, hidden from most of the room by the angle of her body.
âYou look good in it,â he says quietly.
Her hands pause on his shoulders for half a second.
Then Dean yells, âI can see you whispering sweet nothings, Graham,â and Garrett closes his eyes like heâs begging a very unhelpful God for patience, and she laughs so hard into his hair that the chain jumps lightly at her throat.
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SUMMARY: A frustrated figure skater who transferred from Illinois has only one goal: keeping her athletic scholarship this season, and sheâll do anything to change the way people on campus see her â especially if it means improving her image for pairs skating. Even if it costs her a fake relationship with the same person who spread the nickname that turned her into âIce Heart.â
WARNING: SMUT AHEAD CONTENT RELATED TO SEX, RELATIONSHIPS, AND DISORDERS CONTENT CONTAINS FACTS, BUT REMEMBER THIS IS FANFICTION, IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, LEAVE!
MASTERLIST
0.8 Jealous
I opened the beer and looked at Allie while she forced a smile in the middle of the conversation. A little farther ahead, near the bonfire, FĂŠlix Kelsen was standing next to Logan listening to Dean talk with way too much excitement for that time of night.
And honestly?
Seeing those two in the same place felt wrong on almost impressive levels.
FĂŠlix Kelsen had been the first guy I ever slept with. And also the guy I kept sleeping with during the summers when Allie and I came back to Delaware. A kind of bad habit that had become way too comfortable to end. The problem was that it had been two years since the last time Iâd seen FĂŠlix. Two years since the last time he pinned me against one of the pier walls after some stupid party. Two years since the last time he called me trouble bunny while laughing against my mouth. And now he was there.
Standing next to Logan.
My stomach twisted immediately.
Because Logan was already territorial by nature. Irritatingly territorial. And FĂŠlix had exactly the kind of personality that loved provoking people like Logan just for the entertainment of it.
âYouâve been staring at them for like five minutes,â Allie commented beside me before taking a sip of her drink. I looked away way too fast.
âI have not.â
âYes, you have. And with that specific look.â
I frowned.
âWhat specific look?â
Allie let out a quiet laugh.
âThe âthis is going to end in disasterâ look.â
Because it probably would. I followed Allie toward the group, and the second Kelsen lifted his eyes to me, a huge grin spread across his face before he stepped forward. FĂŠlix had never had any trouble connecting with people. Especially not with people he already had history with. And that meant that even if he hadnât seen me in two years, he still felt close to me â like those two years apart meant absolutely nothing.
âHoly shit, bunny. Damn, you look hot as hell.â
A laugh escaped me automatically as he spun me slightly off the ground before setting me down again. And maybe that alone already said too much. Because old intimacy was dangerous like that. It came back without asking permission.
âYouâre still dramatic,â I murmured, lightly pushing against his chest while FĂŠlix kept his hands on my waist for way too long. His pale eyes quickly traveled down my body before returning to my face. Not subtle at all.
âAnd youâre still hot as fuck. So I guess not much changed here.â
My eyes widened a little while an embarrassed, raspy laugh escaped me. The kind that sounded like hahah.
âI think some things did.â
âSo you two know each other too?â Dean asked, interrupting the small moment.
FĂŠlix stepped beside me and crossed his arms over his chest with a wide grin. The second he moved out of my way, I lifted my eyes to Logan, who was staring directly at FĂŠlix with an expression I couldnât quite tell was disgust or anger because his jaw was clenched too tightly.
âOur parents were friends. You two...â
I started explaining before FĂŠlix nudged my waist, making me glance sideways at him briefly before looking back at the group, who were all very obviously watching the situation unfold.
âSometimes we hung out when my parents came down to check the beach house for the weekend.â Dean nodded.
âSo you were the other rich kid Dean mentioned sometimes,â Beau said, pointing at him, making everyone laugh while FĂŠlix accepted the joke easily.
âYeah, man. I can also be the guy who got his heart broken the second a certain person stopped coming to see me.â
I rolled my eyes and took another sip of my beer while Allie and Hannah stared at me with wide eyes.
âYouâre so dramatic. You know what happened.â
âItâs not dramatic if itâs true, bunny.â
My eyes widened instantly before I looked down at the sand while choking on my drink, making FĂŠlix laugh beside me.
âSorry if you got out of practice with the nickname.â Another laugh rang out â but this one wasnât amused. It was sharp. Bitter. Coming from Logan as he looked at us. To cover it up, Allie forced out a laugh too along with Hannah while the rest of the guys pretended to laugh as well. âAnyway, my parents are gonna freak out if they find out youâre in town. You have to come see them.â
âThatâs a lie. Your mom didnât even like me.â
I laughed, shaking my head at him.
âNah, she loved you. And besides, Allie, you know Jaden would be happy to know you're back in town.â
Allieâs eyes widened immediately.
âOh no,â she muttered, nearly panicked. Dean slowly turned toward her. Way too slowly. FĂŠlixâs smile widened instantly, clearly satisfied with the chaos heâd created.
âHeâs a nice guy,â he explained to the people who didnât know who he was, shrugging casually. âSurfer. Kinda obsessed with Allie that summer. You know how it is.â
âFĂŠlix,â Allie warned through clenched teeth.
âWhat? Iâm being nice. I didnât even mention the part where...â
´´Have you always been this unfiltered, or did I just forget?â I asked.
Logan glanced at me and smiled. That immediately should've worried me.
âYou never really paid attention to how I was, bunny.â
I narrowed my eyes.
âExcuse me?â
âYou always had your mouth full.â
He said it casually.
Without thinking.
Without a single survival instinct.
My brain stopped working for a full second. Then I started coughing. Hard. Across from me, Logan's expression immediately shifted from smug to horrified as he realized what he'd just said.
âOh, fuck.â
Dean nearly inhaled his drink.
âWho wants shots? Isnât that why weâre here?â I interrupted quickly.
Hannah agreed way too fast.
âYes. Shots. Lots of shots.â
âFinally, somebody with good ideas,â Beau announced immediately. Even so, the strange tension spread through the group. Dean still looked suspiciously between Allie and FĂŠlix while Beau started handing out plastic shot cups across the makeshift table near the bonfire.
And honestly? I appreciated the distraction because the tension between Logan and FĂŠlix was already starting to develop a personality of its own. I grabbed one of the shots the second Beau shoved the tray toward us.
âPerfect.â
Everyone raised their cups at the same time.
âTo summer,â Hannah said first.
âTo emotional irresponsibility,â Dean added.
âTo questionable vacation sex,â FĂŠlix finished without hesitation.
The guys immediately burst out laughing. Even Logan. Quietly. But he laughed. And for some reason that was worse. Because when I looked at him over the rim of my cup, I found his brown eyes already fixed on me.
Watching.
Way too calm.
Like he was trying to piece together an entire puzzle inside his head. I swallowed the shot immediately just to break eye contact.
Mistake. Because that shit burned all the way down my throat.
âOh my God,â I coughed. âThis tastes like gasoline.â
âThatâs because Beau mixes drinks like a criminal,â Tucker commented.
âAnd yet you idiots keep drinking them,â Beau replied, offended.
FĂŠlix grabbed another shot and held it out toward me.
âYou still terrible at taking tequila?â
âI was never terrible.â
âBunny, you climbed onto a table and tried to fight a guy dressed like a pirate.â
Allie instantly burst out laughing.
âI climbed onto the table and argued with him, not fought him.â
âI cannot believe I never got to witness that version of you,â Hannah said, laughing while covering her mouth with both hands. FĂŠlix grinned proudly.
âOh, you shouldâve seen her drunk that summer. Tiny, violent, and completely unhinged.â
âOh shut up.â
I rolled my eyes, laughing. But the problem was that Logan didnât laugh this time. I felt it before I even looked at him. The shift in the air. That silent tension that always appeared whenever Logan got irritated and tried pretending he wasnât.
When I lifted my eyes, I found him leaning against a fallen tree trunk with his beer resting on his thigh, watching FĂŠlix talk to me like he was analyzing every detail of the interaction.
His jaw tightened the second FĂŠlix took my empty shot glass from my hand without even asking and replaced it with another.
Natural. Easy. Far too intimate.
As the night went on and I got drunker, I completely gave up on the idea of staying on my feet.
So I simply dropped down beside Logan on the ground, leaning my back against the tree trunk while he distractedly talked to one of the guys from the team.
My shoulder bumped against his the second I sat down, and I felt Logan glance at me quickly before returning his attention to the conversation.
âDude, I still think you stole that traffic sign,â the guy across the fire said.
âI didnât steal it,â Logan replied calmly.
âLogan, you literally used it as a sled in the snow.â
âAllegations without proof.â
I rolled my eyes with a quiet laugh while resting my elbows on my knees. The alcohol made everything feel slower. Warmer. Easier. Especially ignoring the fact that Loganâs leg was pressed against mine.
An idea suddenly popped into my head.
Before I could overthink it, I turned toward Logan and dropped to my knees beside him.
âWhat are youââ
âLogan!â
I grabbed his shoulders before he could finish.
His words died instantly.
My hands slid from his shoulders to the sides of his neck, then up to his jaw, forcing him to look at me.
Logan blinked.
Completely caught off guard.
â...What?â
I couldn't stop smiling.
âWe should go swimming.â
For a second, he just stared at me.
Like he genuinely thought he'd misheard me.
Then a grin spread across his face.
Slow.
Dangerous.
Like I'd just handed him exactly what he wanted.
âOh, now you want to go swimming.â
âYes! I've never gone swimming in the ocean at night before, and you said you wanted to do it. Come on.â
Logan laughed.
A quiet, disbelieving sound.
âI don't know if that's a good idea, bunny. You're pretty drunk.â
I immediately frowned. My hands, which were still holding his face, slid up into his messy brown curls.
âDon't call me that.â My fingers tangled deeper into his messy curls as I frowned at him. âAnd I'm not that drunk.â
âRight.â Logan's mouth twitched. âHe can call you that, but I can't?â
âThat's different.â
âIs it?â
âYes.â I rolled my eyes. âHe calls me bunny. You call me gorgeous.â
For a second, Logan just stared at me before a laugh escaped him.
âThat's your reasoning?â
âIt's perfectly valid reasoning.â
âGorgeous, that's not reasoning at all.â
âLogan.â
âYeah?â
I narrowed my eyes.
âYou are being incredibly annoying right now.â
âAnd you're drunk enough to think swimming in the ocean at two in the morning sounds like a great idea.â
I opened my mouth.
Then paused.
â...Okay, that part might be fair.â
His laugh escaped before he could stop it.
And somehow that only made me want to drag him into the water even more.
âFine. But since you're not coming, I'm going by myself.â
Before he could argue, I pushed myself to my feet.
âGorgeous...â
âToo late.â
I pointed a warning finger at him and started backing away from the fire.
Delaware was safe enough for us to go skinny-dipping, and honestly, we were far enough away from all our friends and the drunk people gathered around the bonfire that nobody would care. I pulled off my skirt, leaving myself in nothing but my panties, then took off the bandeau top that kept slipping down, leaving me completely half-naked.
I heard Logan call my name.
Glancing over my shoulder, I found him already walking after me, his expression somewhere between exasperated and amused.
The cold water rushed over my feet as the next wave rolled in.
I gasped.
âOh my God.â
Logan immediately laughed.
âStill think this was a good idea?â
âYes.â
âYou sound miserable.â
âYes,â I repeated, shivering. âBut that's not the point.â
âThe point being?â
I turned toward him with a grin.
âThe point is that I've never done this before.â
I glanced back at him. Logan was already right behind m To my surprise, he was tugging off his shirt as he walked, tossing it somewhere onto the sand before kicking off the rest of his clothe A second later, he was following me into the ocean in nothing but his boxer
âSee?â I called over my shoulder, smiling triumphantly. âYou wanted to do this
âYou make it sound like I had a choice
âYou did
âNo, I didn't
The water climbed higher as we moved farther from short.
âPlease don't do this and then start a fight with me because you had to take care of me, Logan
Logan just shook his head, running a hand through his damp hai
âNah. We're not fighting anymore. "
His eyes flickered over me briefly before returning to my face.
âSomeone has to stop you from making terrible decisions. "
âThat's funny coming from a hockey player."
Logan laughe
The sound was swallowed almost immediately by the waves crashing around us.
When the water reached our waists, I bent down and dipped beneath the surface, letting the cold ocean soak my hair.
For a second, everything disappeared.
The noise.
The bonfire.
The people.
The thoughts constantly running through my head.
When I came back up, pushing my wet hair away from my face, I turned around.
Logan was closer.
Much close
The dark water moved around us as the moonlight reflected across the surface of the ocean.
For a moment, neither of us said anything.
We just stood there, half-submerged in the water, looking at each other while the waves rolled around us.Â
âHave you ever done this before?â I asked, reaching for his hand beneath the water.
Logan glanced down at our intertwined fingers before looking back at me.
âGone swimming in the ocean at two in the morning?â
A smile tugged at my lips.
âYeah.â
He shook his head.
âNo. "
âReally? "
âReally..." I laughed softly " Not in the ocean and definitely not with a naked woman"
The corner of his mouth lifte
I immediately looked down at the water around us, laughin
âWell, look at that. I didn't even have to unblock you to show you my boobs. "
I meant it as a drunk joke.
A stupid on
The kind of thing that would've normally earned a sarcastic comment from Loga
But he didn't laug
The smile on his face faded slightl
And in the dim moonlight, I caught him running his tongue along the inside of his chee
My own smile faltere
"What? "
Logan shook his head onc
âNothing. "
âThat wasn't nothing
A wave rolled between us. His gaze dropped briefly to the water before returning to mine.
ââI'm trying very hard to be respectful right now, gorgeous.â
I let the water carry me a little closer to his. The ocean had already risen past our waists, making it easy to drift through the waves without much effort.
Before he seemed to realize what I was doing, I wrapped my legs around his waist. My hands slid up to the back of his neck, my fingers disappearing into his damp curls.
âI love how your hair feels in my hands. "
The words came out absentmindedly, my attention completely drifting away from what he'd just said.
I smiled to myself, twirling one of the curls around my finger.
âYou still haven't gone under.â
I looked at him with a small, toothless grin.
âNot even once."
For a moment, Logan just stared at me
Then his hands settled at my butt, holding me steady as another wave rolled between us
âThat's because one of us has to be responsible here.â
"You're not responsible, John. Come on."
I said it lightly, leaning back just enough to put a little distance between us.
His eyes followed the movement.
I felt his gaze drift from my face to the curve of my collarbone before dropping lower right to my boobs.
For a second, he forgot to look away.
The realization made a genuine smile spread across my face.
"There you are," I murmured.
John exhaled sharply through his nose, already shaking his head.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"You know exactly what."
My smile only widened.
The ocean shifted around us, another wave rolling between our bodies. His hands tightened instinctively at my waist to keep me steady.
"Thought you were being responsible," I teased.
"I am."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
I raised an eyebrow.
His jaw flexed.
"Being responsible doesn't mean I'm blind."
Heat rushed into my cheeks before I could stop it.
For the first time all night, I was the one who looked away.
Instead of answering with words, I tightened my legs around his waist and pulled us both down since he let me push him down.
The water closed over our headsâcold, sudden, and completely silent. For one perfect second, there was nothing but the salt and the dark and the weight of him against me.
Then we surfaced together, gasping.
I didn't let go.
Neither did he.
Water streamed down our faces as I wrapped my arms around his neck properly, pressing my chest fully against his. Skin to skin. No space left to hide.
His hands found my lower back, fingers splayed wide like he was trying to memorize the shape of me through the night.
I tilted my head and pressed my lips to his jaw first. Then his neck. Just below his ear. Small, lazy kisses that tasted like ocean and something else entirelyâsomething that made my stomach tighten.
Logan's breath hitched.
I felt it.
And then I felt something else.
The thin cotton of his boxers, clinging to him in the water, had started to change. A pressure. A length. Pressing up against the inside of my thigh where I had him wrapped around me.
My own underwear was already soaked through.
Not from the ocean.
I pulled back just enough to look at him.
His jaw was set. His chest was rising and falling faster than the waves around us. Water dripped from his lashes, and his curls were plastered to his forehead.
Slowly, he reached up and pushed my wet hair away from my face. The back of his fingers trailed down my cheek, then my neck, then across my collarboneâbarely touching, just the very tips, like he was memorizing the path.
I shivered.
"Logan."
He shook his head once. Gently.
"I can't kiss you again."
The words landed soft but final.
"Why not?"
His hand kept movingâover my shoulder, down my arm, until his thumb found the inside of my wrist where my pulse was hammering.
"Because you're drunk," he said quietly.
I opened my mouth.
"Don't," he added, before I could argue. "Don't tell me you're not. You are. And I'm not, not like you" He stopped, exhaled, and looked down at where our bodies were still pressed together in the dark water. "I'm not going to be something you wake up and regret."
The waves rolled between us.
My heart was so loud I was sure he could hear it.
"I don't think you would regret.â
I whispered and his eyes came back to mine.
"I can wait."
He said this while kissing my cheek, then my nose, and then the corner of my mouth.
"You don't have to pretend you don't want me and pretend that it is because I'm drunk, Logan."
I whispered it with my eyes closed. Feeling his lips trail down my neck softly, licking the salty sea droplets off my skin.
"Don't put words in my mouth."
"I'm not," he said quietly, his voice close enough to blur my thoughts. "I just know⌠if I hadn't said that we were dating, nothing would've changed between us. You wouldn't be looking at me the way you are now, and I'd probably still hate you just as much."
"Maybe not," I whispered. "But you don't hate me that much anymore, so it doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does."
I said it, and then he lifted his eyes to mine. I let out a sigh at the loss of his tongue on my skin.
"I'm not having this conversation with you drunk, gorgeous."
He said it. I pouted at him.
"Not even kiss me?"
"No."
He said it while nibbling on my neck, making me let out a moan that made him groan in return. His cock pressed against my panties.
"But you can kiss my skin? "
He looked at me. "Fuck. That's not a good idea either."
I moved against him deliberately. "Don't you want to feel how my tits feel in your tongue?â
I asked and he looked at me.His hands tightened on my hips.
"Stop," he said, but his voice cracked.
"Make me."Instead, he pulled me closerânot kissing me, just holding me. His face buried in my neck. His breath hot and uneven.
I moaned his name, grinding against him. The thin cotton of his boxers did nothing to hide how hard he was. I felt every inch of it pressing against me through my soaked underwear, and I rolled my hips again just to hear the sound he madeâa low, guttural groan that vibrated against my throat.
"Fuck," he breathed.
Then his lips trailed down.
Down my collarbone. Down my chest. His mouth was everywhere at onceâlicking, sucking, biting softly at the salt on my skin. His hands gripped my waist like he was trying to anchor himself.
And then his lips closed around my nipple.
I gasped. My back arched. His tongue circled slowly, then flicked, and I felt it all the way down between my legs. He sucked harder, and my fingers tangled in his wet curls, pulling him closer, begging him without words.
"LoganâŚ" His name came out broken.
His other hand slid down my stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my bikini bottoms. He didn't go further. Just rested them there. Waiting. Asking.
I pushed his hand lower myself.
He groaned against my breast, and the vibration made me moan loud enough that the waves couldn't swallow it."Please," I whispered. "Please, Logan. I need-"
"I know what you need, and i can't give you."
His mouth moved to my other breast, sucking just as hard, just as hungry.
âJust feel.â
I grabbed his hand and brought it between us. Guided it inside my soaked bikini bottoms.
His fingers met wet heat immediately-slick, aching, ready.
"Fuck," he groaned against my skin. The word vibrated through my chest.
His fingers slid through me slowly, exploring, learning. His fingers dipped inside, and I gasped so loud I didn't recognize my own voice.I forced my eyes open. The moonlight caught his face. His lips were wet. His pupils were blown so wide there was almost no blue left. He looked feral. Hungry. Like he wanted to devour me and was barely holding himself back.
But then he pulled his hand away.
I looked at him with wide eyes.
"I can't do this."
The words landed like ice water.
My legs were still wrapped around him. My chest was still pressed against his. I could feel his heart slamming beneath my palms. He was still hard against me. Everything about his body was screaming yes.
But his eyesâhis eyes were screaming something else.
"Loganâ"
"No." He grabbed my hips and pushed me back. Not gentle this time. Not careful. He pried my legs from around his waist and set me down in the water like I was something burning his hands. "I can't."
The cold rushed back in.
I stood there, waist-deep in the ocean, staring at him. My body was still humming. I could still feel where his fingers had been.
"You just had your hand inside me," I said, my voice shaking. "You don't get to stop now and act like you're the good guy."
He flinched like I'd slapped him.
"Youâre right." He ran both hands through his wet hair, tugging at the roots. His chest was heaving. His boxers were still straining. "I donât get to act like anything. But Iâm stopping anyway." He pushed me away, and I wrapped my arms around myself, a scowl on my face.
âAlright.â
I said it while turning to leave the sea, my head dizzy and my body confused. My drunk mind was screaming at me not to be dramatic.
When I got out of the water, I grabbed my clothes and started getting dressed, and I heard John right behind me calling my name.
âY/n.â
âIâm fine. I already told you, all of this is nonsense. A mistake.â
âWhat?â
I looked at him while I finished putting my clothes on and ran a hand through my hair.
âI canât be around you. I canât. Thatâs why I blocked you, thatâs why Iâve been ignoring you.â
"You want to be close to me, thatâs the problem."
"Yes! Thatâs the problem and itâs stupid."
âStupid?â he repeated, shaking his head. âYou think wanting me is stupid?â
âYes! Because we always end up fighting.â
âWell, you are choosing that. You run away from everything. Iâm not saying I know how to deal with it, but you definitely donât,â he said, calmer now, but more dangerous because of it. âYou blocked me, you ran away, you keep saying you canât be around me⌠but youâre still here arguing with me.â
âThatâs not the same thing.â
âIt is,â he insisted, taking another step closer. âBecause if you really didnât want me around, you wouldnât keep coming back into my orbit every single time.â
My breath caught, and I hated that he noticed. Hated the way his eyes flicked down to my mouth for half a second before meeting my gaze again.
âThatâs not fair. You do the same thing as me,â I whispered.
He tilted his head slightly.
âAt least Iâm being honest,â he said. âYou ran. You do stupid shit because youâre scared and you canât be honest. Thatâs why youâre called âice heartââyou donât let anyone see you.â
âFuck that, John Logan. You also canât be honest. You only say and do what benefits youâon hockey, on a fake relationship, whoever youâre going to slip with. Iâm sorry that my parents fucked my head so I canât trust anyone anymore.â
I turned my back on him then, walking back toward the bonfire and leaning against the palm trunk where we had been sitting before going into the sea.
While I was walking back, he followed behind me, his shoulders slumped, defeated, his voice breaking slightly in the middle of the words.
âY/n⌠shit, no⌠Iâm sorry, fuck, I donât want to fight again.â
The heat from the fire shouldâve been comforting, but it didnât reach me properlyânot with my chest still tight and my thoughts spinning too fast to settle.
âWeâre good.â
I pulled my knees up slightly, arms wrapping around myself again as I stared into the flames, refusing to look back at him.
Behind me, I could feel him still there. Still watching. Still not leaving.
Of course he wasnât.
The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, like neither of us knew how to step out of what we had just said.
I swallowed hard, jaw clenched, forcing my breathing to slow down even though it didnât want to.
My fingers dug lightly into my arms as I tried to keep myself steady, pretending the fire was enough to anchor me when everything else felt like it was drifting.
Then his voice came again, closer this time, quieter.
âThatâs not what I meant,â he said and FĂŠlix showed up again a few minutes later with another beer in his hand and that smile of someone who had never learned the meaning of the word limit.
âYouâre gonna kill her with tequila,â Logan commented before FĂŠlix even got close enough.
âRelax, hockey boy. She survived entire summers with me.â
âUnfortunately, I did survive,â I muttered.
FĂŠlix laughed under his breath before crouching slightly in front of me, resting his forearms against his thighs.
âSo do you still dance on tables when you drink or did you finally mature?â
A drunken smile spread across my face as I shrugged.
âI think I matured. I donât threaten people anymore.â I lifted one finger, making FĂŠlix laugh.
âLiar, i just saw you threatening the hockey boy.â he answered immediately. âI think you just got prettier while threatening people now..â
âThat wasnât a compliment,â I muttered, already laughing.
âIt absolutely was.â
âI wasnât threatening him, we were talking. I said, and Felix looked at Logan who was still standing behind us: âyou were talking.â Felix asked and Logan crossed his arms, looking down at my head.
âsomething like that.ââ
âYou know my mom thought you disappeared because you got pregnant?â FĂŠlix said, alternating his gaze between me and Logan.
I laughed nasally at the absurdity of what had just come out of his mouth. FĂŠlix and I had never slept together without a condom, and I was on birth control. There had been absolutely zero chance of that happening.
âShut up. That would literally never happen.â
âI still canât believe you went from nighttime bunny to someone who gets sleepy when she drinks.â
âMhm. Now Iâm a sleepy sad bunny.â
I opened my eyes and saw him smiling at me.
âSo are you two together?â
The question came out genuinely curious. I looked at Logan, then back at FĂŠlix. And before I could answer, Logan spoke first.
âWeâre just friends, man. Nothing more.â
And somehow that made me lose hope all over again. Because deep down, I think I wanted him to lie.
âFriends like us?â FĂŠlix laughed.
I held my breath while shaking my head.
âNo.â
âFriends like you two?â Logan asked.
FĂŠlix grinned widely.
âYou get it, man.â
He slapped Loganâs shoulder before grabbing my hand.
âCome on. I think you need some water. Youâre gonna throw up your organs tomorrow morning if you donât drink like a trillion gallons.â
He stood up while pulling me gently with him, and I went because he was right.
âYeah, youâre right.â
I stood, slipping away from Loganâs warm arms. But before I could fully step away, I felt his fingers brush against mine, stopping me.
âYou sure?â
âIâm okay, I promise. I trust FĂŠlix. I donât wanna ruin another one of your nights because of me. Itâs okay.â
I gave him a soft smile before walking away from Logan again. And it hurt my chest a little because I didnât want to. But I needed distance from his horrible charm that kept softening my heart. FĂŠlix still held my hand while leading me through the people scattered across the sand, avoiding crooked chairs, empty bottles, and couples too drunk to notice anything around them. The music came muffled from the speaker near the bonfire, mixed with the distant sound of waves.
And even walking beside FĂŠlix, I could still feel Loganâs eyes on my back. Which was ridiculous because he had literally just said we were only friends.
Just friends.
Nothing more.
My stomach sank again at the thought.
âYou got quiet,â FĂŠlix commented while opening a cooler near the houseâs porch.
âIâm drunk. My brain is functioning at twenty percent capacity.â
âLiar. Drunk you talks more. Way more. Including dangerously stupid things.â
A laugh escaped me while he handed me a bottle of water.
âYou invent half those stories.â
âMe? Never.â He placed a hand dramatically against his chest. âYou literally tried convincing a police officer the jet ski belonged to you because âspiritually you had a connection.ââ
I opened my mouth in outrage.
âIt was abandoned.â
âIt was parked.â
âDetails.â
FĂŠlix laughed quietly while leaning against the counter behind him. For a few seconds, he just watched me drink water in silence.
âYou wanna go home? I know when youâre tired.â
The truth was that he didnât know anything about me anymore. But I also didnât want to go back to the house where I might find Logan with another girl or something like that.
âYeah. I do.â
âSweet.â
He clapped his hands together excitedly before we started walking back while talking. FĂŠlix was a really nice guy. But something still felt missing. When we got to his place, he kissed me. But when I climbed into his lap, I couldnât feel anything. I pulled my face away from his, looking into his amused eyes that clearly found the situation funny.
I kissed him again.
But when I pulled away the second time, all I could think was that I wished it were John. So I huffed before sliding off his lap and throwing myself onto the bed while staring at the ceiling. FĂŠlix let out a quiet laugh beside me before dropping onto the bed too, resting his head on his arm while watching me.
âHey.â He laughed again. âRelax, bunny. Iâll survive.â
I sighed in frustration into my hands.
âThis is humiliating.â
âNah.â FĂŠlix turned his head toward me. âI think it just means your headâs somewhere else.â
I closed my eyes for a second. Because he was right. Unfortunately.
âYou wanna know the worst part?â I murmured.
âAlways.â
I slowly turned my face toward him.
âI was literally kissing you while thinking about someone else.â
FĂŠlix widened his eyes theatrically before placing a hand against his chest.
âCruel. Brutal. Destroyer of men.â
A laugh escaped me despite the embarrassment.
âI hate you.â
âNo, you donât,â he replied, amused. âBut I strongly suspect you might hate a very specific hockey player right now.â Groaning in frustration, I looked at FĂŠlix beside me.
âWeâre just friends.â
FĂŠlix stared at me for two entire seconds before starting to laugh. Actually laugh. The kind of laugh that made his shoulders shake.
âOh, bunny...â He dragged a hand down his face while still laughing. âYou say that after practically melting in his lap all night.â
âYep, and he still doesnât want me.â
âIâm pretty sure he does. He looks at you the way I looked at you for years.â
I looked at him and Felix shook his head, making a face. âRelax.â And he continued: âThe point is, he doesnât want you because you only tell him you want him when youâre drunk, or because you donât let yourself give him a chance to show that to you when youâre sober.â
I rolled my eyes hard.
âYouâre awful.â
âNo. I just have perfect vision.â
He shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed, watching me for a moment more quietly this time.
âWant me to be honest?â
âThat never brings me happiness, but go ahead.â
âI think you two are idiots.â
A nasal laugh escaped me.
âWow. Deep.â
âNo, listen.â He pointed at me. âYou look at him like he could rip your soul out through your mouth.â
âFĂŠlix...â
âAnd he looks at you like heâs constantly five seconds away from committing a crime.â
My face heated instantly. Because unfortunately? That sounded way too accurate.
âThen why did he say weâre just friends?â
The question came out quieter this time. More honest than I wanted it to. FĂŠlix tilted his head slightly, studying me.
âBecause maybe heâs stupid. Maybe heâs afraid of holding you close to him, I donât know, it depends.â
He makes a pause.
âOr maybe heâs trying not to make things worse.â
I frowned.
âWhat things?â
âThings like clearly wanting you while also acting like itâs a terrible idea.â
That made my chest ache in an irritating way.
Because Logan really did do that.
Pulled me close. Looked at me like that. Got irritated whenever another guy came near me.
But then a second later heâd act like there was some invisible line between us he couldnât cross.
âHe pushes me away all the time.â
âBut you keep coming back.â
I went quiet. FĂŠlix smiled slightly when he realized I didnât have an answer.
âThatâs the problem, bunny,â he murmured. âYouâd never feel like this over someone who didnât actually get to you.â
I huffed, sinking deeper into the mattress.
âBut we donât work.â
I whined. FĂŠlix exhaled through his nose, resting his head against the headboard while watching me silently for a few seconds.
No jokes.
No teasing.
Which was almost scary coming from him.
âMaybe you really donât,â he finally said. âBut thatâs never stopped anyone from falling in love, bunny.â
My heart stumbled inside my chest instantly.
âIâm not in love with him.â
FĂŠlix slowly raised an eyebrow.
His entire expression screamed liar.
âYou left this place for two years. Came back now. And in less than a week youâre already looking at this guy like heâs simultaneously your biggest problem and your favorite drug.â
I frowned immediately.
âI donât think I know how to love someone, FĂŠlixâŚâ
âOf course you do, silly.â he answered calmly. âAnd thatâs where youâre making the mistake...you canât try to sabotage your own happiness just because someone broke you along the way.â
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it again.
Because that was the worst part.
Logan didnât make me feel bad.
He made me feel everything.
And maybe that was exactly the problem.
âHe just...â I rubbed a tired hand over my face. âConfuses me.â
FĂŠlix nodded slowly like heâd expected that answer.
âThen stop pretending this is friendship.â
âBut he said...â
âI heard what he said,â FĂŠlix interrupted. âI also saw the way he looked at me when I talked to you.â
A short laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
âHe was just drunk.â
âOh, right.â FĂŠlix nodded, amused. â Beacuse a drunk guy would have the sense to care whether theyâre about to hook up with a drunk girl or not.â
I stared back at the ceiling.
Trying to ignore the fact that maybe FĂŠlix was right about literally everything. Comfortable silence settled between us for a few seconds until I heard him sigh dramatically beside me.
âYou know what annoys me most about all this?â
âWhat?â
âI wouldâve had a very solid chance of getting laid tonight if that emotionally repressed hockey player didnât exist.â
A tired laugh escaped me.
âYouâre still incredibly full of yourself.â
âAnd incredibly handsome. Donât forget that part.â
âI never could. Your ego wonât let me.â
FĂŠlix grinned proudly before standing up from the bed.
âAlright. Executive decision. Youâre going to sleep because youâre drunk, emotionally unstable, and clearly in love.â
âI hate that word.â
âTough. Still true.â
He walked toward the bedroom door, but stopped before leaving.
âOh, and just so weâre clear?â
âHmm?â
âYou still matter to me after two years, bunny. If you need me to beat him up, just let me know.â
I rolled my eyes, smiling.
âYou donât even like me that much.â
FĂŠlix placed a hand over his chest, offended.
âBunny, you were literally my favorite disaster for three summers straight. Of course I like you.â
That warmed my chest in a way I hadnât expected.
Because FĂŠlix had always been that: chaos, comfort, and terrible timing. He winked one last time before turning off the bedroom light. And the worst part? Even after everything. Even lying in another guyâs bed. The only thing on my mind was still Logan.
English isn't my first language, so pls go easy on me.
If you find anything that isn't in English, please let me know. Sometimes I write things in Portuguese to help me find my place in the story faster, and occasionally they slip through unnoticed.
Summary: Weeks after Dean's party, you encounter Logan by accident when you're asked to take pictures of the guys during a hockey interview.
Pairing: John Logan x fem!readerÂ
Word count: 5.1k
Warnings/tags: mentions of childhood bullying, parental issues, reader has food sensory issues and trouble understanding social cues. leaning hard into her being ND just fyi <3 dean and garrett being kinda annoying but they mean well. hannah being a cutie. photographer!reader. this is kind of a slow burn so nothing really happens tbh except logan being a nice young man :)
Notes: this is a series now? maybe?? i have no idea what's happening but thank u for all the support on the first fic! i guess if u guys are still interested, i'll keep writing these two!
i don't do taglists but you can follow @sanguinelibrary for all fic updates
the divider
âYo. Hey, Logan. Loooogan. Dude.â
Logan peeks one eye open. Dean is crouched in front of him, at the side of his bed, shirtless, which is pretty much the last thing he wants to see ever.Â
Dean smiles with all of his teeth. âHey, sunshine. Drain's clogged again.â
Logan grunts. âWhat'd you do this time?â
âAbsolutely nothing. It was Garrett.â
âIt was not, asshole,â Garrett says, strolling into Logan's room. He throws a shirt at Dean. âI just got home. Someone thought it'd be a great idea to pour bacon grease down the drain.â
âWhy are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,â Logan grumbles.
âWell, I donât cook, so it canât have been me. Mustâve been Tucker,â Dean says.
Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. âIf you're spreading bullshit about me, Dean, I'm here to defend myself. For the record: yes, I did make bacon, and there's a plate downstairs. But I was not the one who poured grease down the drain, because I'm not a fool.â
They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now.Â
âYeah, I lied earlier,â Dean says. âIt was me. I wanted to use the cup.â
Logan smiles flatly. âI already knew it was you, dumbass. You clog every drain in the house once a week. Vote time. Everyone in favor of kicking Dean out forever?â
The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird.Â
âNay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?â
âYeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?â Tucker says, rolling his eyes.Â
Then he bolts for the door, Dean on his heels. Logan sighs and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. He dreamt about you again. You were on the ice, skating with him, telling him how much you like Taco Bell. He kissed you.Â
Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.
âHey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,â Garrett says, typing on his phone. No doubt texting Hannah. Logan is proud to say that he no longer has a crush on Hannah Wells, as fleeting as that was. No, he has a crush on her friend, who is smart and beautiful and who probably hasn't given him another thought since the party three weeks ago.
He missed you in class this week. He even stayed behind and pretended he had a question in order to scan the room to check if maybe he didn't see you the first time. But you were nowhere to be found. And it's not like he can text you. He scoured Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook for your account, until he felt like a fucking creep and stopped, the search fruitless. Hell, Logan would write you letters if it meant talking to you beyond the two sentences you exchange in class.Â
You did wave at him last week. Usually, you pack up your things as fast as possible and run out of the lecture hall. So when you lingered long enough to smile at him⌠well, that was pretty fantastic.Â
âYeah, thanks,â Logan says.Â
Garrett nods. âI'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.â
Logan lets his head fall back against the pillow as Garrett leaves. He thinks what Garrett's doing with Hannah will probably end with one or both of them getting hurt, especially since theyâre both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannahâs Instagram songs more than once. Garrettâs absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other.Â
âFuck,â he says to himself, palms on his eyes.Â
You lost your silica gel.
It's not terrible⌠no, it is. It's thrown off your whole week, actually. You've been on websites longer than usual, looking at fidget toys, sorely tempted. You're especially taken with a moldable squishy with beads inside. It's like the mother of silica gel, and your fingers itch with anticipation of how it would feel.
But you can't. It's eighteen dollars, which is certainly one reason why you shouldn't buy it, but it also would make noise. And even if you used it outside of class⌠what if someone found it or caught you using it? How do you explain that?Â
And you hate feeling like you need a toy to keep you grounded. Your stomach hurt so badly that you skipped class on Monday, which sucked because you didn't see Logan. But you were thinking about having to see your mother during the break and your upcoming finals and nothing, not even listening to music, helped the resulting pain in your stomach.Â
Your mother has always told you that it's psychological, and treats your anxiety like a moral failing on your part. If you would just try harder⌠but you don't know how to do that. You're already trying so hard. It's difficult enough to eat everyday, and go to class, and sleep enough, and not rot in your dorm.Â
Your mother would be pleased if you told her you went to a party. She'd dismiss the fact that a guy harassed you. She wouldn't believe you if you told her about Logan and his pretty curls and mouth. No man is looking to just be friends with you.
She was the one who wanted you to go away for college. You didn't mind staying local, but she said you'd never âgrow into yourselfâ if you didn't move away.Â
Your nails have been bitten to stubs. You've been growing them for a month, and all your hard work is lost. The silica gel occupied your hands but now that it's gone, you've fallen back to nail biting.Â
Hannah said she would meet you at the stadium after her class this morning. Two days ago, you told one of the editors of the Briar newspaper that you bought a new camera. You've taken pictures for them before, but never during an event. Stupidly, you revealed your new purchase, and the editor excitedly asked you to attend an interview that some of the Hawks players were giving today, and take pictures for the paper.Â
If only you knew when to keep your mouth shut. Taking pictures of people is stressful. You hate it. They often want you to turn them into someone they're not through the camera lens. People can never just be themselves on camera. That's why you take pictures of birds or buildings or sunsets. They just are, and you can capture them in all their candidness. Most of the world doesn't perform for a cameraâonly people do.Â
Hannah is the first one to greet you when you get inside the stadium. You walk to the bleachers together, where a video crew is setting up.Â
âThis is great,â Hannah says. âPeople are gonna see your pictures, as they should.â
You shrug. âI guess so. I didn't really want to do this.â
âYour photos are really good,â she says. âAnd getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?â
You sigh. âI don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.â Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. âAnd what if the players hate the pictures?â
âWell, Garrett's doing the interview, and he wouldn't let anybody on the team say anything to you about your pictures. But it's only a few of them, I think. Do you want me to stand with you?â
You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say.Â
She beams. âOf course I'll stay.â
But as everyone finishes setting up, Coach Jensen approaches you. Hannah explains that she's Garrett's tutor, and Coach tells her that she can stay, but only in the bleachers.Â
âI'm here to support my friend,â she says. âItâs her first time photographing for the team. Please?â
âSorry. Only press and photographers can be here.â
She looks at you sympathetically. âI'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.â
You watch Hannah go sit, wishing you had the silica gel.
Garrett is the first player interviewed. You take many pictures, so there are lots of options to choose from when you send them to the paper. He doesn't look at you once, which is splendid.
Next is Dean. He's fired up in his interview, swearing that Briar will crush the competition. Then it's Tucker, who seems a little nervous in front of the camera. You understand completely.Â
You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you canât hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.
âSo John,â begins the reporter. âHow is the team preparing to win the next three games? Youâll need three wins to keep Briarâs ranking.â
âYeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrettâs a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt weâll win. Weâve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.â
He glances in your direction. Click. Youâre not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you canât help it. You wonât send that one to the paper.
âHow are you personally feeling about the season?â the reporter asks.
You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.
âJohn, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,â she says. âIs there something distracting you? A light? A noise?â
âNope,â Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. âAll good.â
He answers a few more questions. The reporter thanks all of them for their time and then the crew packs up. You put the lens cap on your camera and pack it up in its case.
âHey.â
You look up from your case. Loganâs in front of you. This close, you can really take in his appearance: his swoopy hair, his azure jacket with the Hawks emblem on the chest. He smells like apples, as always.Â
âYouâre here,â he says, before you can say hi back.
You nod, confused. âUm. Yes?â
âI didnât know you were a photographer.â Heâs smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. âI havenât seen you photographing games.â
âI donât. The paperâs editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.â
âCan I see?â
You hesitate. âI canât retake pictures.â
âI know. Iâm asking because I want to see your pictures, not âcause I care about how I look in them. You donât even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?â
âYou want to see my other photos? Theyâre of birds and stuff like that.â
âI fucking love birds. And I mean that.â
You blink. âOh. Okay. Me too.â
âI didnât see you in class this week,â he says.
âI was sick.â
âThat sucks, Iâm sorry.â
You nod. You donât tell him why you were sick. He doesnât need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.
She stops next to you. âHey! How was it?â She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. âHi, Logan. Whatâs up?â
âHey, Wellsy,â he says. You try not to frown. Itâs stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isnât even his invention.Â
âLogan wants to see my photos,â you say.
Hannah raises an eyebrow. âOh, really? I didnât know you liked photography, Logan.â
âOh, big time,â he says, looking at you.Â
Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.
âYou did great,â she says. âIâll see you later?â
âI thought you wanted to get lunch together,â you say.Â
âUhâŚâ She glances between you and Logan. âIâll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.â She rolls her eyes. âHockey players.â
âOuch,â Logan says, nudging her.
Hannah smiles sweetly. âYou and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.â
âGarrett will definitely be hearing that.â
âGood.â She squeezes your arm. âIâll see you later, okay? Have fun.â
You watch her go, feeling lost. âShe said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?â
âOh, um, I donât think Hannah meant anything by it,â Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. âGarrettâs such a diva, honestlyâheâd probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.â
You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since heâs currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is.Â
âI guess that makes sense,â you say. âIâll go eat by myself then. Itâs one oâclock, so itâs lunchtime.â
âI could come with you.â Logan clears his throat. âUh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.â
âOh. No, Iâd like that.â You smile. âAnd I can show you my photos, right?â
âYeah,â he says, sounding breathless. âPlease do.â
Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.
âHockey season,â he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didnât have to; he said he wanted to.
You sit opposite him with your own food. Nothing had seemed appetizing, but you have a headache, which is your bodyâs way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you donât feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you donât have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.
And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you arenât distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You canât do those things in front of another person, because itâs rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget youâre supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and itâs no longer appetizing.Â
âEating that much chicken doesnât make you feel sick?â The thought of eating that much meat in one sitting makes you want to vomit. Not to mention the chicken ick. Chicken is an extremely unsafe foodâif you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you canât eat it.
Logan shakes his head. âNah, Iâm hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.â
He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldnât be such a chore if you could eat like that.Â
You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you today because thatâs the only thing that sounds edible today, but since youâre with Logan, you canât do that. Probably you canât go to Taco Bell every time you see him⌠still, youâre tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Loganâs done eating, and then you can go get what you want.Â
You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go awayâitâs too hard to talk to people when you have a headache, and you really want to talk to Logan.
You unwrap the foil your turkey burger is in. You take it out and remove the whole wheat repulsive bread, then put the meat on your plate. You cut it into small triangles with your knife and fork.Â
âNot a fan of the bun?â
You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously.Â
âThis bread tastes like cardboard,â you say slowly, watching him for judgment. âI like fluffy white rolls only.â
âThatâs my favorite too. Garrettâs always on me to eat more whole grains.â
âMaybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.â
Logan laughs. âSeriously. I think Iâm spoiled by Tuckerâs cooking. Heâs a master chef.â
You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you donât want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever youâre eating. At least you donât have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesnât dismiss the possibility of a bad texture.Â
You chew, staring at your plate. You forget youâre not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.
âSorry,â he says. âAgain. Seems like Iâm always doing that.â
âI zoned out.â
âYeah, youâre really focused on your food there.â
âI have to be, or I wonât finish it,â you say. âNothingâs appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.â
You quickly finish the burger, which isnât the worst, to be fair, but youâre not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and itâs your favorite day on campus.Â
âOkay,â you say. âNow I can talk to you.â
Logan smiles. âAwesome. Can you show me your pictures?â
âOh, right. Yes, I can.â
You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your cameraâs screen, but he doesnât touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet heâs warm and solid.
âWait, go back,â he says.
You were skipping through the pictures from todayâs interview. You press the left arrow to go back.
âThere! Oh my God, thatâs so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,â Logan says, snickering.Â
Itâs a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open.Â
âThat was a mistake,â you say, but youâre smiling too. You canât avoid Loganâs infectious giggles.Â
âNo, that was a gift from above,â Logan says, still laughing. âGod, thatâs perfect. If you donât send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.â
âHow?â
âDo you have Instagram?â
âNo,â you say. âI deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.â
âHonestly? Good for you. Iâm not on it that much either.âÂ
âThe only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,â you say. âSo it doesnât really matter. I donât care about random studentsâ lives.â
âYou rock,â Logan says. âSeriously. Youâre my hero.â
You canât take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.
âWell, uh,â he continues. âThis might be presumptuous of me, but⌠dâyou wanna exchange numbers?â
âItâs not presumptuous,â you say. âI like talking to you.â
He lights up. âSame here.â
You type your number into his phone.Â
Hi :) says the message on your phone.
Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan đ.Â
âIâll send the picture when I upload them tonight,â you say.
âIâm gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.â
âI did.â You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. Itâs one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. Itâs only a little blurry too.
âThat is so fucking cool, whoa.â Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You donât move away. âYouâre amazing at this. What else did you capture?â
You show him pictures of the nearby lake, sunsets, a deer, the Boston skyline. Logan loves them all, and tells you many times how good of a photographer you are.
âYou could do this professionally, seriously,â he says. âLike, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.â
You shrug bashfully. âI donât know. Itâs not even my major. Itâs just a hobby.â
âSo what? Youâre really good.â
You gnaw the inside of your cheek. âMaybe.â
âYeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see whatâs open.â
You and Logan are pretty much curled up next to each other by now. Your arm and thigh are pressed against his. He is indeed warm, and you can feel his muscles shift against you. You think of him in the gray sleeveless shirt at the party. You couldnât stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms.Â
And when he turns to talk to you, heâs so close. Close enough toâ
âYo, Logan, you started without us?â
Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Loganâs teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over.Â
âHey, man,â Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. âI thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.â
âPlans changed,â Logan says. He doesnât look very happy to see them. Youâre puzzled.Â
âHi,â Tucker says, waving at you, saying your name. You wave back.
And then Garrett and Dean seem to notice you. Dean grins, looking between you.
âAh,â he says. âPlans changed. Got it.â
You donât like the tone of his voice. You donât like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other.Â
âHow do you know Logan?â Dean asks. âYou a hockey fan?â He winks.
âIâve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.â
âYou guys study together?â Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. âOw! What the fuck, man? Whyâd you kick me?â
âBecause youâre both asking idiotic fucking questions,â Logan says. âLay off. Sheâs not a suspect.â
Your skin itches. You donât like being watched. And theyâre watching you, you can tell. Theyâre studying you. Figuring you out.Â
âActually, I should go,â you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it.Â
âAre you sure?â Logan asks, getting up with you.
âYes, I have finals to work on.â You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. âThank you for the meal swipe.â
âYeah, anytime,â Logan says. âIâll see you in class on Monday?â
You nod. âYou will. Iâve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.â
ââS not a real threat,â Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. âThey have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors donât care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.â
âAnd I still got a B minus,â Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett.Â
Tucker shakes his head. âYeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.â
âA win is a win.â
âSo Dr. Jenkins lied?â you ask, brows furrowing.
Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. âKinda. More like a bluff.â
You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. âWhy does everyone know the secret rules but me?â
All week youâve been anxious about potentially missing a third class because of your stomach. You were prepared to chug as much Pepto Bismol to avoid that as you needed to. Has everyone else been living without a care in the world, not forcing themselves to go to class when they feel sick? Youâve gone when you were sure youâd throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain youâve ever felt, right before you got it removed.Â
Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, theyâre all staring at you. Fuck.Â
âWhaddya mean, secret rules?â Dean asks.
Fuck, fuck. Youâre being weird. Stop it. Stop.Â
âHey,â Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so heâs the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. âIf you donât feel well, you should skip, but you arenât, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. Thatâs what college is for. Youâre doing the right thing. Itâs not a secret rule, itâs just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.â
Dean scoffs. âExcuse me?â
Logan ignores him. âSo I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tuckerâll make you soup and Iâll bring it over.â
Tucker leans around so you can see him and gives you a thumbs-up in confirmation. Your breathing gets a little easier; your shoulders soften.Â
âOkay,â you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You arenât brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back.Â
âCanât wait to see your pictures in the paper,â Logan says.
You smile. âTheyâre of you.â
âYeah, but you took âem. Who cares what theyâre of?â
You duck your head, feeling shy again. Itâs a residual shyness, but sometimes you get so aware of how nice and handsome Logan is, and the fact that he goes out of his way to talk to you. Not that youâve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you arenât immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. Youâve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You canât.
âWell, um, bye. Iâll drop off your wings soon,â you say.
âStop by anytime.â
âSee ya around,â says Tucker.
âYeah, see you,â Garrett says. Dean nods.Â
You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan wonât hold it against you.Â
Once outside, you take out your camera outside and flip through some of the shots of Logan. Youâre not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now youâre a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.
âHey, wait up!â
You turn around. Loganâs jogging toward you.Â
âWhat are you doing?â you ask as he stops in front of you.
âUh.â He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. âUm. Hm. Good question. I donât know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.â
You frown, nodding. âI know. Iâm sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.â
âWhat? You didnâtââ
âI did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrettâs faces. They thought I was weird. And I was, to be fair. I reacted too strongly to the absence thing. Sometimes I do that, and I donât realize until someoneâs really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.â
âYou did not emote wrong,â Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. âYou didnât, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didnât think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you knowâŚâ
âNerds?â you finish.
âSmart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but weâre actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. Theyâre not used to knowing people who worry about attendance. Thatâs all it was, I promise.â
You purse your lips, trying to figure out if heâs telling the truth. You canât, so you just ask. âDo you mean it?â
âYes,â Logan says. âI mean it.â
âItâs okay if you donât. I wouldnât hold it against you. Lots of people have thought Iâm weird. Lots of boys. Lots of athletes. I was terrible at kickball in middle school, and people hated me for it. I would sit out early so they wouldnât purposely kick the ball at me.â
His eyes get sad. Thatâs an expression you recognize on Hannah too.
âThatâs fucking awful,â Logan says. âWe arenât all like that. Iâm not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with arenât either. Even if you are weird, itâs not a bad thing. Not at all.â
No oneâs ever told you itâs okay to be weird. Theyâve only ever denied that you are, even though youâre pretty sure you are. You canât help it either. But Logan doesnât mind. Youâre still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you.Â
âOkay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? Iâm going to drop off your wings before Monday.â
âSure, so youâre gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then youâre gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then youâll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. Itâs like a dirt path. And youâll turn right onto that. Weâre the first house on the left.â
You nod, even though youâve already forgotten all that. Youâre terrible with street names. âIâll be there.â
âI look forward to it,â Logan says, grinning.Â
You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. âI actually donât remember anything youâve just said. Iâm bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?â
âI can absolutely do that,â Logan says softly. âOkay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?â
âYes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briarâs first schoolhouse in 1846.â
He tilts his head. âHow do you know that?â
âItâs on the plaque.â
âHuh. Embarrassingly, Iâve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.â
âHe brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.â
âShit, wow. Thatâs cool.â
âHistory is cool.â
Logan hums. âYouâre cool. And that mentality is why Deanâs the loser for missing half the semester and you arenât.â
You smile. âI guess so.â
âOkay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then youâre gonna walk past that student vegetable garden you photographed. Keep walking until you see that giant oak tree with the knots in the trunk. The one that students make out under. Or, uh⌠study?â
âAttempt to study, anyway.â You know the struggle well.
âThereâs a path there, and youâll walk until you see our house on the left.â
âGot it,â you say. âFor real, this time.â
âGood. Then Iâll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.â
You look at the cafeteria. âThey wonât mind?â
âNah, we always have people come over, donât worry. Hey.â Logan bumps your arm gently. âThey wonât bother you. And if you want, text me, so youâll know Iâll be home.â
The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.
âI really do like talking to you,â you say.
âMe too.â Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.
âOkay, well, see you!â And youâre gone.
Thereâs a photo from this morningâs interview you took of Logan. Heâs looking at youâwell, the cameraâsmiling, a curl falling into his eyes. You donât send it to the editor, even though itâs one of your best photos. Instead, you set it as his contact picture on your phone.Â
Authors note đ- My first off campus project I really hope you enjoy! Also Garrett is so fineeee like omg đ (should I make a part 2 to this?)
Word count: 2.2k
Warnings: Enemies to lovers đ, SMUT!! (Oral f!receiving), unprotected piv (wrap it before you tap it!), pet names (sweetheart and baby) and slight aftercare.
Masterlist
The first thing you learned about Garrett Graham was that he was impossible to ignore.
The second thing you learned was that he somehow made that everyone elseâs problem.
You had known who he was long before you ever spoke to him. Everyone at Briar seemed to know Garrett Graham. Star hockey player. Campus celebrity. Walking ego with a sharp jawline.
Unfortunately, your schedules seemed determined to force the two of you together.
As a competitive figure skater, you spent most of your free time at the ice rink. Hockey practiced on certain days. Figure skating reserved the ice on others.
In theory, that meant you and Garrett shouldnât have crossed paths very often. In reality?
It felt like every single week.
The first time you actually met him, you were lacing up your skates after a long practice. Garrett walked into the rink carrying his hockey bag over one shoulder.
The noise level immediately doubled.
His teammates followed behind him, laughing loudly.
You rolled your eyes. Typical.
You stood and grabbed your water bottle.
Garrett wasnât even looking where he was going when he nearly walked straight into you.
You stepped aside at the last second. âWatch it.â
His head snapped up. âWhat?â
âYou almost ran me over.â
His eyebrows lifted. âPretty sure you were standing in the way.â
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then he smirked.
A smug, annoying smirk.
And just like that, you disliked him.
A lot.
Over the next several weeks, your paths continued crossing. Sometimes he arrived early for hockey or had you stayed late after skating.
Somehow, Garrett always had something irritating to say.
âYou figure skaters always use this much glitter?â
You glanced down at the rhinestones decorating your costume. âDo hockey players always have this much ego?â
His teammates burst out laughing.
Garrett pointed at them. âSee? They like me.â
âThey tolerate you.â
His grin widened.
âYouâve got jokes.â
âYou make it easy.â
After that, the rivalry became almost routine. Whenever you saw him, one of you always had a sarcastic comment ready. Neither of you seemed capable of stopping.
âYou know,â Garrett called one afternoon, âhockey actually requires contact.â
You adjusted your skate guards.
âAnd figure skating requires talent.â
Garrett placed a hand over his chest. âThat was mean.â
âGood.â
âYouâre scary.â He looks at you with a smile.
âIâve been told.â
He laughed.
Actually laughed. The sound caught you off guard.
For a split second, he looked less like the campus superstar everyone worshipped and more like a normal guy. Then he ruined it.
âStill scary.â
You groaned.
âGo away, Graham.â
Weeks turned into months.
The strange thing was that your irritation started changing.
Not disappearing. Just⌠changing.
You noticed things. Like how Garrett stayed behind after practice to help younger players, and he always thanked the staff cleaning the ice.
It didnât fit the image youâd built of him. And apparently, heâd started noticing things about you too.
One evening, you were alone in the rink working on a difficult combination. You landed badly.
Pain shot through your ankle.
You hissed and grabbed the boards.
Great.
Just great.
Before you could push yourself upright, a voice called from nearby.
âYou okay?â
You looked up. Garrett stood near the entrance.
His expression had shifted instantly from relaxed to concerned. You hated how sincere it looked.
âIâm fine.â
âYou donât look fine.â
âI said Iâm fine.â
He walked closer.
You opened your mouth to tell him off.
Then your ankle protested.
Garrett noticed immediately.
âYouâre limping.â
âNo kidding.â
For once, he didnât joke. Instead, he offered his hand. The gesture surprised you enough that you actually accepted it. He helped you off the ice. Neither of you spoke for a moment.
Then Garrett said quietly, âYou donât have to act tough all the time.â
You blinked.
âWhat?â
âIâm just saying.â
His shoulders lifted.
âItâs okay to let people help.â
Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten.
You looked away first.
âThanks.â
His grin returned.
âThere she is.â
âWhat?â
âA human emotion.â
You immediately regretted thanking him. âNever mind.â
âToo late.â
By the middle of the semester, the two of you had reached an uneasy truce. You still argued. Still teased each other. Still acted like rivals.
But underneath it, something had shifted. The tension wasnât entirely hostile anymore.
Sometimes you caught him watching your practices. Other times he stayed longer than necessary.
you often found yourself looking for him when you entered the rink.
Which was ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
At least thatâs what you kept telling yourself.
Then came the party. And suddenly everything got a lot harder.
It was one of those massive college parties people talked about for weeks beforehand.
Music.
Crowds.
Too many people packed into one house normally, you avoided those kinds of events. But your friends had spent days convincing you.
So there you were.
Standing in a crowded living room.
Questioning every decision that led you there.
âYou look miserable.â
You froze. That voice.
Turning around, you found Garrett leaning against the wall.
Of course.
Because apparently the universe enjoyed tormenting you.
âYou would know.â
He laughed. âYou came.â
âSo did you.â
âFair point.â
For a moment, neither of you moved. The music pounded through the house. People danced nearby.
Yet somehow the conversation felt oddly private. Garrett looked different outside the rink.
More relaxed.
Less guarded, and his hair was slightly messy.
His sleeves were rolled up.
You hated that you noticed.
âYou staring?â he asked.
Your eyes narrowed. âDonât start.â
His grin widened.
âYouâre annoying.â
âYou keep talking to me.â
Unfortunately, he had a point.
You hated that too.
Over the next hour, your friend groups merged naturally. Conversations flowed.
People moved between rooms. And somehow you kept ending up beside Garrett.
Every time.
Neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.
At one point, everyone else disappeared toward the kitchen. Leaving the two of you alone on the back porch.
The cool night air felt refreshing after the crowded house. Garrett leaned against the railing.
You stood beside him.
For once, neither of you spoke immediately.
The silence wasnât uncomfortable.
Just different.
Finally Garrett glanced over.
âYou know, when I first met you, I thought you hated me.â
You laughed.
âThought?â
âOkay. Bad wording.â
âVery bad wording.â
He smiled. The expression softened his entire face.
âI couldnât figure out why.â
âYou couldnât?â
âNo.â
You stared at him.
âGarrett.â
âWhat?â
âYou walked around like you owned the entire campus.â
âI do.â
You groaned.
âThere it is.â
He laughed.
âSorry.â
âYou arenât.â
âNot even a little.â
The two of you smiled.
Then the smiles lingered. And suddenly neither of you were joking anymore. Something changed. The atmosphere shifted.
Garrett looked at you differently. Not like someone he argued with between practices.
Just⌠you.
The realization sent your heartbeat racing.
âYou know,â he said quietly, âI actually like talking to you.â
Your stomach flipped.
âThatâs unfortunate.â
His smile grew.
âYeah?â
âYeah.â
âWhy?â
âBecause I like talking to you too.â
For the first time all evening, Garrett looked genuinely caught off guard.
You couldnât help smiling.
âDidnât expect that, huh?â
âNo.â
âGood.â
âYou enjoy surprising me.â
âYou make it easy.â
The familiar exchange felt different now.
Softer.
Warmer, and neither of you looked away.
The distance between you suddenly felt very noticeable.
âYou know,â Garrett said, âI think weâve been doing this backwards.â
âWhat?â
âThe whole enemies thing.â
You laughed quietly.
âYeah?â
âYeah.â His eyes remained locked on yours.
Your pulse accelerated. The world seemed to shrink. Just the two of you standing beneath the porch lights.
Just this moment.
Nothing else.
Garrett took a small step closer.
You didnât move away.
Neither of you were smiling now.
Not because anything was wrong.
Because suddenly this felt important.
Real.
âI donât actually think youâre annoying anymore,â he admitted.
You raised an eyebrow.
âOnly took you months.â
âYou?â
You hesitated.
Then sighed dramatically.
âI suppose youâre slightly less terrible than I originally thought.â
His grin returned instantly.
âThere it is.â
You laughed. And that was his downfall.
Because Garrett stared for a second too long. Then another.
And suddenly the air felt charged.
Your breath caught. His expression softened.
The noise from inside the house faded into the background.
âYou know what?â he said quietly.
âWhat?â
âI think Iâve wanted to do this for a while.â
Before you could ask what he meant, Garrett gently cupped your cheek. Giving you plenty of time to pull away.
You didnât.
Instead, you found yourself smiling. Then he leaned in.
The kiss was soft.
Brief.
Tentative.
Nothing like the arguments and teasing that had defined your relationship. When he pulled back, both of you looked equally stunned.
Then you started laughing.
Garrett laughed too.
âThat wasnât the reaction I expected.â
âShut up.â
âSo weâre back to insulting me?â
âAlways.â
âGood.â
His smile lingered.
Yours did too. A few minutes later, you found yourselves walking back toward the house together.
Hand brushing against hand.
Neither of you quite willing to let the other go. The moment you stepped inside, the music and noise rushed back around you.
But it didnât matter.
Because every time you glanced at Garrett, he was already looking at you. The former rival who had somehow become something else entirely. Something better.
He reached for your hand.
You squeezed it.
A smile tugged at your lips.
âStill think youâre annoying,â you informed him.
âStill think youâre scary.â
You rolled your eyes.
Garrett laughed and pulled you gently closer as the two of you disappeared down the hallway together.
You end up pushed against a random closed door of an unoccupied room. Before you can even think Garrettâs lips crash back onto yours while your tongues fight for dominance.
His soft and swollen lips dip down to the pulse point of your neck, sucking softly causing you to let out a small desperate moan. His knee is positioned in between your heat, only causing you to become more aroused as he continues leaving marks on your neck.
âYou look so beautiful like this, all worked up fâme.â He whispers with an ear to ear smile. âstop teasing me Garrett.â You spoke obviously annoyed with his actions.
He pulls you from the door and lays you down on the bed, staring down at you with a smirk. âAre you gonna take my pants off? Or are you gonna keep staring.â You said with a laugh.
He took that offer very quickly already unbuttoning your jeans and pulling them down to your ankles. âHappy now sweetheart?â He said, his voice masked with lust. âYeah..â you said with a breathless smile. He stared at you for a moment before throwing off his shirt to some random corner.
He rips your jeans all the off along with your shoes, before settling between your thighs, his huge hands holding both sides of you. You feel embarrassed by the very visible wet patch on your panties. âLook how soaked you are baby..â he says as he places soft kisses over your clothed pussy. âGarrett please..â you moan from the lack of skin to skin contact.
He hooks two finger under your panties and pulls them all the way off your soft legs, and the he kisses his way back up to your heat. Soon he licks a long stride through your lips which makes you shiver at the contact. âPlease donât stopââ you whine, looking down at him to meet his perfect brown eyes. He soon takes your clit into his mouth sucking gently, but heâs surprisingly good at it. You feel yourself slipping away into pleasure as he continues eating you out like his life depends on it. âOhâGarrett Iâm gonna come.â You moan softly tangling your hands into his curly hair. âLet go sweetheart. I got you.â His voice was so reassuring that it made you feel safe.
You came with a loud moan as you back arches slightly off the soft surface. Garrett comes back up from between your legs and captures your lips in a kiss once more before unbuckling his belt. âYou ready?â He looks into your eyes for consent, you nod, still recovering from your last orgasm. âI need words baby.â He strokes your cheek softly, âyesâ you whisper softly.
He strips down his pants and boxer, and his hard cock, already leaking pre-cum hits his stomach. You stare at his length, not only surprised but worried. âWill it fit..?â You question with a slight uneasiness in your voice. âWeâll go slow baby, donât worry.â He lines himself up with your pussy, slowly pushing in. You moan of pain that quickly becomes pleasure as he bottoms out inside you. His painfully hard cock hitting depths you didnât even know could be reached.
He finds a steady rhythm allowing his hips to slam in and out of you. âSo goodâ Garrettâ you moan whilst wrapping your legs around his waist. âYou feel so tight baby, wrapping around my cock do good yeah?â His hips thrust into you faster. âY-yeah.â You respond to his question even though you can barely think for yourself.
âIâm so close Garrettââ you moan while looking into his eyes and creating scratch marks onto his back. He started to chase his own release as well as making you come. âCome with me sweetheartâ
Your orgasm hits you harder than ever before as you moan his name like a prayer. He collapses onto of you after his own release.
âYou okay?â He looks at you with concern. âYesâ your breathing is heavy as the events start to wear off. You both stay tangled together in the sheets basking in sweat. âSame time next week?â He jokes with a smile âoh shut up asshole!â You laugh while laying in his arms having no clue where this new door will take you.
-{ę¨ď¸} found family hockey groupchat leaked, âdeanâs childrenâ; texting au! garrett graham, dean di laurentis, john logan, john tucker, y/n, allie hayes, grace ivers & sabrina james
-{âŠ} found family fics!; coming soon
-{đ} found family blurbs; coming soon
-{âËâĄ} found family social media; instagram
*requests are open for fic ideas, prompts and anything else related to this au series!
summary . . . Hockey at Briar University is treated like religion. Everyone worships the players beneath fluorescent arena lights and championship banners - especially Garrett Graham, Briar's captain and future NHL golden boy. As a journalism and photography major with zero interest in idolizing athletes, being assigned to follow the hockey team for a semester should've been simple: take photos, write columns, graduate, leave. Instead, somewhere between late-night practices, darkroom conversations, and learning how loneliness hides beneath fame, the story starts becoming personal. And the closer she gets to Garrett Graham, the harder it becomes to tell where observation ends and feeling begins. A story about ambition, being witnessed, and the terrifying intimacy of truly seeing someone.
warnings . . . slow burn, emotional tension, media/public pressure, injury mentions, blood/bruises, athlete burnout, anxiety themes, loneliness, conflict, swearing, minor angst, vulnerable Garrett Graham, reader insert (no use of y/n), first person POV, journalism ethics discussions, romantic tension, slightly poetic writing style. All characters and storylines belong to The Deal and the Off Campus universe. This fanfiction is purely transformative fan work created for fun.
authorâs note . . . okay sooo this started as me wanting to write a hockey/media enemies-to-lovers fic and somehow turned into a 7.6k emotional crisis about ambition, loneliness, and being perceived I really wanted this to feel atmospheric and character-driven instead of just romance focused, especially with the photography/journalism angle. also Garrett Graham being emotionally repressed but secretly wanting someone to actually see him... yeah. thank u for reading <3
word count . . . 7.6k
Everyone at Briar University loved hockey.
Not casually, either. Briar Hockey existed somewhere between religion and cult initiation, worshipped beneath fluorescent arena lights and carried through campus like mythology. Friday game days transformed students into walking advertisements-jerseys over hoodies, painted faces, bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder outside the arena three hours before puck drop.
The hockey players loved it too.
Obviously.
Half of them walked around campus like they'd personally cured disease.
You adjusted the strap of your camera bag higher onto your shoulder as you crossed the journalism building courtyard, narrowly avoiding a pack of freshmen nearly trampling each other in pursuit of a hockey player exiting a black SUV.
Jesus Christ.
"Garrett looked at me," one girl whispered, clutching her backpack straps like a lifeline.
"He literally smiled at you," her friend breathed.
"I'm never washing this jacket again," said a third, who had nothing to do with the exchange except proximity.
You resisted the urge to turn and ask if they heard themselves. Instead, you shouldered through the heavy glass doors of Adler Hall, the air inside thick with printer toner and ancient carpet dust, and trudged upstairs toward Professor Adler's office. Your coffee balanced precariously in one hand while your camera bag thumped a syncopated rhythm against your hip with every step.
Your life currently existed in three places: the journalism club office, the photography lab, and whichever coffee shop on campus tolerated you squatting in a corner booth for six hours straight, cradling a laptop and editing photos until your eyes watered. It was manageable. Barely. But manageable.
Which is why Professor Adler emailing you at eight in the morning with: Need to discuss your semester exhibition proposal. Urgent. felt vaguely threatening.
His office door sat half-open, the narrow wedge revealing a slice of his disorganized world: shelves buckling under the weight of books and old yearbooks, an actual typewriter gathering dust on the windowsill, and a whiteboard covered in what looked like a mind map for a true crime podcast episode. The rain outside tapped a nervous Morse code against the glass, diffusing the early light into something gray and indecisive.
You knocked once before entering. "If this is about the deadline extension, in my defense, capitalism thrives on artistic suffering."
Adler didn't even look up from the papers on his desk. "You're late."
"You assigned the meeting twelve minutes ago."
"That doesn't make you less late."
You dropped into the chair across from him, the seat still warm from whoever had been chewed out before you. "So what academic disaster are we preventing today?"
He looked up. A red Bic pen dangled from his fingers, and your proposal sat in front of him, already bleeding with edits.
You winced. "That bad?"
"No," he said, and the word sounded like a verdict. "Actually, it's annoyingly good."
"âŚthat sounded personal."
"The problem," he continued, ignoring you, "is that your work lacks proximity."
You blinked, thrown. "What does that even mean?"
"You photograph people beautifully," Adler said, leaning back so his chair creaked. "But always from emotional distance. You observe. You do not immerse."
"That's called journalism. Emotional attachment gets people fired."
He smiled, the kind of smile you wanted to bleach from your brain. "That's called fear of vulnerability."
You narrowed your eyes. "I liked you better before you started psychoanalyzing me."
He slid a single page across the desk, the motion crisp and final. Your stomach dropped before your eyes even found the Briar Hockey logo at the top.
"No."
"You haven't even read it."
"I don't need to. The answer's still no."
"The hockey program granted full media access for one student this semester."
"Wonderful for whichever masochist accepts."
"You're accepting," Adler said, and the pen in his hand pointed at you like a referee's whistle.
You stared at him. He stared back. The radiator clanked to life in the corner, filling the silence with a hot metallic groan.
"You cannot be serious."
"I am entirely serious."
"No offense, Professor, but I would genuinely rather eat denim."
"The exhibition needs intimacy."
"It needs literally anything else."
"You want to become a sports journalist."
"A sports photographer."
"A distinction no employer will care about."
You hated when he did that.
"You want major publications?" he continued. "Olympics. ESPN. Sports Illustrated. Then you need to learn how to document athletes beyond staged action shots."
Your jaw tightened. Because the worst part? He wasn't wrong.
"You'll photograph the team throughout the semester," Adler said. "Practices, games, travel days, interviews. Alongside that, you'll write a weekly column documenting the culture surrounding Briar Hockey."
"Culture," you repeated. "So alcoholism and concussions."
Adler sighed, but his eyes glinted with something dangerous, maybe hope. "Your inability to take anything seriously is remarkable."
"No, what's remarkable is Briar giving athletes their own kingdom while the arts department still has cameras from the Jurassic period."
"That cynicism is exactly why I chose you."
You leaned back, arms crossed, refusing to be cajoled.
Athletes.
God.
Every professor on campus suddenly developed selective amnesia around deadlines once jerseys entered the equation. Entire buildings bent around the hockey team's existence: tutors, sponsorships, priority scheduling, campus celebrity for boys who occasionally punched each other professionally. And now you were supposed to spend a semester documenting them like some poetic coming-of-age documentary?
Hell.
"No interviews before ten a.m.," you muttered.
Adler smiled slowly, like a man who'd already won. "I'll let Coach Jensen know."
You pointed at him. "That isn't agreement. That's surrender."
"Same thing."
The Briar arena was a half-submerged spaceship, all glass and aluminum, rising out of the mud at the edge of campus. The inside smelled like cold metal, melting ice, and that particular brand of detergent used to clean blood from tile. The air was a shock, a sudden slap of cold that crystallized your breath and made every sound echo like a gunshot. The overhead lights burned with industrial fluorescence, throwing hard shadows across the rink and turning every edge into a geometric threat.
You stepped inside twenty minutes before practice, camera already out, the wide lens making the world seem more remote than it really was. Arena staff moved like ghosts, setting up pylons and cones, their footsteps muffled by rubber mats. High above, banners hung limp in the stale air, each one a decade-old boast about championships and All-Americans, the fabric stained by time and humidity.
Most of the seats were empty except for a couple of bored students in Briar hoodies, already scrolling their phones in the front row. On the ice, a handful of players stretched along the boards, their movements precise and oddly graceful, like dancers in a physics experiment.
One of them looked up as you approached. Tall, wide-shouldered, hair the color of burnt wheat curling beneath a backwards Briar cap. Even from a distance, he radiated the kind of confidence that got people article headlines and interview slots on ESPN. Garrett Graham.
Of course.
Even if you didn't follow hockey, everyone on campus knew Garrett Graham. Team captain, future NHL draft hopeful, the face of Briar Athletics since sophomore year. He looked exactly like the kind of guy people described with words like electric and legacy.
You hated that you understood why.
His eyes tracked the camera swinging at your chest. Immediate annoyance flickered across his face, a subtle tightening around the mouth. Interesting.
You pretended not to notice, instead lifting your camera to check the settings, the lens cap already stashed in a jacket pocket. The sound of skates carving the ice echoed through the arena as more players filed in: some laughing, some still half-asleep, all of them carrying the casual violence of people who considered pain a minor inconvenience.
You started photographing before anyone could object.
Gloves tightening, tape winding in clean spirals around sticks, a player wincing as he adjusted his helmet, steam curling from coffee cups balanced precariously on the bench. Real things. Not performance.
A camera shutter echoed in the cold, sharp and precise.
Garrett's head snapped toward you. His expression hardened, the lines of his face sharpening with irritation. Oh, he really hated this.
You snapped another photo, deliberately.
Petty? Maybe. Worth it? Absolutely.
He glided over, stopping at the bench directly in front of you, skates planted wide and arms folded. "You always point that thing at people without asking?"
You lowered the camera, fighting the urge to smile. "You always introduce yourself like an asshole, or is today special?"
His eyebrows quirked up, caught off guard. Behind him, another player snorted, the sound barely muffled by a glove.
Garrett ignored it. "Media?"
"Journalism and photography."
"That explains it."
You smiled thinly. "And hockey explains the superiority complex."
For a second, he just watched you, like he was trying to decide if you were joking, or if you were dangerous. Then: "I hate media."
"Cute," you replied. "I hate entitled athletes. Looks like we both have hobbies."
Behind him, someone actually laughed. Garrett's jaw worked, and he shot a glare over his shoulder before fixing you with that captain's stare again. "You writing one of those tragic athlete pieces?"
You shrugged. "I prefer investigative journalism. Thinking of exposing Briar Hockey's devastating impact on female GPA averages."
He almost smiled, but caught himself. "Funny."
"I try."
"You planning on following us everywhere now?"
"Unfortunately."
He exhaled, and you watched frost bloom in the air between you. "Just don't get too close to the glass during drills. We break a lot of shit."
You nodded, camera poised again. "Noted. I'd hate for your slapshot to ruin my thousand-dollar lens."
His mouth twitched. "I'd hate for your thousand-dollar lens to ruin my slapshot."
Coach Jensen blew a whistle from across the rink, the sound slicing through conversation. "Graham!"
Garrett looked away first, which you mentally logged as a win. "See you around, journalism," he said, and then skated off, leaving a trail of shaved ice in his wake.
You watched practice from behind the benches, shooting through the plexiglass, camera pressed to your face until the tip of your nose went numb. The speed surprised you most-not television hockey, but real hockey. Fast enough to blur, violent in the way storms are violent, unpredictable and beautiful in the same breath.
Your camera loved movement.
Bodies ricocheting off glass, skates churning up snow, gloves colliding with helmets, a bruise blossoming under a player's eye before the period was half over. The noise was relentless: whistles, shouts, the thunk of pucks and the scrape of blades, all of it amplified in the empty arena.
There was something strangely beautiful about controlled destruction.
Hours passed. The rink emptied and refilled with each new drill. By the time practice ended, your memory card was nearly full and your fingers ached from the cold. Players drifted off the ice in packs, towels slung around their necks, joking and chirping each other in a language that belonged exclusively to locker rooms.
You stayed behind, photographing the arena as it emptied, the condensation on the glass, the ghostly tracks left by skates.
That's when you noticed him.
Garrett.
Still alone on the ice, long after the others had left. No audience now, no teammates, just the echo of his skates as he traced slow, perfect circles under the half-lit scoreboard.
He looked different through the lens. Not Briar Hockey's captain, not campus royalty.
Just tired.
You snapped a photo as he coasted to a stop at center ice. Garrett's head turned at the shutter's click, eyes locking onto you even from half a rink away.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then something passed over his face-surprise, maybe, or resignation-and he skated toward the exit without a word.
You looked down at the photo on your screen. It should've been like every other sports shot you'd ever taken.
But this one looked lonely.
And for reasons you couldn't explain yet, that unsettled you more than anything else.
For the first week, Briar Hockey still felt fictional. You moved through their schedule like a ghost, hovering at the edge of drills and film sessions, always present but never part of anything. Practice after practice, you learned the choreography: the way the team captain led stretches with dry sarcasm, how the D-men chirped the freshmen, the pattern of tape-then-glove-then-helmet before each player hit the ice.
Sometimes you caught Garrett glancing at you, brow furrowed in mild disbelief-like he was still waiting for you to blink out of existence. You made a game of pretending not to notice, but your camera betrayed you every time, following his movements through the viewfinder.
There were moments when the world narrowed to just the two of you: the echo of a slapshot, the sharp scent of sweat and ice, dust motes dancing through sunlight in the upper rows of the stands. You told yourself it was just good photography.
But the photos told a different story.
After each session, you sorted through them in the dim light of your editing booth, shivering in your hoodie even though the room was warm. The shots that mattered-the ones that made Professor Adlerâs lips curl in grudging approval-were never the ones you expected.
Not the glory shots. Not the goal celebrations or arms-raised-in-victory.
Instead: the exhaustion in Garrettâs eyes after a brutal scrimmage. The way a defenseman pressed his forehead to the glass after a mistake, breath fogging the surface. The quiet, private moments when someone sat alone in the penalty box, helmet off, hair matted flat.
You started to see it. The thing Adler kept harping on. Proximity.
You started to want it, too.
The second week, you worked up the nerve to approach Logan, the teamâs PR guy, after a particularly bloody practice. He was leaning against the wall, scrolling his phone, a fresh bruise already blooming above his eyebrow.
âDo you ever get used to the bleeding?â you asked, voice pitched low.
Logan glanced up, grinned with half his mouth. âNope. But you learn to dress for it.â He flicked the collar of his black t-shirt, now spattered with a Rorschach of red. âYouâre the photo kid, right?â
You nodded, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the camera hanging from your neck like a borrowed credential.
Loganâs eyes flicked to your hands, then back to your face. âYou shoot a lot of hockey?â
âNot unless you count menâs league at the Y,â you said. âThey let you drink in the penalty box there.â
He barked a laugh. âHell of a business model.â Then, more gently: âYouâre good. The guys donât always like cameras in their faces, but they havenât started icing your tripod yet. Thatâs a win.â
You smiled, and for the first time since starting this assignment, it felt real.
After that, things got easier. You fell into the rhythm of the team: early mornings, late nights, the constant cycle of sweat and study and recovery. You learned to recognize the moods, the rising tension before a game, the bruised silence after a loss. Even Garrett began to tolerate you, though he never stopped glowering whenever you caught him on film.
The first away game was a three-hour bus ride north, through the kind of November rain that made the highway look endless. You sat near the front, editing photos in the blue glow of your laptop, but you kept one ear tuned to the back of the bus where the team played poker and heckled each other relentlessly.
At a rest stop, Garrett passed by your seat, pausing just long enough to look at your screen.
âYou ever put the camera down?â he said.
âOnly when I sleep,â you replied.
He made a low, skeptical sound, then nodded at the image on your monitor-a shot of him mid-game, helmet askew, eyes fixed on the puck.
âYou make us look tired,â he said.
âMaybe Iâm just catching whatâs already there.â
He stared at you for a beat, then gave a grudging smile. âFair.â
The bus rolled on, rain hammering the windows, and you watched the night blur past in streaks of yellow and black.
By December, you stopped noticing the cold. The rink was just another classroom, the locker room a strange second home. You started to understand the language of hockey-the coded handshakes, the superstition rituals, the way even the worst insults meant you were part of the group.
You understood, too, that Garrett was more complicated than the press releases let on. He played through pain with a kind of stubborn grace, never complained, never asked for anything. After every game, he was the last to leave the ice.
One night, you caught him sitting alone in the stands, helmet off, just watching the Zamboni circle the rink.
You sat beside him, camera left zipped in your bag.
âEverything okay?â you asked.
He shrugged, eyes distant. âJust thinking.â
âAbout what?â
He hesitated, then: âThis is my last season. Feels weird.â
You nodded. âYouâll miss it.â
âYeah.â His voice was so soft you almost missed it. âBut Iâll miss this, too.â He gestured at the empty arena, the echoing silence.
You looked at him, really looked, and for the first time you saw not Briarâs captain, but just a guy trying to hold on to something slipping through his fingers.
You didnât take a photo. Not then.
Instead, you sat together in the quiet, letting the moment stretch out between you.
When you turned in your next set of photos, Professor Adler didnât say anything for a long time. He just paged through them, one by one, eyes sharp and unreadable.
Finally, he set them down.
âYouâre getting closer,â he said quietly. âGood work.â
You left his office with a strange ache in your chest, like youâd just finished a race you didnât remember starting.
You wondered if this was what it meant to want something badly enough to risk being seen.
You wondered if it was worth it.
The next morning, you arrived at the arena before sunrise. The parking lot was empty, the world muffled by new snow. You stood at the edge of the rink, breath fogging in the cold, and waited for the team to arrive.
When Garrett walked in, he didnât look surprised to see you. He just nodded, then laced up his skates in silence.
You lifted your camera, but he shook his head.
âNot today,â he said. âJust watch.â
So you did.
You watched him move across the ice, alone and unhurried, carving slow, perfect lines through the untouched surface. There was no performance, no crowd, no reason to impress anyone.
It was just him, and the ice, and the beginnings of a story you suddenly couldnât wait to tell.
You didnât take a single photo.
You just watched, and listened, and learned what it meant to be close.
By January, Garrett Graham had become impossible to avoid.
Not physically. You could still navigate campus without collision, still maintain professional distance at practices, still pretend your stomach didn't lurch when he entered a room.
Emotionally.
Which was significantly worse.
The arena in winter existed in perpetual twilight. Even at noon, the sun barely cleared the horizon, casting everything in that particular New England gray that made the world feel underwater. You arrived earlier each morning, until your presence became part of the building's routine-the security guard nodding without checking your ID, the Zamboni driver lifting a hand in greeting as he guided his machine across the ice in pre-dawn darkness.
The cold had changed texture. November's sharp bite had softened into something wet and insidious, the kind of chill that crept through jacket seams and settled in your bones for hours. Your coffee went lukewarm faster. Your camera batteries died quicker. Everything required more effort.
And somewhere between Thanksgiving and now, things had shifted.
Garrett started looking for you first after games.
It happened subtly, like ice thinning beneath snow. You noticed it first in the locker room-that split second when the door opened post-game, steam billowing out carrying the scent of sweat and soap and adrenaline, and Garrett's eyes found yours immediately. Not scanning the crowd. Finding you.
A glance across crowded spaces. Small pauses in conversation when you entered rooms. The way he angled his body toward you during interviews, even when answering questions directed at someone else.
Like he noticed your absence now.
Dangerous.
"You know," Logan said one afternoon while you photographed practice drills, your breath fogging in the frigid air, "this is the longest Garrett's willingly tolerated a media person."
You lowered your camera slightly, lens cap dangling against your chest. "What an honor."
"I'm serious," he laughed, skating a lazy circle around you. "Usually he acts like reporters personally killed his family."
"Maybe I'm charming."
From across the ice, Garrett snorted audibly.
You looked up immediately.
He was watching you. Not casually either. Actually watching you, stick resting loose in his gloved hands, helmet pushed back to expose damp hair curling against his forehead. The arena lights caught the sweat on his skin, turned his eyes into something bright and unreadable.
The realization hit hard enough to make your stomach tighten unexpectedly.
You looked away first.
Coward.
The thing nobody warned you about regarding sports photography was how intimate it felt sometimes.
You spent hours observing people through glass. Learning the architecture of their faces-how frustration settled into jawlines, how exhaustion hollowed cheeks, how joy transformed everything about them. You memorized the way bodies moved when unguarded: the slump of shoulders after losses, the unconscious preening after victories, the small gestures of comfort players offered each other in silence.
You noticed when someone was injured before trainers admitted it publicly. You learned which smiles reached eyes and which were manufactured for cameras, the subtle difference between a grin that showed teeth and one that showed feeling.
And Garrett-
Garrett had become terrifyingly readable to you.
You knew when frustration sat heavy on his shoulders before he even spoke, could read it in the set of his mouth during warmups, the extra violence in his stickhandling.
Knew when exhaustion sharpened his voice, that particular roughness that emerged after road trips and double-headers.
Knew when pressure hollowed him out quietly after losses, the way he sat in his stall longer than necessary, methodically untaping his wrists while the room emptied around him.
Worst of all?
He knew things about you now too.
"You didn't sleep again."
You glanced up from your laptop in the empty media room, the blue glow of the screen painting your hands in cold light. Outside the windows, snow fell in heavy, silent flakes, already burying the campus in white.
Garrett leaned against the doorway still half-dressed from practice, damp hair curling slightly against his forehead, the collar of his Briar hoodie dark with sweat. The hallway light behind him turned him into a silhouette until he stepped inside, and then you could see the purple shadows beneath his eyes, the matching exhaustion in his face.
"How can you tell?"
"You get meaner when you're tired."
"I'm always mean."
"Exactly."
You threw a pen at him.
He caught it effortlessly, that stupid athlete reflex, and you hated the small smile that tugged at your mouth.
Show-off.
"You have a game tomorrow," you said, turning back to your screen. "Shouldn't you be doing captain things?"
"I am."
"That sounds concerning."
Garrett walked further into the room, his sneakers squeaking faintly on the industrial carpet. His eyes landed on the photographs scattered across your desk-prints you'd been sorting for the exhibition, edges curling slightly in the dry heated air.
Most were unfinished edits from the semester so far: bruised hands wrapped in tape, fogged arena glass with fingerprints pressed against the inside, players collapsing exhausted against the boards after overtime wins.
Then there were the Garrett photos.
Far too many Garrett photos.
You tried not to think about that.
"You make hockey look sad," he said quietly, picking up one image-himself alone on the ice after practice, head bowed, steam rising from his shoulders in the cold air.
"That's because it is."
He looked at you then. Really looked, with an intensity that made you want to adjust the thermostat or open a window or flee to Antarctica.
"Thought you hated hockey."
"I hate what people turn athletes into."
Something flickered across his expression briefly. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
"You know what the weirdest part is?" you continued, leaning back in your chair until it creaked. "Everyone thinks sports are about winning."
Garrett folded his arms, leaning against the desk beside you. The heat of him radiated through the small space between your shoulders, and you focused very hard on your computer screen. "They are."
"No," you said softly. "They're about being witnessed."
Silence settled heavily between you, thick enough to taste.
Outside the media room windows, snow drifted slowly across campus beneath pale evening lights, turning the world into a snow globe someone had shaken and forgotten.
Garrett's voice came quieter this time, rougher.
"That sounds like something you figured out about yourself."
Your chest tightened instantly.
You hated when he did that. Took your words apart carefully until they exposed things you weren't trying to say aloud, held them up to the light like evidence.
"I think," you said slowly, "you're developing a very unhealthy habit of psychoanalyzing me."
"You started it."
"True."
His mouth curved slightly, and God, that smile was becoming a genuine problem. It reached his eyes now, changed the whole architecture of his face from guarded to something almost soft.
Almost reachable.
The rumors started before either of you acknowledged what was happening.
Not real rumors. Nothing concrete or actionable. Just observations, the kind that accumulated like snow until you couldn't ignore the weight anymore.
"You and Graham are weird lately."
You glanced up from editing photos inside the journalism office, the overhead fluorescents buzzing their electric song. "Define weird."
Your friend Jenna leaned against the desk dramatically, her scarf still beaded with melting snow. "Sexual tension weird."
You nearly choked on coffee, the liquid going down wrong enough to make your eyes water.
"There is no sexual tension."
"Babe," she deadpanned, "he looks at you like you invented oxygen."
"That is biologically inaccurate."
"He literally waits for you after games."
"He's being polite."
Jenna stared at you with genuine pity, her eyebrows raised in silent judgment. "You are unbelievably stupid."
You ignored her.
Mostly because if you thought too hard about Garrett waiting outside media rooms lately, leaning against walls with his hands shoved in his pockets, watching the door like he had nowhere else to be, you might actually combust.
Friday night games at Briar felt less like sporting events and more like controlled hysteria.
The arena pulsed with noise, a physical pressure against your eardrums that you could feel in your teeth. Students screamed themselves hoarse from the stands, faces painted, bodies packed so tight you could see heat rising from the crowd in the cold air. Cameras flashed relentlessly across the ice, strobing against the white surface. Music shook through the building loud enough to rattle your ribs, bass notes you felt in your sternum, as players skated onto the rink beneath blinding lights that turned everything sharp and surreal.
You photographed from beside the glass during warmups, the cold radiating through the barrier, your breath fogging in quick bursts.
Click. Click. Click.
Garrett moved differently during games. Sharper. Faster. Like adrenaline transformed him into something dangerous and beautiful, all controlled violence and impossible grace.
You caught him slamming another player into the boards hard enough to shake the glass near you, the impact vibrating through your palms where they braced against the barrier. The crowd erupted instantly, a roar that swallowed thought.
Through your lens, Garrett looked almost unreal beneath arena lighting-sweat shining on his temples, bruises blooming purple against his jaw, fury written in every line of him.
People loved athletes most when they appeared invincible.
Then-
His eyes found yours through the glass.
Everything paused strangely for half a second. Not the game, not the world, not the screaming crowd. Just you. Your finger hesitated against the shutter, suspended above the button.
And Garrett-
Garrett smiled.
Small. Brief. Barely there, really, just a slight curve of his mouth that softened everything about him.
Only for you.
Your stomach dropped violently, a sudden free-fall that had nothing to do with gravity.
Oh, this was bad.
Briar won 5-2.
The locker room afterward exploded with noise and celebration, steam and sweat and the sharp chemical smell of industrial cleaner, while reporters crowded near players gathering post-game quotes. Music pounded from someone's speaker, something triumphant and loud.
You stayed near the back photographing candid moments instead, your camera drinking in the chaos: a defenseman laughing with his head thrown back, two forwards embracing hard enough to bruise, equipment scattered like abandoned armor across benches.
Victory looked different up close. Messier. More exhausted. Less like glory and more like relief.
Garrett sat near his stall tugging tape from his wrists in methodical strips, while reporters circled nearby waiting for interviews. The captain mask had already settled back onto his face-controlled answers, practiced composure, every word measured and safe.
You watched him carefully through your lens, the autofocus hunting slightly in the steam-thick air.
Then one reporter asked: "Do you feel pressure carrying this team into finals?"
Something changed instantly. Barely noticeable to anyone else. But you saw it.
Garrett's jaw tightened slightly, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. His shoulders stiffened, drawing inward like he was bracing for impact.
Pressure. Always pressure.
"Comes with the job," he answered evenly.
Another reporter: "NHL scouts attended tonight. Thoughts?"
"There are scouts at every game."
"But expectations are higher this season."
Garrett smiled politely. The kind that never reached his eyes, that stretched his mouth without touching anything else.
You lowered your camera slowly.
Everyone in the room saw Briar's captain. You saw someone drowning quietly beneath expectations he'd carried too long, the weight of it visible in the set of his shoulders, the tension in his hands.
And suddenly-you couldn't stand it.
"You guys done?" you interrupted sharply.
Several reporters turned toward you, faces annoyed.
One frowned. "We're in the middle of-"
"He's answered like fifteen questions already."
Garrett blinked at you slightly, surprise breaking through the mask for just a moment.
You shrugged one shoulder, focusing very hard on your camera settings. "Some of us enjoy post-game silence."
The reporters grumbled but gradually backed off toward other players, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
When the room finally cleared enough, Garrett looked over at you, tape still half-removed from his wrist.
"You just bullied reporters for me."
"I bullied reporters for everyone."
"That isn't denial."
You busied yourself adjusting camera settings, fingers moving automatically. "Don't make it weird."
Too late.
It was already weird.
The darkroom became your favorite place on campus after that.
Quiet. Red lighting that turned everything into shades of crimson and shadow. No expectations, no crowds, no noise except the gentle slosh of chemicals in trays and the soft hum of the ventilation system.
You spent hours there developing film photographs for the exhibition while music played softly from your phone speaker, something moody and instrumental that matched the womb-like atmosphere. The chemical tang of the developer filled your nose, familiar and comforting.
Most nights nobody bothered you.
Except Garrett apparently.
The door creaked open around midnight one Tuesday, the sound impossibly loud in the silence.
"You know normal people sleep at this hour, right?"
You looked up from the developing trays, your hands submerged in liquid that turned your skin pale and strange. The safelight painted everything in shades of blood and black, softening edges, hiding flaws.
Garrett stepped inside slowly, hands shoved into the pockets of a grey Briar hoodie, the door clicking shut behind him. The red lighting softened everything about him-sharp jawline, tired eyes, the uncertainty in his posture.
Dangerous information.
"What are you doing here?" you asked.
He leaned against the counter beside you, close enough that you could smell the faint traces of his soap beneath the chemical sharpness. "Could ask you the same thing."
"I was here first."
"Fair."
You returned attention to the photograph slowly appearing in the tray beneath your hands, watching shapes emerge from white paper like memories surfacing.
Garrett watched quietly, his reflection ghostly in the liquid surface.
Then: "That one's good."
You glanced down.
It was him again. Sitting alone in the locker room after a game, head lowered, bruised knuckles resting against his knees, steam rising from his shoulders. Vulnerable. Human. Caught in a moment he'd never have allowed if he'd known you were watching.
"You hate when I photograph you like this," you said softly.
"No," Garrett replied after a moment. His voice was different here. Quieter. "I hate that you're the only one who notices."
Your breath caught slightly.
The darkroom suddenly felt much smaller. Too warm. Too close. The red light made everything feel dreamlike and dangerous and intimate in ways you absolutely did not know how to handle.
Garrett stepped nearer beside you, looking down at the photographs spread across the counter, their edges curling slightly in the humidity.
"You never photograph yourself."
You laughed lightly, the sound strange in the enclosed space. "That's because I'm better behind the camera."
"I don't think you realize people look at you too."
That-
Your pulse stumbled hard enough to physically hurt, a sudden arrhythmia that made you grip the edge of the counter.
The red lighting made everything feel dreamlike and dangerous and intimate in ways you absolutely did not know how to handle. It turned Garrett's eyes into something dark and endless, softened his mouth into something that looked like invitation.
Garrett looked at you differently now. Not like campus media. Not casually. Like he was trying to memorize something, like he was afraid you might disappear.
And maybe you were doing the exact same thing.
"You should go," you said quietly.
His eyes flicked toward yours, searching.
"Why?"
Because if you stayed in this room another minute, you were going to kiss him. The realization nearly knocked the air from your lungs, a certainty that resonated through your whole body.
You forced yourself to look away first, focusing on the photograph developing slowly beneath red light, Garrett's lonely image emerging clearer by the second.
"I have work to finish."
Garrett stayed still for another second. Then two. You felt his gaze on your profile, heavy and warm and wanting.
Then finally he nodded once, pushed off the counter.
"See you tomorrow, photographer."
The door closed softly behind him, the click of the latch impossibly loud in the silence.
You stared down at the photograph developing slowly beneath red light afterward, your hands shaking slightly where they gripped the tray.
Garrett Graham looked lonely even in still images, isolated in the frame, steam rising from his shoulders like smoke.
And somehow-you were beginning to understand exactly what that loneliness felt like.
Everything fell apart the week Briar started winning again.
Which felt fitting, somehow.
Success made people cruel.
The campus transformed overnight after the team secured their place heading into finals. Students flooded the arena in record numbers, roaring for blood. Sports pages exploded with headlines, and suddenly everyone wanted something from Briar Hockey again: interviews, predictions, access. The air on campus was different-brittle and electric, as if everyone was bracing for a storm.
You noticed it first in the journalism office. Under the wash of fluorescent light and the metallic hum of old computers, paper stacked in precarious towers, there was a tension you could feel in your teeth. Reporters who normally ignored you now hovered near your desk, trying to peek at unfinished edits. Professors started forwarding your articles to faculty boards, like they wanted to claim a piece of your work before the rest of the world could. Even the journalism club treated your hockey coverage differently now.
Like proximity to success made your work more legitimate.
You hated that.
"You should submit the Graham piece nationally," Jenna said, looming over your shoulder with a mug of coffee, her ponytail swinging like a metronome.
You looked up from your battered laptop. "Absolutely not."
Jenna frowned, her eyebrows scrunching together in a way that always made her look twelve. "Why?"
"Because I'm not exploiting someone's emotional collapse for career advancement."
She slumped into the cracked plastic chair across from you, smiling with too many teeth. "That's⌠aggressively noble of you."
"It's called ethics."
"It's called self-sabotage."
Maybe. But some things didnât belong to the audience. Especially not Garrett.
That realization alone shouldâve terrified you more than it did.
The article was published Thursday morning.
You didnât write it.
But the damage still landed on your doorstep anyway.
BRIAR CAPTAIN CRACKING UNDER PRESSURE?
The headline glared from the student sports page beside a photograph of Garrett leaving the rink after a loss earlier that week. Your photograph. Except cropped tighter now. Darker. Meaner somehow. The exhaustion in Garrettâs face had been transformed into spectacle, the grain of digital shadow accentuating every crack in his composure.
Your stomach dropped violently.
No.
No, no, no.
You grabbed the newspaper immediately, scanning the article faster with every line.
Anonymous sources. Speculation about NHL pressure. Questions about leadership. Claims Garrett was "emotionally unraveling" before finals.
Jesus Christ.
Your name wasnât attached to the article.
But the photograph was.
And everyone would know it came from you.
"Hey," Jenna said carefully from nearby. "I donât think the editor cleared that with anyone."
You were already standing.
"Where is he?"Â
"I used available media resources."
You stared at the sports editor across his desk in disbelief, a stack of discarded proofs between you.
"You stole my work," you said, voice shaking so badly you had to clutch the camera bag at your hip.
"It was submitted to the paper database," he replied, not even bothering to meet your eyes.
"For exhibition review," you snapped. "Not publication."
He leaned back, spinning an old Bic pen between his fingers. "The article needed visuals."
"That photograph wasn't meant for public release."
"It's journalism."
"No," you said sharply, rage starting to eclipse your panic. "It's exploitation."
A few staff members nearby went silent, their fingers freezing mid-keystroke.
The editor shrugged, lips curling. "You're getting emotional over an athlete."
Something inside you hardened instantly.
"You know what your problem is?" you said quietly. "You think people stop being human the second audiences find them entertaining."
His expression shifted slightly.
Good.
"You wanted drama," you continued. "Not truth. Thereâs a difference."
Then you walked out before you said something career-ending.
Your phone buzzed nonstop afterward.
Messages. Notifications. Social media discourse exploding around the article.
Some people defended Garrett. Others called him weak. Others treated the entire thing like celebrity gossip.
You muted everything.
The worst part wasnât even the article.
It was knowing Garrett was going to think you allowed it.
And honestly?
You didnât know if you could blame him.
Practice that evening felt wrong immediately.
Quieter.
The locker room lacked its usual energy, players speaking in low voices while coaches stalked around visibly irritated. The arena echoed with the hollow clang of pucks off metal, and every so often you caught a cold stare from someone on staff.
The article had spread fast.
Garrett stood near the bench retaping his stick when you entered the arena. Under the harsh LED glare, he looked carved out of marble. You could see the black tape bite into itself, the methodical sharpness of his hands.
His eyes landed on you instantly.
No smile this time.
No softness either.
Just distance.
Your chest tightened painfully.
You approached slowly. "Garrett-"
"Did you get what you needed?"
The question hit harder than yelling wouldâve.
"What?"
He laughed once quietly, but there wasnât humor in it. "The article. The photo. Whole tragic captain narrative."
"I didnât write that piece."
"But you took the photo."
"Yes," you admitted immediately. "But I never approved publication."
Garrett looked away briefly, jaw tightening. You noticed the raw friction in his hands, the way he flexed his fingers like he wanted to crush the stick in half.
Around you, the arena noise blurred strangely distant.
"I trusted you," he said finally.
God.
That almost physically hurt.
"I know."
"No, I donât think you do." His voice stayed calm, which somehow made it worse. "You said not everything deserves an audience."
"It didnât."
"Then why does half the campus suddenly think Iâm having a breakdown?"
You stepped closer instinctively. "Garrett, listen to me-"
"You know whatâs funny?" he interrupted quietly. "I actually forgot you were media sometimes."
The words landed like a slap.
Because somewhere along the line-
you forgot too.
You forgot this started as observation. Documentation. Career ambition.
Not feelings.
Never feelings.
"You think I wanted this?" you asked, anger finally breaking through the guilt. "Do you seriously think Iâd use you like that?"
Garrett looked exhausted suddenly.
Not angry. Just tired.
"I donât know," he admitted.
And somehow that hurt worst of all.
Coach Jensen shouted something from across the rink before practice officially started.
Players began moving toward the ice.
Garrett grabbed his helmet without another word.
"Wait," you said.
He stopped.
Your throat tightened painfully around everything you wanted to explain.
That you never meant to become someone capable of hurting him. That every photograph started feeling personal somewhere along the way. That being seen by Garrett terrified you more than any future failure ever had.
Instead what came out was: "Iâm sorry."
Garrett nodded once.
Then skated away.
You stopped attending practices after that.
Technically not entirely.
You still photographed games. Still submitted recaps. But you did it all from the periphery, hiding behind the lens, refusing to step into the light of the rink.
It felt like a punishment.
It felt deserved.
You slept less, edited more, and tried to ignore the way your camera felt heavier every day. Jenna noticed your absence but didnât press. She had always been good at letting things rot quietly.
You wondered if that was a skill you'd ever develop.
Finals week arrived with a vengeful blizzard.
Campus shut down for two full days before the championship, and you spent them in the darkroom, letting the chemical stink bleach your thoughts. You printed old negatives, watching the world swim into focus in shallow trays of developer. It was easier-safer-to hide in the hush of running water and the thump of your own heartbeat.
On the morning of the game, you laid out your prints, one by one, across the table. Most were of the team, faces half-obscured by helmets or visors, but Garrett always stood out. Even in profile, even blurred by motion, he looked like the only one awake in a room of sleepwalkers.
It was stupid, but you found yourself tracing the sharp line of his jaw through the plastic sleeve, remembering the way he frowned when he thought no one was watching.
You almost didnât go to the arena that night.
But the thought of someone else telling Garrettâs story finally propelled you from the darkness, out into the teeth of the storm.
The championship was a riot.
Spectators packed into the stands in a fever, banners and confetti everywhere. The entire campus vibrated with anticipation. The game itself was brutal-three periods of bone-shattering hits and near-fistfights, referees constantly separating players like agitated dogs.
You watched Garrett from the penalty box, camera trained on him as he barked orders and smashed his stick against the boards, veins standing out in his neck. He was a force of nature, uncontainable and viciously alive.
The final buzzer sounded with Briar up by one.
The arena detonated.
You caught a single image of Garrett at the moment of victory: helmet gone, mouth open in a scream, sweat and blood mixing on his face. His teammates mobbed him, the ice littered with gloves and sticks.
You lowered your camera, hands shaking.
It was over.
Except it wasnât.
Not for you.
You found Garrett in the hallway outside the locker rooms, still in partial uniform, hair damp and wild. He looked at you like he expected you to vanish.
Instead, you held out the print.
He took it carefully, staring at the image in silence.
You waited.
Finally, Garrett looked up. His voice was rough. "You couldâve sold this."
You shrugged. "Didnât want to."
He turned the print over in his hands, the edges bending slightly. "Iâm not mad at you," he said. "Not really."
You believed him.
But it still felt like a wound.
"Can I ask you something?" you said.
He nodded.
"Why hockey?" It wasnât what you meant to say. But it was honest.
Garrett smiled, slow and tired. "It hurts when I stop."
You understood that.
Maybe too well.
You reached out and touched his wrist, half-expecting him to pull away. He didnât.
"I wanted to tell the truth. Not just the story people wanted," you said.
His thumb brushed the edge of the photograph, thoughtful. "You did," he said. "Even when it sucked."
You laughed, the sound ugly and wet.
Garrett leaned in, his forehead bumping gently against yours. "You know," he said, "I never minded being seen. As long as it was you."
The words hung between you, sharp and soft at the same time.
You closed your eyes, the relief dizzying.
Maybe the world didnât deserve every part of you.
But this moment?
Youâd keep it for yourself.Â
The article that ran the next week was yours.
It was about victory, and exhaustion, and the cost of letting people in. It was about a team and a captain and the stupid, reckless hope of believing in something-someone-enough to risk disappointment.
The campus read it. The faculty shared it. But you didnât care about that anymore.
You cared about the photograph taped to Garrettâs locker.
And the quiet knowledge that, for once, you hadnât betrayed the story.
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That was the argument she planned on sticking with.
Because technically speaking, if Dean hadnât distracted her by yelling from the kitchen that Tucker nearly lit a towel on fire again, she wouldnât have walked outside in the first place.
And if Tucker hadnât panicked dramatically afterward, she wouldnât have forgotten the door locked automatically behind her.
So really?
This entire situation traced back to male incompetence.
Unfortunately none of that helped her now.
Because currently she was standing outside the hockey house at midnight in the middle of winter wearing:
fuzzy pajama shorts
mismatched socks
Loganâs oversized hoodie
and rapidly deteriorating dignity
Snow crunched beneath her slippers while freezing wind slapped against her face aggressively.
She stared at the locked front door in betrayal.
Then rattled the handle again anyway.
Locked.
âAre you kidding me?"
No response.
Of course not.
The idiots inside were asleep.
She groaned loudly and pressed her forehead against the freezing wood.
Okay.
Think.
Her phone?
Inside.
Keys?
Inside.
Human rights?
Apparently also inside.
She considered ringing the doorbell.
Then remembered Tucker once threatened violence after being woken up at two in the morning because Dean âwanted emotional support garlic bread.â
Absolutely not.
So naturally her sleep-deprived brain came up with the worst possible solution.
Loganâs window.
Now, in her defense, Logan specifically told her once:
âIf you ever need anything, wake me up.â
Technically this counted.
Probably.
The snow continued falling softly around her while she marched around the side of the house dramatically clutching the sleeves of Loganâs hoodie over her freezing hands.
By the time she reached beneath his bedroom window, she was genuinely shivering.
âThis is how Victorian women died,â she muttered to herself. âConsumption.â
Her breath puffed visibly in the freezing air while she stared upward at Loganâs dark window.
No lights.
No movement.
Dead to the world.
Wonderful.
She bent down and scooped up snow.
Formed a terrible little snowball.
Then launched it upward.
THUNK.
Nothing.
Another one.
THUNK.
Still nothing.
A third.
This one hit harder.
THWACK.
A muffled sound came from inside immediately.
Success.
âRise and shine, pretty boy,â she whispered dramatically.
A few seconds passed.
Then the curtain jerked open violently.
Logan appeared looking half dead.
Hair a complete disaster. Hoodie thrown on crookedly. Eyes barely open with deep sleep exhaustion written all over his face.
He squinted outside.
Confused.
Then his brain slowly processed what he was seeing.
A girl standing in the snow beneath his window.
Wearing his hoodie.
At midnight.
Throwing snowballs at his room.
His expression changed instantly.
Pure horror.
The window flew open.
âWHAT THE HELL?!â
She looked up innocently.
âGood evening.â
âWhy are you OUTSIDE?!â
âIâve been abandoned by society.â
âBABY.â
He disappeared from the window instantly.
She heard loud crashing sounds inside.
Then yelling.
Then someone screamed:
"WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?!â
âTUCKER MOVE.â
A second later the front door burst open hard enough to slam against the wall.
Logan sprinted outside wearing sweatpants and one sock.
One singular sock.
He looked genuinely panicked.
âOh my God, sweetheart!â
Before she could even explain, Logan grabbed her face between freezing hands.
âYouâre ice cold!â
âItâs called winter.â
âWhy are you standing out here?!â
âI got locked out.â
âHow long ago?!â
ââŚNot long.â
His eyes narrowed immediately.
âHow long.â
ââŚTwenty minutes?â
âTWENTY MINUTES?!â
âOkay in my defense I was trying to preserve everyoneâs sleep.â
âI WOULD RATHER WAKE UP THAN FIND MY GIRLFRIEND FROZEN TO DEATH IN THE YARD.â
âThatâs dramatic.â
âYouâre wearing SHORTS.â
âTo be fair theyâre fuzzy shorts.â
Logan stared at her in disbelief.
Then without another word he yanked her directly against his chest.
Warm.
Immediately warm.
She melted instantly against him with a pathetic relieved sigh.
âThere she is,â Logan muttered, wrapping both arms around her tightly. âJesus Christ.â
His body heat felt heavenly after the freezing air.
She buried her face against his chest dramatically.
âI saw my ancestors.â
âYouâre so annoying.â
âI nearly died.â
âYou absolutely did not.â
âThe snow whispered secrets to me."
Logan laughed despite himself, the sound breathless with lingering panic.
Then he suddenly frowned harder.
âWait. Why didnât you knock?â
She hesitated.
ââŚI didnât wanna wake everyone up.â
For a second Logan just stared at her.
Then his expression softened so fast it nearly hurt.
âOh baby.â
Because she genuinely stayed outside freezing trying not to inconvenience them.
God.
His idiot girl.
He immediately tugged her back toward the house while keeping one arm tightly around her shoulders.
The second they stepped inside, chaos greeted them.
Dean stood in the hallway holding a lamp like a weapon. Tucker looked prepared to call emergency services. Garrett sat halfway down the stairs looking deeply unimpressed.
Silence hit instantly when they saw her.
Then Dean blinked.
ââŚWhy is she dressed like a Dickens orphan?â
âShe got locked out,â Logan answered flatly.
Tucker gasped dramatically.
âYOU LEFT HER OUT THERE?â
âI didnât leave myself anywhere!â
Garrett rubbed tiredly at his face.
âHow long?â
âTwenty minutes,â Logan said darkly.
All three boys reacted immediately.
âT W E N T Y?!â âWHAT?â âAre you insane?â
She pointed accusingly.
âI was being considerate!â
Dean looked horrified.
âYou stood outside freezing instead of waking us up?â
âShe was throwing snowballs at my window,â Logan muttered.
That silenced everyone.
Then Tucker started laughing so hard he physically folded forward.
âOh my God.â
Dean wheezed instantly.
âLike a tiny Victorian ghost.â
âShe looked like she was about to ask for porridge,â Garrett added.
She glared at all of them.
âYou people are horrible.â
Logan kept one arm firmly around her waist while shutting the front door.
Then he frowned down at her again.
âYouâre shaking.â
âIâm fine.â
âYouâre literally vibrating.â
She opened her mouth to argue again but Logan simply scooped her into his arms suddenly.
She yelped immediately.
âLogan!"
âNope.â
âI can walk!â
âYouâve lost outside privileges.â
Dean nodded seriously.
âThatâs fair.â
Tucker pointed.
âShe canât survive in the wild.â
âI HATE ALL OF YOU.â
Logan ignored the chaos completely while carrying her upstairs bridal-style.
Her frozen legs instinctively pressed closer against his warmth while she buried her face against his neck to hide her embarrassment.
âYouâre enjoying this power trip too much,â she muttered.
âYou scared the hell outta me.â
That softened her instantly.
Because his voice still carried traces of genuine panic underneath the teasing.
When they reached his room, Logan sat her directly on the bed before immediately wrapping blankets around her like she was recovering from war.
Then he disappeared briefly and returned with:
fuzzy socks
another hoodie
tea
and approximately seventeen blankets
She blinked at the pile.
âAre we preparing for hibernation?â
âYouâre never going outside again.â
âThat seems excessive.â
âYou were one snowflake away from becoming a Hallmark tragedy.â
She laughed softly.
Logan knelt in front of her then and carefully rubbed warmth back into her freezing hands between his palms.
His expression stayed slightly tense still.
âYou really shouldâve just woken me up.â
âI know.â
âSweetheart, I mean it.â
His thumbs brushed gently over her knuckles.
âI donât care what time it is. If you need me, wake me up.â
Something soft tugged painfully in her chest.
Because he sounded so sincere.
So certain.
Like helping her was never a burden.
âI didnât wanna bother you.â
Logan looked genuinely confused by that.
âBaby,â he said softly, âyou standing outside alone in the freezing cold bothers me a lot more.â
Her heart melted instantly.
God.
This stupid boy.
She leaned forward slowly until her forehead rested against his shoulder.
âIâm sorry.â
Immediately Logan wrapped his arms around her again.
âNo, honey. No apologizing.â
His lips brushed softly against her hair.
âJust donât scare me like that again.â
She smiled against his chest.
âNo promises.â
He groaned dramatically.
âYouâre gonna kill me one day.â
âProbably.â
âYeah,â Logan muttered while pulling her impossibly closer. âStill worth it.â
Would you perhaps write an off campus blurb/fic (any of the guys really) watching/helping their student athlete S/O after a sports injury? Currently healing from an ACL,MCL, and meniscus tear as we speak because someone wasnât paying attention on the ice during a jump causing me to land funnyđ worst part EVERYONE except me and the girl saw it coming boy what the hell boy
Penalty Kick
pairing: garrett graham x f!reader/college athlete
contains: hurt/comfort, injury, misogyny, cursing, no use of y/n, pet names (baby), garrett being a sweetheart and also a violent idiot lol
a.n: ouch!! iâm so sorry, anon that sounds awful! hopefully this offers a little entertainment while you heal đ i pictured this w garrett, i hope itâs similar to what you were imagining! but you should also check out on thin ice by @folkloure similar idea and sounds closer to your experience!
Your soccer coach retired.
Very suddenly, in fact.
And despite campus rumor, her mental breakdown was not due to the fact that your team had been doing poorly this season and she cracked under pressure. No, this particular breakdown was because of her husbandâs infidelity.
You had known something was up when her locker room speeches stopped including actual play plans and she began harping on team âcommitmentâ and the âpromises teammates make to each other.â
You came to practice on Monday after a particularly shitty weekend game and were fully prepared to step up to your team captain duties and deliver a motivating speech that might set everyone right.
Instead, you entered the locker room to find your teammates huddled around the coaches office windows, their faces practically pressed to the glass as they watched someone unpack their things.
âIs thatâ?â You began.
âYep,â one of your teammates replied. âCoach Gregory.â
He was the baseball coach. Baseball. You know, the sport where you tried not to let the ball come in contact with your feet.
You hadnât had the pleasure of actually meeting him before, but youâd heard the rumors.
He was a jackass. The absolute stereotype of a male college coach who called guys âpussyâsâ and other derogatory language to describe men when they werenât performing the way he thought they should.
You hated him.
Even before he became your new coach, you hated him.
You immediately complained, but apparently Briar was sorely lacking in sports leadership contenders, and since Gregory had coached his sonâs Little League soccer team for a year or two, that somehow made him eligible for the position.
Naturally, the two of you butted heads.
You didnât mind a hardass during training and practices, but when it came to pregame speeches and team motivation, he had it all wrong. He tried to pit the girls against each other and used public shaming to make an example out of anyone who made a simple mistake.
You were made captain for a few reasons, but one of them being you were fiercely protective of your girls. Which got you into a lot of trouble.
Every time you mouthed off, Gregory had you running endless laps after practice, which wasâŚpretty much every practice. He even stayed after, sitting on the bleachers just watching you pant and sweat like the sadist you knew he was. Youâd told him so on your last lap, which only egged him on and made him blurt out, âone hundred suicides. Now.â
You hadnât even made it to one hundred before collapsing, but the fact that you were too tired to do anything but lay deflated on the turf must have pleased him.
After a few weeks of non-stop punishment, your body was already in serious pain, but after that last demand, you were sore and limping back to your boyfriendâs house.
Between you and Garrettâs busy schedules, you barely had time to see each other at all, but now with these late nights on top of it all, he was lucky to catch you before either of you fell asleep.
âJesus, baby.â He rushes towards you after watching you hobble in through the front door. He was up later than usual playing video games in the living room, waiting up for you like the good boyfriend he was. âWhatâd he make you do this time?â
You could only grunt in response. Then, you hooked your arm around his neck for support, maybe laying on your discomfort a little thick to get some extra attention from him, but you missed him. Sue you.
âShower. Upstairs. Need. Please.â
He chuckled in response and helped you up the steps towards the shower. You turned the water on as hot as you could and let the spray wash over you and your tense muscles. Garrett stood behind you, gently scrubbing shampoo into your hair that made you feel weak in the knees. He washed your body delicately, practically holding you up by the end with how relaxed you felt.
When you made it back to his bedroom, he was sat on his bed waiting, candles lit and impish smile curving his lips.
âI hope youâre not wanting to get laid,â you dismissed flatly, knowing that likely wasnât what he wanted.
âNo.â He chuckles, then pats the bed beside him. âCome lay down.â
You collapse onto the plush comforter with a sigh, slowly rolling onto your stomach when he motions for you to flip over.
âWhere?â He questions simply.
âMy right calf is super tight.â
His hands knead and rub expertly, making scandalous noises come from deep in your chest. To anyone outside of the room, it probably sounded like your sex life was alive and well. To anyone in the room, it was known that was not the case. You hadnât had the time. Or energy.
You fell asleep like that, Garrett at some point after tucking you in and leaving you to sleep in the next morning. You vaguely remember his lips on your forehead before the door softly shutting.
Even after the glorious massage your boyfriend had given you, your leg was still sore, and you probably shouldnât have played with it like that, but your team was depending on you. So you played the game, running a little funny to keep the pressure off your overworked muscles.
Your teammates had noticed the change in your behavior, of course. The one person who didnât? Your coach.
By the second half, it was nearly unbearable. The fact that you were willing to admit a weakness to Gregory should have meant something. It didnât.
âCoach, I think I need to sit this next one out.â
âStop being a drama queen. Your teammates need you.â
And that was that.
You probably should have insisted, but you didnât.
You were closely following your opponent in possession of the ball when she switched direction quickly and made you do the same. You planted your foot wrong due to the tightness of the muscles in your leg and caused all your momentum to put pressure your knee.
You felt a blinding pain before going down.
You vaguely heard the whistle blown and your teammateâs nervous murmurs, but all you could focus on was the shooting pain and cradling your leg to your chest, hoping desperately it would subside.
The medics were called, asking you questions you couldnât even comprehend, and then you heard Garrett.
He was somehow on the pitch.
And screaming at Coach Gregory.
âWhat the fuck is wrong with you? Youâre supposed to protect her not put her in danger you piece of shit!â
Your teammates were trying to intervene, attempting to deescalate the situation. Your coach wasnât making it any better.
âYou know how women and soccer players are, man! Who knows when theyâre actually hurt and when theyâre faking!â
It sounded as though the entire field went silent.
âThe fuck did you just say?â Garrett asked with chilling calm.
Then, he punched him.
The field erupted into chaos as the medics moved you onto a stretcher and people jumped in to stop your boyfriend from killing your coach.
Both you and Garrett were taken to the hospital, him with bloodied knuckles, you with, likely, a torn ACL.
Your assumption was confirmed after you had been in the hospital bed for a while in a little less pain thanks to the meds in your IV.
Garrett, now stitched up, sat next to your bed like a concerned mother hen and fussed over everything from your pillows to the position of your bed.
You found out a day later that not only were you due for surgery, but he also got suspended. For a week. No hockey, no school, nothing.
âYouâre an idiot,â you informed him.
He smirked, his hand firmly grasping yours. âMaybe. But Iâm also an idiot who has an entire week free to care for you.â
You rolled your eyes but couldnât help the smile that took over.
âYouâre welcome,â he whispered before kissing you.
It was the best week recovering from an injury ever.
a.n: firmly grasp it lol
thanks again anon for the question, i hope you liked it!! đ
Summary: Dean has never held on to anything â not girls, not feelings, not the memory of a childhood best friend who disappeared across an ocean at fourteen. Then you walk back into his life on a brisk October morning, and every carefully constructed wall he never knew he had built comes down in an instant. You came to Briar to disappear. You didnât count on being found
Warnings: 18+ content
The late October air sweeping across the Briar University quad is brisk enough to make a normal person shiver, but Dean runs hot. He always has.
Right now, heâs walking backward, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, completely ignoring the fact that heâs navigating a crowded campus blind. But then again, Dean rarely has to watch where heâs going. People naturally move out of his way.Â
âIâm just saying,â Dean says, raising his coffee cup to emphasize his point, his voice carrying that familiar, effortless charm that makes half the girls within a fifty-foot radius turn their heads. âItâs not about the quantity, gentlemen. Itâs about the experience. The mutually beneficial exchange of joy.â
Logan snorts, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his broad shoulder. âMutually beneficial exchange of joy? Did you read that in a poetry textbook, Di Laurentis? Or is that just the line you used on the kappa sig girl last night?â
âFirst of all, her name was Britney,â Dean corrects, flashing a bright, wicked grin. âAnd second, I didnât use any lines. I am simply a purveyor of good times. I like women. Women like me. Itâs the circle of life, Elton John style.â
âYouâre a menace,â Garrett mutters, though heâs grinning. Garrett is walking beside Beau, who is casually tossing a small foam football between his hands. Tucker brings up the rear, quiet and imposing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.
âI am a public servant,â Dean fires back, spinning around so heâs finally walking forward, falling into step with the rest of the hulking athletes. Together, the five of them take up the entire sidewalk. They are Briarâs royalty â hockey stars and the football golden boy â and they know it. But Dean wears the crown with a different kind of ease. He doesnât have the brooding intensity of Garrett or the quieter, intimidating stoicism of Logan. Dean is sunshine and sin, wrapped in a designer jacket that probably costs more than a semesterâs tuition.
And he has nothing to be stressed about. His parents are two of the most high-powered attorneys on the East Coast. His motherâs family basically owns half the luxury hotels in the country. He grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house that looked like a castle, raised by parents who were shockingly down-to-earth and irritatingly in love with each other. He knows what love looks like. He just has absolutely no interest in it right now. Why tie himself down when the world is full of beautiful, willing women?
âYouâre going to catch something one of these days, man,â Beau chuckles, spiraling the foam ball into the air and catching it effortlessly. âAnd I donât mean feelings.â
âI am pristine,â Dean says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. âI am a beacon of health and vitality.â
âYouâre a slut,â Logan corrects cheerfully.Â
âI am comfortably sex-positive,â Dean counters, winking at a passing group of cheerleaders who immediately dissolve into giggles. He doesnât break his stride. He rarely spends a night alone, and he likes it that way.Â
âHey, watch it,â Tucker says suddenly, putting a massive hand on Deanâs shoulder to stop him from plowing into a cluster of students gathered near the science building.Â
Dean halts, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances over the heads of the crowd, his eyes scanning the courtyard purely out of habit. Looking for a pretty face, a nice smile, someone to spend the evening with.Â
Thatâs when he sees you.
Dean stops breathing. Actually, physically forgets how to inhale.Â
Across the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, is a woman. And not just any woman. She stands out against the sea of Briar University hoodies and sweatpants like a diamond sitting in a pile of gravel. Sheâs wearing a tailored camel trench coat, tied neatly at the waist, over a dark, elegant turtleneck. Her posture is immaculate â straight-backed, poised, the kind of posture drilled into someone through years of etiquette classes and formal dinners.Â
But itâs not the clothes that make Deanâs heart violently hurl itself against his ribs. Itâs the face.Â
He blinks hard. He shakes his head, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. No, he tells himself. Youâre hallucinating, Di Laurentis. Too much studying. Too much caffeine. Because it canât be you. You are an ocean away.
You are the daughter of his motherâs best friend. The girl who grew up in the estate next door in Greenwich. The girl who used to build terribly constructed forts with him in the woods, who used to scrape her knees trying to keep up with him, who he used to share all his secrets with before the world got complicated. You were joined at the hip, practically a permanent fixture in the Di Laurentis household, until right before high school.Â
That was when your father was appointed as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And just like that, you were whisked away to London.Â
The distance had been a sudden, sharp ache that Dean had never fully known how to process. Over the years, the letters and FaceTime calls had dwindled as you both grew up and built separate lives. Last he heard from his mother, you were studying at Oxford. You were thriving. You were also, allegedly, dating some British aristocrat. A Lord, or an Earl, or a Viscount. Something pretentious. Not that Dean was jealous. He absolutely wasnât jealous. He was a Briar hockey star; why would he care about some tea-drinking Earl in tweed?
But the woman standing under the tree looks exactly like the girl he used to know, overlaid with a breathtaking, mature beauty that makes his throat go dry.
âWhoa,â Beau murmurs, having followed Deanâs line of sight. âWho is that? She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not outside the geology building.â
âTransfer student?â Garrett guesses, narrowing his eyes.Â
âI call dibs,â Logan says immediately.
âShut up,â Dean snaps. The harshness of his own voice surprises him, and it definitely surprises the guys, who all turn to look at him in bewilderment.Â
Dean ignores them, his eyes locked on the figure under the tree. The woman is talking to two girls from Deanâs sports psychology class. She looks slightly shy, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her.Â
Then, one of the girls says something, and the woman laughs.
Itâs a soft, musical sound, ringing clear across the crisp autumn air.Â
Dean drops his coffee.Â
The paper cup hits the concrete, splashing warm, brown liquid over his pristine white sneakers, but he doesnât even notice. He would know that laugh anywhere. He has heard it a thousand times in his childhood â when he fell off the monkey bars, when he told a terrible joke, when they stayed up past midnight watching movies they werenât supposed to see.
âY/N?â Dean breathes.Â
He doesnât realize heâs moving until heâs already shoving past a group of freshmen.Â
âWhoa, Dean! Where are you going?â Tucker calls out.
Dean ignores them. He closes the distance across the courtyard in long, frantic strides. His heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his sternum. As he gets closer, he raises his voice, the desperation bleeding through.
âY/N!âÂ
You pause. The polite smile falters on your lips as you hear your name. You turn, your eyes scanning the chaotic campus crowd in confusion. You look bewildered, slightly out of your depth, a delicate flower suddenly dropped into the chaotic wilderness of an American college campus.Â
Then, your eyes land on him.Â
Dean stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he just skated three periods back-to-back.Â
You stare at him. Your wide, expressive eyes blink once. Twice. Your lips part in shock. You take in the messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders that have filled out significantly since you were fourteen, the familiar, handsome face that has haunted your memories for years.
âDean?â Your voice is a soft gasp, carrying a subtle, elegant British lilt that completely wrecks him.
âHoly shit,â Dean breathes out. âItâs really you.â
Before you can even formulate another word, Dean crosses the remaining distance. He doesnât think. He just acts. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. You smell like expensive vanilla and Earl Grey tea, sophisticated and warm and so intensely you that it makes his head spin.
For a second, you freeze, completely shocked by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But then, instinct takes over. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto him with a fierce, quiet desperation.Â
The entire courtyard seems to stop.Â
âIs that ⌠Dean Di Laurentis?â A girl whispers loudly nearby. âIs he hugging someone?â
âLike ⌠romantically?â Another asks in disbelief. âI thought he didnât do public affection.â
âI thought he only hugged girls when they were horizontal.â
Dean hears the whispers, but he couldnât care less. He squeezes you tighter, lifting you off your feet just a fraction of an inch, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. Itâs a completely foreign sensation for him â touching a woman not with the intent to seduce, but out of overwhelming adoration and relief.Â
When he finally, reluctantly pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently grazing the soft fabric of your coat. He looks down at you, really looking at you, taking in the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes sparkle with unshed tears.
âLook at you,â he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he canât quite name. âYouâre ⌠God, youâre beautiful. Youâre all grown up.â
You blush, a deep, pretty pink spreading across your cheeks. You duck your head shyly, a demure gesture that completely contradicts the bold, brash girls Dean usually surrounds himself with. âYou havenât done too badly yourself, Dean. Though I see youâre still as dramatic as ever.â
Dean laughs, a bright, genuine sound. âWhat the hell are you doing here? Mom told me you were at Oxford. Getting cozy with royalty or whatever.â He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a tiny sliver slips through.
Your smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over your eyes. You glance around, suddenly aware of the massive crowd of students staring at you, and more specifically, the four giant athletes slowly approaching from behind Dean, their jaws practically on the floor.Â
âItâs ⌠complicated,â you say softly, your hands nervously twisting the belt of your trench coat. âI transferred. Iâm going to Briar now.â
âYouâre going to Briar?â Dean repeats, his brain struggling to compute this information. You, the diplomatâs daughter, the Oxford scholar, at a party school in Massachusetts? âSince when?â
âSince about a week ago,â you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. âDean, I âŚâ
âHold on, hold on,â Loganâs voice interrupts, loud and booming. Dean groans inwardly, dropping his hands from your shoulders as his friends finally catch up.Â
Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau form a massive, intimidating wall of muscle behind Dean. They are all staring at you as if you just dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer.Â
âDean,â Garrett says slowly, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. âAre you going to introduce us to your ⌠friend?â
Dean feels a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness wash over him. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you from their intense gazes.Â
âGuys, this is Y/N,â Dean says, his voice taking on a serious tone that the guys rarely hear. âY/N, these are my idiot friends. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.â
You offer them a small, polite smile, dipping your head in a graceful nod. âIt is very lovely to meet you all. Dean has mentioned ⌠well, he actually hasnât mentioned you, but his mother has.â
Beau chuckles, immediately charmed. âWell, arenât you a breath of fresh air. How do you know our boy here?â
âWe grew up together,â you explain softly, your eyes darting back to Dean. âIn Greenwich. We were best friends.â
âBest friends,â Logan repeats, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looks at Dean, a slow, annoying smirk spreading across his face. âFunny. Dean never mentioned he had a gorgeous, British-sounding best friend.â
âSheâs not British, she just lived there,â Dean snaps, glaring at Logan. âAnd I didnât mention her because you degenerates donât deserve to know about her.â
Tucker chuckles, tipping his imaginary hat to you. âMaâam. Itâs a pleasure.â
âPlease, just Y/N is fine,â you say, your cheeks still flushed.Â
Dean turns his attention back to you, completely ignoring his friends. He reaches out, gently catching your hand. Your fingers are freezing.Â
âYouâre shaking,â he notes, his brow furrowing. âAnd you didnât answer my question. Why are you here, Y/N? And donât give me some bullshit about wanting to experience American college life. Oxford was your dream.â
You look down at your intertwined hands, your thumb unconsciously tracing the knuckles of his hand. Itâs an intimate, familiar gesture that sends a jolt of electricity straight to Deanâs groin, but he aggressively shoves that reaction down. This is you. He cannot corrupt you.Â
âMy father,â you start, your voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, looking up into Deanâs eyes, seeing the genuine concern radiating from him. âHe ⌠he was getting threats. At the embassy. Serious ones.â
The air around the group instantly shifts. The playful banter evaporates. Garrettâs posture straightens, Tucker crosses his arms, and Deanâs entire body goes rigid.Â
âThreats?â Dean asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual playful cadence. âWhat kind of threats?â
âPolitical ones,â you say vaguely, not wanting to spill state secrets in the middle of a busy quad. âThings got very tense very quickly. Security advised that my family be relocated. My parents are back in D.C. under heavy detail, but they didnât want my education completely derailed. Briar has an excellent political science program, and they accepted my transfer credits immediately. Plus, itâs far away from Washington, but still in the States. They thought I would blend in here.â
You gesture helplessly to your immaculate outfit, contrasting sharply with the neon leggings and hoodies around you. âThough I suppose Iâm failing a bit at the blending in part.â
Dean doesnât laugh. His jaw is ticking, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processes what youâre saying. You were in danger. You were threatened. The thought makes a sudden, terrifying rage spike in his chest.Â
âAre you safe here?â Dean demands, his hand tightening around yours.Â
âYes,â you assure him quickly. âI have ⌠well, I have discrete security. But officially, Iâm just a normal student now. Or trying to be.â
Dean looks at you, really looks at you. He sees the exhaustion lurking beneath your perfectly applied makeup, the faint dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. You have been uprooted, terrified, and dropped into a completely alien environment.Â
âWhere are you living?â Dean asks.
âThey put me in a single dorm in the upperclassman hall,â you say softly. âI was just trying to find the registrarâs office to get my schedule sorted, but this campus is rather massive.â
Dean makes a split-second decision.Â
âYouâre not staying in a dorm,â Dean says definitively.Â
You blink in surprise. âPardon?â
âHe said,â Logan chimes in, correctly reading Deanâs mood and seamlessly backing him up, âthat the dorms are trash. And youâre not staying in one.â
âIâI have to,â you stammer, looking overwhelmed. âItâs already paid for, and-â
âI donât care if the President himself paid for it,â Dean says, stepping closer to you. âYouâre not sleeping in a building with a broken security door and a bunch of drunk frat boys running down the halls. Youâre coming home with me.â
Your eyes go wide. âDean, I couldnât possibly-â
âI live in an off-campus house,â Dean continues, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. âWith Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We have a spare room. Itâs supposed to be a gaming room, but weâll clear it out. Youâre staying with us.â
âDean,â Garrett says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. âAre you sure thatâs a good idea? I mean, weâre not exactly ⌠quiet.â
âSheâs staying with us, Garrett,â Dean repeats, shooting his captain a look that dares him to argue.Â
Garrett holds his hands up in surrender. âHey, Iâm not arguing. Itâs your call. Just warning the lady.â
You look entirely flustered, your elegant composure cracking as you look between the massive hockey players and your childhood best friend. âDean, really, itâs too much. I donât want to intrude. You have your own life, your own friends-â
âY/N,â Dean says softly. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek. The contact makes you gasp quietly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looks into yours. âYou are never an intrusion. Youâre family. And right now, you need someone to look out for you. Let me do this.â
You stare up at him, your heart doing a complicated flutter in your chest. The boy you used to know â the skinny, hyperactive kid who used to catch frogs in the creek â is gone. In his place is a man. A broad, commanding, impossibly handsome man who is looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion that it makes your breath catch.Â
âOkay,â you whisper softly. âOkay. If youâre sure.â
âIâve never been more sure of anything,â Dean says, offering you a breathtaking, devastating smile. The kind of smile that breaks hearts on a daily basis.Â
He turns to the guys. âBeau, go to the registrar and sort out her schedule. Take her ID. Garrett, Logan, Tucker â weâre going to her dorm to pack up her shit and move it to our house.â
âWait, I didnât agree to be manual labor,â Logan complains.Â
Dean shoots him a dark look.Â
âManual labor is my favorite,â Logan corrects immediately. âPoint me to the boxes.â
Dean turns back to you, slipping your hand securely into his, lacing your fingers together. âCome on, sweetheart. Letâs get you out of this quad.â
As Dean leads you away, with three massive hockey players trailing behind like your personal bodyguards, you canât help but feel a profound sense of whiplash. Within twenty minutes, your entire terrifying, lonely American college experience has been hijacked by Dean Di Laurentis.Â
You look down at your intertwined hands, feeling the heat of his palm against yours.Â
Maybe coming back to America wasnât such a bad thing after all.Â
***
The walk to your dorm is a surreal experience. The Briar campus is bustling with mid-morning activity, and you are acutely aware of the stares. Specifically, the stares directed at your joined hands.Â
âDean,â you murmur, leaning closer to him so the guys trailing behind you wonât hear. âPeople are staring.â
âLet them stare,â Dean says easily, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand. âTheyâre just jealous because Iâm walking with the prettiest girl on campus.â
You roll your eyes, though a hot blush creeps up your neck. âYou havenât changed. Still a terrible flirt.â
âIâm not flirting,â Dean says, sounding genuinely offended. âIâm stating facts. I have an eye for aesthetics, Y/N. You know this.â
âI know that your mother used to complain that you spent more time looking in the mirror than she did,â you tease gently.Â
Dean barks out a laugh. âThat was one time! And I was styling my hair for the seventh-grade dance.â
âYou used an entire can of hairspray,â you remind him, a genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety. âYou smelled like a chemical hazard.â
âAnd yet, you still danced with me,â he counters, throwing a wink over his shoulder.Â
âI took pity on you,â you reply primly.Â
Behind you, Logan lets out a low whistle. âSheâs got jokes, Di Laurentis. I like her. Can we keep her?â
âSheâs not a stray dog, Logan,â Garrett groans.Â
âSheâs too classy for us,â Tucker adds in his slow, Southern drawl. âLook at her. She looks like she should be having tea with the Queen, not walking next to a guy who ate cereal out of a frisbee this morning.â
You glance back at Tucker, slightly horrified. âYou ate cereal out of a frisbee?â
âAll the bowls were dirty,â Logan defends him. âIt was a logistical necessity.â
You turn back to Dean, your eyes wide. âWhat exactly have I agreed to?â
âChaos,â Dean admits cheerfully. âAbsolute, unmitigated chaos. But I promise weâll keep the house clean for you. Iâll personally hire a maid if I have to.â
âYou donât have to do that,â you say quickly. âI can clean. Iâm quite domesticated.â
Dean stops walking. He turns to look at you, his expression completely serious. âY/N. You are not cleaning our house. I will literally physically restrain you before I let you scrub a toilet that Logan has used.â
âHey!â Logan yells from behind.
âIâm serious,â Dean says, his eyes boring into yours. âYouâre a guest. Youâre my ⌠youâre with me. You donât lift a finger.â
His words send a strange shiver down your spine. There is a possessiveness in his tone that youâve never heard before. Itâs thrilling, and terrifying, and completely unexpected.Â
You finally reach your dorm building. Itâs a standard, slightly run-down brick building that smells vaguely of cheap beer and floor wax. Dean wrinkles his nose as you lead them inside and up to the third floor.Â
When you unlock your door and push it open, the stark, depressing reality of the tiny room hits you again. A single twin bed with a thin mattress, a particle-board desk, and two large suitcases sitting unpacked in the center of the floor.Â
Dean steps inside, looking around with blatant disgust. âYeah, no. This is a prison cell. Grab what you need for the day, weâre taking the rest.â
âItâs not that bad,â you say softly, walking over to your suitcase.Â
âItâs inhumane,â Dean corrects. He turns to his teammates. âGrab the bags. Letâs go.â
Garrett and Tucker easily heft your massive, heavy suitcases as if they weigh absolutely nothing. Logan grabs a smaller duffel bag and a few hanging garment bags.Â
âIs this everything?â Dean asks.Â
You look around the barren room, clutching your handbag. âYes. I havenât exactly had time to unpack.â
âGood,â Dean says. He steps close to you again, his presence overwhelming in the tiny space. He reaches out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core.Â
âYouâre safe now,â he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear it. âIâve got you, Y/N. I promise.â
You look up into his warm, green eyes, seeing the fierce sincerity there. The fear and isolation that had been gripping your chest for the past week slowly begins to uncoil.Â
âI know,â you whisper.Â
For the first time since you landed in America, you actually believe it.Â
Dean smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes your breath catch. He takes your hand again, leading you out of the dismal dorm room and toward whatever crazy, chaotic new life awaits you at the off-campus house.Â
As you walk out of the building, surrounded by a phalanx of massive hockey players, you realize one very undeniable fact.Â
Dean Di Laurentis might be known as the campus womanizer, but to you, he is something entirely different. He is your past, your protector, and quite possibly, the most dangerous thing to your heart.
The walk to the house is a blur of falling autumn leaves and the continuous, rapid-fire banter of the Briar hockey players. You mostly listen, fascinated by the easy camaraderie between Dean and his friends. Itâs vastly different from the stiff, overly polite circles you ran in at Oxford, where every conversation felt like a chess match. Here, the insults are hurled with affection, and there are absolutely no filters.Â
âSo, Y/N,â Garrett says, easily matching your pace despite carrying a suitcase that weighs half as much as you do. âPolitics, huh? You want to be a diplomat like your dad?â
âThatâs the plan,â you say, your voice steadying as you find your footing in the conversation. âInternational relations, specifically. Though right now, I think Iâd settle for just passing my midterms without causing an international incident.â
âIf you need help studying, Logan is basically a genius,â Dean chimes in, though his tone is heavily laced with sarcasm. âHe once tried to put metal in the microwave to see if it would sparkle.â
âIt was a scientific inquiry!â Logan defends loudly from the back. âAnd I was a freshman!â
âYou were a sophomore,â Tucker corrects mildly.Â
You let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up naturally. Deanâs head snaps toward you, his eyes catching yours. The playful smirk on his face softens into something warmer, something that makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen even more.Â
âHere we are,â Dean announces, gesturing grandly to a large, slightly weathered two-story house sitting on a quiet residential street just off campus. The lawn could use a trim, and thereâs a stray hockey stick leaning against the porch railing, but it looks incredibly inviting. It looks like a home.Â
Dean leads you up the steps and pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first.Â
You step into the foyer, immediately assaulted by the scent of pine cleaner, old leather, and something distinctly masculine. The living room to the left is massive, dominated by a huge sectional sofa and a television that belongs in a movie theater.Â
âItâs ⌠very big,â you remark politely, stepping further inside.Â
âItâs a pigsty,â Dean corrects, glaring at a pair of discarded sneakers in the hallway. He kicks them into a closet. âIâm going to murder whoever left their shoes out.â
âThose are your shoes, bro,â Logan points out, dropping your bags at the base of the stairs.Â
Dean doesnât miss a beat. âIâm a complex man. I contain multitudes. Come on, sweetheart, let me show you your room.â
He takes your hand again â a gesture that is quickly becoming a habit â and leads you up the wide wooden staircase. You trail behind him, acutely aware of how small your hand feels in his.Â
At the end of the hallway, Dean pushes open a door.Â
âThis was the designated gaming room,â Dean explains, flipping on the light switch. âBut we have another TV downstairs, so itâs basically just storage. Give us an hour to clear out the Xbox and the beanbag chairs, and weâll bring up a bed from the basement. Itâs a real mattress, I swear. Not that dorm room cardboard.â
You step into the room. Itâs spacious, with a large window overlooking the backyard. Right now, itâs cluttered with video game cases, a ratty sofa, and empty pizza boxes.Â
You turn to Dean, feeling overwhelmed all over again. âDean, I canât ask you to give up your space for me. I can just stay in the dorm. It really isnât-â
âStop,â Dean says softly, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, placing his hands lightly on your waist. The heat of his palms bleeds through your trench coat, sending a violent shiver down your spine.Â
âLook at me,â he commands gently.Â
You look up, meeting those devastating green eyes.Â
âI am not letting you stay in a dorm where anyone could walk in,â Dean says, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly register. âI know you have security, but I donât care. I need to know youâre safe. I need to know that when I go to sleep at night, youâre just down the hall. Let me do this for you, Y/N. Please.â
His plea is so earnest, so completely stripped of the cocky armor he usually wears, that it breaks your heart a little. You realize then that this isnât just about protecting you; itâs about him needing the reassurance.Â
âOkay,â you whisper, nodding slowly. âOkay, Dean. Thank you.â
He exhales a long breath, a stunning smile breaking across his face. âGood. Now, sit on that disgustingly stained sofa and supervise while I make these idiots do heavy lifting.â
For the next hour, you sit and watch in amusement as the hockey players dismantle the gaming room. They move furniture with shocking efficiency, bickering the entire time. Dean is a relentless taskmaster, snapping orders and threatening bodily harm if anyone scratches the walls.Â
When they finally lug a heavy wooden bed frame and a pristine mattress up from the basement, Dean insists on making the bed himself.Â
You lean against the doorframe, watching as the notorious campus playboy meticulously tucks in a fitted sheet with absolute precision.Â
âYou have excellent domestic skills, Di Laurentis,â you tease, crossing your arms over your chest.Â
Dean smirks, tossing a pillow onto the bed. âMy mother taught me that a man should always know how to make a bed perfectly. Among other things.â
He shoots you a wicked, heavily implied wink that makes your face burn.Â
âDown, boy,â Garrett warns as he walks past, carrying the last stack of video games. âDonât scar the poor girl.â
âI am a perfect gentleman,â Dean protests, fluffing the pillow aggressively.Â
Once the room is cleared and your suitcases are placed at the foot of the bed, Dean ushers the other guys out of the room.Â
âGive her some space to unpack,â Dean orders, practically shoving Logan out the door. âWeâll order pizza for lunch. Y/N, you like pepperoni?â
âI love pepperoni,â you say softly.Â
âPerfect. Unpack. Breathe. Come down when youâre ready,â Dean says. He lingers in the doorway for a second, his eyes tracing over your features as if he still canât believe youâre actually standing in his house.Â
âWelcome home, Y/N.â
And as he pulls the door shut, leaving you alone in the suddenly quiet room, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic, terrifyingly fast beat of your heart.Â
You are thousands of miles from the life you knew, hiding from threats you barely understand, living in a house full of giant athletes.Â
But as you look at the perfectly made bed, and remember the fierce, protective heat in Deanâs eyes, you realize something profound.Â
For the first time in weeks, you arenât afraid.Â
By the time you finish unpacking your essentials and hanging your tailored clothes in the small closet, the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni is wafting up the stairs. Your stomach gives an unladylike rumble, reminding you that you havenât eaten since a piece of dry toast at 6:00 AM.Â
You take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your sweater. You swapped the formal trench coat and turtleneck for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater â an attempt to match the casual vibe of the house without losing your own sense of style.Â
When you walk down the stairs, the volume of the house hits you instantly. The television is blaring a sports broadcast, and three overlapping arguments are happening simultaneously in the kitchen.Â
You peek around the corner. The massive kitchen island is covered in flat cardboard pizza boxes. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are all standing around, shoving slices into their mouths at an alarming rate.Â
Dean is leaning against the counter, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks perfectly in his element, relaxed and gorgeously disheveled.Â
Then he spots you.Â
The conversation around him continues, but Dean completely tunes it out. His eyes lock onto yours, sweeping over your casual outfit. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes your breath catch.Â
âHey,â he says softly, his voice cutting through the noise in the room like a knife.Â
The other guys immediately stop talking and turn to look at you.Â
âThe Queen descends,â Logan jokes, offering you a greasy salute with his pizza crust.Â
âIgnore him,â Dean says, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. He grabs a clean paper plate, loads it with two slices of pepperoni pizza, and hands it to you. âEat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.â
âThank you,â you murmur, taking the plate. You walk over to the island, hyper-aware of Dean shadowing your steps. You take a delicate bite of the pizza, the warm, greasy goodness making you close your eyes in appreciation. âOh, that is heavenly.â
âSee?â Dean says, looking incredibly smug. âAmerican pizza. Way better than whatever boiled garbage they serve in England.â
âThey donât boil pizza, Dean,â you point out dryly, taking another bite.Â
âWhatever,â he dismisses smoothly. He leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The physical contact is completely casual for him, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your brain. âSo, did Beau text back about your schedule?â
Tucker pulls out his phone. âYeah, Beau texted the group chat while you were upstairs. He got her registered. Emailed the schedule to her student account. Sheâs got Political Theory at 8 AM tomorrow.â
You groan softly, dropping your head forward. âEight AM. The cruelty of the American education system.â
Dean laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. âDonât worry. Iâll drive you.â
You look up at him, startled. âDean, you donât have to do that. I can walk. Iâm sure you have your own classes.â
âI donât have class until eleven,â Dean says simply, taking a sip of his beer. âAnd youâre not walking across campus alone. Not right now. Until we get a handle on ⌠your situation, you donât go anywhere alone. Understand?â
His tone leaves no room for argument. Itâs the voice of a man who is used to getting his way, but beneath the bossiness, there is a thick layer of genuine anxiety. He is worried about you.Â
âAlright,â you agree softly. âIf youâre sure itâs not a bother.â
âYou,â Dean says, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours, his green eyes intense, âare never a bother.â
The kitchen suddenly feels very small, and very hot. You stare into his eyes, completely forgetting how to breathe, let alone speak. The undeniable, pulsing tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife.Â
Someone clears their throat loudly.Â
You jump, breaking eye contact with Dean and looking over to see Garrett leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, observing the two of you with raised eyebrows.Â
âSo,â Garrett drawls, a hint of amusement in his voice. âChildhood best friends, huh? You guys used to play in the sandbox together?â
âI used to push him into the mud,â you correct, finding your voice. âRegularly.â
Logan barks a laugh. âI knew I liked her.â
âShe was vicious,â Dean agrees, turning back to the guys but keeping his body angled toward you. âOne time, she convinced me that poison ivy was a rare type of mint. I was covered in rashes for a week.â
âYou were terribly gullible,â you say innocently, taking another bite of pizza.Â
âI trusted you!â Dean gasps in mock betrayal. âYou were the diplomatâs daughter! You were supposed to be honorable.â
âDiplomacy,â you counter smoothly, âis just the art of letting someone else have your way. I wanted to see what would happen.â
The guys burst into laughter, and even Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He reaches out and nudges your shoulder gently. âYouâre lucky youâre cute, Y/L/N.â
The casual compliment makes your heart stutter. You duck your head to hide the sudden blush painting your cheeks.Â
As lunch winds down, the guys scatter to their respective routines. Garrett and Logan head to the living room to play NHL on the Xbox, and Tucker retreats upstairs to study.Â
Which leaves you alone in the kitchen with Dean.Â
You start gathering the empty pizza boxes, intending to throw them away, but Dean intercepts you. His hands cover yours, stopping your movements.Â
âI told you,â he says softly. âYou donât clean.â
âDean, itâs just boxes,â you protest weakly, staring down at his large, warm hands covering yours.Â
âI donât care,â he says. He takes the boxes from you and tosses them into the large trash can by the door. Then, he turns back to you, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious.Â
âY/N. Come here.â
He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, pulling you toward the back of the house and out onto a small patio. The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks, but you barely feel it. Dean lets go of your hand and leans against the wooden railing, crossing his arms over his chest.Â
âTell me the truth,â he says, his eyes boring into yours. âHow bad are the threats?â
You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly feeling very small. The playful banter of the kitchen is gone, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of why you are actually here.Â
âThey were ⌠specific,â you whisper, looking down at the wooden planks of the patio. âLetters delivered directly to the embassy. Photos of me at Oxford. Walking to class. Sitting in cafes. Someone was following me.â
Dean curses violently under his breath, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white.Â
âMy fatherâs security detail intercepted them before I saw most of it,â you continue, your voice trembling slightly at the memory. âBut they told him that the people making the threats knew my schedule perfectly. They wanted my father to vote a certain way on an upcoming international trade sanction, and they were using me as leverage.â
Dean pushes off the railing and steps closer to you. He doesnât touch you, but his physical proximity is a comfort in itself. âSo they pulled you out.â
âIn the middle of the night,â you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. âI didnât even get to say goodbye to my professors or my friends. They packed my bags, put me on a private jet with four armed guards, and flew me to D.C. I stayed in a safe house for three days before they decided Briar was a safe enough distance to hide me.â
You look up at him, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheek. âIâm terrified, Dean. Iâm trying to be brave, but every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see someone watching me.â
âHey,â Dean breathes, closing the remaining distance between you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as his arms envelop you completely.Â
âNo one is watching you here,â Dean whispers fiercely into your hair, his hands stroking up and down your back. âI swear to God, Y/N, no one is going to touch you. You have me. You have Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We are literally a house full of giant, violent hockey players. You are the safest person in the state of Massachusetts.â
You let out a wet, watery laugh against his sweater. âYouâre not violent.â
âI can be,â Dean says, and the deadly serious tone of his voice makes you pause. âFor you, I could be.â
You pull back slightly, looking up into his face. The cocky, charming playboy is entirely gone. In his eyes, you see a fierce, unyielding devotion that takes your breath away.Â
âWhy are you doing this, Dean?â You whisper. âYou have your own life. You donât need to babysit me.â
Dean reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on your cheek. His touch is impossibly tender.Â
âBecause youâre mine,â he says simply, the words slipping out naturally, as if itâs the most obvious fact in the universe. âYou always have been, Y/N. Since we were kids. I lost you once when you moved away. Iâm not letting anything happen to you now that I have you back.â
Your heart slams against your ribs. The words echo in your head, thrilling and terrifying all at once. You stare at him, seeing the sudden realization of what he just said flicker in his own eyes. Dean swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes.Â
The air between you is highly combustible. All it would take is one lean, one tilt of the head, and years of childhood friendship would go up in flames.Â
Dean slowly leans in, his face inches from yours. You find yourself leaning closer, your eyes fluttering shut, anticipating the slide of his lips against yours.Â
BANG.
The sound of the back door flying open shatters the moment like glass.Â
You and Dean spring apart instantly, your faces flushed, breathing heavily.Â
Logan stands in the doorway, oblivious to the heavy tension he just interrupted. âYo, Di Laurentis! Are we doing the grocery run or what? Weâre out of beer and Y/N probably needs, like, fancy British tea or something.â
Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. When he opens them, he shoots Logan a look of pure, unadulterated murder.Â
âIâm coming,â Dean snaps, his voice completely strained.Â
Logan blinks, finally sensing the weird vibe. âUh ⌠did I interrupt something?â
âYes,â Dean says bluntly. âGo start the car.â
Logan throws his hands up in surrender and retreats back inside.Â
Dean turns back to you, dragging a hand through his messy blonde hair. He looks incredibly frustrated, but a small, breathless smile tugs at the corner of his lips.Â
âWeâre going to pick up some things for you,â Dean says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips again. âGet settled. Take a nap. Iâll be back soon.â
You nod silently, still trying to get your erratic heartbeat under control. âOkay.â
He hesitates for a second, looking as though he wants to close the distance again, but then he shakes his head and steps back. âLock the door behind me.â
As Dean walks back inside, leaving you alone on the crisp patio, you press your fingers against your lips. They are tingling, buzzing with the phantom feeling of a kiss that never happened.Â
You are hiding from a terrifying political threat, living in a house of hockey players, and you are dangerously close to falling completely, irrevocably in love with the biggest playboy on campus.Â
Welcome to Briar University.
***
It has been exactly three weeks since you moved into the off-campus hockey house, and the entirety of Briar University is operating under the collective, terrifying assumption that Dean Di Laurentis has been abducted by aliens. Or cloned. Or possessed by a very chaste, very domesticated demon.Â
There is simply no other logical explanation.Â
âIâm telling you, itâs not him,â Logan says, his voice hushed but frantic as he peeks around the kitchen doorframe. Heâs staring into the living room, where Dean is currently sitting on the couch. âLook at him. Just look.â
Garrett sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his massive arms. âHeâs reading a textbook, Logan. Itâs called studying. Normal college students do it.â
âDean doesnât!â Logan hisses, gesturing wildly. âDean pays attention in class just enough to coast, and he spends his free time trying to get horizontal with anything that has a pulse and a nice smile! He hasnât brought a girl home in twenty-one days, Garrett. Twenty-one! Do you know what that means?â
âThat we donât have to bleach the living room rug anymore?â Tucker suggests mildly from his spot at the kitchen island, not looking up from his breakfast.
âIt means his brain has been hijacked,â Logan insists.Â
Beau, who had stopped by to steal their food, chuckles and takes a bite of an apple. âOr, and hear me out, it means his childhood best friend moved in, and heâs realized he has to actually be a functional human being to keep her safe.â
They all fall silent, turning to look back out into the living room.Â
You are sitting on the opposite end of the oversized sectional. You have a thick political science textbook resting on your knees, your brow furrowed in concentration as you highlight a passage. Youâre wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants â a recent, highly encouraged addition to your wardrobe by the guys â and an oversized Briar hockey hoodie that absolutely swallows your delicate frame. The hoodie belongs to Dean.Â
And Dean? Dean is sitting about a foot away from you, his own textbook open, but he isnât reading. Heâs just watching you. His arm is draped along the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly, almost unconsciously, playing with the frayed end of your hoodie string. His eyes are soft, tracing the line of your profile with a reverence that borders on religious.Â
âItâs freaky,â Logan mutters. âHe went from being a certified campus manwhore to ⌠a golden retriever. A very protective, aggressively loyal golden retriever.â
âHeâs whipped,â Garrett says, though thereâs a fond smile pulling at his lips. âAnd they arenât even dating.â
âYet,â Beau corrects softly. âGive it time. The guy looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars.â
In the living room, you let out a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes. Youâve been studying for three hours straight. The sudden shift from the British educational system to American midterms has been jarring, and the added stress of your security situation hasnât helped your focus.Â
âTired?â Dean asks instantly, his voice a low, soothing rumble.Â
You turn to look at him, offering a small, exhausted smile. âA bit. Rousseau is incredibly dense when youâre running on four hours of sleep.â
Dean frowns, his hand dropping from the hoodie string to gently brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. âYou need a break. We have class in an hour anyway. Come on, Iâll make you tea.â
âI can make it,â you protest gently, starting to close your heavy book.Â
âAbsolutely not,â Dean says, already standing up. He reaches down and effortlessly plucks the massive textbook from your lap, tossing it onto the coffee table. âYou sit. I brew. Thatâs the deal.â
As Dean walks into the kitchen, Logan, Garrett, and Beau immediately scatter, trying to look as though they werenât just intensely analyzing his every move. Dean ignores them completely, walking straight to the kettle.Â
You watch him from the couch, your heart doing that familiar, terrifying little flip. The way he treats you is entirely at odds with the reputation that precedes him. Youâve heard the whispers on campus. You know what people say about Dean. You know the girls point and stare, whispering about his conquests. But the man who makes your bed when you forget, who insists on walking you to every single class, who glares at any frat boy who looks at you for too long? That man is careful. He treats you like you are something precious, something made of spun glass that he is terrified of breaking.Â
Ten minutes later, Dean emerges from the kitchen with a travel mug. He hands it to you.Â
You take a sip and close your eyes, a genuine hum of pleasure escaping your lips. âDean ⌠this is Earl Grey. With exactly a splash of oat milk and half a teaspoon of honey.â
âI know,â Dean says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one broad shoulder.Â
âHow do you remember that?â You ask, staring up at him in wonder. âI havenât ordered this in front of you since I moved here. Iâve just been drinking whatever drip coffee the guys make.â
Dean pauses, looking down at you. The easy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is nowhere to be found. âI remember everything about you, Y/N. Everything. I didnât forget your favorite tea just because you moved across an ocean.â
Your breath catches. You stare at him, feeling a hot flush rise to your cheeks.Â
âCome on,â Dean murmurs, his voice softening even further. He reaches down, grabbing your heavy tote bag before you can even reach for it. âLetâs go to class. I want a good seat.â
The walk across campus is, as always, an exercise in public scrutiny. Dean walks slightly ahead of you, his large frame parting the sea of students effortlessly. Every time you pass a group of girls, you see the hopeful glances directed his way, followed immediately by total confusion when Dean doesnât even spare them a second glance. His entire focus is tethered to you.Â
When you enter the massive lecture hall for your Political Science seminar, itâs already crowded. Dean immediately zeroes in on two seats near the middle row. He drops your bag onto one chair and his own onto the other, effectively claiming the territory.Â
âHey, Dean,â a high-pitched, bubbly voice calls out.Â
You both turn to see a stunning blonde in a cropped sweater leaning over the row behind you. She flashes Dean a brilliant, practiced smile. âI was hoping youâd be here. Thereâs an empty seat next to me if you want it. We could ⌠share notes.â
You feel a sudden, sharp prickle of insecurity. She is exactly the kind of girl you imagine Dean with â bold, beautiful, and completely uninhibited. You instinctively shrink in on yourself, looking down at your hands. You are so fundamentally different. You are quiet, painfully shy, and the thought of public displays of affection makes you want to spontaneously combust.Â
But Dean doesnât smile back at the blonde. In fact, his expression remains completely blank, almost bored.Â
âIâm sitting with Y/N,â Dean says flatly, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation.Â
âOh,â the girl falters, her smile slipping as she glances at you with thinly veiled disdain. âRight. The ⌠new girl.â
Deanâs jaw ticks. He steps slightly in front of you, a clear, territorial block. âYeah. My girl. Excuse us.â
The words send a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core. You sink into your seat, your face practically burning, as Dean sits down next to you. He casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his solid, warm presence a shield against the rest of the room.Â
âYou didnât have to be rude to her,â you whisper, though secretly, you are terribly glad he was.Â
âI wasnât rude,â Dean whispers back, leaning in so close his breath ghosts over your ear. âI was honest. I donât care about her notes. I only care about you.â
You bite your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile fighting its way onto your face. Deanâs eyes track the movement of your teeth on your lip, his pupils dilating slightly, but he quickly forces his gaze away and pulls his notebook out. He is so restrained with you, so careful not to push your boundaries, and it only makes you fall for him harder.
Friday night arrives with the heavy, pulsing bass of a house party.Â
The guys decided to throw a rager to kick off the start of the hockey season. Under normal circumstances, you would have locked yourself in your room with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But Dean had looked at you with those big, green eyes and promised he would stay by your side the entire night, so here you are.Â
You are standing in the corner of the crowded living room, clutching a red Solo cup filled with ginger ale. You are wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that hits mid-thigh. Itâs elegant, understated, and completely out of place in the sea of neon crop tops and miniskirts surrounding you.Â
âAre you okay?âÂ
You look up as Dean materializes through the crowd. Heâs wearing a fitted black Henley that highlights every single muscle in his chest and arms, and his hair is perfectly, artfully messy. He looks like pure, unfiltered trouble. But the moment his eyes land on you, the dangerous edge softens.Â
âIâm fine,â you say, though you have to shout slightly over the music. âItâs just ⌠very loud.â
âWe can go upstairs,â Dean offers immediately, stepping closer so he doesnât have to yell. His body acts as a natural barrier, preventing a stumbling frat boy from bumping into you. âWe can lock the door and watch a movie. I donât care about the party.â
You stare at him in disbelief. âDean, this is your house. Your team. You canât just hide upstairs with me. Everyone expects the legendary Dean Di Laurentis to be out here, working the room.â
Dean scoffs, taking a sip from his own cup. âLet them expect whatever they want. Iâve retired.â
âRetired?â You echo, a small laugh escaping you.Â
âYep,â Dean says, leaning against the wall next to you. âHung up my jersey. Iâm a one-woman man now.â
The casual confession makes your breath hitch. He says it so easily, so confidently, but the weight of the words is staggering.Â
Before you can formulate a response, a girl with bright red hair pushes her way through the crowd and practically throws herself at Dean.Â
âDeeeaan,â she purrs, trailing a manicured hand down his bicep. âI havenât seen you all night! We should go to the kitchen and do shots. Or go somewhere ⌠quieter.â
She presses her chest against his arm, shooting a triumphant look at you. Itâs the kind of blatant proposition that the old Dean would have accepted before she even finished her sentence. Youâve heard the stories. You know that more than once, heâs hooked up with girls right here in the living room while a party raged around them.Â
You instinctively take a step back, the familiar, suffocating shyness gripping your throat. You canât compete with this. You donât want to compete with this.Â
But Dean doesnât even blink. He physically steps back, dislodging the redheadâs hand from his arm as if sheâs made of acid.Â
âNot interested, Lexi,â Dean says, his voice devoid of any warmth.Â
âWhat?â Lexi pouts, looking genuinely shocked. âCome on, Dean. Donât be boring. Itâs Friday!â
âI said no,â Dean repeats, his tone dropping into a freezing, commanding register that makes the girl actually flinch. âIâm busy.â
He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you firmly to his side. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand up slightly so the girl can see it.Â
âIâm with her,â Dean states unequivocally. âHave a good night.â
Lexi stares at your joined hands, then looks up at your flushed face. She huffs in annoyance, turning on her heel and stomping away into the crowd.Â
You look up at Dean, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. âYou really didnât have to do that.â
âYes, I did,â Dean says, looking down at you. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding, soothing motion. âI told you, Y/N. I donât want anyone else. They donât even register on my radar anymore. Itâs just you.â
âDean âŚâ you breathe, feeling completely overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his eyes.Â
âHey, lovebirds!âÂ
The moment breaks as Tucker and Logan push their way over to your corner. Logan is grinning like a madman, holding two fresh beers.Â
âDi Laurentis,â Logan says, shaking his head. âI just watched you turn down Lexi. The Lexi. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor?â
âIâm perfectly fine,â Dean snaps, though he doesnât drop your hand.Â
âHeâs domesticated,â Tucker drawls, leaning against the wall and tipping his cup toward you. âYouâve tamed the beast, Y/N. The whole hockey team is terrified of you.â
You blush furiously, looking down at your shoes. âI havenât done anything.â
âThatâs the crazy part,â Logan laughs. âYou literally just exist, and he acts like a knight in shining armor. Itâs disgusting. I love it. Can I get a hug?â
Logan opens his arms, stepping toward you.Â
Before you can even react, Dean steps directly between you and Logan, pressing a flat hand to his teammateâs chest.Â
âDo not touch her,â Dean growls, half-joking, half-deadly serious.Â
Logan puts his hands up in surrender, laughing harder. âAlright, alright! Guard dog mode activated. I respect it.â
As the guys fall into an easy banter, Dean pulls you slightly closer, tucking you into his side. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the chaos of the party wash over you. Surrounded by the towering hockey players, anchored by Deanâs warm, protective grip, you feel something you havenât felt since you lived in London.Â
You feel entirely safe.
The next evening is the first official home game of the season.Â
The Briar University arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of black and red violently cheering as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice. The energy is electric, thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted peanuts and cold air.Â
You are standing outside the home locker room, clutching a plastic cup of overpriced hot chocolate.Â
The door swings open, and Dean steps out.Â
He is fully geared up, massive in his shoulder pads, his Briar jersey stark and imposing. He looks like a gladiator about to step into the Colosseum. But the moment his eyes find you, the ferocious intensity of his game-face melts away, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved entirely for you.Â
He walks over, his skates clacking loudly against the rubber floor mats.Â
âHey,â he says, stopping right in front of you.Â
âHey yourself,â you reply softly, looking up at him. âYou look ⌠intimidating.â
Dean chuckles, a low, nervous sound. âGood. Thatâs the point. But I donât want to intimidate you.â
âYou never intimidate me, Dean,â you say truthfully.Â
Dean swallows hard, his eyes dropping to your outfit. You are wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. He frowns slightly.Â
âHold on,â Dean says. He reaches back and grabs the hem of his game jersey, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion.Â
You gasp, your eyes going wide as he stands there in just his black under-armor shirt, the tight material clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest. âDean! What are you doing?â
âYouâre not wearing my colors,â Dean states simply. He shakes out the massive jersey and holds it out to you. âPut it on.â
âDean, itâs your game jersey,â you protest, your heart doing a wild, frantic dance. âYou need it to play!â
âI have a spare in my locker,â he dismisses easily. âPut it on, Y/N. Please. I want ⌠I want everyone in that arena to know whose side youâre on.â
The intense possessiveness in his voice makes your knees weak. With shaking hands, you hand him your hot chocolate and take the jersey. You pull it over your head. It is ridiculously large on you, the heavy fabric falling almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely.Â
But across the back, in massive block letters, it reads DI LAURENTIS 66.
You smell like him now â a mix of clean laundry detergent, ice, and that distinct, spicy cologne he wears.Â
Dean stares at you, his chest heaving slightly as he takes in the sight of you swimming in his jersey. His eyes darken, a visceral, primal reaction flashing across his features before he aggressively reels it in.Â
âYeah,â Dean breathes, his voice rough. âThatâs exactly how youâre supposed to look.â
He hands you back your drink and steps closer, reaching out to gently tug on the collar of the jersey. âI have to go to the bench. Beau is saving you a seat three rows behind our box. Itâs next to the glass. Youâll be safe there.â
âIâll be cheering for you,â you promise softly.Â
Dean leans down, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you think heâs going to kiss you. But instead, he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, inhaling your scent.Â
âWatch me, sweetheart,â he whispers against your skin. âIâm going to play for you.â
When you finally take your seat next to Beau in the stands, the entire arena seems to be buzzing. Beau takes one look at the oversized jersey swallowing you whole and bursts out laughing.Â
âOh, he is so gone,â Beau cackles, shaking his head. âIf he plays half as aggressively as heâs acting right now, weâre winning a national championship.â
The puck drops, and the game begins.Â
It is violent, fast-paced, and incredibly stressful. You sit on the edge of your seat, your hands clutched tightly in your lap as you watch the boys crash into the boards.Â
But Dean is a revelation.Â
He skates with a fluid, lethal grace, dodging defenders and making plays that leave the opposing team looking foolish. He is a blur of motion, hyper-focused and ruthless.Â
Midway through the first period, Briar gets a breakaway.Â
Logan intercepts a pass and sends it rocketing up the ice. Dean is there, catching it flawlessly. He tears down the center, the crowd rising to their feet, screaming his name. He fakes left, drops his shoulder, and sends a devastatingly fast wrist-shot right over the goalieâs glove.Â
The red light flashes. The horn blares. The arena completely erupts.Â
You jump to your feet, screaming in delight, your hands flying up in the air.Â
On the ice, Garrett and Logan immediately tackle Dean, shoving him against the glass in celebration. Dean laughs, shaking them off, and skates directly toward the bench.Â
But he doesnât stop at the bench.Â
He skates right up to the glass where you are sitting. The crowd around you goes wild, but Dean doesnât look at them. He looks right at you.Â
He taps his stick against the plexiglass twice, right in front of your face. Then, he presses his gloved hand to his chest, right over his heart, and points directly at you.Â
The gesture is so public, so undeniably romantic, that the entire section of fans surrounding you completely loses their minds. Girls are screaming, Beau is howling with laughter, and you are standing there, wearing his name on your back, feeling completely cherished.
Two hours later, the game is over. Briar has decimated the visiting team 4-1, and the post-game high is practically vibrating through the concrete walls of the arena corridors.Â
You are standing in the secluded hallway just past the locker rooms, waiting. The crowds have mostly filtered out, heading to the inevitable victory parties, but you stayed exactly where Dean told you to wait.Â
The heavy locker room door opens, and the boys start pouring out. They are showered, dressed in their street clothes, and loud.Â
When Dean finally emerges, he looks exhausted but radiant. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at his forehead, and heâs wearing a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. He has a massive sports duffel slung over his shoulder.Â
He spots you leaning against the wall, still drowning in his game jersey, and a slow, exhausted smile spreads across his face. He drops his bag immediately and crosses the hallway in three long strides.Â
âHey,â he breathes out, stopping right in front of you.Â
âHi,â you say, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. âYou were incredible out there, Dean. Truly.â
âYeah?â He asks, his eyes searching your face, seeking your approval above all else.Â
âThe best on the ice,â you confirm softly.Â
The boys are filtering past you both, offering catcalls and teasing whistles.Â
âGet a room, Di Laurentis!â Logan shouts as he walks by with Tucker.Â
âShut up, Logan!â Dean yells back without breaking eye contact with you.Â
The hallway finally clears, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fluorescent-lit corridor. The adrenaline from the game is still humming in the air between you, mixing violently with the unspoken tension that has been building for three weeks.Â
Dean steps closer, invading your personal space. He reaches out, his large hands resting gently on your waist, over the heavy fabric of the jersey.Â
âI meant it,â Dean whispers, his voice dropping an octave. âWhen I pointed to you. That goal was for you, Y/N.â
You look up at him, at the handsome, reckless boy you grew up with who has somehow morphed into this incredible, devoted man. You realize, with a sudden, crystal-clear certainty, that you donât want to be scared anymore. You donât want to hide behind your shyness or your fears of ruining your friendship.Â
âDean,â you whisper.Â
You reach up, your hands slipping out of the oversized sleeves. You place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart through his t-shirt.Â
Dean completely freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He doesnât move a muscle, terrified that if he does, you will pull away.Â
You rise up on your tiptoes. Dean instinctively tilts his head down, meeting you halfway.Â
You press your lips to his.Â
It is not a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It is chaste. Soft. Sweet. It is a gentle press of lips, a quiet, tender thank you, a desperate confession of everything you are too afraid to say out loud.Â
It lasts only three seconds.Â
When you pull back, dropping down to your flat feet, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, terrified of his reaction.Â
When you finally open them, you gasp.Â
Dean Di Laurentis â the guy who has quite literally been with half the campus, the guy who knows every sexual maneuver in the book, the guy who thrives on marathon, sweaty, athletic encounters â looks completely devastated.Â
He looks like he has died and gone to heaven.Â
His green eyes are blown wide, his pupils completely dilated. His jaw is slack, his lips slightly parted, pink and damp from your brief touch. His chest is heaving as if he just skated ten periods back-to-back.Â
âY/N,â Dean breathes, the word trembling on his lips.Â
He raises a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to his own mouth, as if he canât quite believe what just happened.Â
âWas that ⌠was that okay?â You whisper, your insecurity suddenly flaring up. âI know it wasnât ⌠I know youâre used to-â
âDonât,â Dean interrupts, his voice cracking slightly. He drops his duffel bag entirely and reaches for you, wrapping both arms around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest.Â
âDonât you dare compare yourself to anyone else,â Dean says fiercely, staring down at you with a reverent, blazing intensity. âThat was ⌠Y/N, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me.â
âIt was just a small kiss,â you murmur, your face burning.Â
âIt was everything,â Dean corrects, his hands gripping your waist tightly. âYouâre everything. God, Iâm so in love with you.â
The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, tumbling into the quiet hallway like a grenade.Â
You freeze, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. âDean âŚâ
Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief and surrender.Â
âI know,â he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips. âI know itâs fast, and I know youâre scared, and I know I have a terrible reputation. But Iâm yours, Y/N. I have always been yours. You just had to come back for me to realize it.â
He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours.Â
âYou donât have to say it back,â Dean promises, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. âYou donât have to do anything youâre not ready for. I just needed you to know. Iâm not playing games, sweetheart. Iâm playing for keeps.â
You stare up at the man holding you, feeling the absolute truth in his words. The terrifying world outside â the threats, the politics, the uncertainty â melts away entirely.Â
You rise on your tiptoes again, but this time, Dean doesnât wait. He captures your lips, kissing you with a tender, devastating passion that seals your fate completely.
***
The collective student body of Briar University is, for lack of a better term, completely losing its mind.Â
It has been nearly two months since the legendary, untouchable Dean Di Laurentis officially took himself off the market. Two months since he dragged a beautiful, shy transfer student into his orbit and never let her go. And yet, the novelty of his absolute, unrelenting devotion hasnât worn off. If anything, itâs only become more aggressively apparent.
Itâs a chilly Tuesday afternoon, and the campus coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is packed with students seeking refuge from the biting wind.Â
You and Dean are standing near the pickup counter. You are wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles, your posture as impeccable as ever. Dean is standing practically flush against your back, his large hands resting possessively on your hips. Heâs leaning down, his chin resting near your shoulder, listening intently as you softly explain a concept from your international relations seminar.
A few yards away, sitting at a cramped corner table, Logan and Garrett are nursing their coffees and watching the spectacle.
âI give up,â Logan says, shaking his head. âI literally give up. I donât know who that man is. Heâs an imposter. A body double.â
âHeâs in love,â Garrett corrects, though he looks equally bewildered. âI mean, we knew it was bad, but this is ⌠this is advanced whipped.â
A group of sorority girls at the next table over are openly staring, whispering behind their hands.Â
âDo you remember sophomore year?â One of the girls mutters loud enough for Logan to catch. âWhen he hooked up with those two girls on the literal pool table at a Theta party? He didnât even care who was watching! It was like a spectator sport for him.â
âI know,â her friend replies, eyes wide. âAnd now look at him. He looks like he wants to build a white picket fence right here in the cafe line.â
At the counter, the barista calls out your name. âY/N! London fog latte and a black coffee.â
You step forward to grab the drinks, but a hulking frat boy in a backward cap, rushing to grab his own macchiato, bumps hard into your shoulder.Â
You stumble slightly, letting out a soft, surprised gasp.Â
Instantly, the atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts. Deanâs relaxed posture vanishes. He steps in front of you, his chest broad and imposing, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle feathers dangerously. His green eyes turn to ice as he glares at the frat boy.Â
âHey,â Dean barks, his voice low but carrying across the suddenly quiet shop. âWatch where the hell youâre going.â
The frat boy pales, taking in the sheer size of the angry hockey player. âMy bad, man. I didnât see her.â
âWell, open your eyes, or Iâll wire your jaw shut so you donât have to worry about drinking your little coffee,â Dean threatens, taking a menacing step forward.Â
Before Dean can escalate a simple accident into a full-blown brawl, you move. You reach out, your delicate hands flattening against the solid wall of his chest.Â
âDean,â you murmur, your voice soft, sweet, and perfectly calm.Â
Dean freezes. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under your palms.Â
You offer him a small, placating smile. You slide your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. Then, ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed on you, you rise up on your tiptoes. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his tense jawline, right over the ticking muscle.Â
âIâm alright,â you whisper softly against his skin. You reach up, gently smoothing down the collar of his flannel shirt. âHe just bumped me, Dean. Let it go. Please?â
The transformation is instantaneous.Â
The murderous rage evaporates from Deanâs eyes. His shoulders drop. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leans his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the terrified frat boy who scurries away.Â
âI know,â Dean breathes, his voice entirely soft, meant only for you. âI just ⌠I hate when people arenât careful with you, sweetheart.â
âYouâre careful enough for the both of us,â you tease gently, your cheeks flushing a pretty, soft pink at the public display, even though it was entirely initiated by you. You give his chest a gentle pat. âNow, carry my tea, please. Itâs dreadfully hot.â
Dean practically melts into a puddle on the floor. âWhatever you want, baby.â
He grabs the tray of drinks, completely docile, and follows you out of the shop like a well-trained puppy.Â
The moment the bell above the door jingles shut behind you, the coffee shop erupts into whispers.Â
âDid you see that?â Logan says, staring blankly at the door. âShe literally just rebooted his operating system with a kiss on the cheek.â
âItâs a superpower,â Garrett murmurs in awe. âSheâs a witch. A beautiful, polite, sort of British witch.â
Later that evening, the off-campus house is blissfully quiet. Garrett and Logan are at the library (allegedly), and Tucker is out on a date.Â
You are in Deanâs bedroom. Or, rather, your shared bedroom. The spare room you initially moved into has slowly become little more than a closet for your clothes, as Dean flat-out refused to sleep in a bed that you werenât occupying.Â
The contrast between the Dean that the campus sees â the fiercely protective, completely obsessed boyfriend â and the Dean behind closed doors is staggering.Â
In public, you are shy, demure, and easily flustered by too much attention. Dean respects that. He shields you, gives you space, and handles the spotlight so you donât have to.Â
But here, in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the heavy wooden door locked and the world shut out? Here, Dean worships you. And he systematically, patiently dismantles every ounce of your shyness.Â
You are sitting on the edge of his massive mattress, wearing one of your elegant silk nightgowns. Itâs champagne-colored, modest by most standards, but the way Dean is looking at you makes you feel completely exposed.Â
He is kneeling on the floor between your parted thighs. He hasnât even taken off his jeans yet, though he shed his shirt hours ago. His broad, muscular chest is on full display, his skin golden in the low light.Â
âYouâre blushing,â Dean murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates straight through to your core.Â
You duck your head, your hands nervously smoothing the silk over your thighs. âYouâre staring at me.â
âIâm admiring,â Dean corrects softly. He reaches up, his large, warm hands wrapping around your ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately stroke the delicate skin there. âI canât help it. Youâre the most beautiful thing Iâve ever seen. And I love it when you flush for me, Y/N. I love knowing exactly what it does to you when I look at you.â
Your breath hitches. His words are always so direct, so unapologetically filthy and sweet all at once. He is a master of this â of seduction, of bodies, of pleasure â but he treats you as if you are the very first woman he has ever touched. There is a reverence to him that completely wrecks your defenses.Â
âDean,â you whisper, a soft plea leaving your lips.Â
âLook at me, sweetheart,â he commands gently.Â
You force your eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark, completely blown out with desire, but there is an anchor of absolute patience there. He never rushes you. He has spent the last few weeks slowly, meticulously broadening your horizons, taking you further than you ever thought youâd go, and making sure you feel entirely safe the entire time.Â
He slides his hands up your calves, his rough palms sending a shockwave of heat over your skin. He stops at your knees, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your right knee.Â
You gasp, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.Â
âSo pretty,â he breathes against your skin. He shifts higher, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown up your thighs. âYou get so pink, Y/N. It starts on your cheeks âŚâÂ
He kisses higher up your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin. You let out a soft whimper, your back arching slightly.Â
â⌠and then it spreads down your neck,â he continues, his hands sliding up to grip your hips securely. âDown your chest. All over your stomach. You blush everywhere for me, donât you, baby?â
âOnly for you,â you manage to gasp out, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.Â
Dean growls, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. He rises up onto his knees, towering over you slightly. He reaches for the thin straps of your nightgown, slipping them slowly off your shoulders.Â
You instinctively cross your arms over your bare chest, that ingrained, polite shyness flaring up even now.Â
Dean gently catches your wrists. He doesnât force them away, but he holds them softly, his thumbs stroking your pulse points.Â
âDonât hide from me,â he whispers, leaning in so his lips are barely a breath away from yours. âI want to see you. I want to worship every single inch of you. Let me see, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.â
His words melt your resistance entirely. You slowly uncross your arms, letting your hands fall to his broad shoulders.Â
The silk nightgown pools around your waist, leaving your top half completely bare to his hungry gaze.Â
Just as he predicted, a deep, beautiful flush of pink spreads rapidly down your neck, blooming across your chest and stomach.Â
Dean lets out a ragged breath. He looks at you as if you are a religious artifact, something holy and miraculous. âGod, youâre perfect. Youâre so fucking perfect.â
He leans in, replacing his intense gaze with his mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat, his lips hot and demanding. You tip your head back, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips as his mouth trails lower.Â
He takes his time, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, worshipping the flushed skin just as he promised. When his mouth finally closes over one sensitive peak, drawing it in and laving it with his tongue, you completely lose your mind.Â
âDean!â You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders hard, your fingernails digging into his skin.Â
âIâve got you,â he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down to your core. âIâm right here. Just feel it, baby. Let go.â
He is relentless in his devotion. His hands are everywhere, mapping your body, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. For a man who used to thrive on quick, athletic hookups, Dean is agonizingly slow with you.Â
He pulls away just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, tossing them carelessly to the floor. When he returns to you, he is fully bare, completely aroused, and radiating heat.Â
He gently pushes you back until you are lying flat on the mattress, your hair fanned out over his pillows. He follows you down, his massive frame hovering over yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesnât crush you.Â
âTell me this is what you want,â Dean says, his voice strained with the immense effort itâs taking to hold himself back. He needs to hear it. He needs your verbal consent, your absolute certainty.Â
âItâs what I want,â you whisper, reaching up to cup his handsome, tense face. âI want you, Dean. Please.â
That is all it takes.Â
Dean shifts his hips, settling himself between your thighs. He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses there, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When you only nod, your eyes wide and completely trusting, he slowly, steadily pushes inside you.Â
You let out a sharp cry, your eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of him filling you completely takes over. It is overwhelming, intense, and deeply, achingly intimate.Â
Dean freezes, his jaw clenched tight. âY/N? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?â
âNo,â you gasp, opening your eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face down to yours. âNo, Dean, it feels ⌠it feels incredible. Donât stop.â
He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against yours. âYouâre so tight, baby. So incredibly sweet. Iâm going to take it slow. I promise.â
And he does. He begins to move, pulling back slowly and pressing in deep, establishing a steady, torturously good rhythm. Every time he hits the back of your slick heat, he presses a kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck.Â
He murmurs dark, dirty praise into your ear, perfectly contrasting your elegant nature. He tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look laid out in his bed, how much he loves the sounds you make when he hits that one specific spot.Â
You are completely undone by him. Your shy, reserved exterior is shattered entirely under his careful worship. You are writhing beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, matching his rhythm, chasing the blinding pleasure he is feeding you.Â
âDean, please,â you beg, your voice breaking as the pressure builds low in your stomach. âI canât ⌠itâs too much.â
âItâs not too much, sweetheart,â he grunts, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with more force. âYou can take it. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Just for me.â
The possessive command is the final push you need. You shatter entirely, a high, keening cry escaping your lips as your body goes rigid. The climax rips through you in violent, beautiful waves, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him.Â
Dean groans loudly, his control snapping the second he feels your release. He drives into you a few more times, fast and deep, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and finding his own release with a deep, guttural shout.Â
He collapses against you, his heavy chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours. You hold him tightly, your hands stroking his damp hair, entirely sated and floating in a euphoric haze.Â
Dean eventually rolls to the side, taking his weight off you, but he pulls you tightly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He pulls the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, enveloping you in warmth.Â
âGod,â Dean breathes into the quiet room, sounding entirely awestruck. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. âI love you. I love you so damn much, Y/N.â
âI love you too,â you whisper sleepily, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. âYouâre wonderful, Dean.â
âOnly with you,â he promises, his arms tightening protectively around you as you drift off to sleep.Â
The next morning, the campus is bustling with the standard Wednesday chaos.Â
Dean is walking you to your 10 AM lecture. Heâs wearing his Briar hockey letterman jacket, looking impossibly large and handsome.Â
You are walking beside him, holding his hand. The contrast from last night is almost comical.Â
You are back in your tailored clothes â a pleated wool skirt, tights, and a high-necked cashmere sweater. Your hair is perfectly styled, and your posture is immaculate. You look every inch the untouchable, elegant diplomatâs daughter.Â
As you walk past the quad, a group of guys from one of the fraternities walk by. One of them, not noticing Dean immediately, lets out a low, appreciative whistle directed at you.Â
âDamn, baby. Looking good,â the guy calls out.Â
Instantly, that furious, shy blush races up your neck and paints your cheeks bright pink. You immediately duck your head, feeling incredibly embarrassed by the crass public attention, and instinctively turn your face in toward Deanâs bicep to hide.Â
Dean wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you safely into his side. He shoots the frat boy a look so terrifying, so full of lethal, possessive promise, that the guy practically trips over his own feet trying to hurry away.Â
But as Dean looks down at you, hiding your bright red, blushing face against his jacket, a slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across his lips.Â
Everyone on campus thinks you are a fragile, shy angel who can barely handle a compliment.Â
But Dean knows the truth.Â
He knows what you look like completely undone, blushing that exact same shade of pink while tangled in his bedsheets. He knows the sounds you make, the way you scratch his shoulders, the way you let him broaden your horizons in the dark.Â
The dichotomy is thrilling. It makes his heart race with a fierce, possessive joy. You are this sweet, untouchable, elegant creature to the rest of the world, but behind closed doors, you belong entirely to him.Â
âYou okay, sweetheart?â Dean asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.Â
âIâm fine,â you mumble against his jacket, still embarrassed. âPeople are so loud here.â
Dean chuckles, a rich, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. He pulls you a little closer, kissing your temple.Â
âDonât worry about them,â he murmurs, his green eyes sparkling with a secret only the two of you share. âThey donât know anything about you. But I do. And I think youâre perfect.â
You peek up at him, seeing the wicked, knowing gleam in his eye, and your blush somehow deepens even further.Â
âYouâre terrible,â you whisper, though a small smile plays on your lips.Â
âIâm the best,â Dean corrects easily, pulling open the door to the lecture hall for you. âAnd you know it.â
You do know it. And as you walk into the classroom, your hand firmly intertwined with the biggest playboy turned most devoted boyfriend in Briar University history, you wouldnât trade him for the world.
***
The late November air bites sharply at your cheeks as you and Dean walk out of the political science building. The Briar University campus is painted in stark shades of grey and deep, dying auburn, the sky threatening an early winter snow.Â
You are bundled in a thick wool coat and a cashmere scarf, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Dean is walking beside you, seemingly impervious to the cold in just a Briar Hockey quarter-zip, though he has your heavy canvas tote bag slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder.Â
âI still think the professor has it out for me,â Dean complains, bumping his shoulder gently against yours as you navigate the crowded sidewalk. âI answered the question perfectly.â
âYou compared the socioeconomic impacts of the Industrial Revolution to the plot of Transformers,â you point out mildly, though a fond smile pulls at your lips. âIt wasnât exactly a perfect academic parallel.â
âItâs about the rise of machines, Y/N,â Dean argues, a wicked, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. âItâs deeply metaphorical. He just doesnât appreciate my genius.â
âOf course,â you say, laughing softly. âThat must be it. Youâre a misunderstood scholar.â
Dean stops walking suddenly, turning to fully face you. He reaches out, pulling your cold hands from your coat pockets and wrapping his large, warm ones around them. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled skin right there in the middle of the quad.Â
âI donât care if Iâm a scholar,â he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, breath-stealing intensity. âAs long as I get to sit next to you.â
A blush instantly warms your cheeks, combating the winter chill. Itâs been weeks of this â weeks of Dean completely upending his life to revolve around yours, weeks of his fierce protection and tender worship â and you still havenât gotten used to the sheer force of his devotion.Â
âCome on,â Dean says softly, tugging your hands. âLetâs go get lunch. Garrett said he was craving-â
Deanâs words cut off abruptly.Â
You look up, following his line of sight, and your heart skips a sudden, violent beat.Â
Standing near the edge of the courtyard, completely out of place amidst the sea of stressed-out college students in sweatpants, is a man in an immaculate, bespoke navy suit. He is flanked by two very large, very discreet men in dark overcoats who exude a quiet, lethal sort of professionalism.Â
âDad?â You gasp, the word slipping out in absolute shock.Â
Your father turns his head at the sound of your voice. His stern, diplomatâs face instantly softens into a warm, relieved smile.Â
âY/N,â he says, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the pavement.Â
You donât think. You just run. You drop Deanâs hands and sprint across the quad, throwing yourself into your fatherâs open arms. He catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.Â
âDad, what are you doing here?â You ask, your voice muffled against his lapel. âIs everything okay? Are you safe? Is Mom okay?â
âWe are perfectly fine, sweetheart,â your father assures you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, his hands resting on your shoulders. âEverything is fine. In fact, itâs more than fine.â
You blink, confused, as Dean slowly walks up behind you. He is standing a respectful distance away, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. The playful, flirtatious college boy has completely vanished, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant protector.Â
âAmbassador Y/L/N,â Dean says, his voice respectful but cautious.Â
Your father looks up, his sharp eyes taking in Deanâs massive frame, the Briar hockey quarter-zip, and the canvas tote bag adorned with your handwriting that Dean is still holding.Â
âDean Di Laurentis,â your father replies, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. âIt has been quite a few years. Youâve grown into a mountain of a young man. How are your parents?â
âTheyâre doing very well, sir. Thank you,â Dean says stiffly.Â
You look between the two of them, the tension crackling in the cold air, before turning back to your father. âDad, please. Tell me whatâs going on. Youâre supposed to be locked down in D.C. Why are you in Massachusetts?â
Your father sighs, a sound of profound, weary relief. He gestures to a nearby stone bench. âLetâs sit down for a moment.â
Dean remains standing, flanking the bench like a bodyguard as you and your father take a seat.Â
âThe threat has been neutralized, Y/N,â your father says quietly, his voice dropping into the serious, commanding tone he uses for state briefings. âCompletely.â
Your breath catches. âNeutralized? How?â
âIt was a joint operation,â your father explains, glancing around the quad to ensure no one is within earshot. âMI6 and the FBI have been tracking the extortion ring for months. The group using you as leverage to manipulate the trade sanctions made a mistake. They tried to move funds through an offshore account that had been flagged. The authorities raided their compound in Zurich two days ago. The key players have all been indicted, and the network has been dismantled.â
You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the magnitude of his words. For the past two months, you have lived with a persistent, low-grade terror thrumming in your veins. You had accepted that your life would never look the same, that you would always be looking over your shoulder.Â
âAre you absolutely sure?â You whisper, your voice trembling. âTheyâre gone?â
âThey are gone,â your father confirms firmly, covering your hand with his. âThe Director of Intelligence personally assured me this morning. You are no longer a target, my darling. The danger has passed.â
A wave of dizzying relief washes over you. You slump forward slightly, tears of sheer release pricking the corners of your eyes. Your father wraps an arm around you, holding you close as you let out a shaky sob.Â
Above you, Dean lets out a long, ragged exhale. The rigid tension bleeding from his broad shoulders is almost palpable.Â
âThank God,â Dean breathes, running a hand through his blonde hair. âThank God.â
âIndeed,â your father says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp, white envelope, handing it to you. âWhich brings me to the secondary reason for my visit.â
You sniffle, wiping your eyes carefully as you take the envelope. It bears the official crest of Oxford University.Â
âI spoke with the Dean of your college at Oxford yesterday,â your father continues, his tone gentle. âThey understand the extenuating circumstances of your sudden departure. They have held your spot, Y/N. Your transfer credits from Briar will apply. You are entirely free to return to England and resume your studies next semester, just as you planned.â
The words hang in the freezing air, heavy and catastrophic.Â
Behind you, Dean stops breathing entirely.Â
The color drains rapidly from Deanâs face. His heart, which had just been soaring with relief for your safety, suddenly plummets straight into his stomach, crashing violently against the cold dread pooling there.Â
Return to England. Resume her studies. Leave Briar.Â
Leave him.
Dean feels physically ill. Itâs only been a month and a half. He has only had you back in his life for a fraction of a semester, but in that time, you have become the absolute center of his universe. You are the air he breathes, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the only thing that makes this chaotic, loud world make sense. The thought of you packing your bags, getting on a plane, and crossing an ocean again feels like a physical blow to his chest.Â
He remembers the ache of losing you when you were both fourteen. He remembers how quiet his house felt, how empty his days were without his best friend. But this? Losing you now, after he has tasted your lips, after he has held you in his bed, after he has realized that his soul is irreversibly tied to yours?Â
It will break him. He knows, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you leave, he will not recover.Â
Dean instinctively takes a half-step backward, the physical manifestation of his emotional retreat. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the stone bench near your shoulder, drops to his side. He stares at the ground, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ache, preparing himself for the inevitable. You belong at Oxford. You belong in grand libraries and ancient halls, not in a messy hockey house with a guy who barely scrapes by in political science.Â
You look down at the heavy, embossed envelope in your lap.Â
Oxford. It was your dream. You had worked tirelessly to get in. You had friends there, a life there, a clear, pristine path laid out for your future in diplomacy. Returning is the logical, smart, expected thing to do.Â
You look up at your father, seeing the quiet expectation in his eyes.Â
Then, you turn your head to look at Dean.Â
He wonât meet your gaze. He is staring fiercely at the concrete, his broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for an impact. You see the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw, the absolute devastation radiating from his rigid posture. He has already convinced himself that you are leaving. He is already letting you go, because that is the kind of man he is â he would tear his own heart out before he ever held you back from something you wanted.Â
A fierce, protective warmth blooms in your chest.Â
You donât want Oxford. Not anymore. The ancient halls and polite, intellectual debates suddenly seem terribly cold and lonely compared to the chaotic, vibrant, fiercely loyal life youâve found here. You donât want a life without Garrett stealing your snacks, without Loganâs terrible jokes, without Tuckerâs quiet drawl.Â
And, most importantly, you absolutely refuse to exist in a world where you donât wake up next to Dean Di Laurentis every single morning.Â
You slide the envelope back across the bench toward your father.Â
âNo, thank you,â you say softly, but your voice is remarkably steady.Â
Deanâs head snaps up so fast youâre surprised he doesnât pull a muscle. He stares at you, his green eyes wide, raw shock and desperate hope colliding in his expression.Â
Your father arches a dark eyebrow. âNo? Y/N, you loved Oxford. It is one of the premier institutions in the world for your field.â
âIt is,â you agree, reaching out to gently lay your hand over the envelope. âAnd I am grateful they held my spot. But I donât want to go back to England, Dad. I want to stay here. At Briar.â
âBriar is an excellent school,â your father acknowledges smoothly, ever the diplomat. âBut it is a significant shift in your trajectory. Are you certain this isnât a reaction to the trauma of the past few months? Now that the threat is gone, you donât need to hide anymore.â
âIâm not hiding,â you say firmly. You stand up from the bench, stepping closer to Dean. You reach out, your delicate fingers sliding into his large, calloused hand. Dean gasps softly, a quiet, broken sound, and immediately crushes your hand in his, holding on as if you are a lifeline.Â
You look up at Dean, offering him a smile so full of love and absolute certainty that the last lingering remnants of his panic melt away.Â
You turn back to your father, your hand firmly anchored in Deanâs. âIâm not hiding, Dad. Iâve built a life here. I have friends here. Iâm happy here. Really, truly happy. I want to stay.â
Your father looks at your joined hands. He looks at the way Dean is looking down at you â as if you are the sun and he has spent his entire life in the dark. The Ambassador has spent his career reading people, analyzing motives, and deciphering unsaid truths. It takes him less than five seconds to understand exactly what is happening in front of him.Â
A slow, genuine smile breaks across your fatherâs stern face.Â
âVery well,â your father says, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit jacket. âIt is your life, Y/N, and your education. If Briar is where you wish to remain, I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. I trust your judgment.â
You let out a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping. âThank you, Dad.â
âDonât thank me yet,â your father says, his eyes shifting to Dean. âMy driver is waiting by the main gates. I have reservations at Ostra in Boston for lunch. You are both joining me.â
It isnât a request.Â
Dean swallows hard, his Adamâs apple bobbing. âYes, sir.â
The drive to Boston is quiet, insulated by the tinted windows and plush leather of your fatherâs town car. You sit in the middle of the spacious backseat, your father on your right, and Dean on your left. Dean hasnât let go of your hand since the courtyard. His thumb traces anxious, rhythmic circles into your palm, betraying the calm, stoic mask he is trying desperately to maintain.Â
Ostra is exactly the kind of restaurant your father frequents â impeccably designed, quietly opulent, and smelling of expensive wine and Mediterranean seafood. The maitre dâ immediately ushers the three of you to a private, secluded booth in the back.Â
As the waiter pours sparkling water and takes their drink orders, Dean is practically vibrating with tension.Â
He knows how this goes. He isnât stupid. He is the guy with a notorious campus reputation who has suddenly shacked up with the Ambassadorâs sheltered, brilliant daughter. He has been waiting for the shovel talk since the day you moved into the hockey house. He is entirely prepared to take it. He is prepared to sit here and let your father threaten him, dissect his character, and warn him of dire consequences if he ever breaks your heart.Â
Dean will agree to all of it, because heâd sooner die than hurt you.Â
âSo, Dean,â your father starts once the waiter retreats, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. âPolitical Science. A slight departure from your parentsâ corporate law background.â
âYes, sir,â Dean says, sitting incredibly straight. âI plan to go to law school after graduation, but I wanted a broader undergraduate foundation. And ⌠hockey takes up a significant amount of my time.â
âAh, yes. The Briar hockey program,â your father nods slowly. âYour mother mentioned you were a standout player. Any plans to pursue it professionally?â
âI have options,â Dean answers honestly, his voice steady despite his nerves. âIâve had some interest from scouts, but my priority right now is finishing my degree. And making sure Y/N is situated.â
Your father takes a slow sip of his water, his sharp eyes pinning Dean to the plush leather of the booth.Â
âSpeaking of Y/N,â your father says softly, the diplomatic polish stripping away to reveal the protective father underneath. âShe has been staying with you and your teammates at an off-campus residence.â
Dean stiffens. âYes, sir. When she first arrived, the dorms lacked the necessary security parameters. My housemates and I decided it was safer for her to be with us. We have a spare room.â
Itâs a half-truth. You havenât slept in that spare room in weeks, but Dean isnât about to volunteer that information over the bread basket.Â
âI appreciate your hospitality,â your father says smoothly. He sets his glass down. âI also appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to act as her personal shadow. My security detail informed me that you walk her to every class, you sit beside her in the library, and you havenât attended a single social event without her on your arm.â
Deanâs jaw clenches. He doesnât apologize. He looks your father dead in the eye. âShe was threatened, sir. I wasnât going to let her out of my sight. Not when I had the means to protect her.â
You reach under the table, resting your hand gently on Deanâs rigid thigh, a silent gesture of support. Deanâs hand immediately covers yours, gripping your fingers tightly.Â
âSir,â Dean continues, his voice dropping into a serious, unwavering register. âI know what this looks like. I know youâre probably aware of ⌠certain aspects of my reputation before Y/N transferred here. And I know you probably brought me here to give me the warning I absolutely deserve. I am completely ready to hear it. But you need to know that I love her. I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and my only priority is her happiness and her safety. You can threaten me all you want, but I am not going anywhere.â
You stare at Dean, your heart swelling with so much love you think it might genuinely burst. You look at your father, ready to defend Dean, ready to tell your dad that Dean is the best thing that has ever happened to you.Â
But your father doesnât look angry.Â
Instead, a soft, incredibly fond smile touches his lips. He leans back in the booth, looking at Dean with an expression of profound respect.Â
âDean,â your father says gently. âI did not bring you here to threaten you.â
Dean blinks, completely thrown off guard. âYou didnât?â
âNo,â your father chuckles quietly. âMy entire career is built on assessing character, gathering intelligence, and understanding the truth of a situation before I enter the room. I know exactly what your reputation on this campus was. And I know exactly how drastically it changed the moment my daughter set foot in Massachusetts.â
Your father folds his hands on the table, his expression turning entirely earnest.Â
âYou think I donât know the boy sitting across from me?â Your father asks softly. âI have known you since you were in grade school. I have watched you grow up alongside my daughter.â
Your father pauses, his eyes softening as he looks into the past. âDo you remember the summer you were both twelve? Y/N had convinced you to take one of the small sailing dinghies out onto the Long Island Sound, despite the small craft advisory.â
Dean exhales a shaky breath, the memory hitting him instantly. âI remember.â
You look down, blushing slightly. âThat was entirely my fault. I wanted to see the lighthouse up close.â
âA sudden squall rolled in,â your father recounts, his voice thick with remembered fear. âThe wind picked up, and the boat capsized. The Coast Guard was dispatched, but it took them nearly an hour to locate you in the chop.â
Your father looks directly at Dean. âWhen they finally pulled you both out of the water, Y/Nâs life vest was gone. The clasp had broken when the boom swung around. But she wasnât under the water. You had given her your life vest, Dean. You spent an hour treading water in freezing temperatures, holding her up above the waves, completely risking your own life to ensure she didnât drown. You were hospitalized for hypothermia, and you refused to let the doctors treat you until you saw with your own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.â
Dean looks down at the table, his cheeks flushing a dull red. âShe couldnât swim as well as I could. I wasnât going to let her sink.â
âI know,â your father says quietly. âThat is my point, Dean. When the threats against my family escalated in London, my first thought was terrifying panic. My second thought was finding a safe harbor for her. The government suggested several secure locations. But when my wife mentioned that Briar University was an option â that you were at Briar â I signed the transfer papers immediately.â
Deanâs head snaps up, absolute shock written across his features. âYou ⌠you sent her to Briar because of me?â
âI sent her to Briar because I knew that if you were there, no one on this earth would be able to touch her,â your father states with absolute, unwavering conviction. âI knew the boy who gave up his life vest in the freezing Sound had grown into a man who would do whatever it took to keep her safe. I donât need to give you a shovel talk, Dean. You are perhaps the only man on earth I trust implicitly with my daughterâs heart, and her life.â
The silence in the opulent restaurant booth is deafening.Â
Dean stares at the Ambassador, his green eyes shining with unshed emotion. The heavy, suffocating weight of guilt he has carried about his past, the fear that he wasnât good enough for you, is completely decimated by your fatherâs words.Â
Dean swallows hard, his jaw working as he struggles to find his voice. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a fierce, watery devotion, before turning back to your father.Â
âThank you, sir,â Dean says, his voice thick and rough. âI wonât let you down. I swear to God, I will never let her down.â
âI know you wonât, son,â your father smiles warmly, picking up his menu. âNow, I am told the sea bass here is excellent. And I believe we have a celebration in order. My daughter is safe, she is staying in America, and she is in excellent hands.â
Under the table, you squeeze Deanâs hand, leaning over to rest your head gently against his broad shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to your hair, his entire body radiating a profound, beautiful peace.Â
He didnât just get to keep the love of his life today.Â
He finally realized he was worthy of her.
***
Spring break at Briar University usually means packed beaches in Cabo, cheap tequila, and a week of terrible decisions.Â
But Dean Di Laurentis doesnât do anything by the standard playbook anymore.Â
When you had offhandedly mentioned over a midnight study session that you missed the rainy, historic charm of England and the specific scones from a little bakery near your old flat, you hadnât expected anything to come of it. You were simply feeling a bout of homesickness.Â
Two days later, Dean had dropped two first-class tickets to Heathrow onto your textbook.Â
Now, you are walking hand-in-hand down the ancient, cobblestone streets of Oxford, bundled in a sleek wool coat to ward off the crisp March chill.Â
The trip has been nothing short of a fairy tale. Dean had rented a massive suite in London for three days, taking you to the West End, indulging in high tea, and buying you more luxury clothes than you could ever fit in your suitcase. Then, he had whisked you away to the Cotswolds, renting a secluded, romantic stone cottage with a thatched roof and a roaring fireplace. You had spent three days snowed in, wrapped in thick blankets, drinking hot cider, and letting Dean absolutely worship every inch of you in front of the hearth.Â
But Oxford is different. Oxford is your past.Â
âSo, this is it,â Dean says, his head tipped back as he looks up at the towering, magnificent dome of the Radcliffe Camera. âThe legendary stomping grounds. I have to admit, sweetheart, itâs pretty spectacular. Makes Briar look like a strip mall.â
You laugh, squeezing his large hand. âBriar has its own charm. But yes, Oxford is ⌠itâs special. I spent hours reading in that library. I used to sit on that wall right over there and debate international policy until the sun went down.â
Dean looks down at you, his green eyes entirely soft, crinkling at the corners. He is wearing a long, tailored black overcoat over a dark turtleneck, looking so impossibly handsome and devastatingly striking that people have been turning their heads to stare at him all morning.Â
âShow me,â Dean murmurs, pulling you flush against his side and pressing a warm kiss to your temple. âShow me everything. I want to see where you lived, where you drank, where you bought those scones you wouldnât stop talking about.â
âYou bought me five dozen scones yesterday, Dean. I think Iâm set for life,â you tease, leaning your head against his broad shoulder.Â
âIâm a provider,â he counters smoothly, flashing that wicked, brilliant grin. âItâs in my nature.â
You lead him through the winding, historic streets, pointing out your favorite pubs and the quiet little courtyards hidden behind massive iron gates. Dean listens to every word you say with absolute attention. He asks questions, he remembers the names of your old professors, and he looks at you with a devotion so fierce it makes your chest ache in the best possible way.Â
âAnd this,â you say, stopping in front of a rustic, wood-paneled pub with hanging flower baskets, âis The Turf Tavern. Itâs practically a requirement to get a pint here. Shall we?â
âLead the way,â Dean says, reaching past you to push the heavy oak door open.Â
The pub is crowded, smelling of ale, fried fish, and damp wool. You navigate through the low-ceilinged room, Dean keeping a protective hand resting securely on the small of your back. You manage to find a tiny, secluded booth near the back.Â
Dean goes to the bar to order two pints and a plate of chips. You sit at the booth, pulling your scarf off and feeling a profound sense of contentment wash over you. You are back in the city you love, but you are here with the man who holds your entire heart. It is the perfect collision of your two worlds.Â
âY/N? Is that you?â
The crisp, highly polished, and painfully familiar British accent cuts through the low din of the pub.Â
You freeze. Your blood turns to ice water in your veins.Â
You turn your head slowly. Standing a few feet away, holding a half-empty pint glass and wearing a perfectly tailored tweed blazer, is Edward.Â
Edward, the Viscount of Scunthorpe. The aristocratic, impossibly snobby ex-boyfriend you had dated during your time at Oxford. The man who had treated you more like a shiny, diplomatic accessory than a human being.Â
âEdward,â you say, your voice tight. You force a polite, entirely fake smile onto your face. âHello.â
Edward steps closer, his gaze sweeping over you with an uncomfortable familiarity. âI had heard a rumor you fled back to the States. Something about your father and a political scandal? What a dreadful business. You look well, though. A bit ⌠domestic, perhaps, but well.â
His backhanded compliment grates on your nerves. You immediately shrink back into the booth, your ingrained, polite shyness warring with your immense annoyance. âI didnât flee, Edward. I transferred. And Iâm doing perfectly fine.â
âOf course you are, darling,â Edward smirks, taking another step forward. He reaches out, aiming to lazily tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. âThough I must say, Oxford has been terribly dull without-â
A massive, calloused hand suddenly intercepts Edwardâs wrist mid-air.Â
The grip is visibly bone-crushing.Â
Edward gasps, his eyes blowing wide as he looks to his right.Â
Dean is standing there. He holds two pints of beer effortlessly in his left hand, while his right hand is locked around Edwardâs wrist like a steel vice. Deanâs expression is completely blank, but his green eyes are practically glowing with lethal, frozen rage.Â
âDonât touch her,â Dean says. His voice is dangerously low, a soft, gravelly threat that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.Â
Edward tries to yank his arm back, but Dean doesnât budge an inch. âI beg your pardon?â Edward sputters, his face turning an undignified shade of red. âWho the hell do you think you are?â
Dean slowly, deliberately releases Edwardâs wrist, shoving the manâs arm back toward his chest with just enough force to make Edward stumble back a step.Â
Dean sets the pints down on the table. He doesnât sit. He turns, placing himself entirely between you and Edward, shielding you from the Viscountâs sightline.Â
âIâm the guy who is going to break your hand if you reach for my girlfriend again,â Dean answers smoothly, his tone conversational, though the threat is violently real. âIâm Dean.â
Edward scoffs, rubbing his wrist, though he wisely takes another step back from the towering, broad-shouldered American athlete. âYour girlfriend. I see. Y/N, really? You traded me for a ⌠what are you, a footballer? A rugby brute?â
âIce hockey,â you say clearly, finding your voice. You slide out of the booth, stepping up to stand right beside Dean. You wrap your arms around Deanâs bicep, pressing yourself against his side. âAnd I didnât trade you for anyone, Edward. We broke up because you were entirely insufferable.â
Dean looks down at you, the lethal ice in his eyes melting instantly into a look of absolute, smug adoration. He wraps a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.Â
Edward sneers, looking Dean up and down with blatant aristocratic disdain. âIce hockey. How terribly colonial. Tell me, Dean, do you actually know how to read, or do you just hit things with a stick for a living? Iâm surprised you can even keep up with a conversation here at Oxford.â
Dean doesnât get angry. He doesnât raise his voice. Instead, he laughs. Itâs a dark, rich, incredibly condescending laugh that completely catches Edward off guard.Â
âYou know, Edward,â Dean says, leaning forward slightly, using his height to completely dwarf the other man. âYou talk a lot for a guy whose family wealth is currently tied up in the failing agriculture sector because your father completely botched his investments in the post-Brexit trade agreements. From a socioeconomic standpoint, youâre practically a peasant in a nice jacket.â
Edwardâs jaw actually drops. The color drains from his face.Â
You stare at Dean, absolutely floored.Â
Dean continues, his voice dripping with terrifying charm. âI study political science and corporate law, Edward. My parents are two of the most ruthless litigators on the East Coast. So, if you want to debate international trade laws or intellectual property, we can. But right now, Iâm on vacation with the woman I love, and you are boring me to death.â
Edward opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly defeated, stripped of his aristocratic armor by a guy who he assumed was nothing but muscle.Â
Dean doesnât give him a chance to recover.Â
He turns to you, completely ignoring Edwardâs existence. âYou ready to get out of here, sweetheart? The air in here suddenly feels incredibly cheap.â
âYes,â you whisper, your heart doing frantic, somersaulting leaps in your chest. âTake me back to the hotel.â
Dean smirks. Right there, in the middle of the crowded pub, with your ex-boyfriend standing three feet away, Dean reaches up and cups your face. He tilts your head back and crushes his lips to yours.Â
It is a claiming, devastating, incredibly filthy kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, devouring you, staking a completely undeniable claim. He kisses you until you are breathless, until your knees go weak and you have to grip his coat lapels to stay standing.Â
When he finally pulls back, you are thoroughly flushed, your lips swollen and wet.Â
Dean turns his head slightly, shooting Edward a look of pure, dominant victory.Â
âHave a nice life, Eddie,â Dean deadpans.Â
He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together, and leads you out of the pub, leaving the Viscount standing completely humiliated in the dust.Â
The walk back to the Randolph Hotel is a blur.Â
You are practically vibrating with adrenaline. You had never seen Dean like that. You had seen him protective, yes, but the way he had verbally dismantled Edward without even raising his voice, the way he had claimed you so thoroughly in public â it sent a rush of intense, liquid heat straight to your core.Â
The moment the heavy, oak door of your luxurious hotel suite clicks shut behind you, the calm, collected facade Dean had maintained completely shatters.Â
Dean spins around, grabbing you by the hips and backing you forcefully against the heavy door.Â
You let out a soft gasp as your back hits the wood.Â
âDarling?â Dean snarls, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl that sends a violent shiver down your spine. âHe called you darling?â
âDean-â you start, but he cuts you off, his mouth crashing down onto yours.Â
There is no slow, patient worship this time. This is feral. This is possessive. He kisses you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips to conquer your mouth. He tastes like ale and dark desire.Â
You moan softly into his mouth, your arms instantly coming up to wrap around his neck. You kiss him back with matching ferocity, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.Â
Deanâs large hands tear at your wool coat, practically ripping it off your shoulders and tossing it to the floor. His hands roam over the thin silk of your blouse, his palms hot and heavy.Â
âTell me whose you are,â Dean demands, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving against yours. His green eyes are black with lust, wild and completely untamed. âTell me, Y/N.â
âYours,â you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as he trails open-mouthed, biting kisses down the column of your neck. âIâm only yours, Dean. Nobody elseâs.â
âFucking right youâre mine,â he groans against your skin. He sucks a hard, bruising mark into the sensitive spot right above your collarbone, making sure to leave a physical reminder of exactly who you belong to.Â
You cry out, arching your back off the door to press your chest flush against his.Â
Dean grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back. He carries you across the luxurious suite, your back never leaving his chest, and drops you onto the center of the massive, king-sized bed.Â
You bounce slightly on the plush mattress, looking up at him through heavy, hooded eyes.Â
Dean strips off his overcoat and his turtleneck in one fluid, aggressive motion. He stands beside the bed, his golden, impossibly muscular chest heaving. He reaches for the buckle of his belt, his eyes fixed on you like a predator watching its prey.Â
âDid he ever touch you like this?â Dean asks, his voice tight with lingering jealousy. He reaches down, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down the mattress until your hips are right at the edge of the bed.Â
âNo,â you whisper, shaking your head frantically. âGod, no, Dean. Never. It was never like this. Itâs only you.â
Dean lets out a harsh, satisfied breath. He kneels between your parted thighs. His hands make quick work of your blouse, popping the buttons and tossing it aside, followed quickly by your bra and skirt.Â
In seconds, you are completely bare to him, flushed a deep, beautiful pink from your chest down to your thighs, completely exposed to his heated gaze.Â
âYouâre so beautiful,â Dean murmurs, the feral edge softening into pure, intense worship. âYou make me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.â
He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the valley between your breasts, before trailing wet, hot kisses down your stomach. You writhe beneath him, your hands gripping the high thread-count sheets on either side of your head.Â
Deanâs hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing them wider apart. He settles himself fully between your legs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive core.Â
âDean, please,â you beg, your voice a high, sweet whimper. You are already aching, already so incredibly slick and ready for him.Â
âIâve got you, baby,â Dean hums.Â
He lowers his head and takes you into his mouth.Â
You scream his name, your back arching violently off the mattress. His tongue is relentless, swirling and flicking exactly where you need it, while his large fingers slide effortlessly inside your slick, wet heat. He mimics the rhythm of sex, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his mouth devours you, driving you completely out of your mind.Â
âThatâs it,â Dean praises darkly between wet, sloppy kisses against your core. âLet go for me. Show me how much you want it.â
You canât hold back. The intense, overwhelming pleasure builds too fast, shattering through your body in a blinding wave. You climax hard against his mouth, your internal muscles clenching tight around his fingers, a sobbing moan tearing from your throat.Â
Dean doesnât give you a moment to recover.Â
He rises up, his own need completely overriding his patience. He shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his aching, heavy arousal.Â
He grips your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, and aligns himself with your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his strong jaw.Â
âLook at me,â Dean commands softly.Â
You open your eyes, tears of pure pleasure pricking the corners, and meet his intense gaze.Â
âI love you,â Dean says, the words a fierce, unbreakable vow.Â
He drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one long, deep thrust.Â
You cry out, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sending a fresh wave of electricity straight to your brain. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him flush against you.Â
Dean begins to move. He sets a punishing, desperate pace, pulling almost completely out before slamming his hips forward, driving deep into your tight, wet heat. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoes loudly in the quiet hotel room.Â
âDean!â You cry, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his golden skin.Â
âYou feel so fucking good,â Dean groans, his teeth gritted. âSo tight. Youâre mine, Y/N. Tell me youâre mine.â
âIâm yours,â you sob out, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation of him. âAlways yours. Oh god, please, harder.â
Dean complies instantly. He adjusts his grip, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling your legs all the way back against his chest, opening you up completely. He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars.Â
You are a chaotic mess of flushed skin, tangled hair, and breathless moans. Every time he hits that spot, you shatter a little more. You are entirely consumed by him, by his heat, his scent, his overwhelming, possessive love.Â
âIâm close,â Dean grits out, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts losing all coordination as the pleasure takes over. âBaby, Iâm right there.â
âCome for me,â you beg, your own body tightening, ready to fall over the edge again. âDean, please.â
Dean lets out a deep, guttural roar. He drives into you three more times, as deep as he possibly can, before his body goes entirely rigid. He clenches his jaw, his eyes squeezing shut as he pours his release into you, his hips locked flush against yours.Â
The feeling of him finishing deep inside you pushes you over the edge, your own body convulsing around him as you climax for a second time, calling out his name like a prayer.Â
For a long time, the only sound in the luxurious hotel suite is the harsh, ragged breathing of two entirely exhausted people.Â
Dean eventually collapses forward, his heavy chest resting fully against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He is covered in a light sheen of sweat, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against your own.Â
You wrap your arms around his broad back, holding him tightly, your fingers lazily tracing the deep ridges of his spine. You feel entirely boneless, floating in a euphoric, hazy afterglow.Â
Slowly, gently, Dean rolls to the side, taking his heavy weight off you but immediately pulling you flush against his side. He reaches down and pulls the thick, white hotel duvet up over your bare bodies, cocooning you in warmth.Â
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your waist.Â
âIâm sorry I lost my temper,â Dean murmurs into the quiet room, his voice raspy. âI just ⌠seeing him look at you like that. Thinking about him touching you. I saw red, Y/N.â
âYou didnât lose your temper,â you reply softly, turning your head to press a kiss to his chest. âYou were completely calm. Terrifyingly calm, actually. I think you might have broken his spirit.â
Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. âGood. He was a prick. And he didnât deserve you.â
âNo,â you agree, looking up into his warm, green eyes. âHe didnât. But you do.â
Deanâs breath catches. He reaches up, gently brushing a tangled lock of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek.Â
âI meant what I said,â Dean whispers, all the playful arrogance stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest truth of the man who has loved you since you were children. âIâm your future, sweetheart. I know weâre young, and I know we have our whole lives ahead of us. But I am not doing any of it without you.â
Tears prick your eyes again, but this time they are tears of absolute, profound joy.Â
âIâm not going anywhere, Dean,â you promise him, sliding your hand up to cup his handsome face. âI love you. I love you more than anything.â
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It is a promise, a vow, a sealing of a fate that had been written in the stars the moment you built your first terribly constructed fort in his backyard in Greenwich.Â
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, a stunning, radiant smile breaking across his face.Â
âSo,â Dean murmurs, a hint of his signature, charming arrogance slipping back into his tone. âSince I successfully defended your honor against a British Lord, do I get to be a knight now? Is that how it works here?â
You laugh, the sound bright and clear, echoing perfectly in the quiet room.Â
âYouâre already my knight in shining armor, Dean Di Laurentis,â you tease, pressing a final kiss to his jaw. âNow, shut up and hold me.â
âAs you wish, sweetheart,â Dean replies smoothly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly closer.Â
As you lie there in his arms, thousands of miles from the Briar hockey house, looking out the window at the ancient spires of Oxford, you realize you have never felt more at home.Â
You had crossed an ocean to escape your past, but in the end, it was your past that had caught you, held you safe, and given you the most beautiful, chaotic, perfect future you could ever ask for.
authorâs note đ requested by anon đ i honestly didnât expect to have this much fun writing justin, but post-show tension at maloneâs was too good to resist. hope you enjoy <3
ââ ââ ââ â ââ
You weren't staring â that was what you were telling yourself, anyway.
You weren't staring at Justin Kohl from across Malone's like you'd suddenly forgotten how to act in public; you were watching the show, just like everyone else â like a normal person who'd come out with friends, ordered one drink she'd barely touched, and had definitely not spent the last forty minutes watching every movement of his hands on the guitar.
Unfortunately for you, your friends knew you too well.
"Oh my god," Allie said beside you, leaning close enough for you to hear her over the music. "You're staring."
You turned to her a little too quickly. "I'm watching."
"That's literally the same thing."
"No, it's not."
"It is when you're looking at him like you forgot anyone else was in the room."
Heat crawled up your neck, so you immediately took a sip of your drink to give yourself something to do. It didn't help. Mostly because the second you looked back toward the small stage tucked into the corner of Malone's, Justin's eyes were already on you. Again.
The first time it happened, you told yourself it was an accident. The second time, you told yourself he'd just been looking somewhere near your table. The third time, he smiled mid-verse, just enough for one corner of his mouth to lift, and your stomach dropped so fast you almost lost your grip on your glass.
Now, pretending felt impossible.
Justin looked good enough on a normal day, which was already unfair. On stage, though, he was something else entirely
The low lights caught in his hair. His sleeves were pushed up over his forearms, veins visible as his fingers moved over the guitar, and there was this loose confidence in the way he stood behind the mic â like he knew the whole room was watching, but still somehow only cared about where your eyes were.
You hated how much it affected you, but you hated it even more that he seemed to know.
"You're blushing," Hannah said from your other side, way too amused for someone who was supposed to be on your side.
"I'm just warm."
"It's literally February."
"Malone's has terrible ventilation."
Allie laughed into her drink like she didn't believe a word of that. "Sure."
You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling and looked down at the table instead of at him. That lasted maybe ten seconds, right up until the song shifted and the crowd cheered as Justin stepped closer to the mic.
Of course, you looked up, only to find Justin watching you again â and this time, he wasn't even trying to hide it.
His gaze found yours through the dim light, holding there just long enough for your breath to catch; then he smiled, slow and knowing, and looked back down at his guitar.
Beside you, Allie made a sound.
You groaned before she could even say anything. "Don't."
"I didn't say anything," Allie said.
"You were going to."
"I was going to say you're completely doomed."
Unfortunately, she wasn't wrong.
By the time the set ended, your nerves were completely shot.
Justin thanked the room, voice rough from singing, his cheeks flushed, and his hair slightly damp at the temples. People clapped, whistled, and called for another song while Justin laughed into the mic before stepping back from the stage.
You tried very hard not to watch him walk away, and failed almost immediately.
Hannah nudged your side with her elbow. "Come on."
You blinked at her. "Where?"
"To say hi," Hannah said, like that was obvious.
Your eyes widened immediately. "No."
"Yes," Hannah answered.
"No. Absolutely not."
Allie grinned. "You've been making heart eyes at him the whole night."
"I have not."
"Sweetie," Hannah said gently as she stood. "You have."
Before you could argue, they were already pulling you through the thinning crowd toward the back hallway Malone's used as a makeshift green room whenever someone performed. It wasn't exactly backstage, at least not in the glamorous sense. It was a narrow hallway near Della's office that smelled faintly of beer, fried food, and old wood, with a couple of folding chairs pushed against the wall and a door that always stuck unless you kicked it near the bottom.
Still, it felt private enough that your pulse picked up.
When you rounded the corner, Justin was there, guitar case open on the floor and hands busy coiling a cable. He looked up at the sound of footsteps, and the second he saw you, his mouth curved â not at Hannah, not at Allie, but at you.
"There she is," he said.
Your stomach did a little flip.
Hannah's eyebrows lifted immediately, and Allie looked like she was physically restraining herself from screaming.
"Hi," you said, painfully aware of how quiet your voice came out.
Justin straightened and set the cable down. "Hi."
For one ridiculous second, neither of you said another word.
Then Hannah cleared her throat, apparently remembering someone had to speak. "Great show."
"Thanks." Justin smiled at her, though his eyes flicked back to you almost immediately. "Glad you guys came."
Allie looked between you and Justin before grabbing Hannah's arm with far too much enthusiasm. "We're gonna go get another drink."
You turned to her, panic flashing across your face. "What?"
"Another drink," she repeated, smiling far too sweetly. "You're fine."
"I'm notâ"
"Fine," Hannah agreed, already letting Allie drag her away.
Traitors, both of them.
The silence they left behind felt louder than the music had been.
Justin leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. "Your friends are subtle."
You let out a nervous laugh. "They like to think they are."
"They're wrong."
"Usually, yeah."
His smile widened, and you looked down at your hands, because looking at him for too long felt dangerous now that there wasn't a stage between you anymore. No crowd, no guitar, and nothing to pretend you were focused on except him.
Justin noticed immediately. "You got quiet."
You glanced up at him. "I'm always quiet."
"No." Justin pushed off the wall and stepped closer. "You were singing earlier."
Your cheeks went hot immediately. "You saw that?"
"I saw plenty."
The words settled low in your stomach.
You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out breathier than you'd meant it to. "You were supposed to be performing."
"I was." Justin tilted his head, eyes moving over your face. "Didn't stop me from noticing you."
Your mouth went dry at that.
Justin stepped closer again, not touching you yet, but close enough that you could see the sheen of sweat at his throat, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the way his pupils looked darker in the hallway light.
"You looked like you enjoyed yourself out there," he said.
You swallowed, trying to sound normal. "It was a good show."
"That all?" he asked.
You tried to hold his gaze, and failed.
His smile softened, though the teasing didn't leave his voice. "Don't get shy now."
"I'm not shy."
"No?" His voice dipped. "So if I asked why you kept looking at me like that, you'd tell me?"
Your heart beat a little too fast.
"I could ask you the same question."
That surprised him for half a second, and then his grin turned sharper. "There you go."
You looked away again, embarrassed by your own boldness, only for Justin's fingers to touch your chin gently and guide your face back to his.
"Hey," Justin said, and your breath caught. "Wasn't making fun of you."
"I know," you said softly.
"Do you?" he asked softly.
You nodded, though the truth was you didn't know much of anything when he was standing this close.
Justin's thumb brushed over your lower lip, barely there.
"You came back here for a reason?" Justin asked.
Your voice came out almost like a whisper. "Hannah brought me."
"That's not what I asked," he said.
The hallway suddenly felt too warm.
The noise of Malone's faded into the background, muffled behind the door at the end of the hall. Outside, you could hear people laughing, glasses clinking, and Della yelling at someone to stop blocking the register. And Justin was waiting.
You took a small breath before admitting it. "I wanted to see you."
Justin's eyes darkened. "Yeah?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice yet.
"I've been wanting that all night," he murmured, and then he kissed you.
It wasn't slow or careful; it was the kind of kiss that felt like the end of something you'd both spent the whole night pretending not to start. His hand slid into your hair, the other settling at your waist as he pulled you in until your chest pressed against his. A soft sound slipped out of you against his mouth, and Justin groaned like he'd been waiting all night to hear it.
The sound went straight through you, warm and sharp.
He walked you back until your shoulders hit the wall beside the office door, never once taking his mouth from yours. The kiss turned messier and hotter, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt while his thigh pressed between yours.
"You looked so sweet out there," he murmured against your mouth, "trying not to stare."
Your face burned. "You looked too."
"I was," he said, kissing your jaw. "Never said I wasn't."
"You knew exactly what you were doing."
His mouth curved against your skin. "So did you, sweetheart."
"I didn't do anything," you said, though it came out a little less convincing than planned.
Justin's hand slid down your side, over your hip, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your skirt. "You looked at me like you wanted me to stop singing and come over there."
A whimper slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Justin froze for half a second before his grip tightened.
"Oh," he breathed, grip tightening like the sound had done something to him. "That's what you sound like?"
You turned your face away, embarrassed, but Justin caught your chin again.
"No, don't do that," he murmured, his lips brushing yours. "I like it."
Your stomach did that stupid little flip again.
He kissed you again, slower this time but no less hungry, while his hand slipped beneath your skirt and his fingers brushed the outside of your thigh. Your breath hitched when he found the edge of your underwear.
"Justin," you breathed.
"Tell me to stop, and I will."
You shook your head quickly, voice barely steady. "Don't stop."
His eyes dropped to your mouth, voice dipping. "Say that again."
Your fingers tightened in his shirt as you said it again. "Don't stop."
Something shifted in him.
He pushed open the office door beside you and guided you inside, shutting it behind him with a quiet click. The room was small and cluttered, barely big enough for the desk, the filing cabinet, and a stack of boxes in the corner. It smelled like paper, dust, and the faint sweetness of Della's perfume.
It shouldn't have felt sexy. It did, mostly because Justin locked the door, then looked at you.
Your pulse jumped at the look.
He crossed the room in two steps and cupped your face, kissing you again. You stumbled back until the edge of the desk hit your thighs, and Justin lifted you onto it like he'd been thinking about doing exactly that all night.
A stack of papers slid sideways across the desk.
You gasped against his mouth. "We shouldn'tâ"
"We won't break anything," he murmured.
"That is so not what I meant."
Justin grinned against your skin, kissing down your throat. "Then be quiet."
The words made your thighs press together, and of course, he noticed.
His fingers slipped under your skirt again, nudging your knees apart as he stepped between them.
"You like that?" he asked, his voice low. "Knowing they're right outside?"
You swallowed, voice barely steady. "Maybe."
His mouth brushed against your ear. "That's not very shy."
Whatever answer you had disappeared into a gasp when his fingers pressed against your clothed cunt. The fabric was already damp beneath his fingers, and Justin made this soft, rough sound when he felt it.
"Fuck," he murmured, fingers pressing a little firmer. "This from watching me?"
A whimper slipped out of you.
He rubbed you slowly through your underwear, eyes fixed on your face. "Answer me."
"Yes," you breathed.
"Yes, what?" he asked.
You looked at him, your breath shaking. "Yes, from watching you."
His jaw tightened, and the praise came out rough enough to make your thighs press together again. "Good girl."
Your whole body reacted before you could even think to hide it, and Justin smiled as he'd felt it.
He pushed your underwear aside and touched you directly, fingers sliding through your wetness before settling into slow circles over your clit. Your head fell back as a quiet moan broke from your lips.
"There it is," he murmured, sounding far too pleased. "That's what I wanted to hear."
His fingers moved slowly at first, teasing more than giving, until your hips started chasing his hand on their own. You were aware of everything: the locked door, the muffled noise outside, the way your skirt was bunched around your waist, and the way Justin watched you like the show hadn't ended at all.
"Justin," you breathed, barely getting his name out.
He leaned closer, voice low. "Right here."
"Please," you breathed.
His eyes darkened when he heard that.
He slid one finger into you, then another, curling them just right until your hand flew to his shoulder. The stretch pulled a louder moan from you, and his other hand came up to cover your mouth for one brief second.
"Careful," he murmured, though he was smiling. "Unless you want them to know what you're doing in here."
Your eyes widened at that.
He moved his hand away slowly, eyes still fixed on yours. You should've been embarrassed, and you were, but you were also wetter, and Justin noticed that too.
"Oh, you like that," he whispered, fingers moving deeper. "Pretty girl likes having to stay quiet."
"Justinâfuck."
His thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight circles as his fingers pushed into you, and your body tightened fast â too fast. The whole night had been built up â his eyes on you from the stage, the smirk, the hallway, his voice in your ear. You were already so worked up that every touch felt like too much and still somehow not enough.
"I'm close," you whispered, sounding almost surprised by it.
Justin's mouth curved like he'd been waiting to hear that. "Already?"
Your cheeks warmed immediately. "Don't be smug."
"I'm not," he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. "I'm flattered."
You laughed, only for it to break into a moan when he curled his fingers just right.
"Come on," he murmured, his voice low. "Let me feel it."
The orgasm hit you hard and sudden, and this time your hand clamped over your own mouth as your body shook around his fingers. Justin watched you through it, lips parted and eyes dark, his hand gentle on your thigh as he slowed without stopping, not until you whimpered from the sensitivity.
"Fuck," he breathed, like the words slipped out before he could stop them. "You're gorgeous."
You barely had time to recover before he dropped to his knees, and your heart stopped.
"Justin," you breathed.
He looked up at you, his hands sliding up your thighs. "You said not to stop."
Your mouth went dry, and then his lips were on the inside of your thigh, scattering every thought you'd had.
He kissed higher, pushing your skirt up farther before dragging your underwear down your legs and tucking them into his back pocket, grinning when you made an offended sound.
"Seriously?" you hissed.
"Souvenir," he said, looking far too pleased with himself.
"You're unbelievable," you said, even though your voice didn't sound nearly annoyed enough.
"You're still spreading your legs for me," he said, like that settled the argument.
That shut you up pretty fast.
Before you could say anything else, his mouth was on your cunt, tongue flattening over your clit in one slow stroke that made your body jerk. He groaned against you, his hands gripping your thighs as the sound sent another wave of heat through you.
You were already too sensitive. Still, you didn't even try to push him away.
Your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging the second his tongue circled your clit, and Justin's hands tightened like he liked the reaction.
"Oh my god," you whispered, head tipping back before you could stop it.
He hummed against you, then sucked softly, and your hips lifted toward his mouth before you could stop them.
Justin pulled back just enough to look up at you. "That's it. Don't get quiet on me now."
"People will hear."
"Then make me work for it," he said.
Your entire body flushed, and Justin smiled before going back down.
By the time Justin stood again, your legs were trembling, your breathing uneven, and you weren't entirely sure you remembered how to function. Justin's mouth was wet, his hair messy from your hands, and he looked so pleased with himself that you would've hated him for it if you hadn't wanted him so badly.
He kissed you, slow and filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
A moan slipped into his mouth before you could stop it.
"Condom?" he asked, his voice rough.
You nodded quickly, too breathless to pretend you weren't desperate. "Please."
He fumbled in his pocket, and you might've teased him for it if your own hands hadn't been shaking too. He rolled it on before stepping between your thighs again, lining himself up while your arms wrapped around his shoulders.
The head of his cock pressed against you, and both of you went still for a second.
Justin dropped his forehead to yours, his voice softer now. "You okay?"
You nodded, voice barely steady. "Yes."
"Yeah?" he asked softly.
"Justin," you whispered, impatience slipping into your voice now. "Please."
He groaned, then pushed in slowly.
The stretch made your mouth fall open, your fingers digging into his shoulders while he filled you inch by inch. He went slow enough that you felt every bit of him, slow enough that your breath hitched halfway through, and by the time he finally bottomed out, both of you were breathing hard.
"Fuck," he murmured, voice rough. "You feel so good."
"You too," you whispered, and his eyes snapped to yours like hearing it had done something to him.
Then Justin started moving. He moved slowly at first, deep and controlled, his hands firm on your hips as he fucked you on Della's desk with the crowd still muffled outside the door. It felt filthy and unreal, your skirt around your waist, his mouth against your neck, the desk creaking softly beneath you.
Justin's voice stayed low against your ear. "Thought about this all night."
"The way you were watching me."
"Trying to act like you weren't thinking about this too."
You moaned, your nails dragging over his back as the admission slipped out. "I was."
His hips snapped harder at that. "Yeah?"
"Yes," you moaned, your head falling back. "I wanted you."
That did something to him, hearing you finally say it.
The pace changed then, sharper now, more desperate. His hand slipped between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, and you nearly cried out before burying the sound against his shoulder.
"Shh," he murmured, even though his own voice sounded wrecked. "I know."
Your thighs tightened around his waist, holding him closer.
"Justin," you gasped. "I'm close again."
"Good," he murmured, his thumb moving faster. "Come for me."
The pleasure built quickly, your body still sensitive from his mouth and fingers, but this time, when it hit, it rolled through you slower, deeper, making you clench around him as you buried your face in his neck to muffle the sound.
Justin cursed under his breath, his hips stuttering.
A few more thrusts and Justin followed, groaning against your shoulder as he came, his hands gripping you like he needed something to hold onto.
For a moment, neither of you moved, both of you still breathing hard. The room was quiet except for your breathing, his, and the distant noise of Malone's outside the door.
Then Justin let out a soft laugh.
You lifted your head to look at him. "What?"
He looked at you, his smile lazy, warm, and entirely too smug. "That was definitely better than the show."
You groaned and pushed weakly at his chest. "Don't say that."
"I'm serious," he said.
"You are not," you said.
"Okay, maybe the show was pretty good," he said, kissing your cheek. "But this was better."
He helped you clean up as best as possible in Della's office, which shouldn't have felt romantic but somehow did, mostly because he was gentle now, hands careful on your thighs and smile soft whenever you got shy again.
When he handed your underwear back, you snatched them from him, glaring.
"You're a thief."
"Temporary borrower."
"You're not keeping them."
"Next time, then," he said, far too casually.
Your stomach fluttered, and of course, Justin saw it.
He stepped closer and brushed your hair back from your face. "Come to the next show."
You looked up at him, still a little unsteady. "Why?"
His smile curved slowly. "Because now I know where to look."
Reader is someone who doesn't fall inlove easily. It's not that they don't trust people, its that they need to really know someone before feeling romantic or sexual attraction. Like months of getting to know eachother, real connection needs to form.
So when reader and Garrett start hanging out, she simply just isn't charmed by him. She isn't mean to Garrett, she isn't interested, like she needs to see the man behind the jersey before she can feel. And he needs to know her emotions aren't going to be played with. If you are going to try to romance her, you better be serious and lock in.
All in
Pairing: Garrett Graham x Reader
Word Count: 949
Request open!
Off campus masterlist
Garrett was used to people being interested in him.
He was not used to people who were not interested in him at all.
Which was exactly why you had become such a problem.
At first, he thought it was funny. You didnât fawn over him. You didnât blush every time he walked into the room. You didnât laugh too quickly at his jokes or act impressed just because he was Garrett Graham and, according to half the campus, supposedly charming enough to get away with anything.
You were polite. Warm, even. Just not dazzled.
And Garrett, who had been functioning on a steady diet of attention and effortless attention-getting for years, found that unsettling in a way he could not stop thinking about.
The first time he tried flirting, you had looked at him over the rim of your drink and said, âYou talk like youâve never had to be serious in your life.â
Heâd actually stopped for a second.
Then, because he was Garrett, heâd laughed. âThat sounded insulting.â
âIt was supposed to be honest.â
Heâd liked that.
A lot.
Now, months later, he was sitting beside you at the hockey house while you worked through a plate of food and he tried, for the fifth time that night, to distract you from your own conversation with Dean and Tucker.
It still was not working.
You were listening to Tucker with actual interest, asking real questions, paying attention to the part of his answer that mattered. Garrett watched the whole thing with growing fascination and a little bit of frustration because it was very clear to him that you were not easy to charm, not easy to impress, and definitely not easy to win over just because he was handsome and persistent.
Which, weirdly, made him want to win you over more.
He leaned in beside you. âYouâre not even looking at me.â
You kept your eyes on Tucker. âShould I be?â
âI think the better question is why arenât you already.â
That finally got your attention.
You turned toward him with one eyebrow lifted. âYou really think that line works?â
Garrett smiled. âUsually.â
âOn who?â
âPeople with less self-control than you.â
You gave him a look that was equal parts amusement and warning. âYou keep doing that.â
âDoing what?â
âActing like this is some game.â
Garrettâs smile faded just a little.
Not because he was offended.
Because he was listening.
You set your fork down and looked at him properly now, expression calm but serious. âIf youâre trying to get my attention, youâre going to have to do better than being charming.â
Garrett stared at you.
Then he laughed once, quietly. âGood.â
That surprised you. âGood?â
âYeah.â He leaned back in his chair, studying you. âI was hoping youâd say that.â
You frowned. âWhy?â
âBecause I donât want your attention because Iâm easy to like.â
Your expression changed a little.
He kept going, voice lower now. âI want it because I earned it.â
That made the room go quiet in your head for a second.
Garrett was still watching you, but the usual smugness had slipped away. What was left was direct. Steady. Serious enough to make your stomach feel oddly warm.
âYou mean that?â you asked.
He nodded. âYeah.â
You studied him carefully, as if checking for the joke hidden underneath it. There wasnât one.
That was the thing about you. You didnât fall in love easily, and you were not interested in being swept off your feet by someone who had no intention of staying there. You needed time. Consistency. Real conversation. The man behind the jersey, not the jersey itself.
Garrett, annoyingly, had figured that out.
And instead of being put off, he had locked in harder.
âYouâre not going to play with me,â you said quietly.
His face changed immediately. Not hurt. Respectful.
âNo,â he said. âIâm not.â
You held his gaze. âYouâre serious?â
Garrett nodded again. âAs serious as I know how to be.â
That made your chest feel strangely full.
âSo this is you serious?â you asked.
He huffed a quiet laugh. âYeah. Apparently.â
You looked at him for a long second, then asked, âWhat changed?â
His mouth curved, but only a little. âYou.â
That one word landed harder than a whole speech would have.
You blinked.
Garrett saw it and softened. âYou make me want to be better.â
There it was.
Not a line. Not a joke. Not the polished, easy thing he usually gave everybody else.
Just Garrett, stripped down enough to be honest.
You looked down for a second, collecting yourself, then back up. âThatâs not a small thing to say.â
âI know.â
âIâm not easy.â
His expression turned warm. âI know that too.â
You gave a quiet laugh because there was something almost ridiculous in how calmly he was meeting all your boundaries instead of trying to push past them.
Garrett saw the smile and relaxed a little too.
âIâm not asking you to rush,â he said. âIâm asking you to let me keep showing up.â
That made your throat tighten.
You looked at him, and for the first time all night, you could see something clear and solid in his expression that had nothing to do with charm and everything to do with intent.
âOkay,â you said softly.
Garrett blinked once. âOkay?â
âYeah.â You smiled, small but real. âShow up.â
The grin that lit up his face after that was so immediate and so genuine that it nearly undid you on the spot.
âGood,â he said. âBecause I was already planning to.â
You rolled your eyes, but the smile stayed.
And Garrett, for the first time in a long time, understood exactly how to keep trying.
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pairing â garrett graham x figure skater!reader
summary â rehab is ugly, slow, and humiliating. garrett graham, annoyingly, makes it feel a little less lonely.
warnings â sports injury, rehab/physio, knee injury, recovery anxiety, fear of reinjury, crying, emotional vulnerability, strong language
notes from me â thank u for the request, anon!! such a cute idea 𼚠tried to write this !reader as a lil more anxious & shy than my others, it was fun!! <3
word count â 5.5k
navigation â masterlist | taglist
By the second week of physiotherapy, sheâs started recognising the rehab room by smell before she even gets through the door.
Itâs always the same: rubber mats, disinfectant, stale coffee from the travel mug Cam leaves on the little desk by the wall, the faint clean plastic smell of resistance bands and ice packs and the weird foam balance pads that look harmless until youâre standing on one leg on top of them, sweating through a university-issued t-shirt, trying not to make eye contact with your own reflection in the mirror.
The room isnât big enough for how humiliating it is. Thatâs what she decides somewhere around the seventh time Cam tells her to keep her knee tracking over her toes and not let her hip drop, as if any part of her body has retained a functional management structure since the injury.Â
Itâs not big enough for the amount of trying happening in it. Not big enough for lacrosse girls doing hamstring bridges, a baseball player walking around with one of those compression sleeves on his elbow, a freshman swimmer crying silently through shoulder mobility in the corner while pretending she is absolutely not crying.Â
Itâs not big enough for all the little griefs athletes drag in with their water bottles and their taped joints and their faces set carefully into the shape of being fine.
She used to think of her body as something she could ask things of.
Not nicely, always. Figure skating had never been gentle, no matter what people thought from the stands when the dresses were pretty and the music swelled and everybody politely forgot that most of the sport was just girls repeatedly hurling themselves at the ice until one day the hurling started looking graceful.Â
Her body had always hurt somewhere. Ankles, arches, hip flexors, the backs of her knees, the little bruises on her thighs from falls sheâd stopped counting years ago.Â
Pain had been background noise. A language, almost. Something she could interpret and bargain with and, on good days, ignore.
This is different. This is her body becoming a locked door.
âAgain,â Cam says.
She looks at him through the mirror. He has the clipboard tucked against his chest and the calm, mildly sympathetic face of a man who has chosen professionally to ruin peopleâs afternoons through controlled movement. âCam.â
âOne more set.â
âYou said that last set.â
âI lied.â
She lets out a breath thatâs too close to a laugh to count as actual protest and steps back onto the little foam pad. It dips under her weight. Her ankle wobbles. Her knee, traitor, considers doing something stupid. She fixes it fast, jaw tightening before her face can give too much away.
Cam notices anyway, because Cam is awful.
âGood,â he says. âThatâs better.â
âIt feels bad.â
âItâs supposed to feel hard.â
âThatâs not what I said.â
âI know.â
She hates that tone. Cam is one of those deeply inconvenient medical professionals who knows exactly when not to give you the easy reassurance, which means she canât even be properly irritated with him without feeling immature about it.Â
He doesnât say youâll be back before you know it. He doesnât say youâre young, youâll heal fast, as if youth is a warranty and not just another thing that can get snapped in half during a bad landing.Â
He just says again, and better, and not yet, and lets the rest of the room sit there around it.
She finishes the set with her hands hovering slightly away from her sides like she might be able to balance through prayer, then steps off the pad and pretends the relief doesnât go all the way through her.
Cam scribbles something down. âThatâs enough for today.â
Her breath leaves her in one piece. âThank God.â
âDonât sound so grateful.â
âIâm trying to make you feel valued.â
âThat was your version?â
âIt was implied.â
He smiles faintly and reaches for the roll of athletic tape on the table. âIce tonight if it gets cranky. Donât push the stairs. And donât go on the ice.â
She looks down at her bag too quickly. Cam pauses. The silence is horrible.
She lifts her eyes back to him with as much blank innocence as she can assemble while sweaty and standing in one shoe. âWhat?â
He gives her a look.
âI wasnât going to.â
âGood.â
âI know Iâm not cleared.â
âGreat.â
âIâm not an idiot.â
âI didnât say you were.â
âYou were thinking it in your Cam voice.â
âMy Cam voice?â
âThe one where you sound nice while accusing me of crimes.â
That gets a small laugh out of him, which she counts as a win even though he immediately ruins it by pointing at her with his pen. âNo ice.â
The words land flatter than the joke leaves room for. She nods, because nodding is easier than speaking when the answer has gone somewhere tight under her ribs.Â
No ice. Two tiny words. Perfectly reasonable. Clinically correct. Devastating in the way small, practical sentences often are when theyâre the ones standing between you and the only place your body has ever made proper sense.
She sits on the bench to change back into her other sneaker, unwrapping the brace strap with careful fingers. Thereâs a damp patch at the collar of her shirt and another under the elastic of the brace, and she can feel the dull, complaining warmth in her knee beginning to spread now that the session is over and adrenaline has stopped being useful.
The door opens while sheâs shoving her water bottle into the side pocket of her bag, and Garrett Graham steps in.
He comes in the same way he always seems to come into rooms, even injured. He just has that stupidly natural presence that takes up space before heâs done anything to earn it, all broad shoulders and damp dark curls and Briar Hockey hoodie with one sleeve pushed higher than the other.Â
His gym bag is slung over one shoulder, his phone in his hand, and thereâs a strip of white tape disappearing under the edge of his shorts near his thigh, which she tries very hard not to look at for too long.
She knows him, technically, Briar ice athletes overlap. They know the same rink schedule, the same sharp smell of resurfaced ice, the same ugly fluorescent tunnel between the locker rooms.Â
She knows Garrett Graham because everyone knows Garrett Graham, but she also knows him in the more specific way of someone who has seen him skate when he thinks only hockey matters. Fast, controlled, mean in the cleanest possible way. Good hands. Good edges, for a hockey player, which she had once made the mistake of saying near one of the other figure skaters and had been accused of sounding weirdly horny about crossovers.
She wasnât. Mostly.
He knows of her too. She knows this because heâd said her name once in the rink hallway last semester when sheâd nearly collided with him coming around the corner with her skate bag, and because heâd watched the last ten minutes of one of her practices from the boards with Logan and Tucker a few months ago, both of them still in half their gear, while she ran the footwork section of her short program three times in a row until her lungs burned and her coach finally stopped looking like she might start throwing things.Â
Garrett had leaned his forearms on the boards and said something she couldnât hear. Logan had laughed. Tucker had looked politely impressed in the way nice men look when women do difficult things they understand enough not to interrupt.
So, first-name basis. Vague orbit. Mutual ice awareness.
Not whatever this is, which is Garrett walking in right as sheâs sweaty and sore and trying to get her sneaker on without making the tiny injured-person grunt she has grown to hate in herself.
Cam looks over his shoulder. âOne second, Garrett. I wonât be long, man.â
Garrett nods, easy. âAll good.â
His eyes move from Cam to her, and she braces, because sheâs been doing a lot of that lately, bracing. For pity. For questions. For the little sympathetic wince people do when theyâve heard about the injury but donât know what to say after sorry, that sucks, so they fill the air with optimism until she wants to bite through her own tongue.
Garrett doesnât wince. He gives her one of those small, quick smiles instead.Â
âHey,â he says.
âHi.â
He shifts his bag higher on his shoulder, glancing once at the brace and then back at her face so quickly she almost appreciates the politeness of it. âI heard you got hurt. Thatâs⌠yeah. Fucking sucks.â
It shouldnât help, except it does. The bluntness. The lack of inspirational packaging. The fact that he says it like someone who knows exactly how unhelpful it is when people try to make being benched sound like a spiritual growth opportunity.
She nods and looks down for half a second at the zipper on her bag, pulling it closed even though itâs already closed. âYeah. Itâs pretty shit.â
His mouth moves, not quite a smile. âYeah.â
âI heard about yours too,â she adds, because itâs only fair and also because looking at him directly for too long feels slightly like standing too close to a heater. âIâm sorry.â
He makes a small shrugging motion. Itâs casual, but not quite enough to hide the little tightness that passes across his face when the movement pulls at something. âCould be worse.â
She looks at him. Garrett looks back.
Then he huffs a quiet laugh. âSorry. Thatâs such an asshole thing to say to someone injured.â
Her mouth lifts before she can stop it. âItâs okay. Everyone says it.â
âI know. I keep wanting to fight them.â
âHave you?â
âNot yet. Cam said it would slow my recovery.â
âHeâs very anti-violence for someone who hurts people for a living.â
Cam, from the cabinet, says, âI can hear both of you.â
Garrettâs grin appears then, quicker, brighter, and for one strange second it makes the rehab room feel less ugly.Â
Cam comes over with his clipboard tucked under one arm and gives Garrett the tired look of a man who has known hockey players long enough to consider them a hazard. âReady?â
Garrett nods, but his eyes flick back to her. âSee you.â
Itâs a small, stupid, future-tense thing. See you. Like itâs already assumed there will be another time. Like sheâs not just passing through the doorway of his appointment with her bag on her shoulder and her knee taped into submission, but someone who exists in the shape of his week now.
She nods. âYeah. Bye.â
Then she leaves before her face can do anything unhelpful.
After that, they keep seeing each other. Thatâs the whole problem with schedules. They make coincidences stop being coincidences and start becoming routines before anyone has to be brave enough to choose them.Â
Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Her appointment first. Garrett after. The first few times, itâs only hey and howâs it going and Cam making deeply unimpressed noises when Garrett leans in the doorway instead of waiting properly outside like a normal person.
By the following Wednesday, Garrettâs sitting on the bench in the hallway when she comes out, elbows on his knees, hoodie sleeves shoved up, one hand wrapped around an iced coffee that looks mostly melted.Â
He glances up as the door opens, like heâs been reading something on his phone and not listening for it, which is a performance she respects enough not to challenge.
âYou survive?â he asks.
She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder. âBarely.â
âBad?â
âCam made me do step-downs.â
Garrettâs face changes with immediate, serious recognition. âOh, Jesus.â
âRight?â
âNo, those are evil.â
âThey look so stupid. Thatâs what makes it worse. Like, Iâm standing there trying not to die on a four-inch box.â
âYeah, and Camâs like, great, now control the descent.â
She laughs, and then looks down because the laugh comes out too easy. Too relieved. âHe says it like that too.â
âOf course he does. He has a script.â
From inside the rehab room, Cam calls, âI still hear you.â
Garrett raises his coffee vaguely toward the door. âWeâre bonding through shared suffering. Itâs part of the process.â
âItâs not billable,â Cam says.
Garrett looks back at her, and thereâs that little curl at the corner of his mouth again, but softer than she expects. âYou got class after this?â
She blinks. âYeah.â
âWhere?â
âPsych. Levin.â
He pauses. âWait, the eleven-thirty?â
âYouâre in that class?â
His expression shifts into something almost sheepish, which is such a strange look on him that she forgets for a second to be awkward about her own surprise.Â
âI sit in the back,â he says. âVery engaged. Quietly academic.â
âI have literally never seen you.â
âThat feels like a you problem.â
âIt feels like an attendance problem.â
Garrett presses a hand to his chest like this has wounded him. âIâm injured and youâre attacking me.â
She laughs. âYou started it.â
âI asked about class.â
âMenace behaviour.â
He laughs at that, quick and low, head ducking for half a second. Then he stands because Cam calls him in, and heâs suddenly very close in the narrow hallway, close enough that she has to tilt her face a little to keep looking at him.Â
His smile stays, but the volume of it drops. âSee you in Levin, then?â
She should say maybe. Or sure. Or something easy and noncommittal that keeps the moment from feeling too visible.
Instead she says, âIf you show up.â
His eyebrows lift. âThat a challenge?â
âNo.â
âSounded like one.â
She doesnât know what to do with that, so she adjusts her bag again, which has become a humiliating little habit around him.Â
Her hands always need a task before her face gives her away. âGo do your step-downs, Graham.â
He smiles properly then, pleased. âYes, maâam.â
She walks away before Cam can witness the way her mouth betrays her.
Garrett does show up to class that day. He comes in two minutes late, because punctuality would have damaged the brand, and slides into the seat beside her with his laptop under one arm and a coffee in his hand.Â
Thereâs a row of empty seats behind them. Several, actually. He ignores all of them.
She looks over as he sits. âSubtle.â
âWhat?â
âYou could have sat literally anywhere.â
He opens his laptop. âThis seat has a good view.â
âOf the lecture?â
He glances at the front of the room, where Dr. Levin is fighting with the projector and slowly losing. âSure.â
She looks down at her notebook because smiling at her paper is less incriminating than smiling at him.Â
Garrett doesnât push it. That surprises her a little, though by then maybe it shouldnât. He jokes, yes. He has the kind of natural charm that makes silence around him feel almost rude.Â
But heâs not constantly filling space just to hear himself in it. He seems to know when to let a moment breathe, which is worse, somehow. Much worse. Because it means the attention is not accidental.
He takes notes badly. Not because heâs stupid, she learns that very quickly. Garrett isnât stupid in the way some people like to assume athletes are stupid when they would rather not admit physical talent can exist alongside a working brain.Â
He just takes notes like a man who believes future him will remember the context through sheer confidence. Half sentences. Arrows to nowhere. One bullet point that just says dopamine??? and then, underneath it, ask her.
She catches it while heâs typing and looks at him.
He doesnât look back, but his mouth moves. âDonât judge my system.â
âThatâs a system?â
âIt works.â
âIt says ask her.â
âYeah.â Now he glances over, and his eyes are warm enough that her stomach does something small and deeply unhelpful. âSee? Efficient.â
She lets out a breath through her nose and turns back to her own notes. âYouâre ridiculous.â
After that, the talking becomes easier because it has somewhere to go. Rehab into class. Class into walking halfway across campus. Walking into texts, eventually, though the number exchange happens in the most Garrett way possible, which is to say he makes it sound practical even while looking far too pleased with himself.
Theyâre leaving psych one afternoon, the sky low and grey over campus, both of them moving slower than the stream of students around them because neither of them can walk at full speed without paying for it later.Â
Garrett has his hood up against the cold and his bag slung over one shoulder. She has one hand wrapped around the strap of her own, the other holding her phone, thumb hovering over a message from her coach she hasnât opened because she can see the first line in the preview and already knows it will make her feel like peeling her skin off.
Garrett notices.Â
âCoach?â he asks.
She looks over. âWhat?â
He nods toward the phone. âI know the face.â
She looks down at the screen again. The preview says, no pressure, just wanted to check in about competition timeline, which is exactly the kind of text people send when there is pressure and everyone knows it but nobody wants to be rude enough to name the animal in the room. Her thumb locks the phone before she can read the rest.
Garrett doesnât say anything for a few steps. He doesnât immediately try to fix it. Doesnât ask if sheâs okay in a tone that makes okay feel like a performance.Â
He just walks beside her, slower than campus wants him to, shoulder occasionally close enough to brush hers when the path narrows.
Finally, he says, âI hate those texts.â
She glances at him.
âThe check-in ones,â he says. âLike theyâre being nice, and they are, but itâs also like⌠hey, just wondering if your body has stopped ruining the plan yet.â
Her throat tightens so quickly she has to look away.
Garrettâs voice stays even, low enough that the people passing them donât get any of it. âThe hockey staff keep doing it too. Not in a shitty way. Theyâre trying to be normal. But every time someone asks how recoveryâs going, Iâm like, I donât know, man. I miss my life and my hip feels fucked up. You want the official answer or the weird one?â
She laughs, but it comes out thin. Still, it comes. âMy knee feels fucked up.â
They walk a little farther. The cold air catches under the hem of her sweatshirt and sneaks up her back. Somewhere across the quad, a group of boys are laughing too loudly near the library steps. A bike bell rings. The world continues in its very rude way, all motion and noise and healthy knees.
Garrett clears his throat. âYou can send me those, if you want.â
She looks up at him.
âThe annoying texts,â he says, and now he does seem a little more careful, eyes flicking to hers and away again. âOr just, like⌠complain. If you donât want to answer normal people nicely.â
Something in her chest shifts. âNormal people?â
âYou know.â His mouth tips. âHealthy civilians.â
âThatâs dark.â
âItâs accurate.â
She looks at her phone. Then at him. âAre you giving me your number so I can forward you texts from my coach?â
He shrugs, but his ears go just slightly pink from the cold or the question. âI mean, when you put it like that, it sounds weird.â
âIt is weird.â
âYou want it or not?â
She does. Immediately. Stupidly. Enough that she has to make herself take a second before answering. âOkay.â
âOkay?â
âYeah.â She opens a new contact and hands him the phone before she can overthink the fact that her fingers feel too warm. âFor fucked up knee purposes.â
Garrett takes it, smiling down at the screen while he types. âObviously.â
He saves himself as Garrett, then, after one tiny pause she absolutely notices, adds a hockey stick emoji. When he hands it back, she looks at it and raises her brows.
âSubtle.â
Her first text to him, sent that night after staring at her coachâs full message for eleven minutes and then lying face-down on her bed in a silence so complete her roommate had paused in the doorway and then wisely kept walking, is just a screenshot.
Garrett replies three minutes later.
Garrett: jesus. âno pressureâ should be illegal.
She types, right????
Garrett: they put it at the front like a tiny little lawyer.
She laughs into her pillow hard enough that the pressure behind her eyes changes shape.
After that, itâs embarrassingly easy.
Sheâs slower to warm, more cautious, more likely to tuck herself back inside her own head the second a feeling starts getting too large to hold naturally.Â
Garrett seems to understand that without making her explain it. He doesnât crowd. He doesnât demand a constant version of her that knows how to be charming back on command.Â
He sends her a picture of Logan asleep sitting up on the couch with an ice pack balanced on his shoulder.Â
Garrett: warrior down.Â
She sends back, is he alive?Â
Garrett: unclear. tucker says we should wait and see.
Sometimes they talk a lot. Sometimes itâs only a stupid photo, a class complaint, a howâs the knee? sent at nine p.m. that makes her chest go warm because he remembers which days hurt more.Â
Sometimes she doesnât answer for hours because the whole day has been too much and sheâs gone quiet in that way that makes even typing feel strangely exposed.Â
Garrett never punishes the delay by getting weird about it. He just picks the conversation back up wherever she left it, like the space is allowed.
Heâs not always gentle. She wouldnât like him as much if he were. Garrettâs gentleness works because itâs threaded through the rest of him, through the easy confidence and the dry little comments and the occasional captain voice that slips out when Cam tells him to stop overdoing it and he says, âIâm not,â with the exact expression of someone absolutely overdoing it.Â
He still chirps Logan across the room. Still gives Dean shit when Dean swings by the rehab hall one afternoon and announces, loudly, âDamn, this is where they keep all the broken hot people,â before Tucker drags him back by the hood and says, âDonât flirt with the injured. Itâs unethical.â
Garrett, sitting beside her on the hallway bench with an ice pack on his thigh, doesnât even look embarrassed. He only rubs a hand over his mouth and mutters, âIâm so sorry.â
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing. âAre they always like that?â
âNo,â Garrett says. Then, after half a second, âYes.â
Dean, from down the hall, calls, âShe seems nice, G!â
Garrett closes his eyes briefly.
Tucker says, âKeep walking.â
Loganâs voice drifts back too, amused and bright. âGarrett made a friend!â
Garrett opens his eyes and looks at her with an expression so tired and resigned that she actually does laugh then, full and surprised and too loud for the hallway. His face changes when she does. Only for a second. It softens, almost helplessly, before he covers it by looking down at his ice pack.
âYeah,â he says. âTheyâre always like that.â
By the second month, Cam starts pairing them for parts of rehab because, as he puts it, âYou both complain less when youâre trying to look normal in front of each other.â
Cam doesnât even glance up from the clipboard. âYou asked me yesterday if your hip mobility was âgiving washed-up uncle.ââ
She bites down on a smile.
Garrett points at her. âDonât.â
âI didnât say anything.â
âYou were going to.â
âI was not.â
âYou were thinking it.â
She looks down at the resistance band looped around her ankle, cheeks warm. âI mean. A little.â
Garrettâs mouth twitches. âUnbelievable.â
Rehabbing together is both better and worse. Better because Garrett makes the room less lonely without trying to fill it too brightly. Worse because now she has to be perceived while doing the ugliest exercises known to sports medicine.Â
Thereâs nothing romantic about hip bridges. Thereâs nothing elegant about controlled lunges when your knee is shaking like itâs received bad news by telegram.Â
Thereâs no world in which she wants Garrett Graham to watch her do glute activation with a yellow band around her thighs while Cam says, âGood, hold that,â in the background like a man actively trying to end her life.
Garrett, to his credit, doesnât make it weird. He makes other things weird, obviously. Heâs still Garrett. When she wobbles on the balance pad, he says, âVery artistic,â and when she glares at him, he lifts both hands and says, âIâm appreciating the performance.âÂ
When Cam tells Garrett his form is getting sloppy, she murmurs, âWashed-up uncle,â under her breath and Garrett looks at her like he canât decide whether to laugh or throw a towel at her.Â
When she has a bad pain day and goes quiet halfway through, Garrett stops joking entirely and starts matching her pace so subtly she doesnât realise until later. He finishes his reps slower. Takes longer between sets. Asks Cam a question he probably already knows the answer to, giving her thirty extra seconds to breathe without anyone looking directly at her.
That one stays with her for a while. Itâs easier to let someone flirt with you than it is to let them notice youâre struggling and not make you feel small about it.
Garrett is cleared for the ice before she is. He tells her after a Friday session, standing outside the athletic building with his hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, campus cold moving around them in little grey gusts.Â
He looks happy, but itâs careful happiness. Muted. Like he knows the news is good and still doesnât want to set it down too loudly between them.
âCam said I can start controlled skating next week,â he says.
Her heart does something complicated.
âOh,â she says, and hates immediately that it comes out too small. So she fixes it fast, or tries to. âGarrett, thatâs great.â
âYeah.â
âNo, really. Thatâs⌠thatâs so good.â
His eyes stay on her face. âI know.â
âYou donât sound like you know.â
âI do.â He looks away for a second, toward the parking lot, where a bunch of hockey guys are piling into someoneâs car and yelling about food. âItâs just weird.â
She nods before he has to explain. Being allowed back into the place youâve been aching for isnât cleanly joyful when someone else is still outside the door. Especially when that someone has been sitting beside you for weeks, teaching you through sheer proximity that your particular kind of misery is not as uniquely embarrassing as you thought.
âIâm glad,â she says.
Garrett looks back at her, and the softness in his face makes her wish she had phrased it better, or maybe worse. âYouâll get there.â
She nods. âYeah.â
âI know you know that. Sorry.â
âNo, itâs okay.â
âI justââ He stops, rubs one hand over the back of his neck, and for once the confidence seems to snag on something real before it can make the sentence smoother than it should be. âIt sucks being the one still waiting. I know.â
Her throat tightens. She looks down at the crack in the pavement between them. âI hate that Iâm jealous.â
Garrettâs quiet for half a second, in a surprised-by-her-honesty way. Then he says, âYeah.â
She winces. âThat was not my best quality.â
âItâs not a crime.â
âIt feels ugly.â
âA lot of this feels fucking ugly.â
She looks up at him then, and his face is open in that simple, steady way of his that keeps undoing her.Â
âYeah,â she says. âIt does.â
He nods once, like theyâve agreed on something important and awful. Then his mouth shifts, small and careful. âIâll tell you if it sucks.â
She huffs a laugh. âYour first skate back?â
âYeah.â
âThatâs comforting.â
âIâm offering solidarity.â
It does suck, apparently. He texts her after the first session.Â
Garrett: felt good for ten seconds then my body filed a formal complaint.
She stares at the message for a long time, then replies, rude of it.
Garrett: yeah. HR nightmare.
She sends, did it feel nice though?
The typing bubbles appear. Disappear. Reappear. The finally he replies.
Garrett: yeah. too nice. kind of wanted to stay out there forever and also throw up.
Her eyes sting so fast it embarrasses her, even alone in her room. She types, yeah. i get that.
Garrett: i know.
When her clearance comes, itâs a Saturday morning in the third month of rehab, and she almost doesnât believe Cam when he says it.
Controlled ice work only. Edges. Slow laps. Nothing clever. Nothing she would describe later as just seeing how it felt, because that sentence has been the downfall of many athletes before her. She nods through all of it with her hands folded tightly in her lap.
Cam stops talking. Her eyes are fixed on the corner of his clipboard.
âYou okay?â he asks.
She nods, once. Too fast.
He waits. A laugh comes out of her, tiny and breathless and nothing like humour. âSorry. I just⌠yeah. Iâm good.â
Camâs face softens. âYouâre ready for this part.â
She gets to the parking lot before she texts Garrett.
cleared for controlled ice work.
He calls her.Â
She stares at the screen for one full ring, startled enough that she almost drops the phone, then answers with a voice that comes out much quieter than planned. âHi.â
âHoly shit,â Garrett says, and the happiness in his voice is so immediate and unfiltered that she has to close her eyes for a second. âThatâs huge.â
âYeah.â
âThatâs really fucking good.â
âI know.â She laughs softly, but it shakes. âI think Iâm going to be sick.â
âAlso valid.â
âCam said I can go tomorrow morning. Just controlled stuff.â
âIâll come.â
The answer is so quick she doesnât know what to do with it. She sits in her parked car with the keys still in her hand and looks out through the windshield at the athletic building, the brick and glass blurred slightly by the cold. âYou donât have to.â
âI know.â
âYou probably have⌠hockey things.â
âCanât do hockey things yet.â
âTeam things.â
âTheyâll survive one morning without me standing there being inspirational in a hoodie.â
She smiles despite herself, and because he canât see it, she lets it happen properly. âYouâre very important.â
âThank you.â
âI was joking.â
âI wasnât.â
That gets a real laugh out of her, and Garrett is quiet for the smallest beat after it, like heâs letting himself hear it.Â
Then his voice lowers a little. âSeriously. Iâll come. If you want.â
She swallows. The car is cold. Her knee aches faintly from the session. Her phone is warm against her ear.
âYeah,â she says. âI want.â
The rink is almost empty the next morning. Itâs early enough that the building still has that half-asleep feeling, the lobby lights too bright over the old carpet, the vending machines humming like theyâve been up all night thinking about their choices.Â
Someone has left a stack of orange cones by the boards. The ice is clean from a fresh resurface, glossy and unmarked under the white lights, and the sight of it hits her so hard she stops walking halfway down the tunnel.
Garrett notices after two steps and turns back. Heâs in a Briar hoodie and dark athletic pants, skates dangling from one hand, hair curling damply near his forehead because heâs showered before dawn like a lunatic.Â
He looks less like campus Garrett here. Less like the guy everyone waves at in the dining hall, less like the captain with half the hockey program orbiting him. In the rink, heâs quieter. Familiar with the cold. Part of the architecture in the same way she is, or was, or is trying very hard to become again.
âYou good?â he asks.
She looks past him at the ice. âYeah.â
Itâs very obviously not convincing.
Garrett doesnât call her on it. He only nods and shifts his skates to his other hand. âWe can sit for a minute.â
âIâm fine.â
âI didnât say you werenât.â
She looks at him then, and the gentleness of his face makes something in her twist. Garrett, thankfully, seems to understand that pity would make her walk directly into traffic. This is something else. Space, maybe. Offered without making her ask for it.
So they sit. Long enough for her to lace her skates with fingers that feel strangely clumsy. Long enough for Garrett to tie his own and then pretend very hard not to watch her checking the tension of hers twice, then three times, then pressing her thumb along the side of the boot like it might offer reassurance if handled correctly.
âDo you want me to say something helpful or shut up?â he asks eventually.
The question startles a laugh out of her. It comes out small, but real. âI donât know.â
âOkay. I can do medium.â
âMedium?â
âYeah. Light talking. No motivational speech. No silence so intense it feels like a funeral.â
She looks over at him. âYouâve thought about this.â
âIâm a thoughtful guy.â
âYouâre something.â
His smile appears, quick and warm, but he doesnât chase the joke. âI know itâs weird.â
Her hands go still on the laces.
âI mean, I donât know exactly,â he says, looking out at the ice now instead of directly at her, which helps. âItâs different for you. But I know the part where you miss it so much that getting it back even a little feelsâŚâ He pauses, searching for the word and apparently deciding not to dress it up. âFucked.â
âIt feels like if I step wrong, everything starts over,â she says.
Garrett nods slowly. âYeah.â
âAnd I know thatâs not how it works. Like, technically. I know Cam wouldnât have cleared me if he thought Iâd immediately explode.â
âProbably not.â
âProbably.â
âI mean, I donât want to overstate his kindness.â
She laughs again, and this one stays longer. Garrettâs mouth softens at the sound, but he looks down to adjust his skate before she can catch too much of it.
They step onto the ice together. At first, all she can feel is terror. The blade settles under her weight. The ice takes her. Her knee doesnât collapse, doesnât scream, doesnât turn into the moment it all went wrong. It only exists. Present and warm and strange inside the brace, part of her and not part of her, a little guarded corner of the body she used to trust without needing to narrate the trust to herself.
Garrett steps on beside her and turns with the easy balance of someone whoâs been on skates since before he had any say in the matter. He doesnât reach for her immediately. His hands are there, ready but not assuming, and the restraint of it makes her want to cry more than if he had grabbed her.
She takes one small push. Then another. Itâs awful. Itâs fine. Itâs the most familiar thing in the world and completely foreign.
Her breath catches, and Garrett moves in closer without crowding her. âThere you go.â
âDonât say it like Iâm a toddler.â
âI was saying it like youâre someone doing something hard.â
She glances at him, caught by the simplicity of it.
He gives her a tiny smile. âBut if it helps, I can say it like youâre a toddler.â
âPlease donât.â
âCool. Good note.â
She looks back at the ice and manages another slow stride. Her shoulders are too high. She can feel that. Her arms donât know where to go with none of the old choreography to place them, none of the speed, none of the music.Â
She's spent years making skating look like instinct, and now every movement has to be discussed internally before it happens, which is both boring and humiliating and almost funny if she gets far enough away from wanting to scream.
Garrett skates beside her, slightly behind, matching the tiny pace without comment. A hockey player skating slowly is a strange thing. Like seeing a dog heel when you know it wants to run.Â
Garrett is all contained energy, all strength kept deliberately soft at the edges. Every so often she catches him adjusting to her without making the adjustment visible enough to feel like management. He doesnât hover, he just stays close enough that the air seems to know where he is.
After half a lap, he says, âFor what itâs worth, you still look like you know what youâre doing.â
She lets out a shaky breath. âThatâs because youâre used to hockey players.â
âRude.â
âYou guys do look like youâre being chased a lot of the time.â
âWe are. By other hockey players.â
They make it once around the rink. Then again. The second lap isnât easy, but itâs less impossible. Her breath begins to settle into the cold. The first hard spike of fear loosens by degrees and leaves something else behind, raw and bright and almost worse.Â
The ice under her blades. The sound. That delicate scrape she used to know better than her own alarm clock. Her body, cautious but moving. Her knee, not perfect, not forgotten, but holding.
She doesnât realise sheâs started crying until the cold hits the wet under one eye. Garrett sees it, but he doesnât stop abruptly or make a face or ask if sheâs okay in that terrible alarmed voice people use when crying becomes an event.
He only slows with her and says, âWe can take a second.â
She laughs once, embarrassed, wiping under her eye with the heel of her hand. âSorry.â
âDonât be.â
âItâs stupid.â
âItâs really not.â
She looks at him, and the rink lights catch in his eyes. Heâs close enough now that she can see the rough edge of stubble he probably missed shaving, the way his hair has started curling more as the cold gets to it. He looks like Garrett, but not the campus version. Just a boy on skates, injured and healing and kind enough not to make her crying about a slow lap into something she has to survive on top of everything else.
âI missed it,â she says, and it comes out barely above a whisper.
His face changes. âYeah.â
âI know Iâve said that. But I donât think I knew how much until right now.â
Garrett nods once, slow. âYeah,â he says again, and there is so much understanding in it she has to look away.
They stand there near the boards for a while, the quiet rink around them, her hand resting lightly on the rail. Garrett doesnât touch her. He just stays beside her while she gets herself back into her body.
Eventually, she breathes in and lets it out. âOkay,â she says.
âOkay?â
âYeah.â
They start again. It goes better for maybe seven minutes. Sheâs still too careful, still too aware of every shift and edge and tiny correction. But there are moments now, little flashes where the fear drops half a step behind the movement and something older comes through.Â
A turn of the ankle. A cleaner glide. Her body remembering a thing before her brain can interfere. Each one lands small and huge at the same time.
Garrett notices those too. He doesnât cheer. Thank God, if he cheered, she might actually skate into the wall on purpose.Â
He only smiles a little and says, âThat one looked nice,â or âYeah, that was better,â in the same low voice he uses when heâs telling her something true and not trying to make a moment out of it.
Maybe thatâs why she gets stupid. A little more confident than she was three minutes earlier, enough that she lets herself push into a slightly longer glide coming out of the curve. Barely anything, nothing she would once have even counted as skating. Her blade catches anyway.
Itâs tiny. The smallest wrongness. But her body doesnât know the difference between small and catastrophic yet. Her stomach drops, knee locking in fear before pain can even arrive, and suddenly the whole rink tilts in one bright, awful flash.
Garrett catches her before she falls. One second heâs beside her, and the next his hands are on her waist, tugging her in with a controlled little scrape of blades that brings her straight against him.
Her hands land on his chest, fingers grabbing at the front of his hoodie. The impact is soft because he makes it soft, knees bending with hers, one arm braced properly around her back before she has even fully processed the fact that sheâs upright.
âHey,â he says, breath close. âIâve got you.â
Her heart is punching so hard she can feel it in her palms where theyâre pressed to him. âIâm okay,â she says automatically.
âI know.â
âI just slipped.â
âI know.â
âIt was small.â
âI know.â
She lets out a breath that shakes on the way out and hates it, then hates that she hates it because Garrett is looking at her like the shaking is allowed, like none of this is embarrassing enough to require apology.
For the first few seconds, thereâs only the aftershock. Ice, fear, the violent little replay of what if. Then the world begins to come back in pieces, and Garrett comes back with it. His chest under her hands. The warm line of his arm across her back. His face closer than it has ever been without the excuse of class or rehab or a crowded hallway. The smell of him, cold air and clean laundry and something faintly minty from gum.
His gaze drops to her mouth. Itâs so quick she almost thinks she invented it. Then he looks back at her eyes, and the air between them changes so completely it feels like the rinkâs gone quiet on purpose.
She should move. That would be the normal thing. Step back. Laugh it off. Say thanks. Return to the careful, slow lap. Keep everything in the safe category itâs technically belonged to for months, even as the edges have gotten less and less believable.
She doesnât move. Garrett doesnât either. His thumb shifts once at her waist. Small. Barely there. But she feels it through the layers anyway.
âYou good?â he asks, and his voice is lower now.
She nods. His eyes move over her face with that same checking look, except now thereâs something else threaded through it. Something less clinical. Less controlled.Â
Heâs still giving her an out. She can feel that. Itâs in the stillness of him, the way his hand doesnât pull her closer even though it could, the way his mouth is soft but not smiling, for once, like even Garrett knows this is not a moment to be smoothed over with charm.
She looks at his mouth. This time, neither of them can pretend he doesnât notice.
His breath changes. Just slightly. âCareful,â he murmurs.
Her fingers tighten in his hoodie. âIâm not doing anything.â
Her face feels warm despite the rink. Everything does, actually. Her hands, her throat, the place under her ribs where fear had been sitting all morning and has now made room for something much more dangerous.
Garrett dips his head a fraction, then stops. The restraint of it is the thing that finally makes her brave. She lifts up on her toes, just barely, because theyâre on skates, and kisses him.
He kisses her back, soft at first, because of the ice, because of her knee, because of the months of carefulness that have led them here. His mouth is warm in a way that feels almost shocking against the cold.Â
She makes a small sound, and Garrettâs hand slides more securely around her back as the kiss deepens by degrees, still careful but less polite now. Like something in him has unclenched. Like every hallway conversation, every text, every slow walk to class, every time his hand almost touched and didnât, has found the same narrow place to go.
Her arms go up around his shoulders before she thinks about it and he smiles against her mouth.
She feels it and pulls back an inch, breathless. âAre you smiling?â
Garrettâs eyes open, bright and warm and closer than seems legal. âNo.â
âYou are.â
âNo, Iâm being very serious.â
âYouâre not.â
âI am.â His mouth brushes hers again, once, because heâs already become comfortable enough with this to be unbearable about it. âThis is an important rehab milestone.â
She stares at him, and then she laughs, properly this time, startled and light and so relieved by the sheer stupid Garrettness of it that it breaks the last of the fear in her body loose. He laughs too, she feels it under her hands.
âYouâre so annoying,â she says.
âI know.â
âI canât believe you just said rehab milestone.â
âWas it too much?â
âIt was awful.â
âOkay.â He nods like heâs accepting professional notes, but his hands are still at her waist and his face is still soft in a way that makes the joke land somewhere tender instead of sharp. âIâll workshop it.â
âPlease donât.â
âGot it.â
They stand there smiling at each other like idiots, and she hates how much she likes it. Hates, a little, how easily the rink has shifted around them. The ice is still under her blades. Her knee still exists, still healing, still not ready for everything she wants. But Garrettâs hands are on her body and his mouth is kissed-soft and heâs looking at her like the morning has done something to him too.
Then he glances down at their skates, back up at her, and says, quieter, âYou scared?â
She doesnât know which thing he means. The ice. The kiss. The way those have somehow become tangled enough that the answer fits both.
She nods once.
Garrettâs face doesnât fall. He only nods back, thumb moving once over her side. âYeah. Me too, a little.â
That surprises her enough that she looks at him properly.Â
He huffs a breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. âDonât look so shocked.â
âIâm not.â
âYou are.â
âI justâŚâ She swallows, eyes flicking over his face. âYou donât seem scared of much.â
Garrett looks at her for one more second. Then he kisses her again. This one is easier. Warmer. Still careful, but with laughter caught at the edges now, his mouth curving every time she makes the smallest noise because clearly heâs going to be deeply smug about kissing her, which she should have anticipated.Â
He keeps one arm around her waist and lets the other hand come up to her cheek, thumb brushing near her jaw, and her whole body goes strangely loose and awake at the same time.
When she presses closer, he makes a soft sound under his breath and shifts them without thinking, turning just enough that his body blocks hers more fully from the open rink, as if there is anyone there to see them besides the empty seats and the unbothered scoreboard.
She pulls back because sheâs smiling too much to keep kissing properly.
Garrett looks very pleased with himself. âWhat?â
âNothing.â
âThatâs a suspicious nothing.â
âYou look smug.â
He shrugs. âI feel a little smug.â
âAt least youâre honest.â
âYou kissed me first.â
Her mouth falls open. âBarely.â
âStill counts.â
âI was emotionally vulnerable.â
âI know.â His smile softens before it can become too much of a tease.
She looks down, overwhelmed in a way thatâs not bad but still requires a second. Garrett lets her have it. Then, because heâs Garrett and because tenderness with no escape hatch would probably kill them both, he says, âFor the record, I had a very cool plan to do that eventually.â
She looks up again, grateful despite herself. âDid you?â
âYeah.â
âWhat was the plan?â
His nose scrunches. âStill developing.â
âSo... no plan.â
He tilts his head. âA flexible plan.â
âRight.â
âProbably wouldâve walked you to class. Said something devastatingly charming. You wouldâve swooned.â
âI donât think I swoon.â
âYou might have. Weâll never know.â
âYouâre so full of shit.â
âThere she is,â he says softly, and then seems to realise heâs said it in a way that gives too much away.
She glances toward the boards, then back at the stretch of ice ahead of them. The fear is still there, but quieter now. Less teeth. Her body feels wrung out and bright, like itâs survived two separate kinds of firsts before breakfast and does not know where to put the information yet.
Garrett follows her gaze. âYou want to keep going?â
âYeah,â she says. âBut maybeâŚâ
Heâs already holding out both hands before she finishes. She looks at them, then at him.
He shrugs, casual and not casual at all. âJust for a bit.â
She puts her hands in his, and they start slow again. His fingers lace with hers this time. His hands are warm around her cold ones, and he skates backward at a careful pace, eyes mostly on her face, checking without hovering. The rink is still too bright. Her knee is still not perfect. Cam would probably have a clipboard-related opinion about the emotional developments currently occurring during controlled ice work.
But sheâs upright. Sheâs moving.
Garrettâs thumbs brush once over her knuckles. âGood?â he asks.
She looks at him, at the ice, at the long clean stretch of it opening ahead. And for the first time in months, the answer does not feel like a lie.
âYeah,â she says, a little breathless, a little shy around the smile she canât fully stop. âGood.â
Garrettâs grin is small, real, and absolutely devastating. âYeah?â
She nods.
His hands tighten lightly around hers, and he keeps moving backward, slow and steady, like he has nowhere else to be and no reason in the world to rush her. âOkay,â he says. âIâve got you.â
pairing â garrett graham x kitty!reader
summary â garrett says they're not dating. kitty decides to make the consequences of that very, very clear.
warnings â arguing, jealousy, sexual references, casual relationship, strong language, garrett being dumb asf
notes from me â based on this request!! thank u anon, we love a jealous girly đââď¸
word count â 2.7k
navigation â masterlist | taglist
The hockey house always got stupid on Fridays. There were different kinds of stupid, obviously. There was early-night stupid, when everyone still had most of their balance and someone was pretending the kitchen counter was a DJ booth even though the speaker kept cutting out every time the bass hit too hard.Â
There was midnight stupid, when beer pong had become a recognised sport in the dining room and three girls from Kappa were screaming over a Nicki Minaj verse like it had been written specifically for them.Â
And then there was the late, sweaty, wall-leaning kind of stupid, where the whole downstairs smelled like spilled beer, cheap perfume, deodorant giving up under pressure, and whatever Tucker had put in the oven forty minutes ago and then forgotten about because Logan had challenged him to quarters.
She was posted near the mouth of the living room with a red cup she hadnât sipped from in twenty minutes, one hip against the doorframe, watching Garrett Graham be very, very irritating.
He was on the couch in the far corner, one long leg stretched out, the other bent, beer bottle loose in one hand, shoulders relaxed beneath a faded Briar Hockey hoodie because he had a game tomorrow and one beer was the tragic little line between responsible captain and washed-up campus cautionary tale.Â
His hair was still damp from whatever shower heâd taken after practice, curls drying messy over his forehead, and he had that clean, warm, unfair look on his face that made girls drift toward him like someone had put out a bowl of candy.
One of them had drifted. She was perched on the arm of the couch beside him, angled in with her knees turned toward him, laughing at something Garrett said like heâd invented humour personally for her benefit.Â
She had glossy hair and a tiny top and the kind of pretty, easy confidence that came from never having to wonder if people wanted you in a room. Her hand landed on Garrettâs arm once, light and quick. Then again, longer this time, fingers curling around his bicep like she was testing the merchandise.
The red cup crinkled slightly in her hand.
Garrett laughed. A low huff through his nose, mouth tilting, eyes dropping briefly before coming back up. It was the kind of laugh that looked private from across the room even if it wasnât. The kind of laugh that made something hot and awful crawl up the back of her neck and settle behind her ears.
She took one sip from her cup and tasted nothing but melted ice and bad decisions.
âCareful, Kitty,â Dean said beside her. âClench your jaw any harder and youâll crack a tooth.â
She didnât look at him. âDonât call me that.â
Dean hummed into the rim of his beer. Heâd appeared at her side sometime in the last five minutes, because rich boys had stealth settings when there was drama nearby.Â
He wore a white t-shirt that probably cost more than her whole outfit and looked entirely too comfortable watching her quietly consider homicide. âItâs a cute nickname.â
âItâs not my name.â
âYeah, but nicknames usually arenât.â
She finally turned her head just enough to glare at him. Dean looked delighted, which made her want to shove him and also, unfortunately, made her feel a little less insane.Â
He had that big, bright, nosy expression on his face, the one that said he had absolutely no intention of helping and every intention of narrating the crash if she drove herself into a wall.
âMm,â she said flatly. âWhatever.â
Dean followed her gaze back to the couch. The girl was laughing again, leaning so far into Garrettâs space that her hair brushed his shoulder.
Garrett didnât move away. He didnât lean in either, which was probably supposed to mean something mature and rational, except her body was not currently accepting evidence from the defence.Â
Her stomach had gone tight. Her tongue sat sharp behind her teeth. Every inch of her skin felt stupidly aware of how many times Garrettâs hands had been on her that week alone.
His fingers on the back of her neck while he kissed her in the kitchen. His mouth against her ear upstairs. His hoodie shoved into her arms when sheâd complained about being cold, like he hadnât cared, like he hadnât watched her pull it on and then gone a little quiet around the eyes.
Casual. That was the word he liked so much.
Casual, apparently, meant making space for her at the counter without being asked. It meant texting her u up? and then getting pissy when she said no because she had an early class.Â
It meant his hand sliding under the back of her shirt while they watched a movie with the guys and him acting like that was somehow normal. It meant his mouth on her throat and his stupid voice saying baby like heâd been born knowing it would make her softer, then turning around two days later and saying, very calmly, very publicly, that they werenât dating.
Which was true. Technically.
Unfortunately, technically did not stop her from wanting to throw her drink at the girlâs stupid shiny little head.
Deanâs shoulder bumped hers, barely. âYou could go over there.â
âAnd do what?â
âI donât know. Bite her?â
She gave him a look.
âWhat?â Dean said, lifting both hands. âIâm workshopping.â
âIâm not jealous.â
Dean blinked at her. Then he looked back at Garrett, then at her again, slow and theatrical. âOh, okay.â
âIâm not.â
âRight.â
âI just think itâs tacky.â
âHer?â
âBoth of them.â
Dean nodded, deeply solemn. âOf course. This is an etiquette issue.â
âIt is.â
âVery Miss Manners of you.â
She made a soft, mean little sound and looked away, because if she kept watching him smile at that girl, something was going to snap clean through her. The party kept moving around her like nobody else could feel the pressure building in the walls.Â
Logan was somewhere near the dining room yelling, âNo, no, house rules, you drink on a bounce,â like he was presiding over the Supreme Court.Â
Tucker walked past with a plate of burnt pizza rolls and paused just long enough to assess her face, then Deanâs face, then Garrettâs corner of the couch.
âOh,â Tucker said.
Dean nodded. âYeah.â
Tucker looked back at her, kind but not soft enough to be annoying. âYou good?â
âIâm having the best night of my life,â she snapped.Â
âCool.â Tucker took one pizza roll off the plate, bit into it, immediately regretted it, and still swallowed because he was committed to dignity. âJust checking.â
She watched him go, jaw working.
Dean leaned closer, lowering his voice. âFor what itâs worth, I donât think heâs doing anything.â
That made something in her chest pull tight, because Dean wasnât joking now, and that was worse. She could handle him being an idiot. She had built up a tolerance to Deanâs particular strain of idiocy. But concern made the whole thing embarrassing in a way she could feel under her skin.
She kept her eyes on the opposite wall. âHe can do whatever he wants.â
âSure.â
âHeâs single.â
He shrugged, lips turning down. âTechnically.â
She turned on him. âDonât do that.â
Deanâs brows lifted. âDo what?â
âThat little voice.â
âMy voice is beautiful.â
âThe thing where you all act like Iâm his girlfriend when heâs the one walking around with a public service announcement that Iâm not.â
Deanâs face shifted, amusement easing out at the corners. He looked over at Garrett again, and she hated how much she wanted him to tell her she was wrong.Â
How much she wanted anyone to say Garrett was just being stupid, that everybody could see it, that she wasnât standing there making herself sick over a guy who would go upstairs with someone else while she was still in the room.
Dean took a slow drink. âYeah,â he said finally. âHeâs an idiot.â
âThat wasnât helpful.â
âWasnât trying to be helpful. Just accurate.â
Across the room, Garrett stood, and the girl stood too.
For one second the party muffled itself around her, all the music and laughter and clattering cups dulling under the sudden hard rush of blood in her ears.Â
Garrett said something to the girl, head tipped down so she could hear him over the noise. The girl smiled up at him, bright and satisfied, then touched his arm again. A small stroke of her thumb over the sleeve of his hoodie.
Her stomach dropped so sharply it almost felt physical, like missing a step in the dark.
Garrett started toward the stairs and the girl followed.
âOh,â Dean said under his breath, and there was no humour in it this time.
She didnât move at first. Her hand was still wrapped around the cup. Her mouth felt dry. The room had tilted a little, or maybe she had. She could see Garrett clearly as he cut through the living room, tall and easy and completely unaware that she was standing there with something vicious crawling around inside her ribs.Â
Or maybe he did know. Maybe that was worse. Maybe he knew exactly where she was and had still decided to walk past her with another girl trailing after him toward the stairs that led to his room.
Casual. Cool. Fine.
She lifted her cup to her mouth and realised it was empty.
Garrett noticed her when he was close enough that it was too late to pretend she hadnât seen. His gaze flicked from her face to Dean, then back again, and something changed in his expression. Confusion first. A little crease between his brows, mouth settling, shoulders still loose but no longer careless.
The girl came up beside him, close enough that her arm brushed his. Garrett looked at her, nodded toward the stairs, and said, âIâll meet you up there.â
She nodded, smiling, then slipped around him and went upstairs.
Dean made a noise into his beer that sounded like a man trying very hard not to choke on stupidity.
Garrett watched the girl disappear, then turned back. âWhatâs wrong?â
Dean coughed. âBrother.â
Garrettâs eyes cut to him. âWhat?â
Dean shook his head and took one step back. âNothing. I just love when youâre dumb.â
Garrett ignored him, attention coming back to her. âWhatâs wrong?â
She looked up at him. He was close now. Close enough that she could see the little damp curls around his hairline, the faint bruise yellowing near his jaw from last weekendâs game, the stupid dark sweep of his lashes when he blinked down at her like she was the one being difficult.Â
Like he hadnât just sent another girl upstairs to wait in his room. Like her body wasnât reacting to the whole thing with an ugly, nauseous twist that made her want to either laugh in his face or claw her way out of her own skin.
âWhatâs wrong?â she repeated.
Garrettâs brows drew tighter. âYeah.â
She smiled. It didnât feel nice on her face. âDonât be stupid.â
His jaw shifted. âOkay. Whatâs that supposed to mean?â
Dean took another tiny step away, then immediately stopped because his survival instinct was at war with his need to witness the entire thing.
She set her empty cup on the nearest bookshelf with such careful precision that Garrettâs eyes followed the movement. Then she looked back at him and kept her voice light. Sweet, almost. âIf you fuck her, youâre never touching me again.â
Garrett blinked. Dean inhaled so sharply he almost whistled.Â
For a second, no one said anything. Someone screamed with laughter in the kitchen. A bass-heavy song rattled through the floorboards.Â
Garrettâs mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. âWhat?â
She tipped her head, widening her eyes in a cruel little imitation of him. âWhat?â
His face hardened by degrees. That familiar Garrett switch where something got too close to an exposed nerve and he decided arrogance was quicker than honesty. âWeâre not dating.â
Dean made a strangled sound. âOh, man.â
Garrett pointed at him without looking away from her. âStay out of it.â
âNo, Iâm sorry,â Dean said, not sounding sorry at all. âIâm incapable. You donât fuck someone else in front of her, dude.â
Garrett glared at him. âI said stay out of it.â
She laughed once, sharp enough to make Garrettâs eyes snap back to hers. âNo, no. Let him talk. Heâs making sense for once.â
Dean pressed a hand to his chest. âThat felt backhanded, but Iâll take it.â
Garrettâs nostrils flared slightly. âI wasnâtââ He cut himself off, dragging a hand over his mouth, then looked down at her again. âYou donât get to make rules for me.â
That landed worse than she wanted it to, because every part of this was built on nothing solid enough to hold. No title. No promise. No soft, stupid conversation in daylight where either of them admitted what they were doing.Â
She kept smiling anyway.
âIâm not making any rules.â Her voice was calm enough that even Dean looked at her twice. âYou can do whatever you want, Garrett. Iâm not your girlfriend. Youâve made that incredibly fucking clear. So go upstairs. Have fun. Iâm not going to tackle her in the hallway.â
His face flickered. Just once.
She stepped in a fraction closer, because if she stopped now, she might actually start shaking, and she would rather die in the hallway with Dean watching than give Garrett that.Â
She tipped her chin up, all teeth around the edges of her smile. âBut itâs simple, baby. Stick your dick in her, and you never get to stick it in me ever again. Okay?â
Dean stared at the ceiling like he had just seen God. Garrett went very still.
His eyes dropped to her mouth, then came back up. His hand tightened around the neck of his beer bottle. For all his cocky, golden-boy bullshit, for all the easy girls and easy smiles and campus-wide Garrett Graham mythos, he looked briefly like sheâd shoved him hard enough to make him feel where the edge was.
âOkay,â he said. It came out low.
She blinked. âOkay?â
His jaw worked once. âYeah. Okay.â
Deanâs head whipped toward him. âWow. Love personal growth.â
Garrett shot him a look that should have melted paint off the wall. âDean.â
âIâm going, Iâm going.â Dean lifted both hands and backed up another step, but not before looking at her with open admiration. âFor the record, Kitty, that was terrifying.â
âDonât call me that.â
âYeah, no, for sure.â He nodded, still backing away. âVery scary. Loved it.â
He disappeared toward the kitchen, probably to tell Logan and Tucker immediately.
Garrett looked at her for another second, then glanced toward the stairs. Something in her body tightened again, bracing. Waiting for him to go up anyway. Waiting for him to prove the whole thing meant less to him than it did to her.
Instead, he turned and shoved his beer onto the bookshelf beside her cup. âStay here.â
Her laugh came out before she could stop it. âExcuse me?â
âJustââ Garrett stopped, visibly swallowed the first version of whatever he wanted to say, and tried again. âDonât leave.â
It was a little rough around the edges, a little too quick, like the thought of her walking out had gotten under his skin before he could pretend otherwise.
She crossed her arms. âWhy?â
Garrett looked at her like she was exhausting, which might have been more effective if he hadnât just made a girl wait in his room and then told the girl he wasnât dating not to leave. âBecause Iâm going upstairs to tell her to go.â
She hated how much that loosened something in her chest. She crossed her arms tighter, because if she didnât, she might do something embarrassing, like believe him too quickly. âFine.â
Garrettâs eyes stayed on hers. âFine?â
âGo.â
He nodded once, then hesitated, hand flexing at his side like he wanted to touch her and knew better. âSheâs leaving,â he said.
âShe better.â
His mouth twitched despite everything. âYeah, Kitty.â
âDonât call me that.â
But this time, she didnât sound nearly mean enough.