I thought you knew || Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader ||
Summary: After your agreement with Dean, you fall first. And hard. Dean on the other hand, doesn’t.
Warnings: Angsty, not a happy ending, use of y/n, reader can be gn, i dont know, not proofread - cause i’m lazy - and light swearing (if you squint really really hard)
A/n: Don’t know if i need to make a part two? Maybe a happy ending? Oh and I know, my huge comeback just had to be a Dean fic, what can i say, i’m girl possessed 😪 let me know if you have any off campus requests? 🏒
There were rules.
Not spoken ones.
Not written ones.
Just the kind that naturally formed when you started sleeping with someone like Dean Di Laurentis.
No sleepovers.
No dates.
No talking about feelings.
And absolutely no expectations.
At least, that’s what you told yourself. In the beginning, it had been easy.
Dean would text.
You’d pretend not to smile when his name lit up your screen. You’d tell yourself you were only going because you were bored.
Because it was fun. Because neither of you wanted anything serious.
Then you’d show up at the hockey house, and he’d flash that crooked grin that should’ve been illegal. The one that always made your stomach flip.
Easy.
Simple.
Until it wasn’t.
Until his hand started finding yours under tables.
Until he started bringing you coffee before your morning lectures without asking what you wanted because he already knew.
Until he started calling just because he was bored.
Until he started showing up when you had a bad day.
Until he became the first person you wanted to tell when something good happened.
And the first person you wanted when everything went wrong. You never meant to fall for him. Maybe that was the cruelest part.
You hadn’t walked into it willingly.
You hadn’t looked at Dean and decided he was worth getting your heart broken over.
It had happened slowly.
Quietly.
Like water wearing away stone.
One late-night conversation at a time.
One forehead kiss at a time.
One lingering look at a time.
And by the time you realized what was happening—
It was already too late.
Because Dean had made himself at home inside your life.
Inside your heart.
The problem was that Dean made everyone feel special. So maybe you shouldn’t have been surprised. Maybe you should’ve known better.
Maybe you should’ve remembered that Dean Di Laurentis wasn’t yours.
He never had been.
The hockey house was packed when you arrived. Music shook the walls. People spilled into every room.
Someone was yelling over a drinking game in the kitchen.
Someone else was singing horribly off-key in the living room.
You found Garrett first. Then Hannah.
Logan was already drunk somewhere. Which wasn’t surprising.
But Dean wasn’t there.
Your stomach twisted. It wasn’t unusual. Dean was always late.
Still, you caught yourself checking the front door every few minutes.
Waiting.
Looking.
You hated yourself for it.
You were reaching for another drink when the front door opened.
And there he was.
The room blurred around him.
Dean walked in laughing. Head thrown back. Looking unfairly handsome. Your chest immediately loosened. Relief flooding through you before you could stop it.
Then you saw her.
A brunette.
Pretty.
Beautiful, actually.
The kind of beautiful that looked effortless.
And her hand was tucked comfortably into his.
Not casually.
Not accidentally.
Comfortably.
Like she’d been there for a while.
Like she belonged there.
Your stomach dropped.
Dean looked up. His eyes found yours instantly. And just like always, his entire face lit up.
That stupid smile.
The one that had ruined your life.
“Hey!” He started walking toward you. Toward you.
The brunette still attached to his side.
You couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t move.
Every instinct screamed at you that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Dean stopped in front of you. Completely oblivious. Completely happy, “Have you met Claire?”
The brunette smiled warmly. “Hi.”
You stared.
Dean wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
Proudly.
Naturally.
Like it was the easiest thing in the world. “My girlfriend.”
Everything stopped.
Not the music. Not the party. Not the conversations around you.
But inside your head?
Silence. Absolute silence. Because suddenly every late-night phone call. Every forehead kiss. Every lingering touch. Every moment that made you think maybe.
Just maybe.
Dean felt it too…
It obviously meant nothing.
The absolute worst part?
He was smiling.
Smiling at you like this was normal. Like he hadn’t just shattered your heart. Like he had no idea what he’d done.
You managed a smile. Or something close to one..“Nice to meet you.” Your voice didn’t even sound like yours.
Claire smiled again. Dean kept talking.
You didn’t hear a single word. The ringing in your ears drowned everything out. You nodded, then walked away.
Because what else was there to do?
You’d already lost him. Maybe you never had him.
Allie found you a few minutes later.
You were standing in the kitchen gripping a plastic cup so tightly you thought the drink might spill.
“Jesus,” she said. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re about to throw up.”
You laughed. A horrible sound. “He has a girlfriend.”
Allie’s eyes widened. “What?”
“He has a girlfriend.” The words felt impossible to say.
Like saying them out loud somehow made them more real. “We’ve been sleeping together for six months, Allie, and now he has a girlfriend.” The tears were already burning behind your eyes. “You don’t just wake up one day and decide someone’s your girlfriend. That takes time. How long has he known her? How long has he been seeing her?”
Allie opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because neither of you knew what to say.
Before she could respond, a familiar voice appeared behind you.
“Y/N.”
Your entire body stiffened.
Dean.
“Can I steal you for a second?”
You wanted to say no.
You should’ve said no.
Instead, you nodded.
Like an idiot.
Like someone still hopelessly in love with him.
The walk upstairs felt endless.
Every step made your chest ache more.
Dean closed the bedroom door behind him.
The same room. The same bed. The same place you’d spent countless nights.
Only now it felt unfamiliar.
Cold.
You crossed your arms. Trying desperately to hold yourself together.
Dean sighed. “Okay. Talk to me.”
You laughed bitterly. “She’s pretty.”
His jaw tightened immediately. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Cut the crap.” The words came out sharper than intended. His frustration was obvious. “Why are you mad?”
You stared at him. Actually stared. The audacity almost took your breath away. “Why am I mad?”
“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair. “We agreed this wasn’t serious. We agreed there were no strings attached. So what is going on?”
A disbelieving laugh escaped you. “You really don’t know?”
Dean frowned. “What?”
“You have no clue at all?”
His confusion slowly faded.
And then—
Realization.
You watched it happen.
Watched the exact second it clicked.
His eyes widened. “Oh.” The word barely left his mouth.
Your heart shattered.
“You love me.”
Not a question.
A statement. Like he’d finally solved a puzzle.
You swallowed hard. “I thought you knew.” Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
Because if you said it louder. If you said it any louder—
You’d break.
Dean looked away. “Y/N…”
“No.” You shook your head. “No, don’t.”
He sighed heavily. “You knew what this was.”
The tears finally slipped free. “I know.”
“You knew I don’t do relationships.”
The laugh that escaped you sounded broken. “You brought me coffee every morning.”
Dean went silent.
“You called me just because you were bored.”
Silence.
“You held my hand.”
Silence.
“You kissed my forehead.”
His jaw clenched.
“You made me feel like I mattered.”
Your voice cracked. “So forgive me for being confused.”
Dean looked miserable now.
Actually miserable.
But it didn’t help.
Nothing could help.
Because Claire was still downstairs.
Claire was still his girlfriend.
Not you.
Never you. “You told me you didn’t do relationships.”
“I don’t.” The answer came too quickly. Too automatically.
You laughed, but it was hollow. “Clearly you do.”
“Claire is different.” The words hit like a slap.
Claire is different.
Not you.
Her.
Different.
Special.
Worth it.
You looked away before he could see your face crumble. “Oh.”
“Y/N—”
“Why isn’t it me?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.
The room froze. You wished you could take it back immediately.
But it was too late. The tears kept falling.
“Why am I not the exception?”
Dean’s face fell. “Don’t.”
“No, tell me.” Your voice broke completely. “What does she have that I don’t?”
“That’s not fair.”
“How long?”
His eyes flickered.
You knew.
Before he even answered.
You knew.
“Dean.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Does it matter?”
The hurt exploded into anger. “Does it matter?” Your voice echoed through the room. “Of course it matters!”
Dean flinched. “Y/N—”
“It matters because we still slept together on Monday!” The silence that followed was devastating. “Monday.” Your voice cracked. “Was she already your girlfriend then?”
Dean looked away.
And that was answer enough.
The room tilted.
Your stomach twisted.
You thought you might actually be sick. “Wow.”
Dean cursed under his breath. “Fuck.”
“Wow.” You nodded.
Over and over.
Like maybe if you kept nodding this wouldn’t hurt so much. “I was stupid.”
“You weren’t stupid.”
“I was.” You laughed through tears. “I really thought I could change you.”
Dean closed his eyes.
“I thought maybe one day you’d look at me and realize I was enough.” Every word hurt. Every word felt like ripping open a wound. “I thought maybe I’d be the girl that made Dean Di Laurentis want something real.”
Silence.
“I guess I was right.”
Dean looked up. Confused.
You smiled sadly. “Just not with me.”
The look on his face nearly broke you. Because he looked guilty. And guilt wasn’t love.
You would’ve preferred anger.
Frustration.
Anything.
But guilt?
Guilt meant he felt sorry for you.
And that was somehow worse.
“I don’t love you, Y/N.”
The words landed like a knife.
Simple.
Direct.
Final.
No misunderstanding.
No hope.
Nothing.
Just the truth.
You stared at him.
Every piece of you cracking apart.
Then you nodded.
Slowly.
Once.
Because what else was there to do? You couldn’t beg.
You wouldn’t.
You swallowed the lump in your throat. Forced yourself to stand up straighter. Forced yourself to breathe.
Then you stepped around him.
Dean immediately reached out. “Y/N—”
You pulled away. “Mission accomplished.” Your voice was barely audible.
Dean froze.
You looked at him one last time. Eyes red. Heart destroyed. “Congratulations.” The tears spilled faster now. “You finally broke it. You finally broke me.”
His face crumpled.
But you were already moving.
Already opening the door.
Already leaving.
Because if you stayed another second—
You’d beg him to love you.
And you refused to let that be your final memory of him.
The bedroom door slammed behind you. The noise echoed through the hallway.
And then the first sob tore from your chest.
Raw.
Broken.
Painful.
People downstairs turned to look.
You didn’t care.
Nothing mattered anymore.
Not the party.
Not the music.
Not the people.
Not the embarrassment.
Because the only thing you could think about was him.
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Pairings: Garrett x fem!reader, Logan x fem!reader, Dean x fem!reader, Tucker x fem!reader, Justin x fem!reader & Beau x fem!reader
Warnings: Some smut, public s3x, p in v, the good stuff.
Garrett Graham
He never needed to openly admit with his was angry or jealous, it showed in his face and in the way he spoke in three or two word sentences. He knew he had no reason to be jealous when it came to you, but he couldn’t help it. He was naturally protective and possessive of you.
You’d been late to Malone’s and when you arrived, he saw you walk in with your male classmate, talking about something. Garrett watched the guy touch your hair and got up, walking over, wrapping an arm around you.
“There you are, I was getting worried.” He pulled you close and looked at your friend. He held out his hand. “I’m Garrett, thank you for bringing my girlfriend here safely. Appreciate it.”
The guy shook his hand and waved goodbye as Garrett led you out to his black Jeep. He opened your door and closed it once you were settled. He hit in the driver’s seat and started his car with more force than necessary.
“Hey Garrett, you okay?” He relaxed slightly at your voice, sighing as he reached over and took your hand, squeezing it.
“I don’t like that guy around you.” He muttered and you smiled. You squeezed his hand and leaned closer, kissing his cheek. “He’s gay.”
Garrett felt stupid for getting jealous over someone who definitely wasn’t into his girlfriend. He drove for a little longer before parking down a side street. He gestured to the backseat before following you.
Soon enough he has his head buried in between your thighs as he worked his fingers inside you, curling them just right. His way of apologising for being jealous.
John Logan
You had heard from Jules that Logan had been jealous during a party. Jules even showed you photos where Logan was very obviously jealous and glaring at the guy talking to you.
After seeing the photos you went to find your boyfriend, of course find him practicing on the ice. You watched him for a few minutes before he noticed you. He skated over, taking off his helmet and gloves.
“You don’t have to be jealous. You know I love you.”
Logan relaxed at your words and smiled. He took your hand and kissed it before kissing your cheek. He practiced a bit more and all but dragged you to the locker room showers with him.
Clothes were thrown off and your soft giggles could be heard through running water. Dean, who forgot his phone in the locker room, heard the noises and went to investigate who it was.
“Oh Jesus! Sorry Logan!”
He rushed out immediately, grinning as he already planned on telling everyone. You and Logan watched him leave before bursting into laughter. Logan dove right back in to kiss you.
Dean Di Laurentis
The team was at Malone’s celebrating the big win against Eastwood and you were getting another round of beers for the guys. Some guy came up to you and started talking to you, openly flirting.
Dean, who always kept an eye on you, immediately saw the flirting and his eyes darkened, jaw clenching. He looked away and downed the rest of his beer before turning to a Puck Bunny, flirting with her. He knew its piss you off, but he was too jealous to care.
You turned and noticed him flirting. You bit the inside of your cheek and took the beer pitcher from Hannah. You said a cold goodbye to the guy and walked over to the table. Tucker took the pitcher with a happy thanks and you looked at Dean.
“Come on.” You grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the booth, towards the ‘out of order’ Photo Booth. You pushed him in and got in behind him. You pulled the curtain closed and grabbed his shirt, yanking him into a heated kiss.
“Jealous are we?” Dean smirked against your lips as you fumbled with his belt. He lowered his pants just enough and sat on the seat, helping you straddle him. You used your hand to stroke him a few times before sinking down on his hard dick.
“Fuck, that’s it baby.” He groans and grips your hips. You lean down and kiss him as you start moving your hips on him.
John Tucker
Tucker never usually lost his cool or got jealous easily, but when he saw his girlfriend getting hit on by some Eastwood player, he immediately got jealous. Not because he didn’t trust you, he trusted you with his deep fried turkey, he just didn’t trust that Eastwood guy.
He got and walked over, subtly stepping between you two.
“Hi, this is my girlfriend so with some respect, piss off.”
The guy didn’t immediately, but scoffed and left, flipping you both off in the process. Tucker turned to you and held your face, eyes checking you for any sign of being uncomfortable.
Once he was sure you were okay, he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. He pulled back and took your hand, leading you to the kitchen, already searching for ingredients to make you a snack.
“Creamy Carbonara Pasta sound good?” He got the ingredients and started cooking. He stopped for a moment and walked back to you, lifting you to sit on the counter so you were close as he cooked.
He snuck quick kisses and gave you little bites.
Justin Kohl
“Sinking into your…Yellow Yellow Haze!”
Justin looked out at the crowd as he sung the song he wrote with Hannah. The crowd loved it, screaming and cheering. But his eyes were searching for one person, you. The minute his eyes landed on you, he saw you chatting with the worker at Malone’s. His jaw clenched as he kept singing.
He finishes the set and got off stage, barely keeping his jealousy in check as he walked over to you and pulled you into a hot kiss, ring covered fingers holding your waist. He pulled away as the guy finally walked away.
“I only want your eyes on me Sweetheart. Don’t ever look away.”
You nodded and pulled him into a kiss again, loving the way he got jealous. It always meant hot sex when you got back to his. The kind that left you shaking for hours.
Beau Maxwell
Beau wasn’t the overly jealous type, he was more of a subtlety jealous guy. He hid the fact he was jealous about you talking to some guy at his and Dean’s birthday party.
But when he came over, grip a little too tight on his cup, you took notice instantly. You held his hand and introduced him as your boyfriend to the guy you were talking to.
The guy immediately backed up after recognising who Beau was, apologising before leaving the area. Beau smirked before leaning down to kiss your cheek.
“Hey sweetheart.”
You smiled up at him and leaned against him as you both watched Dean yearn over Allie who was dancing to ‘On the floor’.
Based on this request: i don't know if you've ever written something similar, but imagine buck has a girlfriend who, after a long time, he introduces to 118 and maddie,so physically she's the complete opposite of buck: dark hair and not exactly blue eyes,but then she smiles and does the same thing buck does: she smiles with all her teeth and shrinks back shoulders maddie frowns but says nothing, and after a series of events and laughter, it's eddie or bobby(😔) who tells her "she is literally you in female form" and buck is against the idea, but then it's athena who tells him "because you got yourself as a partner?"🙏🏻🥹🤍
It's often said that you take on the mannerisms and likeness of the people you are close to or often around.
You never really paid attention to it, but over the months of you and Buck dating, the two of you had started merging your daily vernacular and inside jokes, and even started mimicking expressions and gestures.
It was during a barbecue at Bobby and Athena's backyard where the rest of the 118 truly witnesses this phenomenon. Ravi had been recounting a funny story during his fire academy days, and Maddie notices the synchronized, beaming laughter from you and Buck. The two of you both tossed your heads back, eyes crinkling, topped off with similar beaming smiles.
Maddie looks at the two of you, eyes wet. All she had ever wanted since Buck was a kid was for him to be loved immensely and to find his person, someone who understood how much love Buck is made of. She's so glad that he did.
Buck looks over at Maddie to see her reaction to Ravi's story, and his smile falters looking at her teary eyes.
When Maddie and Athena get up to help Bobby in the kitchen, Buck presses a kiss onto the top of your head, before joining the three parental figures of his life inside.
"What's wrong?" Buck asks Maddie immediately.
"She's just like you." Maddie states softly.
Buck frowns. With the biological parents he had, sometimes he still has difficulty discerning between a compliment and an insult.
"She's so full of life, like you, kid. The two of you are perfect for each other." Bobby adds on.
"You guys seem to bring the best out of each other." Athena concurs.
Buck looks back outside through the kitchen window, where you and Eddie seem to have engaged in an arm wrestling match. You looked like you belonged there, with his family and friends, with him.
Buck smiles softly. He agreed, too, and couldn't wait to make use of the currently hidden ring box that has your name all over it.
You stand in the dimly lit back hallway of Briar U’s arena, glancing between your phone and the door to the men’s locker room. Thirty minutes had already passed, and you were pacing back and forth on the concrete ground, waiting for any sign of life. Usually, you could hear the boisterous sounds of the boys celebrating a win, but today, there would be none of that.
The team had experienced a tough loss, and you knew your boyfriend was somewhere in that room, beating himself up over it. Garrett didn’t take losing well; none of the boys did, but as team captain, he took on a different level of responsibility. You could tell he was in his head simply from the way he skated. He was hesitant, almost as if he was trying to predict the outcome of each move in his head before he chose a path, but everyone knew that Garrett played much better when he acted on instinct.
Eventually, Garrett’s teammates began to trickle out of the locker room in silence, but your boyfriend was not amongst the mix.
“Hey,” you call out to Logan. “Is he still in there?”
“Yeah, he hasn’t moved.” He shook his head in defeat. “Wouldn’t listen to anyone either.”
“Sounds like him,” you sigh.
“Well…” Logan trails off. “Good luck.”
Logan gives you a half-hearted salute and heads down the hallway, leaving you alone to make your next move. You hesitate for a moment before knocking on the wooden door and pushing it open.
“Girl incoming,” you joke lightly as you poke your head inside the locker room. You're dismayed when you find it empty.
After a moment, the muffled sound of running water catches your attention. Your footsteps echo as you follow the sound and enter the bathroom. Immediately, you’re overcome with the heat of the steam swirling around the room. The hulking figure of your boyfriend is hazy, but you can still make out all his features. You scan his body, noticing the bold lettering stretched across his hunched back and the way he's white-knuckling the sink in front of him.
“Babe,” you call out softly. He doesn’t budge. You’re not sure he even registered the sound of your voice with how deep inside his thoughts he likely is.
You decide to venture further into the bathroom, coming right behind him so you can place a delicate hand on his tense back.
“G, don’t beat yourself up. You guys tried your best.”
“And it wasn’t good enough.” He pushes himself off the sink and walks towards the shower stall without giving you so much as a glance. You take note of the bruises littering his abdomen, the deep purple and blues a stark contrast to his tanned skin.
Your boyfriend peels off his black boxers and steps into the stream of water. His body doesn’t relax despite the hot water offering some reprieve for his aching muscles. The steam is starting to get to your head. It’s stifling, but so is the silence between you and Garrett.
“It was an off day. It happens.”
“No, it doesn’t, not to us. Logan couldn’t make a clean pass, and Dean was letting everyone get to us.”
“That’s not fair.”
Garrett spins around and approaches you, crowding your space until you’re almost forced into the shower with him. Mist sprays you, but you pay it no mind; you’re much more focused on the way his wet curls cling to his beautiful face.
“What’s not fair is us losing because the team couldn’t handle some shit-talking from the other side. We’re supposed to be better than that.” Garrett’s tone is dark, but he’s not being mean, not to you anyway. Most people might be intimidated by a man of your boyfriend’s build hulking over them, but you know he’s harmless.
“Sometimes people have off days. Life happens, Garrett.”
“Not to me it doesn’t. I need to prove myself.” The silence between the two of you resumes.
The animalistic look in Garrett’s eyes causes all coherent thoughts to leave your head and swirl down the grate along with the water. You could never admit it, but you found it incredibly hot when your boyfriend got wound up. Of course, you wanted the team to play their best and win games, but the way Garrett would fuck you after a tough loss was a guilty pleasure of yours.
As the space between you and your boyfriend becomes increasingly smaller, you can’t help but notice his heavy breathing. His eyes shift down to your lips, and before you can process what’s happening, his plump lips are colliding with yours. It’s immediately an overpowering kiss. Garrett kisses like he’s trying to steal the air from your lungs, and he nearly does.
A large hand wraps around the back of your neck and leads your complying body further into the shower until you’re completely drenched. Water cascades down Garrett’s face, some of it getting mixed between your moving mouths. There’s still a faint taste of salt on his lips, but you don’t mind; it’s familiar.
You're painfully aware of just how hard Garrett’s cock is against your abdomen, and it only makes the need pulsing between your legs worse. Bringing one leg up to wrap around his waist, you begin to grind against him. You’re desperate to get any inkling of stimulation, but it’s cut short when Garrett grabs your thigh, using the leverage to push your leg down.
“Not yet.”
Your boyfriend begins to press a trail of rough kisses down your neck. When he reaches your collarbone, he sucks a mark into your soft skin. He does his best to leave it a place where it can be hidden, a secret just for the two of you to share.
When you moan as he nibbles your shoulder, Garrett decides he can’t deny himself of you any longer. He draws away from you and his hands move to quickly discard your clothing. The soaked fabric is thrown haphazardly onto the tile floor, a problem for later. Right now, you need each other badly.
Once you’re fully nude, Garrett grabs your hips and spins you around without a word. The cool feeling of the tile against your breasts is welcoming in comparison to the rising temperature in the room. His hands trace up and down your figure, admiring every curve but purposefully not finding their way to anywhere you want them to.
Waiting for Garrett to make the next move is painful. It feels like forever before his calloused fingers are finally making contact with your eager pussy. He slides one, then two fingers into you, stretching you open with a scissoring motion.
“Fuck. I need you. I need you now,” you whine.
“You gonna be good for me?” Garrett's gruff voice fills your ears.
“Yes.”
That answer is all your boyfriend needs before he’s sliding his cock into your pussy. He’s not soft with it, pushing in fully with a single thrust of his hips. You’re only allowed a few seconds to adjust before he begins fucking you roughly. At first, it’s just the sound of water hitting the tile floor mixed with the echo of your skin slapping together, but as his cock hits that sweet spot, your moans join the chorus.
“Take it. Take my cock, princess.”
“I can, I can take it.”
As if to reward you, his left hand snakes around your hip so two long fingers can circle your clit. It’s game over for you. Before you even have a chance to warm him, your pussy begins to spasm around his thick cock.
“Yeah, that’s my good girl.”
Your body nearly goes numb from the ecstasy. If Garrett didn’t have a bruising grip on you, there’s no way you’d be standing up straight. At this point, the moans leaving your open mouth were involuntary. The sound is music to his fucking ears. It lets him know that even when he’s played like shit, he can still do one thing right.
“That’s it, baby.” He rewards you with a kiss on your shoulder blade. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Garrett moans as he finishes with a final thrust. You can feel his cock pulsing as he empties inside of you. Then he stills. You both catch your breath before he gently removes himself from you.
Once the cloudy haze dissipates from your head and you’ve composed yourself, you turn around to face your boyfriend. You find he’s got a much softer look in his brown eyes.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, G. Now please wash yourself because you smell like a wet gym sock.”
Your comment makes Garrett laugh out loud, and that’s how you know he is back to his normal self. The sound makes you grin giddily. No matter how sexy you found him when he was riled up, you love your sweet boyfriend more than anything.
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Summary: Garrett hears you talking about how you would climb Dean like a tree with your best friend.
A/N: Theres a lack of Garrett Graham x Reader fanfics, there should be more
Garrett did not mean to eavesdrop, honestly. He was in Malone’s with the hockey team while you were sitting at a different table with your friend.
“Girl, Dean is hot! Like seeing him literally makes me feral.” You said and Garrett’s eyes widened at how brazen you were being.
“I know!! Whenever I see him shirtless, I fan myself, I love him so much.” Your friend replied.
“The things I would do to him if I could.” You said. “I had a dream about him last night and GIRL, I never wanted to wake up.”
That’s when Garrett excused himself from his table to sit at yours.
“Hey baby, what are you guys talking about?” Garrett slid in the booth to sit right next to you.
“Nothing.” You and your friend answered. That makes Garrett suspicious of his girlfriend.
It wasn't the only time Garrett heard you talking about Dean. The final straw was when he heard you on the phone while he was getting out of the shower in his boxers and you were on his bed, wearing his jersey.
"I am telling you, if I had the chance to ride Dean, I would not stop until..." You did not get the chance to finish the sentence because Garrett shouted.
"Enough!" which startled you.
"Girl, I'll call you back." you hung up the phone. "Babe, what's wrong?"
"We need to talk." Garrett said, putting on a shirt. "Answer this question honestly, okay?"
"Yeah, of course, what's up?" You asked.
"Do you have a crush on Dean?" Garrett asked. You were confused.
"I'm sorry, what?" You asked.
"Do you want to fuck my friend, Dean Di Laurentis?" Garrett asked, completely tactless, he wanted a straight answer.
"I can't believe you right now! What gave you that idea?" You asked.
"Don't act so innocent, I heard you talking to your friend about how he makes you 'feral' whenever you see him." Garrett blurted out. You paused for a moment and began to laugh. "This isn't funny, Y/N."
"Oh, trust me, you are going laugh too." You said, you laughed a little while longer and sighed. "Oh, that was good, I need that. I was talking about Dean WINCHESTER." Now Garrett is the one who looked confused.
"Who the fuck is Dean Winchester?" Garrett asked. You clutched your pearls, extremely offended by that question.
"I am going to pretend that you did not say that. He is a character from that TV show, Supernatural." You said and Garrett paused.
"The show with Soldier Boy?" Garrett asked and you rolled your eyes.
"He was Dean Winchester first, thank you. Anyway, my friend started watching the show and we both agreed that Dean is the hotter Winchester." You stated.
"I have been jealous of a fictional character this whole week?" Garrett asked, feeling completely stupid.
"No one told you to eavesdrop babe." You reminded him. "Are you okay now?" You asked.
"I'm okay now, sorry for accusing you of liking my friend." Garrett apologized. He hugged you and your cheek was against his chest.
"Although I do admit, Dean is pretty attractive." You joked but Garrett pulled you away so he can see your face.
"But I don't like blondes, you are definitely more my type, Gare Bear." You said and Garrett smiled, giving you a quick peck on the lips.
pairing – garrett graham x kitty!reader
summary – garrett says they're not dating. kitty decides to make the consequences of that very, very clear.
warnings – arguing, jealousy, sexual references, casual relationship, strong language, garrett being dumb asf
notes from me – based on this request!! thank u anon, we love a jealous girly 🙂↕️
word count – 2.7k
navigation – 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.
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.
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 hadn’t 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.
His hair was still damp from whatever shower he’d 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 he’d invented humour personally for her benefit.
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 Garrett’s 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 wasn’t. 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.
“Careful, Kitty,” Dean said beside her. “Clench your jaw any harder and you’ll crack a tooth.”
She didn’t look at him. “Don’t call me that.”
Dean hummed into the rim of his beer. He’d appeared at her side sometime in the last five minutes, because rich boys had stealth settings when there was drama nearby.
He wore a white t-shirt that probably cost more than her whole outfit and looked entirely too comfortable watching her quietly consider homicide. “It’s a cute nickname.”
“It’s not my name.”
“Yeah, but nicknames usually aren’t.”
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.
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.
“Mm,” she said flatly. “Whatever.”
Dean followed her gaze back to the couch. The girl was laughing again, leaning so far into Garrett’s space that her hair brushed his shoulder.
Garrett didn’t move away. He didn’t lean in either, which was probably supposed to mean something mature and rational, except her body was not currently accepting evidence from the defence.
Her stomach had gone tight. Her tongue sat sharp behind her teeth. Every inch of her skin felt stupidly aware of how many times Garrett’s 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 she’d complained about being cold, like he hadn’t cared, like he hadn’t 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.
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 he’d been born knowing it would make her softer, then turning around two days later and saying, very calmly, very publicly, that they weren’t dating.
Which was true. Technically.
Unfortunately, technically did not stop her from wanting to throw her drink at the girl’s stupid shiny little head.
Dean’s shoulder bumped hers, barely. “You could go over there.”
“And do what?”
“I don’t know. Bite her?”
She gave him a look.
“What?” Dean said, lifting both hands. “I’m workshopping.”
“I’m not jealous.”
Dean blinked at her. Then he looked back at Garrett, then at her again, slow and theatrical. “Oh, okay.”
“I’m not.”
“Right.”
“I just think it’s tacky.”
“Her?”
“Both of them.”
Dean nodded, deeply solemn. “Of course. This is an etiquette issue.”
“It is.”
“Very Miss Manners of you.”
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.
Logan was somewhere near the dining room yelling, “No, no, house rules, you drink on a bounce,” like he was presiding over the Supreme Court.
Tucker walked past with a plate of burnt pizza rolls and paused just long enough to assess her face, then Dean’s face, then Garrett’s corner of the couch.
“Oh,” Tucker said.
Dean nodded. “Yeah.”
Tucker looked back at her, kind but not soft enough to be annoying. “You good?”
“I’m having the best night of my life,” she snapped.
“Cool.” Tucker took one pizza roll off the plate, bit into it, immediately regretted it, and still swallowed because he was committed to dignity. “Just checking.”
She watched him go, jaw working.
Dean leaned closer, lowering his voice. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s doing anything.”
That made something in her chest pull tight, because Dean wasn’t joking now, and that was worse. She could handle him being an idiot. She had built up a tolerance to Dean’s 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. “He can do whatever he wants.”
“Sure.”
“He’s single.”
He shrugged, lips turning down. “Technically.”
She turned on him. “Don’t do that.”
Dean’s brows lifted. “Do what?”
“That little voice.”
“My voice is beautiful.”
“The thing where you all act like I’m his girlfriend when he’s the one walking around with a public service announcement that I’m not.”
Dean’s 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.
How much she wanted anyone to say Garrett was just being stupid, that everybody could see it, that she wasn’t 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. “Yeah,” he said finally. “He’s an idiot.”
“That wasn’t helpful.”
“Wasn’t trying to be helpful. Just accurate.”
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.
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.
“Oh,” Dean said under his breath, and there was no humour in it this time.
She didn’t 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.
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 hadn’t 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, “I’ll meet you up there.”
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. “What’s wrong?”
Dean coughed. “Brother.”
Garrett’s eyes cut to him. “What?”
Dean shook his head and took one step back. “Nothing. I just love when you’re dumb.”
Garrett ignored him, attention coming back to her. “What’s wrong?”
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 weekend’s game, the stupid dark sweep of his lashes when he blinked down at her like she was the one being difficult.
Like he hadn’t just sent another girl upstairs to wait in his room. Like her body wasn’t 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.
“What’s wrong?” she repeated.
Garrett’s brows drew tighter. “Yeah.”
She smiled. It didn’t feel nice on her face. “Don’t be stupid.”
His jaw shifted. “Okay. What’s that supposed to mean?”
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 Garrett’s eyes followed the movement. Then she looked back at him and kept her voice light. Sweet, almost. “If you fuck her, you’re never touching me again.”
Garrett blinked. Dean inhaled so sharply he almost whistled.
For a second, no one said anything. Someone screamed with laughter in the kitchen. A bass-heavy song rattled through the floorboards.
Garrett’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “What?”
She tipped her head, widening her eyes in a cruel little imitation of him. “What?”
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. “We’re not dating.”
Dean made a strangled sound. “Oh, man.”
Garrett pointed at him without looking away from her. “Stay out of it.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Dean said, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m incapable. You don’t fuck someone else in front of her, dude.”
Garrett glared at him. “I said stay out of it.”
She laughed once, sharp enough to make Garrett’s eyes snap back to hers. “No, no. Let him talk. He’s making sense for once.”
Dean pressed a hand to his chest. “That felt backhanded, but I’ll take it.”
Garrett’s nostrils flared slightly. “I wasn’t–” He cut himself off, dragging a hand over his mouth, then looked down at her again. “You don’t get to make rules for me.”
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.
She kept smiling anyway.
“I’m not making any rules.” Her voice was calm enough that even Dean looked at her twice. “You can do whatever you want, Garrett. I’m not your girlfriend. You’ve made that incredibly fucking clear. So go upstairs. Have fun. I’m not going to tackle her in the hallway.”
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.
She tipped her chin up, all teeth around the edges of her smile. “But it’s simple, baby. Stick your dick in her, and you never get to stick it in me ever again. Okay?”
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 she’d shoved him hard enough to make him feel where the edge was.
“Okay,” he said. It came out low.
She blinked. “Okay?”
His jaw worked once. “Yeah. Okay.”
Dean’s head whipped toward him. “Wow. Love personal growth.”
Garrett shot him a look that should have melted paint off the wall. “Dean.”
“I’m going, I’m going.” Dean lifted both hands and backed up another step, but not before looking at her with open admiration. “For the record, Kitty, that was terrifying.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Yeah, no, for sure.” He nodded, still backing away. “Very scary. Loved it.”
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. “Stay here.”
Her laugh came out before she could stop it. “Excuse me?”
“Just–” Garrett stopped, visibly swallowed the first version of whatever he wanted to say, and tried again. “Don’t leave.”
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. “Why?”
Garrett looked at her like she was exhausting, which might have been more effective if he hadn’t just made a girl wait in his room and then told the girl he wasn’t dating not to leave. “Because I’m going upstairs to tell her to go.”
She hated how much that loosened something in her chest. She crossed her arms tighter, because if she didn’t, she might do something embarrassing, like believe him too quickly. “Fine.”
Garrett’s eyes stayed on hers. “Fine?”
“Go.”
He nodded once, then hesitated, hand flexing at his side like he wanted to touch her and knew better. “She’s leaving,” he said.
“She better.”
His mouth twitched despite everything. “Yeah, Kitty.”
“Don’t call me that.”
But this time, she didn’t sound nearly mean enough.
pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – four times garrett’s chain causes problems, and one very smug hockey captain pretends he isn’t loving every second of it.
warnings – suggestive content, making out/grinding, mild sexual references, implied oral sex, drinking, party setting, garrett being smug and whipped.
notes from me – as part of my 1k celebrations, here's the top requested fic!! enjoy 🫶🏼
word count – 5k
navigation – 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 it’s not seen worse.
There are voices below them, Logan’s 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.
But up here, everything has gone smaller. Warmer. The room narrowed down to Garrett’s 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 it’s 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 she’s adjusted to him.
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 it’s making her thoughts get weird and slippery around the edges. He’s still wearing his t-shirt, which feels rude considering she’s in a bra and skirt and whatever dignity survived the trip up the stairs is now lying somewhere dead near his laundry basket.
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.
“Garrett,” 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 he’s 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.
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.
But the second his mouth leaves hers properly, some spoiled little part of her lights up in objection.
“No,” she whines, which is not her proudest moment, and is made worse by the fact that Garrett pauses against her skin like he’s 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. “Come back.”
His grin spreads slowly. “Bossy.”
“You stopped kissing me.”
“I was kissing you somewhere else.”
She pouts. “Wrong somewhere.”
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 that’s the worst part of Garrett.
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.
“Oh,” she says before she can stop herself.
Garrett pauses with the hem already half up his stomach, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
His teeth catch at his bottom lip. “I was about to ask if you needed a minute to process.”
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. “You’re so annoying.”
“Yeah, but you’re still looking.”
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 it’s been placed there for the express purpose of ruining her life.
It's not even that fancy. That’s 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.
Garrett’s 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 she’s discovered a new academic field.
“Baby,” 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. “Jesus. Okay.”
She smiles, breath already uneven again. “Come here.”
“I was here.”
“Closer.”
His mouth hovers over hers, his chain trapped between her fingers, the metal a little warm, a little slick where it’s been resting against his skin. “You always this demanding?”
She tugs again, smaller this time, mostly because she likes the way his eyes drop to her mouth when she does it. “Only when you’re slow.”
Garrett stares at her for one beat, and then the smile goes all bright and helpless at the edges, like she’s pleased him against his will.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, bending until the chain brushes her collarbone and his mouth is almost on hers again. “That’s gonna be a problem.”
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 everyone’s faces and the standing lamp Tucker keeps insisting gives the room ambience, which Dean keeps calling divorced dad lighting.
A movie’s on, something Logan picked with the confidence of a man who would be asleep within twenty minutes, and sure enough he’s 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.
Garrett’s stretched out behind her on the couch, one arm tucked under her head like a pillow, the other lying heavy over her waist. She’s settled half on top of him, half against him, legs tangled beneath the old throw blanket that smells faintly like fabric softener and Garrett’s laundry detergent and whatever popcorn crime Dean committed earlier.
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 Allie’s legs while she runs her fingers lazily through his hair like she’s rewarding a large, badly behaved dog.
Garrett’s 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.
Her thumb catches the tiny curve of one link. Then another. Then she’s 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 she’s 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.
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. “What?”
Garrett looks down at her with the deeply patient expression of a man being tortured in a way he’s not allowed to enjoy too obviously. “You’ve been doing that for ten minutes.”
“Doing what?”
His eyes flick to the chain. Then back to her. “That.”
“Oh.” She looks down at her hand, caught in his like evidence. “Was I annoying you?”
“No.”
“You stopped me.”
“Because,” 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, “you keep touching my neck, and I’m trying to be a decent citizen in a communal living space.”
Her mouth twitches. “Your neck?”
“My chain is on my neck.”
She bites back a smile. “That’s very scientific of you.”
“I go to college.”
“For hockey.”
He sucks at his teeth, a grin spreading across his face. “For hockey and the pursuit of knowledge.”
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.
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 nobody’s 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.
“Stop playing with it,” he murmurs against her hand.
“I didn’t know it was an activity with rules.”
“It is now.”
“Sounds controlling.”
“Sounds like you’re too hot for your own good and I’m a responsible man.”
She lifts her head just enough to look at him properly. “You’re so full of shit.”
Garrett smiles like that’s his favourite thing she’s said all day. “A little, yeah.”
Then he threads his fingers through hers and brings their joined hands down to rest against his stomach, trapping her there with him. Garrett’s 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 something’s 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.
She’s 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.
“You studied,” 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. “Like, a disgusting amount. I know because you made me quiz you last night and I learned things against my will.”
She stands in front of the mirror, smoothing her top down and then immediately undoing the smoothing because now it looks too deliberate. “That doesn’t mean I know it.”
“That’s actually exactly what studying means.”
“No, studying means I knew it at midnight in your bed while you were half asleep and kept pronouncing things wrong on purpose.”
“I was keeping morale up.”
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 hasn’t put a shirt on yet. Which is also rude. Honestly, the whole morning has been a campaign of emotional terrorism.
“I’m serious,” 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 he’s reminding her she has a body and it's standing here, not drowning somewhere in the imagined future of a badly answered essay question.
“I know you are,” he says. “I also know you’re gonna kill it.”
“Don’t say that.”
“What, kill it?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. You’re gonna… respectfully and academically dominate.”
“Garrett.”
He laughs under his breath and tugs her closer until she’s 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. “What are you doing?”
“Good luck.”
Her eyes lift to his. “What?”
He holds it up between them, gold catching the morning light from her window. “It’s lucky.”
She stares at him. “Your chain is lucky?”
“Extremely.”
“You’ve never said that.”
He looks almost offended. “I don’t tell everyone my deeply personal athletic superstitions.”
“You told Dean you had to wear the same socks for playoffs.”
“That was different. He touched them.”
“That feels like a public health issue more than a superstition.”
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.
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.
“There,” he says, hands settling briefly on her shoulders. “Guaranteed.”
She touches the chain with two fingers. “Guaranteed?”
“Yeah.”
“If I fail, I’m blaming your jewellery.”
“If you fail, I’ll fake my death and start over somewhere chainless.”
She laughs then, finally, and it comes out shaky but real. Garrett’s eyes meet hers in the mirror, his mouth tipped in a way that’s half smug and half proud of having pulled the sound out of her.
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.
“Go,” he says. “Ace it. Then come back and be unbearable about it.”
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.
She calls Garrett from the sidewalk and says, “I think I nailed it,” and he shouts so loudly through the phone that a girl walking past looks over in alarm.
“Tell the chain I said thank you,” she says later that night, when she’s 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. “What?”
“The chain.” She taps it where it still sits at her throat. “Your ancient family luck charm.”
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. “Garrett.”
He chews slowly.
“Garrett Graham.”
He swallows. “Okay, before you get mad–”
“Oh my God.” She sits up straighter. “It’s not lucky?”
“It’s, uh, lucky adjacent.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve worn it to some good games.”
“You told me it was extremely lucky.”
“I was trying to get you out of your head.”
“You lied!”
“I motivated.” He points at her with a fry. “And you crushed your exam, so actually, where’s my thank you?”
She stares at him for one second. Then another. The chain’s warm now from her skin, and the fact that he made it up should be annoying. It is annoying.
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.
“You’re unbelievable,” she says.
His grin comes back immediately, bright with relief and bad ideas. “But effective.”
“You’re never getting this back.”
“Baby, I look really good in that chain.”
“I look better.”
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.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher. “You do.”
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.
“What?” 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.
“You want a thank you?”
Garrett’s mouth opens, then closes. He tilts his head, trying for casual and missing by a heroic distance. “I mean, I’m not gonna say no to gratitude.”
“Good,” she says, and leans in to kiss him once, soft enough that he follows when she pulls away.
His hands tighten on her hips. “Good?”
“Mhm.”
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 he’s experiencing several personal revelations at once.
“Still think it’s lucky?” 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.
“Baby,” he says, voice low with absolute reverence and zero shame, “I’m about to start fucking worshipping it.”
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.
The living room is packed in that loose, post-win sprawl of bodies and beer and boys shouting over one another from distances that don’t 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.
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.
Garrett’s 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.
There's a faint bruise starting near one cheekbone and stiffness in the way he holds his shoulders that he’s pretending doesn't exist because men who willingly block shots with their bodies have a complicated relationship with the concept of pain.
She’s 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.
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 she’s still there even though she’s been draped over him for fifteen minutes like an affectionate scarf.
“You’re tense,” she murmurs near his ear.
Garrett tilts his head slightly toward her. “I got checked into the boards by a guy built like a refrigerator.”
“I saw.”
“You also yelled ‘get up’ at me.”
“You did get up.”
He huffs. “Supportive.”
“I’m very motivational.”
He smiles, eyes still on Logan across the room. “Yeah, Coach, you’re a real asset.”
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. There’s 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.
“Oh,” she says softly, pleased. “There he is.”
“Don’t sound so happy about my suffering.”
“I’m happy about being right.”
He hums quietly. “You usually are.”
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.
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.
“Oh, that’s cute,” he says from the floor, voice carrying with surgical precision. “Captain’s getting a little spa treatment.”
Garrett doesn't open his eyes. “You jealous, Di Laurentis?”
“Of a shoulder rub? No. Of your girlfriend looking at you like you just returned from war? Little bit.”
Allie leans around him. “He did get slammed pretty hard.”
Dean points at her. “See? This is why I date women. Compassion.”
Tucker takes a sip of beer. “You date Allie because she tolerates you.”
“That too.”
She ignores them, and keeps working her thumbs into Garrett’s 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.
“Here,” he says.
She pauses. “What?”
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. “Here, baby. Wear it before you strangle me with it.”
The room hears baby. Naturally. The room reacts with the dignity of wolves spotting an injured deer. Logan’s head snaps over. “Oh, wow.”
Dean sits up so fast Allie has to move her knees. “Did he just give her the chain?”
Tucker’s mouth twitches. “Big night.”
Garrett points vaguely at all of them without turning around. “Everybody shut up.”
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. “He’s putting jewellery on her. In public. Garrett Graham has fallen.”
“I will throw this beer at you,” Garrett says.
“No, you won’t. Your girl’s wearing your chain and touching your shoulders. You’re domesticated now.”
Logan lifts his cup. “RIP to a slut.”
Garrett finally opens his eyes and looks over. “I’m still alive, asshole.”
She laughs into Garrett’s 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.
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 Garrett’s skin when it lands against her throat. Something about that should not matter as much as it does.
Garrett’s head tips back until he can look up at her. “Good?”
She nods, fingers touching the chain. “Good.”
“Can I have my massage now, or are we hosting a ceremony?”
“Ceremony,” Dean says immediately. “I have a speech.”
“No one wants that,” Tucker says.
“I do,” 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.
“Whipped,” Dean says.
“Tragically,” Logan adds.
“Clinically,” 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. “Keep talking. I’m cutting all of you from the power play.”
“You can’t cut me from the power play,” Dean says. “I am the power play.”
She leans closer, thumbs pressing into Garrett’s neck, and murmurs, “They’re not wrong, you know.”
His eyes open slightly. “Careful.”
“What?” she says, voice innocent near his ear. “You gave me your chain in front of everyone.”
“You were choking me with it.”
“I was massaging your shoulders.”
“Poorly.”
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. “Oh my God. He kissed her hand. We lost him.”
Dean presses his beer to his heart. “He was so young.”
Tucker, dry as dust, says, “He died doing what he loved. Pretending he wasn’t in love.”
Garrett’s 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.
“Love is a strong word,” 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. “Mm.”
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 Garrett’s 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.
“You look good in it,” he says quietly.
Her hands pause on his shoulders for half a second.
Then Dean yells, “I can see you whispering sweet nothings, Graham,” and Garrett closes his eyes like he’s begging a very unhelpful God for patience, and she laughs so hard into his hair that the chain jumps lightly at her throat.
summary - you surprise Garrett after studying abroad for a year
pairing - garrett graham x girlfriend!reader
word count - +2.3k
a/n - lowkey love this duo enough to continue with either a summer series for them or a mom&dad type series!! lmk what you think!
For an off campus party, Garrett Graham seemed pretty miserable.
The party was small and contained. Only close friends of the guys had been invited to celebrate the start of summer. No more exams or schoolwork. Just sun, sand and sex.
Everyone had gathered in the back garden, just outside the house on the decking. Tucker was manning the grill, with Logan supervising. Dean and Allie were attempting to play a game of badminton, but were mostly just arguing. A couple other hockey guys were sitting around chatting, with Grace and Sabrina nearby. And it was Hannah who noticed Garrett sat by himself not taking part in anything.
“You okay?” Hannah asked and sat down on a chair opposite Garrett.
“Yeah.” Garrett gave a fake smile.
“Convincing.” Hannah joked, “What’s up?”
Garrett had become close enough with Hannah to know she wouldn’t take the piss out of him. He was glad that Allie kept bringing her around, because she was one of Garrett’s closest friends now.
Garrett held up his phone briefly, “My, uh, girlfriend hasn’t texted me since yesterday and I’m just a bit worried.” Garrett frowned, looking from Hannah down to his notificationless phone.
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Yeah.” Garrett’s smile went wide.
He noted the shocked expression on Hannah’s face.
Garrett rarely told people about you - not because he wanted to keep you a secret, but because he was just terrible at opening up to people about things like that. You were always encouraging him to be braver with his feelings.
“Since when?” Hannah leaned forwards with interest.
“Coming up to three years now.”
“I’m sorry… You’ve had a girlfriend for three years and I’m only just finding out now?”
“Well I didn’t know you three years ago, Wellsy.” Garrett countered.
Hannah let it slide. “Okay, whatever. Tell me everything about her.”
When someone did finally know of your existence, that was one of Garrett’s favourite things to be asked. He could talk about you for hours, days, forever. He was a healthy amount obsessed with you.
Before Garrett could delve into the 101 reasons why you were his favourite person, Dean had to ruin the moment.
“Jheez, Wellsy, are you a witch? How’d you make G smile?” Dean patted Hannah on the back as he came over with Allie in tow. No doubt their game of badminton had gotten too argumentative to continue safely.
“I was just asking Garrett about…” Hannah cut herself short, realising that she didn’t even know your name.
“Y/N.” Garrett added for her.
Dean clicked his tongue and sighed like a man in love. “Ah, mom and dad.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Hannah laughed, looking between Garrett, Dean and Allie for some explanation.
Allie sat on the arm of the chair that Hannah was sitting on, wrapping her arm around her best friend's shoulder. Dean sat on the same bench that Garrett was sitting on.
“Mom and dad.” Allie repeated, “Y/N and Garrett got the label because they are genuinely like the mom and dad of this group.”
“They’re always keeping us in check. They do the shopping for the house. Y/N actually cleans this place, God knows why. They’re just so mom and dad.”
“She sounds great.” Hannah smiled.
“She is.” Allie nodded.
“Agreed.” Dean added.
Garrett just sat there, quietly smiling to himself as he listened to some of the most important people in his life gush over the most important person.
“So how come I’ve never met her?” Hannah asked.
“She’s spent the last year studying abroad.” Garrett said, frowning again when he realised that this whole conversation had started because he couldn’t get in contact with you.
“That’s so cool. Where abouts?”
“Uh, London– Sorry, I’m just going to–.”
Garrett got up and headed back inside, continuing to stare at his phone like it was personally wronging him.
Allie got up off the end of Hannah’s chair and moved to sit down next to Dean - who immediately pulled her close to his side. Hannah was so happy for her best friend finally being with someone who actually cared for her.
They smiled without looking at each other.
“What?” Hannah asked, wondering what was going on.
“Can you keep a secret, Wellsy, ‘cause we sure can’t.”
“Yeah.”
Dean leaned forwards, double checking the back entrance to the house to make sure that Garrett wasn’t loitering close by. Hannah leaned forwards too.
“Y/N’s surprising Garrett. That’s why he hasn’t heard from her, because fuck knows she’d ruin the surprise if she opened her mouth.”
Hannah’s eyes went wide and her jaw dropped.
“When? Today?”
Allie checked her phone.
“Like, literally any minute.”
Hannah tried to control her excited smile as she leant back in her chair. Dean moved back too, raising his eyebrows to Hannah as if to silently say ‘don’t say a word’.
Logan and Tucker came over minutes later, saying the grill was all prepped and the food was ready to be cooked whenever everyone was ready. They were also in on the secret surprise, so were holding off on cooking until you arrived.
Sabrina and Grace, along with a couple of other hockey guys, had also joined the group so everyone was sitting together, when Allie’s phone pinged.
She opened the notification to see you’d texted to say you were outside.
Allie widened her eyes at the group, all of them visibly lighting up with excitement.
“Where’s G?” Logan asked.
“He went inside before.” Dean said.
“I think he was going to try and contact Y/N again.” Hannah added with a sad pout. She felt for the guy - especially when he had no clue that he was about to see you in a couple of minutes.
Allie stood up, telling everyone that she was going to go and get you. Everyone was in agreement that you should go and see Garrett first, so Tucker and Logan returned to the grill to start cooking in the meantime.
Allie wandered through the house, with no sign of Garrett anywhere.
She opened the front door quietly and silently screamed when she saw you.
You looked tired - no doubt from the long plane ride, lack of sleep and jet lag - but you also looked so happy to be back. You had a big Briar U hoodie on that was no doubt Garrett’s and a pair of navy jogging bottoms on.
You had a shit tonne of luggage bags surrounding you, which Allie would make Dean take in later. It was a mystery how you managed all these bags through the airport yourself.
Allie squeezed you in a tight hug, both of you trying to be as silent as possible.
She let you go, knowing you’d be eager to see Garrett.
You both had a silent conversation with hand gestures, which basically translated to you asking where Garrett was and letting Allie know that’s where you’d be going first. Allie rushed you off, not delaying your reunion any longer.
You tried your best to be quiet up the stairs, the familiarity of the house hitting you all at once. Even the feel of your hand on the wooden bannister felt like coming home.
At the top of the stairs you felt a flurry of butterflies start up in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t tell whether you were nervous or excited to see Garrett. It was the anticipation that was causing the feeling, you decided.
After texts and face-time calls, every day for the last year, it was hard to believe you were about to see him in real life again. It sounded weird to say, but it was true. The last year had been so great, but it had also been so hard living away from Garrett.
If that made you clingy, then you’d wear that label with pride. So what?
Garrett’s door was closed over, but not shut entirely.
You pushed the door open to find Garrett sat on the edge of his bed, crouched over with his phone in his hands.
You knocked gently so as not to make him jump.
Garrett wiped his eyes, not so subtly, before sitting up to look at you.
His whole body sagged as he saw you standing in his bedroom doorway. He closed his eyes and let his body pull him back to lay back on his bed, legs grounding him to the floor.
Tears started to fill your eyes as Garrett’s chest visibly moved up and down from crying. His hand went to cover his eyes, probably trying to comprehend whether this was a cruel trick or genuinely real.
You didn’t wait any longer to move closer to him.
“Hey.” You laughed through your own tears.
“Fuck.” Garrett sat up, taking you in. You watched the disbelief leave his teary eyes, as he fully understood you were right here with him.
He wasted no more time pulling you the rest of the way towards him - absolutely no distance between you allowed again - until you landed on his lap in an awkward straddle. Your arms wrapped around his neck tightly and his wrapped around your waist.
Both of you sat there, lightly crying.
Your face buried into Garrett’s neck as you breathed in his familiar scent. That smell alone caused a few tears, because it was so nostalgic and homely to you. Garrett’s head rested just beside yours.
Neither of you said anything for what felt like the longest time, both more than happy to just sit silently in each other’s arms.
“I thought something bad had happened.” Garrett mumbled.
You reluctantly pulled your head away from his neck, blinking away the remnants of tears as you pulled Garrett’s head up to see him. His eyes were red-rimmed and his dark circles were as dark as yours.
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t text me for so long. I thought something bad had happened.” His eyes traced over every inch of your face, scanning every freckle to make sure they were all still there.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You did. If 24 hours of no contact is what it takes to be surprised, then, baby, I don’t want it.” He shook his head.
“Okay. Noted.” You brushed your thumb over his cheek back and forth. He melted into your touch, trying to get as physically close to you as possible.
“Can’t believe you’re here.”
“Can’t believe you haven’t kissed me yet.”
Garrett’s hands left your waist instantly to cup your cheeks and bring your lips directly to his, kissing you exactly how one would kiss their significant other after a year apart. The kiss was bruising, barely enough space to breathe between you.
Garrett tilted your head with his hands so he could kiss you deeper, your hips involuntarily rocking over his. The small movement was enough for Garrett to break the kiss, though the distance between you barely existed.
Both of your chests were heaving and your breathing heavy. You leaned in closer with dazed eyes focused on his lips, kissing him again. This time was shorter and with more feeling, before you pulled away with a soft laugh.
“What?” Garrett asked, still holding you close.
“I missed you.”
Garrett smiled, “Yeah, baby. Me too.” He kissed you four times in a row, before breaking off from your lips to kiss your cheeks, nose, eyes and anywhere else he could. The sound of your laughter filled his room for the first time in a year as Garrett kept kissing you.
You forced yourself forwards to make Garrett fall backwards on the bed, because you knew it was the only way to stop him from kissing you for now.
Garrett’s hair flopped around him on the bed, with a little curl falling over his forehead. His hands moved to place over your hips, whilst yours pressed into his bed either side of his head to keep you upright.
“Can’t believe you’re here.” Garrett said.
“You’ve already said that. Have you developed temporary amnesia, baby?” You teased him.
“My brain hasn’t worked since you walked through the door.”
Garrett’s hand tucked underneath the hoodie you were wearing, and traced up and down your bare skin. The featherlight touch made you smile and you rewarded him with another quick kiss.
You moved to sit back up less than gracefully. Luckily Garrett’s arms were there to support you as he mirrored you to sit up as well.
“How was your flight?” He asked, his eyes focused on you. No doubt he wouldn’t be letting you from his sight for the foreseeable future. He was going to attach himself to you like a limpet whether you liked it or not.
“Shall we go downstairs and see everyone so I don’t have to answer that question fifteen more times?”
Garrett grumbled and his eyebrows furrowed, “No.”
“No?”
“I want you to myself.” He said as his hands tightened their grip on your back.
“Baby, don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean, I'm being selfish. There’s a difference.”
“Not a good difference.” You argued.
“Did the Brits teach you to be polite or something?”
You tried not to laugh at your boyfriend’s childish behaviour, because, honestly, some part of you understood what he was feeling. You got possessive when he left for a hockey game for just a weekend, let alone you having been gone a full year.
Of course you wanted to just be with him too, but your friends were important to you too. They’d all kept close contact with you, always letting you know how Garrett was really doing and being there for him when he needed people around. You owed a lot to them all.
“C’mon. You’ll get me all evening.” You compromised.
“You’ve finished over there?”
“Yes,” You smiled, brushing a curl back off his forehead, “Finished last week.”
“So you’re here to stay?”
“Baby, I’m back. I’m here for summer, then autumn, winter and spring. Then summer again and autumn…”
“Okay, okay,” Garrett cut you off, “Can we spend summer together?”
“I literally brought all my shit here with me, because I intend on moving in. You’re stuck with me.”
Summary: You were walking into the hockey house with your friends, Hannah and Allie. Your brother, Garrett Graham, lived here with his teammates and friends. John Tucker, John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis. You all attend Briar University (Briar U). The guys had won a game tonight, which meant that it was party time at the house, the house was packed with people. More specifically, Puck Bunnies.
Warnings: none :)
The first few weeks after bringing your daughter home were a blur.
Not a bad blur.
Just a blur of tiny cries, sleepless nights, warm bottles, endless diapers, and a kind of love so overwhelming it sometimes made your chest ache.
You quickly learned that newborns had absolutely no respect for time.
Three in the morning.
Five in the morning.
Two in the afternoon.
It didn't matter.
If your daughter wanted something, she made sure everyone knew about it.
Especially Dean.
The first night home, she let out the tiniest little cry from her bassinet.
Before you could even sit up, Dean was already moving.
Half asleep.
Hair sticking up everywhere.
Completely disoriented.
Yet somehow instantly standing beside the bassinet.
You watched him carefully scoop her into his arms.
His huge hockey-player hands looked ridiculous holding something so tiny.
Yet somehow she fit there perfectly.
"Hey, princess."
His voice immediately softened.
The crying stopped.
Just like that.
Dean looked smug.
You looked exhausted.
"Don't."
"What?"
"That face."
"What face?"
"The one you're making."
"I'm not making a face."
"You absolutely are."
Dean grinned.
Because he absolutely was.
It quickly became apparent that Dean had developed a routine.
A very specific routine.
And no amount of arguing would change it.
The second your daughter cried during the night, he was up.
If she needed changing?
Dean.
Rocking?
Dean.
Burping?
Dean.
Walking around the living room at four in the morning while softly singing terribly off-key songs?
Definitely Dean.
The only thing he couldn't do was feed her.
And he hated it.
One night you caught him glaring at your daughter while she nursed.
"What?"
Dean folded his arms.
"She likes you more."
You laughed.
"Dean."
"I'm serious."
"She's three weeks old."
"Exactly."
You rolled your eyes.
"She literally spent nine months inside me."
"Yeah, well."
He pointed dramatically.
"That feels unfair."
You laughed so hard you nearly woke the baby.
It got worse when hockey season started again.
Everyone expected Dean to slow down.
To focus on practice.
Games.
Training.
Travel.
Instead, he somehow became even more involved.
The second he walked through the front door after practice, your daughter was immediately transferred into his arms.
No discussion.
No hesitation.
Like a perfectly rehearsed routine.
One afternoon you were folding baby clothes while your daughter slept against your chest.
Dean walked through the door from practice.
Still sweaty.
Still carrying his hockey bag.
The second he saw you holding her, he stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
"What're you doing?"
You blinked.
"Holding my child?"
Dean immediately put his bag down.
"Why?"
You stared.
"Because she's asleep."
"So?"
"So..."
You frowned.
"She's my daughter?"
Dean walked over and carefully lifted her out of your arms.
The baby barely stirred.
Immediately settling against his chest.
"There."
You blinked.
"Dean."
He kissed the top of your head.
"You carried her for nine months."
A kiss to your forehead.
"You pushed her out."
Another kiss.
"You fed her."
Then he looked down at your daughter.
"So now it's my turn."
Your heart melted.
Again.
Like it did every day.
The boys became just as bad.
Especially once they realized how much they loved her.
You walked into the living room one afternoon to discover Logan sitting on the couch.
Your daughter was asleep on his chest.
Logan wasn't moving.
At all.
Not even blinking.
You stood there quietly.
Watching.
Eventually he noticed.
"What?"
"You've been sitting there for an hour."
"So?"
"You haven't moved."
Logan looked offended.
"She's comfortable."
You laughed.
The front door opened.
Dean walked inside.
Immediately spotting Logan.
Immediately spotting his daughter.
His eyes narrowed.
Logan held her tighter.
"Don't."
Dean pointed.
"Give me my baby."
"No."
Dean gasped.
"No?"
"She's sleeping."
Dean looked genuinely heartbroken.
Tucker walked past carrying groceries.
"She's asleep on Logan again?"
"Apparently."
Tucker sighed.
"Get in line."
You burst out laughing.
Because somehow your terrifying hockey boys had become completely obsessed.
Garrett was even worse.
Though he'd never admit it.
The first time your daughter wrapped her tiny hand around his finger, he'd stared at her for almost ten minutes.
Completely silent.
Completely mesmerized.
"You okay?" you'd asked.
He blinked.
Then looked away.
"I'm fine."
"You've been staring at her."
"No I haven't."
"You absolutely have."
Garrett immediately stood up.
"I'm leaving."
Yet he came back the next day.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
Every single time bringing a new stuffed animal.
Or book.
Or tiny hockey jersey.
Which Dean proudly displayed.
Despite Garrett insisting she wasn't allowed to play hockey.
One evening you walked downstairs after finally managing to shower.
A luxury these days.
The house was quiet.
Suspiciously quiet.
You followed the silence into the living room.
And stopped.
Your heart instantly swelling.
Dean was asleep on the couch.
One arm stretched protectively around your daughter.
She was asleep on his chest.
Tiny.
Safe.
Loved.
The television played softly in the background.
The room glowed with warm evening light.
And somehow...
They looked exactly the same.
Same blonde hair.
Same stubborn chin.
Same little frown in their sleep.
You stood there for a long moment.
Simply watching.
Taking it in.
This life.
This family.
This happiness you never thought you'd have.
Then Dean stirred.
His eyes opening slowly.
Immediately checking your daughter.
Immediately making sure she was okay.
Only then did he look up at you.
A sleepy smile appearing.
"What?"
You felt tears prick your eyes.
Nothing unusual these days.
You smiled.
"Nothing."
Dean looked suspicious.
"It isn't nothing."
You walked over and sat beside him.
Carefully running your fingers through his messy hair.
He leaned into the touch instantly.
Like he always did.
"I was just thinking."
"Uh oh."
You laughed softly.
"I was thinking she's really lucky."
Dean looked down at your daughter.
Then back at you.
His expression becoming impossibly gentle.
"No."
He reached for your hand.
Intertwining your fingers.
"She's not lucky."
The words sounded familiar.
Almost identical to something he'd told you months ago.
You smiled.
"No?"
Dean shook his head.
His eyes moving between you and your daughter.
"She's loved."
And somehow, hearing him say it now—with your daughter sleeping safely against his heart—felt even more meaningful than the first time.
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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 didn’t fawn over him. You didn’t blush every time he walked into the room. You didn’t 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, “You talk like you’ve never had to be serious in your life.”
He’d actually stopped for a second.
Then, because he was Garrett, he’d laughed. “That sounded insulting.”
“It was supposed to be honest.”
He’d 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. “You’re not even looking at me.”
You kept your eyes on Tucker. “Should I be?”
“I think the better question is why aren’t you already.”
That finally got your attention.
You turned toward him with one eyebrow lifted. “You really think that line works?”
Garrett smiled. “Usually.”
“On who?”
“People with less self-control than you.”
You gave him a look that was equal parts amusement and warning. “You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like this is some game.”
Garrett’s 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. “If you’re trying to get my attention, you’re going to have to do better than being charming.”
Garrett stared at you.
Then he laughed once, quietly. “Good.”
That surprised you. “Good?”
“Yeah.” He leaned back in his chair, studying you. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
You frowned. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want your attention because I’m easy to like.”
Your expression changed a little.
He kept going, voice lower now. “I want it because I earned it.”
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.
“You mean that?” you asked.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
You studied him carefully, as if checking for the joke hidden underneath it. There wasn’t one.
That was the thing about you. You didn’t 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.
“You’re not going to play with me,” you said quietly.
His face changed immediately. Not hurt. Respectful.
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
You held his gaze. “You’re serious?”
Garrett nodded again. “As serious as I know how to be.”
That made your chest feel strangely full.
“So this is you serious?” you asked.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Apparently.”
You looked at him for a long second, then asked, “What changed?”
His mouth curved, but only a little. “You.”
That one word landed harder than a whole speech would have.
You blinked.
Garrett saw it and softened. “You make me want to be better.”
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. “That’s not a small thing to say.”
“I know.”
“I’m not easy.”
His expression turned warm. “I know that too.”
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.
“I’m not asking you to rush,” he said. “I’m asking you to let me keep showing up.”
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.
“Okay,” you said softly.
Garrett blinked once. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” You smiled, small but real. “Show up.”
The grin that lit up his face after that was so immediate and so genuine that it nearly undid you on the spot.
“Good,” he said. “Because I was already planning to.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile stayed.
And Garrett, for the first time in a long time, understood exactly how to keep trying.
Summary: Tucker is finally going to ask the big question when suddenly… he can't even say a word because of how nervous he is.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors.
I saw this post and immediately thought about Tucker 🤠.
The sun was starting to hide, bringing beautiful colors to the sky. You love to watch the sunset. It gives you peace to the point that you don't even feel the cold that the afternoon was bringing. It has been such a beautiful day for you and your boyfriend of years, Tucker. It started with you finding your old photo book that you made back in college and remembering all those days. Even if it has been just a couple of years since you all graduated, it feels like much more, and you definitely miss those days sometimes.
Then you and Tucker made lunch together, something you both weren't capable of doing as often as before because of your jobs. He insisted on making your favorite food and, by surprise, he made your favorite dessert too. You received a lot of calls during the day from all your friends: Hannah and Garrett, Dean and Allie, Logan and Grace. All of them wanted to know about your day, and you happily told everyone about it. By the time Logan and Grace called, you started to suspect something, but you weren't really sure what was supposed to happen that all your friends were so eager to know about.
Then Tucker takes you to your favorite place for dinner, and you start connecting the dots. But you didn't want to get your hopes up and be disappointed by the end of the day, so you told yourself that it was all because you both had been working so hard that you hadn't been able to spend proper time together.
You ignored the expensive restaurant, how Tucker insisted on dressing well, how much he was sweating, and how he protected his left pocket with his life.
That day started so well, and it was going to have an even better ending.
When your dinner was over, you both ended up walking around the city to your special place for watching the sunset. You didn't notice when he left your side until he tapped your shoulder and you turned around.
He got on one knee, pulled the velvet box out of his pocket where it had been all day, and with shaking hands he opened it, revealing the ring that made your eyes start to tear up and your heart race. You couldn't believe that it was happening. Your hands covered your mouth by reflex, and time stopped for you. You didn't even register if there were more people around you because it was just you and him.
Tucker found the courage to look at you when he heard you gasp. And when his eyes met yours, his mind went blank. The speech he had prepared for months was gone, his ability to breathe was forgotten, and how to properly speak was erased from his mind.
He just stood there on one knee with the box between his hands and his eyes on you, watching every little gesture you made and how your eyes went from glossy to letting tears run down your cheeks. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't even recall a single word of that speech he wrote in his phone notes and perfected for months.
The only thing that he managed to get out of his mouth was:
“Please?”
His eyes were as big as a puppy's, practically begging you to say something, to say yes.
Tucker swore he was going to throw up because you may have taken seconds to answer, but for him it was practically hours.
“Yes!!! Yes, yes, yes,” you repeated a couple more times, saying far more words than Tucker during the whole proposal.
You jumped into his arms, and he stood up to catch you, air finally filling his lungs. You hid your face in the crook of his neck, unable to stop crying, and Tucker recovered his ability to speak.
“I love you,” he said your name like a prayer. “And I want to be by your side, loving you with all I have, for the rest of my life.” It was a promise, almost like a vow.
“I love you too, John Tucker,” you answered, looking at his face and seeing how pale he was.
You took the stray strand of hair that had come loose from his bun and moved it away from his face so you could scatter kisses all over it. He laughed, and you finally saw his beautiful dimpled smile that warmed your heart.
He took the ring and placed it on your ring finger. It fit like a glove. It didn't surprise you that he got your ring size right; after all, Tucker was quite a perfectionist. You looked at your finger without quite believing that it was happening. You were going to be Mrs. Tucker. You were going to marry your college boyfriend, the one nobody in your family believed you would stay with for this long.
The ring was exactly the one you always wanted. You were surprised by it because the only time you told him about it was when you two had been together for less than a year. You were young and drunk because of those huge parties that used to be so common back in the day at the frat house of Tucker and the rest of the boys. You told him because you were so sure that he was the one, and you were really surprised that he remembered it because he was as drunk as you were, or even more.
“I had a whole cute speech prepared,” he confessed, embarrassed, feeling the heat creep into his face.
You looked back at him.
“Can I hear it now?”
He smiled, placing one of his hands on your cheek and leaving little caresses there, his other hand intertwined with yours. He leaned toward you, leaving a sweet kiss on your temple before resting his forehead against yours.
You just closed your eyes, letting yourself feel the moment.
He whispered:
“Beautiful girl, I have loved you since the first day we met. I love everything about you, even the things you hate about yourself. I love them even more because the only thing you deserve is to be loved for the rest of your life. In the ups and downs, to have a friend, a partner in crime, a sous-chef, someone who makes you laugh through the difficult times and loves you with all his heart. If you let me, I can be that person until our last days, and not even then, because I plan to love you and follow you wherever you go. Heaven or another life, I'll find you and love you in the way you deserve because my heart belongs to you and it always will.”
He let out a shaky breath before opening his eyes and finding yours. Love could not be hidden, not in your gaze or his.
“Would you give me the honor of being your husband?”
“Yes!!” you said immediately. “Always.”
He captured your lips in a sweet kiss that mixed with the tears of both of you. You giggled when he broke the kiss and started leaving multiple kisses all over your face, his beard tickling you.
“I need to get that speech printed,” you mumbled against his lips when he left another kiss on your mouth.
“Then it's a good thing I have it on camera,” he said, pointing his head toward where his phone was recording.
He had set up a camera because he knew you would want photos and a video to remember the moment. Now he just wanted to throw it in the trash and never see the video, at least not the first part of it.
Of course, you did want to watch the video. You practically ran to the phone and stopped the recording, and if you were honest, you didn't really recall the nervousness on Tucker's face and in his body until you watched the video and saw how he got down on one knee and looked like he had a loading bar stuck to his forehead.
“We are never showing that to anybody,” and by that he meant all the boys.
“I’m definitely showing that to our future children.”
Your enthusiasm made Tucker not argue. It would make him the happiest man alive to teach your future children what love looks like.
Because that was what you and Tucker were: the definition of a cloying love, which you loved more than anything.
It was the end of one phase in your relationship and the start of a new one that you both were really excited to begin.
No war, no peace pt. 2 | Dean Di Laurentis x Reader
The cold air from the open doorway drifted across the room, but it was nothing compared to the sudden, hollow ice in your chest.
You had expected him to fight. Dean was a creature of kinetic energy and stubborn pride; he didn’t concede inches on the ice, and he certainly didn’t back down from a confrontation. You had bracingly prepared yourself for more shouting, for him to slam the duffel bag shut, or to use that smooth, manipulative charm to pull you back into his orbit.
Instead, he had just walked away.
The silence that settled over the bedroom was different now. It wasn't the tense, heavy quiet of a ceasefire. It was the absolute, dead stillness of an abandoned building.
Slowly, your knees slid from your chest. Your boots hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud. You stood in the center of his room, looking at the half-filled duffel bag on the desk. A stray Briar hockey sweatshirt—his sweatshirt, soft and smelling faintly of the detergent his family’s maid probably bought in bulk—peeked out from the top.
You closed the bag. You didn't zip it. You just stood there, waiting for the sound of his footsteps returning, for the punchline to drop.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
The silence downstairs was absolute now, the heavy bass of the party completely extinguished, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled whistle of the wind against the windowpane.
Driven by a restless, sickening anxiety, you finally walked out of the room.
The hallway was dark. You descended the stairs slowly, your hand sliding along the wooden banister. The living room was a graveyard of red plastic cups, sticky floors, and a stray couch cushion tossed onto the rug.
But Dean wasn't on the couch.
You walked through the kitchen. The back door was shut, but when you glanced toward the front foyer, you noticed the heavy oak door wasn't fully latched. A thin sliver of the freezing night air was cutting through the crack, swirling snow onto the welcome mat.
You pushed the door open and stepped out onto the porch.
The winter air hit you like a physical slap, stealing the breath from your lungs. The snow was falling faster now, fat, heavy flakes blanketing the driveway and the dark shapes of the cars parked along the curb.
And there, sitting on the top step of the porch, was Dean.
He hadn't put on a coat. He was still in the black henley, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His head was down, his blonde hair dusted with white. In his right hand, held loosely between his fingers, was a lit cigarette.
You froze. Dean didn't smoke. He was an elite athlete; he treated his body like a temple, obsessed with his cardio and his stats. The only time you had ever seen him touch tobacco was after a massive championship win, a tradition he claimed he shared with his father.
"Dean?" your voice was barely louder than the falling snow, but he flinched.
He didn't look back at you. He took a long, slow drag, the orange cherry glowing fiercely in the dark, illuminating the sharp, rigid line of his jaw. When he exhaled, the gray smoke mingled with the white vapor of his breath, disappearing into the storm.
"I lied," he said. His voice was incredibly rough, stripped of all its usual velvet cadence. It sounded raw, scraped thin by the cold and something else entirely.
You took a tentative step forward, the snow crunching beneath your socks. "What?"
"In the kitchen. With that girl." Dean lowered the cigarette, his fingers trembling slightly—a tremor he couldn't hide, no matter how tightly he clenched his fist. "I told you I was angry. I told you I did it to punish you. But that’s a lie."
He finally turned his head, looking up at you over his shoulder.
In the pale light of the porch lamp, Dean looked completely stripped of the myth. His eyes weren't flashing with anger; they were bloodshot, glassy, and intensely focused on you with a desperation that made your throat ache.
"I did it because I’m a coward," he whispered, a bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaping his lips. "You were right. You were completely right. I looked up, and I saw you standing at the top of the stairs, looking at me like you already knew I was going to fail you. Like you were just waiting for the clock to run out on us."
He dropped the cigarette into the snow, watching the light extinguish with a tiny, pathetic hiss.
"And instead of trying to climb up those stairs and prove to you that I could be better… I stayed down there. Because it’s easier to be the monster everyone expects you to be than to try so hard and still not be enough for the only person who actually matters."
He stood up slowly, turning to face you fully. The cold was clearly getting to him; his chest was heaving, his skin pale, but he didn't seem to care. He looked down at his own hands, his voice dropping so low you had to lean in to hear it over the wind.
"Everyone at this school wants a piece of the guy they think I am," Dean muttered, his chest tight. "They want the money, or the car, or the championship ring. It’s easy. It’s a transaction. But you… you looked past all that shit on day one. You wanted me. And it terrified me, because I didn't think there was anything else inside of me worth keeping."
He stepped closer, stopping just at the edge of the porch light’s glow. He didn't reach out to touch you this time. He kept his hands at his sides, completely defenseless, completely open.
"I don't want to go back to the way I was," he said, his voice cracking, a single, heavy tear finally spilling over his eyelashes, tracking a hot line through the melting snow on his cheek. "I swear to God, I don't. But I don't know how to navigate this without you. Every time you pull away, I feel like I'm drowning, and my instinct is just to grab onto whatever's closest."
You stared at him, the anger that had sustained you for weeks suddenly evaporating, leaving behind a profound, aching sadness. You saw him clearly now—not the arrogant playboy, and not the untouchable athlete. Just a boy carrying too much armor, terrified that if he took it off, there would be nothing underneath.
"You can't use me as a life raft, Dean," you said quietly, your own breath fogging the air between you. "You have to learn how to swim on your own."
"I know," he choked out, his shoulders dropping in total surrender. "I know. Just… don't leave tonight. Please. Sleep in the bed. I'll take the couch. I'll take the floor. Just don't let me wake up to an empty house. I don't think I can handle the silence."
You looked at him—shivering, ruined, and completely yours. The hairline fracture in your relationship hadn't healed, and the trust wasn't magically restored. The road ahead looked long, dark, and incredibly fragile.
But as you looked at the boy who had never had to beg for anything in his entire life, currently breaking apart on a snowy porch just to keep you in the same zip code, you knew the war wasn't over.
You stepped forward, closing the distance between you, and reached out, taking his freezing, calloused hands in your own.
"Come inside," you whispered softly. "You're freezing."
Dean didn't say a word. He just let you lead him back into the warmth, the heavy front door clicking shut behind you, locking the winter out.
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There was a specific kind of silence that existed between a ceasefire and a surrender. It wasn't peaceful. It was the heavy, suffocating quiet of a battlefield when the artillery stops but the smoke hasn’t cleared—the kind of silence where you stay flat on your back in the mud, holding your breath, waiting to see if the next sound is a medic or a firing squad.
That was exactly how the bedroom felt.
The digital clock on Dean’s nightstand glowed a sharp, neon green: 2:14 AM. The numbers cast a sickly hue over the piles of discarded clothes, the silver championship ring glittering on his dresser, and the empty space on the mattress beside you.
You were awake. You had been awake for three hours, staring at the ceiling of the off-campus house, listening to the muffled, bass-heavy thud of music vibrating through the floorboards from downstairs. The hockey team had won their mid-season matchup against Harvard tonight. Naturally, the house had mutated into a sweaty, beer-slicked haven for half the campus before the third period was even over.
Dean had asked you to come down. He had wrapped his massive, heavy arms around your waist from behind while you were brushing your teeth earlier that evening, pressing his lips to the junction of your neck and shoulder, smelling of expensive cologne and victory. “Come celebrate with me, sweetheart,” he’d murmured, his voice that low, velvety purr that usually turned your knees to water. “Show off for me.”
But you hadn’t gone down. You had stayed upstairs, claiming a headache, because lately, looking at Dean Di Laurentis in a room full of people felt like trying to look directly at the sun. It burned. It reminded you that no matter how tightly he held you in the dark, the rest of the world still remembered him as the untouchable, silver-spoon god of Briar University—the guy who used women like disposable cups and never drank from the same one twice.
A sudden shift in the noise downstairs signaled the party was finally fracturing. The front door slammed. Laughter echoed in the driveway.
Then came the heavy, slightly uneven thud of footsteps ascending the stairs.
Your chest tightened, a familiar, toxic shot of adrenaline hitting your bloodstream. You closed your eyes, adjusting your breathing to a slow, rhythmic pattern, pretending to be asleep. It was a defense mechanism you’d mastered over the last month. If you were asleep, you didn't have to talk. If you didn't have to talk, you didn't have to fight.
The door clicked open.
The scent hit the room before he did: expensive vodka, stale beer, winter air, and a faint, floral undertone that definitely didn't belong to you.
Dean moved through the darkness with the innate grace of a predator who knew the terrain. He kicked off his shoes, the heavy thud of his boots hitting the closet door. He didn't turn on the light. He didn't need to. He slid his jeans down, leaving them in a puddle on the floor, before crawling onto the mattress.
The bed sagged violently under his weight. Instantly, the heat radiating off him rolled over you. He reached for you automatically, a muscle-memory reflex developed over months of sharing this bed. His large, calloused hand slid over your hip, pulling your back flush against his chest. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply.
"I know you're awake," he whispered. His voice was thick, rough around the edges from shouting over a sound system and drinking top-shelf liquor.
You didn't move. You kept your eyes shut. "Go to sleep, Dean."
"You didn't come down," he muttered, his hand tightening slightly on your hip, pulling you closer until there was no air between you. "Tucker asked where you were. Logan asked. I looked like a fucking idiot walking around my own house alone."
"You're never alone in a room full of people, Dean," you said quietly, finally opening your eyes to stare at the dark wall. "I'm sure you found plenty of company."
The tension in his frame was instantaneous. His muscles turned to granite against your back. He didn't pull away, but the warmth vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp rigidity.
"What is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice dropping an octave.
"Nothing."
"Don't do that," he snapped, shoving himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. In the dim green light of the clock, his sharp jawline looked jagged, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Don't do that passive-aggressive bullshit. If you've got something to say, say it."
You turned over slowly, looking up at him. The gray light caught the faint silhouette of his shoulders. He looked magnificent. He always did. That was the tragedy of it.
"I don't have anything to say," you lied, your voice cracking slightly. "I'm tired."
"You're not tired. You're punishing me," Dean said, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "You've been punishing me for weeks, and I don't even know what the fuck I did."
You stared at him, the silence stretching out between you like a barbed-wire fence. There was no war. You hadn't screamed at him. He hadn't broken up with you. But there was no peace, either. Just this. This endless, agonizing cold war.
The cracks hadn’t formed overnight; they had spider-webbed slowly, tracing the fault lines of who Dean Di Laurentis used to be.
Before you, Dean didn't do relationships. He did marathons. He did weekends in New York, penthouse suites, and a rotating door of beautiful, nameless girls who were more than happy to be a footnote in his gilded life. When he chose you, everyone at Briar had held their breath, waiting for the punchline. You had believed him when he said he was done with that life. You had believed him because when Dean looked at you, it felt like the entire world narrowed down to a single point.
But confidence is a fragile thing when it’s built on the shifting sands of a playboy’s reputation.
The shift had happened three weeks ago at a mid-week mixer. You had walked out of the bathroom to find Dean cornered against the kitchen counter by two girls from the lacrosse team. He wasn't pushing them away. He was leaning back, that lazy, devastating smirk plastered on his face, his eyes hooded as he took a sip of his drink. He was performing. He was being Dean Di Laurentis, the myth, the legend. One of the girls had reached out, her fingers lingering on the collar of his shirt, laughing at something he said.
He hadn't stopped her. He had looked up, caught your eye across the crowded kitchen, and the smirk had faltered—but he hadn't moved away either. He had stayed right there, trapped in the amber of his own vanity.
Since then, the poison had set in. Every time he picked up his phone, every time he stayed out late with the team, every time a girl giggled a little too loudly in his vicinity, the ghost of his past stood between you.
"You smell like perfume," you whispered into the dark bedroom, the words finally slipping out before you could stop them.
Dean stiffened. "It's a party. People bump into each other. I was poured into a booth with ten different people after the game."
"It's always a party, Dean. And it's always someone else's perfume." You sat up, pulling the duvet up to cover your chest, suddenly feeling naked and vulnerable under his scrutiny. "I'm just tired of wondering."
"Wondering what?" he asked, his voice rising, a dangerous edge of frustration cutting through the alcohol. "Wondering if I'm cheating on you? Is that what you think of me? After everything? After months of me giving you every single piece of myself, you still think I'm just waiting to jump into bed with the next girl who smiles at me?"
"I think you miss it," you said, the truth cutting through the air like a knife. "I think you miss how easy it was when you didn't have to care about anyone's feelings. I think you miss the validation of a room full of girls wanting you, and I think you let them get close enough to remind yourself that you still have it."
Dean sat up completely, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He rubbed his hands over his face, a long, harsh breath rattling in his throat. When he pulled his hands away, he didn't look at you. He stared at the floor.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he muttered.
"Don't I?" You felt a tear slip down your cheek, hot and humiliating. "Tonight. Tell me you didn't let someone touch you tonight, Dean. Tell me you didn't play the part."
He didn't answer right away. And in that hesitation, the world crumbled just a little bit more.
"I was drunk," he said quietly, his voice dangerously level. "Some girl from the sophomore class was toasted. She stumbled into me by the keg. She started talking, leaning into me. I didn't… I didn't invite it."
"But you didn't move," you finished for him, the realization settling into your chest like a block of ice. "Because it feels good, doesn't it? Having them look at you like that."
Dean turned his head, his gray eyes flashing with a sudden, volatile anger. "Yeah, it feels good! You know why? Because at least when I'm downstairs, people look at me like they actually want me there. I come up here, and you look at me like I'm a monster. You look at me like I've already broken your heart, so what the fuck is the difference if I do or I don't?"
The words hit you like a physical blow. You flinched, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself.
"Is that your excuse?" your voice trembled. "You're going to slide back into your old habits because I'm not cheerful enough for you? Because I'm insecure about the fact that my boyfriend used to treat women like sports cars?"
"I don't want an excuse because I didn't do anything wrong!" Dean shouted, finally losing his temper. He stood up, towering over the bed, his chest heaving. "I didn't kiss anyone. I didn't take anyone upstairs. I came up here to be with you. But you're so convinced I'm going to ruin this that you're ruining it yourself!"
The argument broke something. Not a clean break, but a hairline fracture that made every step afterward agonizing.
The next morning was a masterclass in avoidance. Dean left for early practice before the sun was fully up, leaving the bed cold and the house smelling of regret. You spent the day in the library, staring at the same page of a textbook for four hours, the words blurring into a meaningless jumble of black ink.
By the time Friday night rolled around, the atmosphere in the off-campus house had shifted from a cold war to an absolute blackout.
There was another gathering—there was always another gathering. The Briar hockey house was a revolving door of noise. You had tried to stay in your room, but the isolation was eating you alive. You needed water. You needed to prove to yourself that you could walk through his world without shattering.
When you reached the bottom of the stairs, the heat of the crowded living room hit you like a wall. The air was thick with the scent of cheap vodka and sweat.
You saw him almost immediately.
Dean was leaning against the archway leading into the dining room. He had a red plastic cup held loosely in one hand, his head tilted back against the wood frame. He looked devastatingly handsome—wearing a black henley that showed off the broad expanse of his shoulders, his blonde hair perfectly disheveled.
And he wasn't alone.
There were three girls huddled around him. One of them, a stunning brunette with legs that went on for miles, was laughing hysterically at something he’d said. She was standing entirely too close, her forearm resting against Dean’s chest.
Your breath caught in your throat. You waited for him to step back. You waited for him to do what he’d promised—to show that he was yours.
Instead, Dean took a sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the crowd over the rim of his cup. He looked reckless. He looked angry. And when his gaze finally landed on you standing at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes hardened.
He didn't move away from the brunette. In fact, he leaned in a fraction closer, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle and press her hand flat against his collarbone.
It wasn't a betrayal of the body—not yet. But it was a betrayal of the truce. He was weaponizing his past, using the exact thing that tore you apart to punish you for doubting him. He was proving that he could go back to the old Dean in a heartbeat if he chose to.
The noise of the party faded into a high-pitched ringing in your ears. You couldn't breathe. You turned on your heel and walked straight back up the stairs, your feet moving on autopilot until you slammed his bedroom door shut behind you.
The lock clicked into place. It was a pathetic little piece of brass, completely useless against a guy who could probably kick the door off its hinges if he wanted to, but it was the only barrier you had left.
It was nearly 3:00 AM when the doorknob rattled.
You were sitting on the window sill, your knees pulled up to your chest, watching the snow begin to fall outside. The party downstairs had finally died out, leaving the house in that hollow, haunted quiet that always followed a rager.
The knob rattled again, harder this time.
"Open the door," Dean’s voice came through the wood. He sounded exhausted, the anger replaced by a heavy, slurred fatigue.
You didn't move. "No."
"Open the fucking door, sweetheart. I'm not doing this right now." A heavy thud indicated he had leaned his forehead against the paneling. "Come on. Just let me in."
"Go sleep on the couch, Dean. Or go find the brunette from the kitchen. I'm sure she has space for you."
A long silence followed. For a second, you thought he might actually leave. Then, a sharp, metallic click echoed through the room. Dean had used a paperclip on the external lock—an old trick he’d used a thousand times when his roommates locked themselves out.
The door swung open.
Dean stood in the doorway, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw covered in a dark layer of stubble. He looked entirely undone. The black henley was wrinkled, and the smell of alcohol was overpowering. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, but he didn't approach the window. He stayed by the threshold, looking at you like you were a stranger.
"You're packing your things," he noted, his voice flat. He was looking at the duffel bag sitting open on the desk, half-filled with your clothes.
"I can't do this anymore, Dean," you whispered, looking out at the snow. "This isn't a relationship. It's an interrogation. I'm constantly waiting for you to slip up, and you're constantly trying to prove that you can."
Dean closed his eyes, his head dropping back against the wall. "I didn't touch her."
"You let her touch you. To hurt me." You turned your head to look at him, the tears finally flowing freely down your face. "You used her to punish me for being hurt. Do you have any idea how cruel that is?"
"I was angry!" he burst out, his eyes flying open, raw and bleeding with an emotion he rarely let anyone see. He took three long strides across the room, stopping just inches from where you sat on the sill. He reached down, grasping your wrists, his grip tight but not hurting. "I am so fucking angry because I don't know how to fix this! I stopped going out. I stopped talking to people. I gave up everything because I wanted you to see that I was serious. And it’s still not enough!"
"Because you haven't changed the way you think, Dean!" you cried out, pulling your wrists from his grip. "The second things get hard between us, you run right back to the validation of random girls. You use them as a shield so you don't have to feel rejected by me. If you really changed, you wouldn't need them to feel like a man."
Dean flinched as if he’d been struck. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking incredibly pale in the dim light of the room. His hands fell to his sides, his fingers twitching against his thighs.
The silence that followed was absolute. The finality of it pressed down on the room, heavy and suffocating.
"Is that what you think?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. The anger was gone, leaving behind something far worse: total defeat. "You think I'm that hollow?"
"I think you're terrified of being vulnerable," you said, your heart breaking into a million jagged pieces as you spoke the words. "And I'm terrified of being the one who gets destroyed when you decide it's too hard."
Dean looked at the half-packed duffel bag, then back at you. He didn't try to touch you again. He didn't launch into another defense. For the first time since you’d met him, Dean Di Laurentis had nothing to say.
"Fine," he whispered.
He turned around and walked out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind him.
You sat on the window sill for a long time, watching the snow blanket the campus in a deceptive, pristine white. Downstairs, you heard the heavy thud of the front door closing.
There was no shouting. There was no slammed door. There was no war, and there was certainly no peace. There was only the long, freezing winter ahead, and the terrible realization that sometimes, loving someone wasn't enough to save them from themselves.
you were sprawled across logan’s bed, legs kicked up against the headboard, scrolling through your phone while he sat at his desk, half-heartedly pretending to study.
the conversation had drifted. like it always did with logan—from stupid shit your ex did to sex, and somehow landed on the one thing you’d never admitted to anyone.
“wait, wait, wait.” he spun around in his chair, textbook forgotten.
“you’re telling me you’ve never-”
“squirted? no.” you rolled your eyes, not looking up from your phone. “it’s fake, logan. porn shit. girls fake it for views.”
he was quiet for exactly two seconds. then his chair rolled against the floor.
“the fuck y’mean it’s fake?”
you finally glanced up. he was standing now, arms crossed, jaw tight like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline in one sentence.
“i mean…” you said slowly, “that i’ve come before. orgasms are real. but squirting? that whole gushing thing? no chance. my ex tried once, ended up practically elbow-deep, and nothing happened. so i’m pretty sure it’s a myth.”
john’s eye twitched. like proper twitched when you insult a man’s beliefs.
he walked over to the bed, grabbed your ankles, and yanked you flat before you could protest. your phone clattered onto the sheets.
“logan!” you squeak out in surprise, laughing softly.
“you’re telling me..” he said, voice low, “that some useless fuck tried to make you squirt, failed, and now you think it’s not real?”
“that’s...yeah, basically.”
he ran a hand through his hair, let out a breath, and then his gaze dropped to your hips like he was solving a fucking equation. “that’s offensive.”
“are you serious?” you snort, laughing at the look on his face.
“yeah! you’ve been walking around thinking your body can’t do something it absolutely can!” he climbed onto the bed, knees bracketing your hips, hands planted on either side of your head.
“and that i’m gonna have to be the one to prove you wrong.”
you should’ve laughed. should’ve shoved him off and called him an idiot.
instead, your thighs pressed together. “log-”
“shut up.” but he said it softly, thumb brushing your jaw. “you trust me?”
you nodded before you could think.
his mouth found yours, deep and soft, like he was tasting you for the first time. his tongue slid against yours, and his hand traveled down, down, past your stomach, fingers curling under the waistband of your shorts.
“these need to go.” he murmured against your lips.
you lifted your hips, let him peel them off along with your panties. the cool air hit you, and you shivered, suddenly hyperaware of how wet you already were.
logan looked down. let out a low whistle.
“fuck. you’re soaked. just from talkin’ about it?”
heat crawled up your neck. “shut up.”
he grinned, not fading even as he settled between your legs, broad shoulders forcing them apart. his thumb found your clit without even looking – calloused, rough, rubbing lazy circles that made your back arch.
“’m gonna show you exactly what your body can do,” he said, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “and you’re gonna feel so good you forget every single idiot who couldn’t get it right.”
“logan – i’m telling you, it’s not gonna-”
he shoved two fingers inside you without warning. no build-up. no teasing. just the sudden stretch, the curl of his knuckles against your walls. you gasped, back arching.
"feel fake?" he pumped once, twice, watching your face. "feel good?"
"..yeah."
he shoved two fingers inside you.
the words died in your throat. your walls clenched around him, slick and hot, and he curled his fingers just right, pressing up against that spongy spot that made your vision blur.
“that feel fake to you?” he pumped slowly, watching your face. “feel good?”
“..yeah” followed by a breathy sound.
“good.” he added a third finger, stretching you open. the stretch burned in the best way, and you gasped, grabbing his hair on instinct. “i got you. just breathe.”
he kept a steady rhythm – in, out, curl. his palm slapped against your clit with every stroke, wet sounds filling the room. your legs tried to close, but he pinned your thighs over his shoulders, holding you open.
“thaaat’s it. you’re so fucking tight, baby. taking my fingers so well.” he murmured softly, eyes fixated on the way your hole was moving around his fingers.
he pulled his fingers out, and before you could complain at the loss, he lowered his head. his tongue dragged through your folds, flat and wet, then his mouth closed over your clit. he sucked hard, fingers still inside you, curling against that spongy wall.
then he pulled back, dragged his tongue down, and spat directly onto your clit. you cried out, fingers twisting in his hair. he looked up at you then, chin glistening, smirk sharp.
"that got your attention."
his fingers resumed – fucking you fast now, three of them, while his mouth worked your clit in rough, sucking strokes. the pressure built like a dam about to break. your whole body trembled, legs shaking, hands fisting the sheets.
"i can't – i can't-"
"you can." his voice vibrated against your skin. "you're gonna squirt all over my hand, and i'm gonna watch you fall apart. c’mon."
he curled his fingers hard, hit that spot dead-on, and sucked your clit into his mouth at the same time.
your orgasm hit like a freight train. it gushed out of you – hot, uncontrollable, soaking his hand, your thighs, the sheets beneath. it kept coming, pulse after pulse, while you screamed into the crook of your arm. your whole body convulsed, vision white, ears ringing.
john didn't stop. he groaned against you, drinking it down, fingers still pumping you through it. when you finally collapsed, limp and trembling, he pulled back.
his palm was glistening. his chin and shirt were wet. he brought his fingers to his mouth, licked them clean, and grinned.
"still think it's fake?"
you couldn't even answer. just stared at the ceiling, chest heaving, thighs sticky and sore.
he leaned up finally, kissed your forehead, and whispered,
