meg

It was the first home game of the season, and you'd been there in the stands with your roommate Sarah, screaming yourself hoarse when Briar scored in overtime. You'd grown up watching hockey with your dad every weekend, huddled on your worn couch with hot chocolate and a running commentary on every play. When you'd decided on Briar for college, one of the things that sealed the deal was knowing you could keep that tradition alive, even if it meant watching alone in the student section instead of next to your dad.

The after-party was at one of the off-campus houses the hockey team practically owned, all sticky floors and too-loud music and the smell of cheap beer and victory. You were near the kitchen, trying to explain to Sarah why that last goal had been such a brilliant play, when someone knocked into you hard enough that your drink sloshed over the rim of your cup.

"Shit, sorry—" The apology died when you turned around and found yourself face-to-face with Dean Di Laurentis himself, still riding the high of the win, his golden hair damp at the edges, grey eyes bright with alcohol and adrenaline. He looked you up and down with a slow, appreciative smile that probably worked on most girls. "Haven't seen you around before. You a Puck Bunny, or are you here with someone?"

You felt your spine straighten. "Excuse me?"

"You know." He leaned against the wall, all casual confidence. "Puck Bunny. Jersey chaser. Here for the players." His smile widened. "Because if you are, I'm happy to—"

"I'm here because I like hockey," you cut him off, your voice sharper than you'd intended. "Actual hockey. The sport. I've been watching it since I was six years old, and that goal you scored in the second period? It was decent, but you telegraphed the shot. The goalie knew exactly where you were going."

His eyebrows shot up. For a second, he just stared at you, and you couldn't tell if he was offended or impressed. Then he laughed, this genuine, surprised sound that made something flutter traitorously in your chest.

"Telegraphed it, huh?"

"Your shoulder dropped. Dead giveaway."

"And you know this because...?"

"Because I actually watch the game instead of just showing up to get laid afterward."

He laughed again, shaking his head. "Okay, fair. I'm Dean."

"I know who you are."

"And you are...?"

You told him your name, and he repeated it like he was testing how it felt in his mouth. Then he said, "Let me buy you a drink to make up for the Puck Bunny comment."

"This is a house party. The drinks are free."

"Then let me get you a free drink."

You should have walked away then. You should have seen exactly what he was—a player in every sense of the word, someone who collected girls like hockey pucks after practice. But there was something about the way he was looking at you, like you'd surprised him and he wasn't quite sure what to do with that, that made you stay for one drink.

One drink turned into an hour of arguing about hockey, about whether fighting should be allowed in the game, about the best players in the NHL. He was smart and funny and so goddamn charming that you had to keep reminding yourself what he was.

When he asked for your number at the end of the night, you said no.

"Why not?" He looked genuinely confused, like this was a new experience for him.

"Because I'm not interested in being another name on your list, Di Laurentis."

"What list?"

You just looked at him.

He had the grace to look slightly sheepish. "Okay, but what if I want to talk about hockey with you?"

"Then you can find me at the next game."

And he did. He saw you in the stands at the next game, and the one after that. Over the following semesters, Dean Di Laurentis made it his personal mission to get you to go out with him.

He'd find you in the library and leave coffee on your table with notes debating your takes on the latest NHL trades. He eventually secured your number and texted you after games asking if you'd noticed how he didn't telegraph his shots anymore. He showed up at the campus coffee shop where you worked Tuesday mornings, ordering the same terrible black coffee and leaving ridiculous tips.

"Dinner," he'd say, leaning across the counter with that crooked smile. "Just dinner. We can talk about hockey the whole time."

"No."

"A movie?"

"No."

"A walk? Just a walk across campus. Very public. Very innocent."

"Dean, no."

"Why not?" He'd lean closer, and you'd catch the scent of his cologne, something clean and woodsy that made your stomach flip. "Give me one good reason."

"Because you sleep with anything that moves, and I'm not interested in being another notch on your bedpost."

"What if I promised you wouldn't be?"

"Your promises don't mean much when half the girls in my dorm have stories about you."

He'd wince at that, but he never denied it. At least he was honest.

The thing was, part of you wanted to say yes. Part of you noticed the way his face lit up when he talked about hockey, the way he actually listened when you talked, the way he kept showing up even when you kept turning him down. But you'd seen too many girls fall for Dean Di Laurentis and end up crying in the bathroom at parties, and you weren't going to be one of them.

Then you met Mark.

Mark was safe. Mark was a business major who didn't play sports, who took you on actual dates and called when he said he would and introduced you to his parents over Parents' Weekend. Mark was everything Dean wasn't—steady, reliable, boring.

You didn't realize he was boring until after you broke up.

Dean backed off when you started dating Mark. You'd see him sometimes at games or around campus, and he'd nod at you, smile that crooked smile, but he never pushed. Never tried to get between you. You almost respected him for it.

Mark and you lasted a year and a half. You broke up about three months ago. It was mutual and amicable and completely bloodless, which should have told you everything you needed to know about your relationship. When you can break up with someone and feel mostly relieved, you probably shouldn't have been together in the first place.

You didn't tell anyone except Sarah, but somehow Dean knew within a week.

He didn't pounce immediately, which surprised you. Instead, he just started showing up again. At the coffee shop, back to his Tuesday morning routine. At the library, leaving coffee and notes like no time had passed at all.

"I'm sorry about Mark," he said one day, sliding into the chair across from you in the library.

"How did you even know?"

He shrugged. "I pay attention."

"It's fine. It was mutual."

"Still." He was quiet for a moment, spinning his coffee cup between his hands. "You doing okay?"

And the thing was, he seemed to genuinely care about the answer. You talked for an hour that day, and he didn't ask you out once. Didn't make a move. Just talked to you like you were friends, like he actually gave a shit about how you were doing.

He did that for weeks. Just... showed up. Made you laugh. Reminded you why you'd been tempted in the first place.

"Malone's tonight," Sarah said one Friday. "You need to get out of this apartment."

Malone's was the bar where everyone went after games and Briar had won that night, so the place was packed with celebrating students. You were three beers in and finally feeling like yourself again when Dean appeared at your elbow.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself." You had to raise your voice over the music. "Good game."

"You were there?"

"I'm always there."

His smile could have lit up the whole bar. "Want to get some air? It's loud as hell in here."

You should have said no. You should have remembered all your reasons, all your rules. But you were tired of being careful, tired of being the girl who always said no, tired of pretending you didn't feel the pull between you every time he was near.

"Yeah, okay."

Outside, the winter air was sharp and cold, and you could see your breath in the glow of the streetlights. Dean's car was parked at the back of the lot, and you ended up leaning against it, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the heat of him.

"I've missed you," he said quietly.

"You've seen me like three times this week."

"You know what I mean."

You did. God help you, you did.

"Dean—"

"I know. I know all your reasons. I know what you think of me, and you're probably right. But I can't stop thinking about you. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since freshman year."

"You've been with plenty of other girls since freshman year."

"Yeah." He turned to face you fully, and in the dim light, his eyes were dark and serious. "Because I couldn't have you."

It was a line. It had to be a line. Dean Di Laurentis had a million lines, and this was just another one.

But when he kissed you, it didn't feel like a line.

It felt like falling, like the moment right before a fight breaks out on the ice when everything goes still and sharp. His hands cupped your face like you were something precious, and when you kissed him back, you felt him smile against your mouth.

"Your place or mine?" he murmured against your lips.

"Car," you said, because you couldn't wait, because if you waited you might remember all your reasons and change your mind.

His car was cramped and awkward, the steering wheel digging into your back, his head hitting the roof when he moved wrong, both of you laughing breathlessly in the dark. It wasn't smooth or practiced. It was fumbling and desperate and real in a way you hadn't expected. His hands were everywhere—tangled in your hair, sliding under your shirt, gripping your hips like he was afraid you'd disappear. You could taste beer and want on his tongue, could feel his heart hammering against yours.

When it was over, you sat in the fogged-up car, your head on his shoulder, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm.

"I should drive you home," he said, his voice rough.

"Yeah."

But when you got to your apartment, neither of you wanted the night to end. You ended up in your bed, and this time it was slower, softer. This time you could see his face in the lamplight, could watch the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. He took his time, learning what made you gasp, what made you arch into him. He kissed every inch of skin he could reach, murmured your name like a prayer.

This time, it felt dangerous in a completely different way.

That was two months ago.

Two months of Dean showing up at your apartment at midnight after games, still riding the high of victory or nursing the sting of defeat. Two months of stolen mornings and tangled sheets and the smell of his cologne on your pillows. Two months of inside jokes and late-night food runs and the way he kisses your shoulder when he thinks you're asleep.

Two months of not talking about what this is.

You're not dating. You're not a couple. You're just... this. Whatever this is. And you keep telling yourself you're fine with it, that you knew what you were getting into, that you're not going to be the girl who falls for Dean Di Laurentis and expects him to change.

But sometimes, when he looks at you a certain way, or when he remembers how you take your coffee, or when he texts you in the middle of the day just to say something reminded him of you—sometimes you wonder if maybe you already are.

Sometimes you wonder if maybe he's already changed.

"Babydoll, you coming?" Dean asks, holding his hand out to you as he stands at the entryway of the bar. His cheeks are flushed from the drinks and the warmth of the crowded venues you've already hit tonight.

It's a Saturday night, and he'd convinced you to come out with him and his teammates for a bar crawl. So far the group has made it to three bars with two more to go, and you're about five drinks in—though you've been slacking compared to some of the others, nursing your drinks while they've been throwing them back like water.

You're reaching for his hand when something across the street catches your eye. Outside a nightclub, illuminated by neon lights, sits a vintage photo booth. The kind with the velvet curtain and the promise of four grainy pictures that will probably be terrible and perfect all at once.

You drunkenly point at it, your eyes lighting up. "Look!" you grin, your words slightly slurred. "Dean, look!"

He follows your gaze and chuckles, that warm sound that makes your stomach flip every single time. "A photobooth? What, you wanna go in?"

"Please?" You clasp your hands together in front of your chest, giving him your best pleading expression. It's ridiculous and over-the-top, and you know it, but the alcohol has made you brave and uninhibited in a way you usually aren't.

He stares at you for a moment, and you watch his expression soften. His jaw clenches slightly, and there's something in his eyes—something tender and almost vulnerable—that makes your heart skip. "Since you asked so nicely," he teases, but his voice is quieter than before, more sincere.

He grabs your hand and leads you across the street, weaving through the late-night traffic with the confidence of someone who's had just enough to drink to feel invincible. The photo booth smells like old plastic and the ghost of a thousand other people's memories. Dean fishes some crumpled bills out of his wallet and feeds them into the machine before sitting down on the small bench.

He pulls you into his lap without hesitation, and you giggle as you shift to get comfortable, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder, and you can feel him smile against your neck.

"Silly face first," you insist, turning to look at him with exaggerated seriousness.

He laughs and leans forward to start the countdown. When the flash goes off, you're both making ridiculous faces—tongue out, eyes crossed, cheeks puffed. The second shot is more of the same, Dean making a face like a fish while you pretend to strangle him.

But by the third photo, something shifts. The silliness fades into something softer. You turn in his lap to face him, and instead of making a face, you just look at him. Really look at him. His dark eyes are warm and focused entirely on you, and when he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.

"Hi," he whispers, like he's seeing you for the first time.

"Hi," you whisper back.

The flash goes off, capturing the moment—his hand still in your hair, your face tilted up toward his, the way you're looking at each other like the rest of the world doesn't exist.

For the fourth and final shot, he kisses you. It's soft and unhurried, tasting like whiskey and want and something that feels dangerously close to love. Your hand finds the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, and you kiss him back like you're trying to memorize the feeling of his mouth on yours.

When you pull apart, you're both breathing a little harder than necessary.

"That one's definitely gonna be my favorite," he murmurs against your lips.

You don't tell him that it's yours too. You don't tell him that you're starting to think maybe this—whatever this is—might be more than just two people scratching an itch. You don't tell him that you're terrified of how much you're starting to care.

Instead, you just smile and let him pull you out of the booth, your hand in his, the four photos clutched in your other hand like they're the most precious thing in the world.

Maybe they are.

Skin Care 

Two weeks later, it's a Friday night, and Dean has come over to your apartment. He was supposed to go out with his friends tonight, but when he asked if you wanted to come, you declined. You'd had a headache all day, and you just wanted to stay in and relax without the assault of loud music and a crowded frat house.

Going out every weekend was kinda his thing, but you were like a drug that he needed his fix of, so he'd asked if he could come over. You'd said yes without hesitation—which should have been your first clue that things had shifted between you.

The hookup happened less than five minutes after he arrived, urgent and familiar, your bodies moving together like they'd been doing this for months. Because they have. But afterward, as you lay tangled in your sheets in your favorite pajama set, eating the Chinese takeout he'd ordered, something felt different. Softer. More like a date than a booty call.

Dean got up to use the bathroom a few minutes ago, leaving the door open to talk to you. "This was way better than going out tonight." He says as you hear the toilet flush and the clatter of him putting the seat back down. What a gentleman.

"You're so full of shit, I know you wish you were out getting wasted on frat row with a girl on either arm," you say, rolling your eyes. That's sort of what he's notorious for, but part of you thought if that's what he wanted to do with his night, nothing was stopping him. He chose to skip out on it, to spend time with you.

He doesn't respond right away. You hear the faucet turn on before he speaks. "Well, I wouldn't be here if I preferred that to getting to see the face you make when you cum," He says teasingly, and you blush.

"Shut up," You mutter, stabbing a piece of broccoli from your takeout container. The room is quiet for a couple of minutes as you scroll through Instagram on your phone.

"Do I look like a smurf?" Dean's voice echoes from your bathroom.

You look up from your phone to see him standing in the doorway, your cooling face mask strapped to his head. He looks absolutely ridiculous, and you can't help but laugh.

"What are you doing?" you ask, setting your food aside.

"I found it in the tiny fridge," he says, motioning to your skincare fridge. "Is this like in case you get punched in the face?"

"No, you idiot," you laugh, shaking your head. "It's for depuffing. It's part of my skincare routine, but I usually just use it when I’m hungover or something."

He studies himself in the mirror with exaggerated seriousness. "Maybe I should get one of these."

"Do you want me to do my routine on you?" you ask, already reaching for your phone to snap a picture of him looking ridiculous.

"Hell yeah!"

"It'll cost you," you say with a smirk. "Another round."

He matches your smirk and crosses his arms. "As if I'd say no to that, Babydoll."

You roll your eyes at the nickname, but you're already standing up, taking his hand and leading him back to your bathroom. It's small and warm, lit by the soft glow of your vanity lights. Your products are lined up like little soldiers—serums and essences and creams in glass bottles and sleek tubes.

"Okay, first we need to take that off then we’ll use some cleanser," you say, guiding him to sit on the edge of your bathtub. You move your hands behind his head to undo the straps and gently slip it off his face. Next, you grab a washcloth and wet it with warm water before squeezing a little bit of your cleanser onto it. You rub the cloth over his face, your fingers carefully on his skin as you wipe away the suds. He watches you the entire time, his dark eyes tracking your movements like you're the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

"This is very intimate," he murmurs.

"Shut up," you say, but you're smiling.

You pat his face dry and start with the toner, pouring a small amount onto a cotton pad. As you swipe it across his forehead, his cheekbones, his jawline, he sits perfectly still. There's something vulnerable about him like this—letting you take care of him, trusting you with his face. It's such a stark contrast to the confident hockey player who usually commands every room he enters.

"This smells like flowers," he observes as you move to the essence.

"It's rose and hyaluronic acid," you explain, gently patting the liquid into his skin. Your fingers are gentle, methodical. "It hydrates."

"You're very thorough," he says, and there's something almost tender in his voice.

You apply the serum next, then the moisturizer, your hands moving across his face with practiced ease. By the time you're done, his skin is glowing, and he looks at you with an expression that makes your chest tighten.

"Your turn," he says, reaching for your wrist.

"What? No—"

"Come on. Teach me."

So you do. He stands up and lifts you onto the counter and stands between your legs as he carefully applies each product to your face, his touch uncertain but earnest. He concentrates like he's performing surgery, his brow furrowed, his tongue poking out slightly. It's endearing and ridiculous and somehow the most intimate thing you've done together.

When he's finished, he cups your face in his hands and just looks at you for a long moment.

"What?" you ask softly.

"Nothing," he says. "You're just... really beautiful."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. This isn't what you signed up for. This domestic, tender version of Dean. This version that does your skincare with you and looks at you like you matter.

"Come on," you say, taking his hand. "Let's go to bed."

“What about the other round I owe you?” He asks jokingly. 

“Mmm, you’ll just have to pay me back in the morning.” You say, crawling into bed.

“Deal,” He says, watching you for a moment before settling into the sheets beside you. He pulls you against his chest, his chin resting on top of your head. You fall asleep like that, wrapped up in him, the scent of your skincare products mingling between you.

For the first time in four months, you don't try to convince yourself that this is just physical. You don't try to pretend that what you're feeling is anything less than real.

And that terrifies you more than anything else ever has.

Cigarettes After What?

The snow starts falling on a Tuesday night, fat flakes that stick to your apartment windows and muffle the sounds of the city below. You knew that they were calling for snow tonight, but figured it wouldn’t be much, so Dean still came over after practice. Speaking of Dean, you're too busy with Dean to notice the snow falling. His mouth on your neck, his hands everywhere, the familiar heat building between you until it peaks and breaks like a wave.

Afterward, you're lying tangled in your sheets, your skin still flushed and damp with sweat. The radiator hisses softly in the corner, filling the room with warmth that makes you feel drowsy and content. Dean's fingers trace lazy patterns on your hip—circles, figure eights, abstract shapes that make your skin tingle. You're staring at the ceiling, trying to catch your breath, when you notice how quiet it is outside. The usual sounds of your apartment complex—car horns, distant sirens, drunken college students—are all muted, softened by something.

"It's snowing," you say, turning your head to look at the window. The flakes are coming down thick and fast now, blanketing everything in white. The streetlights cast an orange glow on the falling snow, making it look almost magical.

Dean props himself up on one elbow to look, his hair messy from your fingers, his lips still swollen from kissing. "Shit. That's a lot of snow."

You reach for your phone on the nightstand, squinting at the brightness of the screen. "Winter storm warning. They're saying twelve to eighteen inches. Possibly more."

"Guess I'm stuck here," he says, and there's something in his voice—not disappointment, but something softer. Relief, maybe. Hope.

"Guess so," you murmur, setting your phone down beside you.

You should feel trapped. Anxious. The walls should feel like they're closing in. Instead, you feel something dangerously close to contentment. Like this is exactly where you're supposed to be.

Dean settles back against your pillows, pulling you closer so your head rests on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. "Put on some music," he suggests, his fingers playing with your hair.

You scroll through your phone with one hand, and without really thinking about it, you pull up Cigarettes After Sex. The opening notes of "K." fill the room, dreamy and atmospheric, all reverb and longing. Dean makes a soft sound of approval, his chest rumbling under your ear.

"Good choice," he says. "I love this band."

"You know them?"

"Babydoll, I'm not a complete Neanderthal," he teases. "I have taste."

You smile against his skin. "Could've fooled me."

He pinches your side gently, and you squirm, laughing. The song shifts to "Affection," and you lie there for a while, listening to the music, watching the snow fall through the window. Dean's hand finds yours under the covers, his fingers lacing through yours like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like you've been doing this for years instead of months. His thumb strokes across your knuckles, back and forth, a soothing rhythm that matches the music.

The weight of his hand in yours feels significant somehow. More intimate than sex. More real.

"I need a cigarette," you say eventually, even though you only smoke when you're drunk or stressed or feeling something too big to name. Right now, you're definitely feeling the latter two. 

"Me too," Dean says quietly.

You extract yourself from the warmth of the bed reluctantly, the cool air of the apartment raising goosebumps on your bare skin. You pull on his hoodie—it smells like his cologne and laundry detergent and something uniquely him—and a pair of sweatpants. Dean tugs on his boxers and t-shirt, not bothering to look around your bedroom floor for his pants. The apartment is warm from the radiator, but you grab a blanket anyway, wrapping it around your shoulders as you unlock the sliding door to your small balcony.

The cold hits you immediately, sharp and clean and shocking after the warmth inside. Your breath comes out in white puffs. Snow has already accumulated on the railing, on the small bistro table you never use, on the two chairs you bought at a yard sale and never sit in. You brush the snow off the railing, the cold biting at your fingers, and lean against it. Dean stands beside you, close enough that you can feel his body heat radiating through the blanket.

The city looks different in the snow. Softer. Quieter. Almost peaceful.

You light two cigarettes with shaking fingers—from the cold or nerves, you're not sure—and pass one to him. The smoke curls up into the falling snow, disappearing into the white. You take a drag and feel the familiar burn in your lungs, the slight head rush that comes with it.

"It's beautiful," you say quietly, watching the snow fall. It's hypnotic, the way the flakes spiral and dance in the wind.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, but when you glance at him, he's looking at you, not the snow. His dark eyes are intense, searching your face like he's trying to memorize every detail.

Your heart does that complicated thing again. That flutter and squeeze that you've been trying to ignore for weeks.

He looks away, takes a drag of his cigarette. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken things. You can feel the tension building, the weight of everything you've both been avoiding.

"Can I ask you something?" he says after a moment, his voice careful.

"Sure."

He's quiet for a long moment, like he's gathering courage. "What are we doing?"

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy and inevitable. You take a drag of your cigarette, buying yourself time. Your heart is hammering now, your palms sweating despite the cold.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, Babydoll," he says, and his voice is gentle but firm. "You know what I mean."

You do. You've known for weeks now, maybe longer. You've just been too scared to acknowledge it. Too scared to put words to the thing that's been growing between you, taking root in the spaces between hookups and late-night conversations and domestic moments that feel too real.

"I don't know," you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dean turns to face you fully, and you can see the frustration and fear and hope warring in his expression. "I do," he says. "I know exactly what we're doing. At least, I know what I'm doing."

You can't look at him. You stare at the glowing end of your cigarette instead, watching the ash build. "Dean—"

"I'm falling for you," he says, and the words come out in a rush, like he's been holding them back for too long. "Hell, I think I've been falling for you since freshman year, since that first party when you told me you actually liked hockey and weren't just there for the players. But especially these last few months. Every time I'm with you, every time I leave, it gets harder. And I know that's not what we agreed to. I know this was supposed to be casual, just hooking up, no strings. But I can't keep pretending this is just sex."

Your breath catches. The cigarette trembles slightly in your hand, ash falling onto the snow-covered balcony floor.

"Dean—"

"You don't have to say anything," he continues, and now there's desperation in his voice. Vulnerability that you've never heard from him before. "I just needed you to know. Because I can't keep doing this if it's only physical for you. If I’m just your rebound. I can't keep showing up here and pretending I don't want more. It's killing me."

The vulnerability in his voice breaks something open in your chest. This is Dean Di Laurentis, the guy who's had half the campus in his bed, the confident hockey star who never seems rattled by anything. The guy who walks into parties like he owns them, who scores goals and makes it look effortless, who's never met a challenge he couldn't charm his way through.

And he's standing on your balcony in the middle of a snowstorm, half-dressed and shivering, telling you he's falling for you. Telling you it's killing him.

You take another drag of your cigarette, trying to steady yourself. Your mind is racing, your heart pounding so hard you think he might be able to hear it.

"Say something," he says quietly. "Please."

"I don't know what to say," you whisper.

"The truth," he says. "Just tell me the truth. If this is just physical for you, if I'm just another hookup, tell me. I'll deal with it. But I need to know."

You look at him then, really look at him. His dark eyes are pleading, his jaw tight with tension. Snow is catching in his hair, on his bare shoulders, melting against his warm skin. He looks vulnerable and terrified and so goddamn beautiful it makes your chest ache.

"It's not just physical for me either," you whisper.

He goes very still. "What?"

"I'm scared," you admit, and now the words are tumbling out, unstoppable. "I'm terrified, actually. Because I just got out of a year and a half long relationship and I told myself I wouldn't do this. When you started showing up for coffee on Tuesdays again and then the library and texting me after your games… I told myself I wouldn't fall for you. You were supposed to be the guy I said no to. The player, the hockey star who goes through girls like they're disposable. I wasn't supposed to be one of them."

"You're not—"

"But somewhere between the car at Malone's and the photo booth and you doing my skincare routine with me, I did. I fell for you. And I don't know how to unfeel it. I don't know how to go back to not caring."

Dean's face transforms. The fear melts away, replaced by something that looks like wonder. He sets his cigarette on the railing with shaking hands and steps closer, cupping your face in his palms. His hands are cold from the air, but his touch is gentle, reverent. His thumbs brush your cheekbones, wiping away tears you didn't realize were falling.

"Then don't," he says simply. "Don't unfeel it. Don't go back. Just... let yourself feel it. Let yourself have this."

"What if you break my heart?" you ask, and your voice cracks on the last word. "What if this is just new and exciting for you? Like you’re just riding a high after the chase and in a few weeks you get bored and move on to someone else?"

"What if you break mine?" he counters. "What if I give you everything and you decide I'm not worth it? We're both taking a risk here, Babyl. But I think you're worth it. I know you are."

The snow falls around you, soft and silent, accumulating on the balcony floor, on the railing, on both of you. You're shivering now, from cold and emotion and the weight of this moment.

"I've never felt like this before," Dean continues, his voice raw. "I've been with other girls, yeah. But it was never... it never meant anything. It was just physical. Just fun. But with you, it's different. Everything's different. I think about you all the time. When I'm at practice, when I'm with the guys, when I'm supposed to be studying. I think about the way you laugh at my stupid jokes and the way you look when you're concentrating on something and the way you feel in my arms. I think about how you actually watch the games, how you know the plays, how you yell at the refs. I think about how you let me do your skincare routine and how you look in my t-shirt and how you make me want to be better."

Your breath hitches. "Dean—"

"I'm in love with you," he says, and the words hang in the air between you, crystalline and perfect. "I'm in love with you, and I'm terrified too. But I'd rather be terrified with you than safe without you."

The snow falls around you, soft and silent, as you look up at him. His eyes are so dark, so earnest. You can see your reflection in them, can see the hope and fear mirrored back at you.

"Okay," you breathe.

"Okay?"

"Okay. No more trying to unfeel."

Dean's smile is brilliant, transforming his entire face. And then he's kissing you, deep and slow and full of promise. You taste smoke and snow and something that feels dangerously like forever. His hands slide from your face to your hair, tangling in it, pulling you closer. You drop your cigarette, forgotten, and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing yourself against him despite the cold.

The kiss is different from all the others. It's not urgent or desperate or fueled by alcohol and lust. It's tender and deliberate and full of meaning. It's a promise and a confession and a beginning all at once.

When you finally pull apart, you're both breathing hard, your lips swollen, your hearts racing. Snow has accumulated on both of you, melting where your bodies press together.

"We should go inside," you say, but you don't move.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, but he doesn't move either. He just looks at you, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "You're shivering."

"So are you."

"Don't care," he murmurs, and kisses you again, softer this time. Sweeter.

When you finally do go inside, the warmth of the apartment is almost overwhelming. You slide the door closed behind you, shutting out the cold and the snow and the rest of the world. Dean pulls you close, wrapping the blanket around both of you, and you stand there in the middle of your living room, just holding each other.

"So what does this make us?" you ask against his chest.

"Whatever you want," Dean says, his chin resting on top of your head. "But I'd really like to call you my girlfriend."

Your heart swells, expanding until it feels too big for your chest. "I'd like that too."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands framing your face again. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again, and you think that maybe falling isn't so scary after all. Not when someone's there to catch you. Not when that someone is Dean Di Laurentis, looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.

The music is still playing from the speaker in your bedroom—"Apocalypse" now, all haunting vocals and dreamy guitar. The snow is still falling outside, blanketing the city in white. And you're standing in your apartment with Dean, officially his girlfriend, feeling like everything has shifted into place.

"Come on," you say, taking his hand. "Let's get back in bed. I'm freezing."

"Best idea you've had all night," he says with a grin, and lets you lead him back to your bedroom.

You climb under the covers together, and he pulls you against him immediately, his arms wrapping around you, his legs tangling with yours. You're both still cold from the balcony, but you warm each other, body heat building between you.

"I can't believe you're my girlfriend," Dean murmurs against your hair.

"I can't believe you're my boyfriend," you reply. "Four months ago, I would've laughed if someone told me this would happen."

"Four months ago, I was already planning how to make it happen," he admits. "I just had to be patient."

You tilt your head back to look at him. "Patient? You?"

"For you? Yeah." He kisses your forehead. "You're worth waiting for."

Your heart does that complicated thing again, but this time it doesn't scare you. This time, you let yourself feel it. Let yourself have this.

Outside, the snow continues to fall, trapping you together in your small apartment. But you don't feel trapped. You feel safe. Warm. Loved.

And for the first time in four months, you're not afraid of what comes next.

It's Friday night, and the bass from the speakers inside Hawks House is already vibrating through your chest as you push through the front door. The air is thick with the smell of beer, cologne, and the particular musk of too many bodies crammed into one space. You've been here less than five minutes, still weaving your way through clusters of people in the entryway, when you feel it—that prickle of awareness that tells you someone's watching you.

You glance up, and there he is.

Beau's across the room, standing with a group of his friends and teammates near the archway to the kitchen. But his attention isn't on whatever story Tucker's animatedly telling. His eyes are locked on you, and the smile that spreads across his face when your gazes meet makes your stomach flip.

He doesn't even excuse himself. Just immediately breaks away from the group and starts making his way toward you, moving through the crowd with the easy athleticism of someone who's spent his whole life navigating around defenders. You haven't even made it to the kitchen yet when he reaches you.

"Can I get you a drink, M'lady?" Beau says, sliding up next to you with that devastating grin. His hand finds your waist like it belongs there, warm and possessive even through your shirt.

You look up at him, unable to stop the giggle that escapes. "M'lady?" you question, raising an eyebrow. "What are you, a knight in shining armor?"

"Mhmm." He hums, already steering you through the crowd toward the kitchen, his hand sliding to the small of your back. The touch sends a pleasant shiver up your spine. "You don't like it?"

"I didn't say that," you say, biting your lip as his fingers press slightly more firmly against your back, guiding you around a group of girls taking selfies. "It's cute. Very chivalrous."

"Good," he says, satisfaction clear in his voice. "Now what'll it be?"

You've barely crossed the threshold into the kitchen when he's already moving, releasing you only to grab a Corona from the cooler on the counter. He holds it up with a questioning look, and you nod, taking it from him.

"Wait, let me guess what you need," he says, and there's something playful in his tone now, like he's showing off. "I told Tuck to get limes… They should be around here somewhere…"

He steps around you, and you turn to watch him, leaning back against the counter. Your heart's doing something stupid in your chest—something fluttery and warm and dangerous. Three weeks. You've known this guy for three weeks, and he's already memorized your drink order.

"Ah ha!" He opens the fridge with a triumphant flourish, emerging with a lime in hand. "Lime for the pretty lady."

You cross your arms, fighting back a smile. "What if I didn't want a beer with lime?" you challenge, even though you both know you do. 

"Uh, well," he turns around, grabbing a knife from the drawer with the confidence of someone who's been in this kitchen a hundred times, "I know you won't drink one without."

He takes the beer bottle from your hand, and you watch—mesmerized—as he opens it with practiced ease. He cuts a wedge of lime, squeezes the juice into the bottle, rubs it along the rim, and then shoves the wedge down the neck before handing it back to you.

The whole thing takes maybe thirty seconds, but you're staring at the bottle like it's a marriage proposal.

Because it kind of feels like one, doesn't it? This casual demonstration that he's been paying attention. That he's noticed the little things. That he cares enough to remember.

"Or are you feeling like tequila and OJ tonight?" he asks when you don't immediately take the beer from his hand. There's a flicker of uncertainty in his expression now, like maybe he's misread you. "I can make you something else if—"

Your mind snaps out of whatever mini trance it was in, and you feel heat flood your cheeks. "No, no, the Corona is good," you say quickly, taking it from him. Your fingers brush his, and even that small contact makes your pulse jump. "Perfect, actually. Keep 'em coming." You add the last part jokingly, taking a sip to hide your flustered smile.

But Beau's face lights up, and before you can process what he's doing, he's reaching over you—close enough that you can smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean—and grabbing two more bottles from the cooler.

"Say less," he says with a smirk that should be illegal.

You watch in disbelief as he turns around and slides one bottle into each of his back pockets, the necks sticking out like the world's most ridiculous accessory.

"I was kidding, Beau," you chuckle, but you can't stop staring at him. At this absurdly sweet, gorgeous guy who's literally putting beers in his pockets for you. "You're going to look ridiculous walking around like that."

"I gotta keep a stock for my girl," he says with a wink, turning back to face you.

My girl.

The words hit you square in the chest, and suddenly the noise of the party fades into background static. Your heart skips a beat—no, several beats. Maybe your heart just stops functioning altogether, because how are you supposed to remain calm when he says things like that?

He said it so casually, too. Like it's a fact. Like you've already had the conversation about what you are to each other, even though you haven't. Not officially.

But standing here in this crowded kitchen, with Beau looking at you like you're the only person in the room, with two beers sticking out of his back pockets because he wants to make sure you're taken care of—you think maybe you don't need the official conversation.

Maybe this is enough.

Maybe this is everything.

You take another sip of your beer, watching as Beau grabs his own from the counter and twists off the cap. The kitchen is getting more crowded by the minute, bodies pressing in from all sides as people reach for drinks and shout conversations over the music.

"You wanna get some air?" Beau leans down, his breath warm against your ear so you can hear him over the noise.

You nod, grateful for the escape, and he takes your free hand in his, threading your fingers together as he guides you through the throng of people. You catch a few knowing looks from his friends as you pass—Dean smirking into his cup, Logan raising his eyebrows—but Beau doesn't seem to notice or care. He's focused on getting you outside.

The back door leads to a small patio that opens up to the backyard. It's quieter out here, the bass from inside reduced to a dull thump. String lights are draped between the trees, casting everything in a soft golden glow. A few people are scattered around, but Beau keeps walking, pulling you toward the far corner of the yard where an old wooden swing hangs from a massive oak tree.

"Better?" he asks, finally stopping and turning to face you.

"Much better." You smile up at him, suddenly aware of how close he's standing. Close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the way his hair falls just slightly across his forehead.

He gestures to the swing. "Wanna sit?"

You settle onto the weathered wood, and he slips the two beers from his pockets, setting them on the grass before he sits beside you, close enough that your thighs touch. The swing sways gently with the added weight. For a moment, neither of you speaks. 

"So," Beau starts, then stops. He takes a swig of his beer, and you notice his knee is bouncing slightly—a nervous habit you've picked up on over the past few weeks.

"So," you echo, bumping your shoulder against his.

He laughs, a soft exhale through his nose, and turns to look at you. "I'm not usually like this."

"Like what?"

"Nervous." He runs his free hand through his hair. "I don't get nervous around girls. But you..." He trails off, shaking his head with a smile that's equal parts amused and bewildered.

Your heart is hammering in your chest. "Me what?" You say stupidly.

"You make me nervous," he admits, his eyes finding yours. "In the best way possible. Like, I want to make sure I don't fuck this up."

You bite your lip, trying to contain the smile threatening to split your face in two. "You're not fucking anything up."

"Good. That's good." He shifts on the swing so he's facing you more fully. His hand finds your knee, thumb tracing absent circles that send sparks up your spine. "Because I really like you. Like, really like you. And I know it's only been a month, and maybe I'm moving too fast, but—"

"You're not," you interrupt, placing your hand over his. "Moving too fast, I mean. I feel it too."

His expression softens, relief washing over his features. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You nod, feeling brave. "I've never felt like this before. Not this quickly. Not this... intensely."

Beau's thumb stops its movement, his hand turning to lace his fingers with yours. "I called you 'my girl' in there."

"I noticed." Your voice comes out quieter than you intended.

"Did you mind?"

You shake your head. "No. I liked it."

"Good." He squeezes your hand. "Because that's how I think of you. I know we haven't had the whole 'what are we' conversation, but I'm not seeing anyone else. I don't want to see anyone else. Just you."

The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest ache in the best way. This confident, charming guy who could probably have anyone he wanted is sitting here telling you that you're it for him.

"Just me," you repeat softly, testing the words.

"Just you," he confirms. He reaches up with his free hand, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger against your cheek, and you lean into the touch. "You're kind of perfect, you know that?"

You laugh, feeling heat rise to your face. "I'm not perfect."

"Perfect for me, then." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "You laugh at my stupid jokes. You text me back at 2 in the morning when I’m spiralling about my historical analysis paper. You don't think it's weird that I cry during Les Mis—"

"It would be weird if you didn't cry during Les Mis," you interject. 

He grins. "See? Perfect." His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. "And you're so fucking beautiful it actually hurts to look at you sometimes."

"Beau..." You don't know what to say, overwhelmed by the honesty pouring out of him.

"I'm serious." He leans closer, his forehead almost touching yours. "I know I'm probably supposed to play it cool or whatever, but I can't with you. I don't want to. You make me want to be all in."

"I'm all in too," you whisper, your hand coming up to rest against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat, rapid and strong beneath your palm. "This scares me a little. How much I already feel for you."

"Me too," he admits. "But the good kind of scared, right?"

"The good kind," you agree.

He closes the remaining distance between you, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that's soft and sweet and full of promise. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepens it slightly. You sigh against his mouth, and he smiles into the kiss.

When you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours, both of you slightly breathless.

"So…” He trails off. “How cheesy is it for me to ask if you’ll be my girlfriend? Too middle school or-”

“Yes.” You cut him off. “I mean… Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“Thank god.” he breathes, pulling you into his arms. You curl into his chest, feeling his chin rest on top of your head as the swing rocks gently beneath you. "Allie's going to be so smug about this."

“Mmm, so worth it though.”

“One thousand percent worth it.” He smiles.

You sit like that for a while, wrapped up in each other under the string lights, the party continuing without you inside. And for the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly right.

Cue the Heart

It’s been a couple of weeks since Beau asked you to be his girlfriend, and somehow he’s been acting even sweeter than before. Which you did not think was possible. 

The two of you have such busy schedules, but he's managed to make more than enough time for you. Coffee before your morning classes. Lunch almost every day. Coming over to your apartment immediately after practice, still smelling like grass and sweat, collapsing onto your couch as if he lives there.

Some might say it was a honeymoon phase, but you didn’t care. It was pretty perfect, and you wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible, so you both agreed to keep your new relationship on the downlow. So far, only your closest friends knew that the two of you were dating. 

The news would surely make its way around campus like wildfire eventually, but for now it was more private. You liked it that way. Just the two of you in your own little bubble that only a select few people knew about. Less questions that way. Less prodding. 

And when your little bubble inevitably popped, that’d be okay. You just were in no rush to do it yourselves. 

“I might poke someone’s eye out,” you say, holding the pool cue awkwardly. 

You, Beau, Allie, and Dean are at Malone’s, and the guys have decided to teach the two of you to play pool. They were originally playing with just the two of them while you guys waited for some other friends to show up, but you and Allie got roped into it somehow.

“Well, you’ll just have to be careful not to do that, beautiful.” Beau chuckles, placing a kiss on your temple as he cautiously reached for the cue in your hands. 

“Easier said than done.” You sigh, looking up at him. “Maybe you should just go back to playing each other.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.” Allie chimes in as Dean slides his hands to her waist and turns her body back toward the pool table.

“Worst idea I ever heard.” He says, lining her arms up for a shot and whispering something in her ear that made her giggle. 

“I’m obviously not good at knocking balls into holes.” You say, pouting up at Beau. 

“That’s why you have to practice. After tonight you’re gonna be so good, you’ll want to join a league.” He winks.

You both glance over at the table as the sound of balls clattering together rings in your ears for the millionth time tonight. “Oh! I actually hit one in!” Allie cheers, jumping up and down. 

Dean smirks as she turns to face him. “Right, but next time do it with one of our balls… That was stripes; we’re solids, babydoll.”

You and Beau start laughing hysterically, and Allie glares at the two of you. “Thanks, Al.” Beau flashes her a grin as he surveys the table, trying to plan his next move. 

He settles on a spot at the table opposite you and starts to line up his shot. You watch closely, studying his movements as he rests the cue between his thumb and the knuckle of his pointer finger, leaning in close with the most focused look on his face. He starts a chain reaction after hitting the white ball, which then collides with a solid; the solid bounces off the side and into a stripe that rolls into a corner pocket. He sinks two more balls before missing on his last shot, but it was intentional. He got the ball close enough to where he wanted it that he was sure he could get you to knock it in on your turn. He stands up straight and smirks at Dean, “Your turn, my friend.” Beau says, walking around the table to your side. 

He slides an arm around your waist, pulling you close as Dean lines up his next shot. You lean into him naturally now, your body fitting against his like you've been doing this for years instead of weeks. His thumb traces lazy circles on your hip, and you have to bite back a smile at how casually intimate the gesture is.

"Okay, you’re up," Beau says after Dean misses his shot, his voice warm against your ear. "Come on, I'll help you."

"Beau, I'm hopeless," you protest, but he's already guiding you toward the table with gentle hands on your shoulders.

"You're not hopeless. You just need the right teacher." He positions you in front of the shot he lined up for you, a stripes ball sitting near a corner pocket. "Alright, see that one? The orange one?"

"The thirteen ball?"

"Look at you, knowing the numbers," he teases, and you elbow him lightly. "Okay, so you're gonna aim for that. But first—" He steps behind you, his chest pressing against your back as his hands find your hips. "Your stance is all wrong."

Your breath catches as he nudges your feet apart with his own, adjusting your position. "Wider," he murmurs. "You need a stable base."

"This feels ridiculous," you say, but your voice comes out breathier than intended.

"Trust me." His hands slide from your hips to your arms, guiding them into position on the cue. "Now, lean forward a bit. Yeah, like that." One of his hands settles on your lower back, steadying you. "See how that feels more balanced?"

"Mhmm," is all you can manage, hyper-aware of every point where his body touches yours.

"Okay, now—" He reaches around you, his hand covering yours on the cue. "You want to make a bridge with your other hand. Like this." He guides your left hand to the table, forming your fingers into the proper shape. "The cue rests right here, between your thumb and knuckle. Just like I was doing."

You try to focus on his instructions rather than the way his breath tickles your neck, the way his cologne surrounds you, the way his voice drops lower when he's concentrating.

"Now, keep your eye on the cue ball, but visualize the path to the thirteen." His hand is still over yours on the cue, guiding it back and forth in smooth practice strokes. "Nice and easy. Don't overthink it. Just let it flow."

"Easy for you to say," you mutter, but you're smiling.

"You've got this, princess. I can feel it." He pulls back slightly, giving you space but keeping one hand on your lower back. "Whenever you're ready."

You take a breath, line up the shot the way he showed you, and strike. The cue ball rolls forward, connects with the thirteen, and—

"Oh my God!" you shriek as the orange ball drops into the corner pocket with a satisfying thunk. "I did it! Beau, I actually did it!"

You spin around, and he's already there, catching you as you throw your arms around his neck. He lifts you slightly off the ground, laughing. "I told you! That was perfect!"

"Did you see that?" you ask, looking over at Allie and Dean.

"We saw, we saw," Allie says, grinning. "Very impressive."

"Beginner's luck," Dean adds with a smirk, but he's nodding approvingly.

"That was not beginner's luck," Beau says firmly, setting you back down but keeping his arms around your waist. "That was skill. Pure skill."

"Skill that you taught me," you point out, beaming up at him.

"Well, yeah, but you're the one who executed it." He presses a quick kiss to your forehead. "I'm so proud of you right now."

Your heart does that fluttery thing it's been doing constantly around him lately. "It's just pool, Beau."

"It's not just pool. It's you trying something new and crushing it." He grins. "Plus, you look hot when you're focused."

"Oh my God," you laugh, burying your face in his chest.

The game continues, and while you don't sink another ball, you don't really care. Dean and Beau dominate as expected, trading shots and trash talk while you and Allie cheer from the sidelines, making increasingly ridiculous commentary that has all four of you laughing until your sides hurt.

By the time the final ball drops into the pocket—Beau's winning shot, naturally—you're grinning like an idiot.

"Best two out of three?" Dean suggests, already reaching for the rack.

But Beau shakes his head, his arm sliding around your shoulders. "Nah, man. I'm good. Think we're gonna head out."

He doesn't ask if you want to leave. He just assumes you'll want to go with him, and the certainty of it—the way he's already planning the rest of the night around you—makes your heart skip.

"Already?" Allie pouts, but she's grinning knowingly.

"Yeah," Beau says, and when you glance up at him, he's looking at you like you're the only person in the room. "Already."

You wave goodbye to your friends, Beau's hand finding yours as you weave through the crowded bar toward the exit. And as you step out into the cool night air, his fingers laced with yours, you can't help but think that this honeymoon phase—this perfect little bubble you're living in—might just last longer than either of you expected.

One Month

"Where are we going?" you ask for the third time as Beau drives down a winding road you don't recognize, one hand on the wheel and the other laced with yours.

"It's a surprise," he says, flashing you that grin that makes your stomach flip.

"You know I hate surprises."

"No, you don't. You just like to pretend you do." He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Trust me?"

You sigh dramatically, but you're smiling. "Fine. But if you're taking me somewhere to murder me—"

"Then I've done a really terrible job of planning, considering I told Tucker where we'd be."

The road opens up, and suddenly you're pulling into a small clearing overlooking the valley. The view is breathtaking—rolling hills stretching out beneath a sky that's just starting to hint at sunset, all golds and soft pinks bleeding into blue.

But it's what's in the clearing that makes your breath catch.

A blanket is spread out under a large oak tree, weighed down at the corners with small lanterns. There's a wicker basket, a portable speaker, and—you squint—are those string lights wrapped around the lower branches?

"Beau..." you breathe as he parks and cuts the engine.

"Happy one month, beautiful." His voice is soft, almost nervous. "I know it's technically tomorrow, but I couldn't wait."

You turn to look at him, and he's watching you with an expression that's equal parts hopeful and vulnerable. "You did all this?"

"Well, Tucker helped me carry stuff up here earlier, but yeah. The planning was all me." He rubs the back of his neck. "Is it too much? I wasn't sure if—"

You kiss him before he can finish the sentence, pouring every ounce of affection you feel into it. When you pull back, he's grinning.

"I'll take that as a yes?"

"It's perfect," you whisper. "You're perfect."

He helps you out of the car, his hand steady on your lower back as you walk toward the setup. As you get closer, you notice more details—the blanket is actually the soft throw from his room, the one you always steal when you're over. The basket is overflowing with your favorite things: those ridiculously expensive dark chocolate truffles you mentioned once in passing, fresh strawberries, the Trader Joe’s sparkling lemonade you're obsessed with, sandwiches from that deli you love downtown.

"Beau, how did you—" You pick up the lemonade bottle, shaking your head in disbelief. "I mentioned this once, and the closest Trader Joe’s is like over 40 minutes from campus."

"You mentioned it three times, actually." He starts unpacking the basket, looking pleased with himself. "Once when we were at the grocery store, once when you were complaining about the dining hall drinks, and once when you were tipsy and very passionate about beverage choices. And no Trader Joe’s is too far when there’s something there to make my girl happy."

You laugh, settling onto the blanket beside him. "You remember all that?"

"I remember everything about you." He says it so simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Like how you talk in your sleep sometimes, and you hate when chocolate is too sweet, and you do this thing where you scrunch your nose when you're thinking really hard about something."

Your chest feels tight in the best way. "I can't believe you did all this."

"It's just a picnic," he says, but his ears are turning pink.

"It's not just a picnic." You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. "It's the most thoughtful thing anyone's ever done for me."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. "Can I tell you something?"

"Always."

"I know we said we'd take things slow, keep it low-key, not make a big deal out of everything..." He pauses, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. "But I'm not good at that. Not with you."

Your heart is hammering now. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm all in. I have been since that night at Drunk Shakespeare when you laughed at my terrible joke about Hamlet, and I thought, 'Oh, I'm completely screwed.'" He laughs softly, shaking his head. "I know it's only been a month, and maybe I'm supposed to play it cool or whatever, but I can't. Not when you're the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about before I fall asleep. Not when being with you feels like the easiest thing I've ever done."

You're pretty sure you've forgotten how to breathe.

"I'm not saying this to freak you out," he continues quickly. "I just—I wanted you to know. That this isn't casual for me. That you're not casual for me."

"Beau," you manage, your voice thick with emotion. "You're not freaking me out."

"No?"

"No." You shift closer, until your knees are touching his. "Because I feel the exact same way. I have from the start."

The smile that breaks across his face is radiant. He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You lean into his touch. "I'm all in too."

He kisses you then, soft and sweet and full of promise. When you finally break apart, the sun is sinking lower, painting everything in shades of amber and rose gold.

"Come here," he murmurs, shifting to lean back against the tree and pulling you with him. You settle between his legs, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist.

He reaches over to tap his phone, and soft music starts playing from the speaker—that indie playlist you made for him last week, the one you didn't think he'd actually listen to.

"You kept it," you say, surprised.

"Of course I kept it. It's from you." He presses a kiss to your temple. "I listen to it every day."

You turn your head to look up at him. "How are you real?"

"I ask myself the same thing about you." His arms tighten around you. "Every single day."

You stay like that as the sun sets, wrapped up in each other, sharing strawberries and chocolate and quiet conversation. The string lights flicker on as the sky darkens, casting everything in a warm, golden glow.

And sitting there, in Beau's arms, watching the stars begin to appear one by one, you think that maybe this isn't a honeymoon phase at all.

Maybe this is just what it feels like when you find someone who sees you—really sees you—and chooses you anyway.

Maybe this is what it feels like to fall in love.

It was Sunday night, and Garrett had asked if you wanted to come over. The two of you were supposed to watch a movie, but he had an assignment to finish first. So there you were lying in his bed, doomscrolling on your phone while he typed away on his laptop.

The video on your For You page made your mouth water—golden, flaky layers dusted with cinnamon sugar, cream oozing from the center as someone pulled the pastry apart. "Oh my god," you breathed, tilting your phone toward Garrett. "This place, like 30 minutes from here, has the most amazing cronuts. Look at this."

He glanced up from his laptop, brow furrowed. "What the fuck is a cronut?"

You gasped, pressing a hand to your chest like he'd just personally offended you. "You did NOT just say that. Garrett. It's a croissant-donut hybrid. Buttery, crispy, sweet—literally the most magical thing on earth."

"A croissant... donut." He said it slowly, like he was trying to solve a puzzle, and you couldn't help but laugh at the genuine confusion on his face.

"Yes, dummy! I've been dying to go, but—"

Before you could finish, his hands found your waist, fingers digging into your sides. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he said, grinning as you squealed and tried to squirm away, "that I've never heard of your precious cronut. I must've had my head up my ass."

"Stop! Garrett!" You were breathless with laughter, swatting at his hands until he finally relented, pulling you against his chest instead.

You didn't think much of it after that. It was just another random conversation, another moment in the collection of moments you'd been building together. But apparently, Garrett had filed it away somewhere.

The following Friday, he texted you after your morning lecture: Don't make plans. I'm taking you somewhere.

Where? You texted back immediately.

It's a surprise. Be ready in 20.

You stared at your phone, equal parts excited and anxious. This wasn't unusual—Garrett was spontaneous like that—but something about the way he'd phrased it made your stomach flip. You changed your shirt three times before settling on something casual but cute and were pacing by your door when he finally texted that he was outside.

When you slid into his car, he was grinning at you in that infuriatingly smug way that meant he knew something you didn't.

"What?" you asked, buckling your seatbelt.

"Nothing." He pulled out of the parking lot, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to rest on your thigh as if it belonged there. "You look nice."

"Thanks." You tried to sound casual, but your heart was doing that stupid fluttery thing again. "So are you going to tell me where we're going, or...?"

"Nope."

"Garrett."

"Patience, babe." The nickname rolled off his tongue so easily, like he'd been calling you that forever. It made your chest tighten in the best way.

You watched the campus buildings blur past, then the familiar streets of the surrounding town. When he merged onto the highway, you sat up straighter. "Wait, are we leaving town?"

"Maybe."

"That's not an answer!"

He laughed, squeezing your thigh. "You're so impatient. Just trust me, okay?"

You settled back into your seat, trying not to overthink it. The radio played some alternative playlist he'd made, and you found yourself relaxing into the drive, stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn't looking. The way his jaw tensed slightly when he concentrated on the road. The way his thumb traced absent circles on your leg.

The closer the two of you got to your mystery destination, the more you started recognizing the area. Your heart skipped when you saw the cafe in the distance. "Garrett..."

"Hmm?"

"Are we going where I think we're going?"

His grin widened. "Depends on what you're thinking."

"Oh my god." You sat up fully now, pressing your hands to your face. "You didn't."

"I did." He glanced over at you, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. "Your chariot to cronut heaven has arrived."

When he pulled into the cafe's parking lot, you just sat there for a moment, staring at the charming brick building with its hand-painted sign and flower boxes in the windows. It looked exactly like it had in the TikTok videos—quaint and cozy and perfect.

Inside, the cafe was even better than you'd imagined. Exposed brick walls lined with local artwork, mismatched vintage furniture that somehow worked perfectly together, and string lights draped across the ceiling that gave everything a warm, golden glow. The smell hit you immediately—brown butter and espresso and something sweet and yeasty that made your mouth water.

"Oh my god," you whispered. "It smells amazing in here."

"Yeah?" He was watching you instead of the cafe, that soft expression on his face again.

You dragged him toward the display case, where rows of cronuts sat like little works of art—some dusted with cinnamon sugar, others glazed and topped with fresh berries, a few drizzled with chocolate. "Look at them. They're perfect."

The barista behind the counter smiled at your enthusiasm. "First time here?"

"Yes! I've been wanting to come for forever." You pressed your hands against the glass like a kid in a candy store.

"Well, you picked a good day. The raspberry cream ones just came out of the oven."

You looked up at Garrett with wide eyes. "Raspberry cream."

"Get whatever you want," he said, pulling out his wallet. "This is your cronut day."

You ordered the raspberry cream cronut and a vanilla latte. Garrett got a plain cronut—"I need to experience this properly," he explained—and a black coffee. While you waited, you found a small table by the window, the morning light streaming in and making everything feel soft and dreamlike.

"I can't believe you did this," you said, watching him settle into the chair across from you.

He shrugged, but you could see the pleased smile tugging at his lips. "You seemed really excited about it. And I figured..." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know. I wanted to do something nice for you."

Your chest felt too full. This guy who you weren't even officially dating had driven thirty minutes just because you'd mentioned cronuts once. Had remembered, had planned this, had wanted to make you happy.

When the server brought your order, you just stared at your plate for a moment. The cronut was perfect—golden and flaky, dusted with sugar, with raspberry cream visibly oozing from the center. You picked it up carefully, pulling it apart to watch the layers separate, the cream stretching between the two halves.

"Okay, moment of truth," you said, taking a bite.

It was everything you'd hoped for and more. Buttery, crispy on the outside, soft and pillowy on the inside, with the sweet-tart raspberry cream cutting through the richness perfectly. You actually moaned.

Garrett laughed. "That good?"

"Better." You pushed your plate toward him. "Try it."

He broke off a piece, popping it in his mouth. His eyes widened almost comically. "Okay. Okay, I get it now. This is fucking incredible."

"Right?!" You were grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. "I told you!"

"You were very right." He reached across the table to steal another piece, and you didn't even protest. "I'm sorry I ever doubted the cronut."

You watched him try his plain one next, the way he actually took his time with it, savoring it. The cafe hummed with quiet conversation around you, the espresso machine hissing in the background, but it all felt distant. Like you two existed in your own little bubble.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "For this. For remembering."

He looked up at you, and there was something in his expression that made your breath catch. Something tender and uncertain and hopeful all at once. "Of course I remembered. I remember everything you tell me."

The weight of that statement hung between you—all the things you weren't saying, all the questions about what you were to each other that neither of you had been brave enough to ask yet. But sitting there in the golden morning light, with cronuts and coffee and his hand reaching across the table to lace his fingers through yours, it felt like maybe you didn't need to define it just yet.

Maybe this—whatever this was—was enough for now.

"So," he said, breaking the moment with a grin. "Scale of one to ten, how magical was the cronut?"

"Eleven," you said immediately. "Definitely an eleven."

"Better than you imagined?"

"Better than I imagined." You squeezed his hand. "Though I think the company might have something to do with that."

He laughed, that full-bodied sound that made everything feel lighter, and pulled your hand up to press a kiss to your knuckles. "Smooth."

"I learned from the best."

You stayed there for another hour, talking about nothing and everything—his terrible professor, your upcoming exam, how hockey practise was kicking his ass, the book you were reading. Easy conversation that flowed like you'd been doing this forever.

And when you finally left, his arm around your shoulders as you walked back to the car, you couldn't stop smiling. Couldn't stop thinking about how he'd remembered. How he'd planned this. How he'd wanted to make you happy.

It was just cronuts. But it felt like so much more than that. God, for a man that had no interest in relationships, he sure made it hard not to catch feelings.

Park Bench Pad Thai

Two months had passed since that first cronut date, and things between you and Garrett had only gotten better. Easier. More comfortable. But you still existed in that same undefined space—not quite dating, not quite just talking. You'd made peace with it, or so you told yourself. You were willing to give him time to figure out what he wanted.

However, today you had been giving him the silent treatment. 

Last night he had gone to a party with some of his friends, nothing out of the usual. You weren’t much of a party girl, so when he asked you to come, you decided to pass. Going out every weekend was draining to you, and after the week you’d had, you’d rather stay home reading a good book and sipping a cheap bottle of wine. 

Your night in was soon ruined as a notification came through while you were in bed, already half-asleep with a book open on your chest. 

A text from your friend: um… did you see this?

Below it, a screenshot from the school's gossip page. The image was grainy, clearly taken from across a crowded room, but unmistakable. Garrett on a couch, red solo cup in hand, some blonde girl perched on his lap. Her arm was draped around his shoulders. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't pushing her off either. The caption read: Garrett Graham getting cozy at Sigma Chi 👀

Your stomach dropped.

You locked your phone and stared at the ceiling, your book forgotten. Sleep didn't come easy after that.

The next morning, he sent you a text: good morning sweets ☀️did you finish your book??

Ignored.

An hour later, your phone buzzed with a call. His name lit up the screen. You let it ring through to voicemail.

“hey just wanted to hear your voice. call me back?”

More texts like “you okay?” and “did I do something?” and “babe please just talk to me” followed, and you continued to ignore everyone.

Each one made your chest tighter, but you didn't respond. You sat on your couch stress-eating Lucky Charms straight from the box and refreshing that stupid gossip page like it might offer answers.

Eventually he resorted to calling your roommate. You heard her answer in the kitchen, "Hello?"

"Hey, is she there?" Garrett's voice was tiny through the speaker. "She's not answering my calls."

Your roommate appeared in the doorway, phone in hand, eyebrows raised in question. You shook your head firmly.

"Sorry, dude, but she has no interest in speaking with you right now." She watched you for confirmation. You nodded.

"I don't understand what she's ignoring me for. What did I do?" The frustration in his voice was palpable.

"Mmm, maybe check the gossip page." Your roommate's tone was pointed. "You might find your answer."

She hung up before he could respond.

He stared at his phone in confusion before opening the Instagram app on his phone and going straight to the gossip page, instantly seeing the photo that must have caused this. “Shit,” he muttered to himself. 

About an hour later, a knock echoed through your apartment. Three sharp raps, then a pause, then three more. You knew it was him before you even looked through the peephole. He stood in the hallway, hair slightly disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it, a plastic bag from your favorite Thai place dangling from one hand.

“Go away!” you call through the door.

“Come on, can we talk?” he says, holding up the takeout bag as if you would be able to smell it through the door. “I brought a peace offering!”

“No, thanks! Maybe go share it with one of your puck bunnies!” you shout before retreating from the door.

Silence. Then, a quieter, almost resigned "Well, I'll just leave it for you."

You walk back to the door and look through the peephole. No Garrett… Just a bag of Thai food… but you’re sure that he’s still out there, so you wait 5 minutes before opening the door quietly to try and get a look down the hall without him potentially hearing, but you fail. He springs up from where he was sitting pressed against the wall and shoves his foot in the gap between the door and the frame before you can shut it. 

“Ha! Knew you couldn’t resist pad thai.” He says, sounding happy with himself.

“Garrett-” before you can finish yelling at him, he forces the door open a bit more and sticks his head in the gap with a grin plastered on his face. “This is-”

“Ridiculous? I know.” He says, his cheeks pressed against the doorframe, squishing his face in a way that would've been funny if you weren't so annoyed. “Can we go for a walk? Please?”

“Do I have a choice?” you ask with a sigh.

“I mean we could stand here with my face in your doorway all night, or we could go for a walk and eat this pad thai while it's still hot…” he paused, “So yeah, I’d say you have a choice.” 

You mull it over for a moment. You could probably stand here all night, but you were hungry. “Okay, fine. I’ll be out in a second… Can I shut the door?”

“Uh, no, shutting the door is not an option here.” he shakes his head slightly, and you stifle a laugh from the way his cheeks smush against the wood. You huff and walk off to your room to grab a hoodie. You return to see him standing in the doorway, bag of food in hand, and he offers his free hand out to you. 

You shake your head and slip on a pair of shoes. “No hand holding.”

He dropped his hand with a sigh, “Fair.” 

You brushed past him into the hallway, and he followed, pulling your door shut behind him. The evening air was cool when you stepped outside, the sun just starting to dip toward the horizon, painting everything in shades of orange and pink.

“Am I right in assuming you saw that post from last night?” he asked as you started down the sidewalk that wound through your apartment complex.

“What would make you think that?” Your voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Listen, I’m sorry if it bothered you, but nothing happened with that girl, Y/N.” He was watching your face, trying to gauge your reaction. “She sat on me with no warning. I pushed her off like 2 seconds after that picture, that I didn't even know existed, was taken.”

"Mhmm." You kept walking, arms crossed over your chest.

"I'm serious. Ask anyone who was there."

"It doesn't matter anyway, Garrett." You shrugged, aiming for casual even though your heart was hammering. "We're not exclusive."

He stops for a moment, wondering if he’s going insane. You have been ignoring him all day, and now you’re saying it doesn’t matter. “What mind game are you trying to play right now?” He asks suspiciously, watching you plop down on the bench. 

“None. No games.” You smile, motioning for him to sit. “I mean, you agree, right? We’re not exclusive, so it doesn’t matter?”

He looks at you skeptically before striding to the bench and sitting on the opposite end. He sets the takeout in between the two of you and crosses his arms. “It does matter… because it bothered you.”

You reached for the bag, pulling out a container and opening it slowly. The smell of basil and lime and peanut sauce wafted up. "Okay, fine. It bothered me." You stabbed at a piece of chicken with your fork. "But here's the thing… You said you pushed her off in two seconds. You've been blowing up my phone all day. You show up at my door with Thai food, refusing to leave. " You look up at him. "Why?"

He shifts uncomfortably. "Because... I don't know. I hated that you were ignoring me."

"Right. And if I told you some random guy had pulled me into his lap at a party last night, how would you feel about that?"

His jaw tightens immediately. "I'd feel like I need his name and address."

You can't help but smile a little at that. "So it bothers you too."

"That's different—" 

"How?" You set down your fork and turn to face him fully. "How is it different, Garrett?"

He runs a hand through his hair, that nervous tell you've come to recognize. "Because... fuck, I don't know. It just is."

"Is it because you don't want me with anyone else?" you ask softly, your teasing tone giving way to something more genuine.

The silence stretches between you. He's staring at the pavement, his knee bouncing slightly. Finally, he looks at you. "No. I don't want you with anyone else."

"I don't want you with anyone else either," you admit, your heart hammering in your chest.

He slides closer on the bench, the takeout bag crinkling between you. "So what are we doing here? This whole 'not exclusive' thing is clearly bullshit."

"I was waiting for you to figure that out," you say with a small smile.

He laughs, shaking his head. "So we're doing this? Like, actually doing this?"

"Yeah." You reach for his hand. "We're exclusive. Official. Whatever you want to call it."

He laces his fingers through yours, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you on the bench. "Took us long enough."

"Took you long enough," you correct, and he kisses you to shut you up, tasting like relief and pad thai and finally, finally yours.

Frame by Frame

The museum was quieter than you expected for a Saturday afternoon. Garrett had texted you that morning with just: “wear something cute. picking you up at 2.”

When you'd asked where you were going, he'd only sent back a winky face.

Now you stood in the contemporary wing, natural light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, your hand tucked securely in his as you wandered past installations and paintings. He'd been touching you constantly since you became official a week ago—a hand on the small of your back, fingers tangled with yours, his arm draped across your shoulders like he was making up for lost time.

"Okay, but seriously," you said, stopping in front of a massive canvas covered in what appeared to be random splatters of paint, "what am I supposed to be seeing here?"

Garrett tilted his head, studying it with mock seriousness. "Clearly it's a commentary on the existential dread of modern capitalism."

"It's called 'Untitled'"

"Even better. The artist was too filled with existential dread to name it."

You laughed, leaning into his side. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, casual and easy, like he'd been doing it for years instead of days.

In the next gallery, you found yourselves in front of an interactive piece—a wall covered in small mirrors at different angles, creating infinite reflections. Garrett pulled you in front of him, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both stared at the fractured versions of yourselves multiplied endlessly.

"We look good together," he murmured against your ear.

"Yeah?" You watched his reflection smile.

"Yeah." His arms tightened around your waist. "Like, really good."

You turned in his arms, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "You're being very sappy today, Graham."

"I'm allowed to be sappy. I have a girlfriend now." He said it so simply, so naturally, like the word had always belonged in his mouth. "Gotta make up for three months of playing it cool."

Your heart did that stupid fluttery thing again. "Oh, is that what you were doing? Playing it cool?"

"Terribly, apparently." He kissed your nose. "Come on, I want to show you something."

He led you through two more galleries until you reached a room filled with photographs—black and white images of ordinary moments made extraordinary through composition and light. A woman laughing in a cafe. Rain on a window. Two people's shadows stretching across pavement.

Garrett stopped in front of one in particular: a couple on a bench, the photo taken from behind so you couldn't see their faces, just the way their bodies leaned toward each other, the man's arm stretched across the back of the bench, the woman's head tilted toward his shoulder.

"That's us," you said softly. "Last week."

"I know." His thumb traced circles on your hip. "Minus the artistic black and white filter and the fact that we were eating Thai food."

"And that I was mad at you."

"Minor details." He grinned, then grew more serious. "I'm glad you gave me a chance to fix it. To fix us."

Before you could respond, an older woman approached, museum badge clipped to her cardigan. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but we're closing this gallery in five minutes for a private event."

"No problem," Garrett said, then gestured to the photograph. "Quick question though—do you know anything about this piece?"

The woman's face lit up. "Oh, this is from Sarah Chen's collection. She spent a year photographing couples in public spaces, trying to capture intimacy in ordinary moments. This particular one was taken in Paris, I believe."

"It's beautiful," you said.

"It is, isn't it?" The woman smiled warmly. "Are you two visiting together?"

"Yeah, it's actually our first official date," Garrett said, and there it was again—that easy confidence, his hand finding yours and squeezing. "I'm trying to impress my girlfriend with my sophisticated taste in art."

The word landed differently this time. Not just between the two of you, but out in the world. Real. Official. Girlfriend.

The woman's smile widened. "Well, I'd say you're doing a wonderful job. You two remind me of that photograph, actually—the way you look at each other."

After she left, you turned to Garrett with raised eyebrows. "Sophisticated taste in art? You literally said that one painting was about existential dread."

"I stand by that interpretation." He pulled you toward the exit. "And she said I was doing a wonderful job, so clearly my strategy is working."

"Your strategy of what? Being sappy and saying 'girlfriend' as many times as possible?"

He stopped walking, turning to face you with that soft expression that made your knees weak. "Is it working?"

"Maybe." You rose on your tiptoes to kiss him, soft and sweet. "Say it again."

"Girlfriend," he murmured against your lips.

"Again."

"My girlfriend." He kissed you properly this time, one hand cupping your face, the other pulling you closer by the waist. "My girlfriend who I'm taking to get overpriced art museum coffee now because I'm a gentleman."

"You just want those cookies they have."

"I want those cookies, and I'm a gentleman. Both things can be true."

You let him lead you toward the cafe, your fingers laced through his, and everything felt right. Easy. Like you'd finally found your way to where you were always supposed to end up.

"Hey, Garrett?"

"Yeah?"

"I’m glad I gave you the chance to fix us too,” you say with a soft smile. “Now that you have a girlfriend, you better not fuck this up," you tease.

He grinned, squeezing your hand. "No pressure, right?"

"Exactly. Zero pressure. Just don't be an idiot."

"I'll do my best." He pulled you closer as you walked. "Though fair warning… I do still plan on stealing food off your plate."

"That's exactly the kind of fucking up I'm talking about." You chuckle, bumping your shoulder against his. “You’ve got like the hottest girlfriend at Briar now; don’t waste it,” you add jokingly.

“Oh, I know exactly what I have.” He said, looking at you with a smirk. "And trust me, you’re stuck with me."

"Good answer." You squeezed his hand.

Who knew Garrett Graham could be such a lover boy?

It’s fall, so it’s a little chilly outside, but you don’t mind it so much. The lace fabric of your dress was pretty sheer, but it had long bell sleeves that were better than nothing in the crisp autumn air. You had tights on too, which were also sheer, but again better than nothing. Honestly, stepping outside provided you with a breath of fresh air. A quiet, open, still space where you felt a smidge less anxious about whatever it was that was about to happen. Way better than inside the house, which was packed like a sardine can with blaring music that you could still hear outside, just a muffled version of it. It was nice.

“It’s quieter,” he said, walking over to the corner of the yard farthest from the house. There were two simple patio chairs and a little table set up right by the biggest tree in the yard. It sort of provided some privacy from any peering eyes that may be watching from the fire. There were also string lights hung on the entire backyard fence, so the area was dimly lit. With as many times as you have been over to this house, you could not remember ever seeing this corner set up in such a cute way. 

Garrett finally lets go of your hand as the two of you make it to the chairs. “Has this always been over here?” You ask, looking up at him curiously. “The chairs and stuff, I mean.”

“Uh, no…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I moved the chairs from around the fire, and we’ve kept this table in the shed for a while. Someone stood on it at a party last year and almost broke it.” 

“So you set this little spot up today?” 

“Yeah…” he says with a shrug as if there was no meaning behind it. He clearly planned out this conversation, but knowing that just leaves you wondering. What is his end goal? He motions to the chairs. “Sit.” 

You bite your lip and do as he says, taking a seat in one of the chairs and setting your drink on the table. “Garrett, I-“

“Can I- do you mind if I talk first?” He asks, cutting you off as he sits down next to you. You nod. You honestly weren’t even sure of what you were going to say, so letting him take the lead with this conversation may be for the best. And it seemed really important to him that you let him get something off his chest first. The sort of strained expression on his face made that clear. 

***

Aria was dancing with a random guy when she realized you were missing. She had been making sure to look over at where you and Henry were talking every few minutes just to make sure you were okay. This time, she glanced over to see only Henry awkwardly leaning against the wall. “What the fuck?” She mumbled to herself as her eyes scanned the room, looking for you. You were nowhere to be seen. And after another survey of the room, she realized neither was Garrett.

She saw Dean a few feet away from her, flirting with a girl- not surprising. Aria abandoned the guy she was with and squeezed past a few people to reach Dean, grabbing his upper arm and yanking him back a bit. “Have you seen, Garrett? Or Y/N?” She asked without even saying excuse me. 

Dean smirks, “Mhmm, a few minutes ago, yeah.” 

“So you saw them together?” 

“I may have convinced him to-“

The girl that Dean was flirting with just moments ago interrupts. “Are we not gonna make out?” 

Aria looks at her with a fake smile. “No, he has more pressing matters to attend to. Go find someone else to suck face with.” The girl looks to Dean, and before he can try to salvage his chances with her, Aria covers his mouth. “Run along,” she says, waving her off.

She scoffs and steps away. Dean pouts, turning to Aria, “Wow, you just-“

“Shut up and tell me where they went,” Aria says, dragging Dean to the kitchen where Tucker is still lingering, making drinks and refilling the snack bowls. 

“I convinced him to talk to Bug.” He shrugs.

“Wait, they're talking?” Tucker asks, overhearing the conversation. 

“Yeah, Gare saw Bug talking to that dude she went out with yesterday, and he was practically foaming at the mouth. I told him to go get his girl.” Dean explains as if it’s not the most important information of the night.

“And you didn’t tell us?” Aria exclaims, staring at him like he grew a second head.

“Didn’t tell us what?” Logan asks, walking up to the group. “What’d I miss?”

“Garrett and Bug are talking.” Tucker fills him in. 

“Oh shit!” Logan looks around the room. “Where are they?”

“Garrett took her outback. He set up a little spot for them to sit earlier. It’s honestly kinda adorable.” Dean smiles.

“I have to see,” Aria says before marching over to the back door. Tucker quickly tries to reach her. “No, we can’t follow them!” He shouts. Logan and Dean look at each other, “Just a quick peek?” Logan suggests. Dean nods, and they follow after the other two. Aria slips outside first, making sure to be quiet as she decides to move behind a bush by the side of the house. The three guys follow suit and crouch down behind the bush with her, the four of them now engaged in the most ridiculous stakeout ever.

“This is ridiculous,” Tucker mumbles just as Dean points to the corner of the backyard where you and Garrett were sitting, slightly hidden by a large oak tree. “There they are,” Dean whispers.

“He really set that up today?” Aria asks quietly. 

“Yeah, we told him to talk to her tonight, and he wanted to make sure they had a quiet spot,” Dean says. All four pairs of eyes are trained on the two of you intensely, watching for any signs of how the conversation is going.

The two of you are facing each other. Garrett had scooted his chair almost directly in front of yours, so your figure was slightly obscured by his. 

“Can you hear them at all?” Logan asks, starting to lean over the bush. “Maybe we should get closer.”

Tucker grabs the back of Logan’s jacket and pulls him back behind the bush. “Absolutely not. We are not crawling across the yard to eavesdrop on their conversation.”

“What? Why not?” Logan protests, peeking over the bush. 

“Dude, if they catch us, Garrett will have our heads,” Dean says in a serious tone.

“And she’ll be embarrassed,” Aria adds. “We just have to watch them like it’s a silent movie. We’ll be able to make out the vibes.”

***

“You said you loved me,” Garrett says after a few moments of silence. 

Your stomach drops.

Your eyes widen.

You weren’t expecting him to start with that. “What?” Is the only word you’re able to get out.

“Last night.” His voice is rough. “After Malone’s. We were in bed, and I told you to sleep and-“ He pauses for a moment. “You said ‘I love you.’”

“I-“ you suddenly feel like you can’t breathe. Your heart is pounding in your chest as your brain short-circuits. “I was drunk. Really, really drunk and I don’t even remember saying it, so-“ 

He pushes back his chair and stands up. “So it doesn’t count?” He asks, looking down at you for a moment before he starts pacing. “You were drunk, so it doesn’t mean anything?”

***

“Oh shit,” Tucker says, almost wincing as Garrett suddenly stands up. “That doesn’t seem good.”

“Shhh.” Aria nudges him. “Let it play out.”

They watch as Garrett paces a bit, and you stand with him. You say something, putting your hand on his arm to still him. He looks down at you, and more words are exchanged before he throws up his hands as if in defeat. Now you are the one pacing, with your hands pressed to your face. 

“Maybe we should go back inside?” Tucker suggests. “This seems intense.”

“Shut up, Tuck.”

“Shhhhh.”

“Hush!” 

Tucker sighs and turns back to watch the two of you. You stopped pacing and looked up to Garrett, starting to say something. They still couldn’t hear you, but they could tell the conversation had shifted. You had moved in closer to him, and the energy between the two of you was warm. You two were figuring this out.

“Okay, now we go.” Aria smiles, “We don’t need to see anymore. They’ve got it.”

The four of them sneak off back into the house. Giving you and Garrett your privacy. 

***

“I didn’t say that.” You stand up, reaching your hand up to catch his arm. “Garre-“

He stops as you grab his arm and looks at you, his shoulders tensed, and his hands clenched at his sides. “Then what are you saying?” He asks, cutting you off. “Because I have been losing my fucking mind for the past 24 hours trying to figure out if you meant it or if you were just- just, I don’t know, too drunk or caught up in the moment or something.”

“Garrett-“

“And then you show up tonight, and you won’t even look at me.” His voice falters. “You didn’t want me to pick you up. You’ve been avoiding me all night. And now you’re standing here telling me it doesn’t mean anything because you were drunk? What am I supposed to think?” He throws up his hands with a defeated look on his face. 

“I’m not-“ You press your hands to your face and huff, starting to pace in front of him, trying to think. “I’m not saying that it doesn’t count. I'm saying I don't remember, okay? I don't remember saying it, and I don't know what context I said it in, and I-" Your pacing halts as you drop your hands, meeting his eyes. "I'm terrified, Garrett. I'm absolutely terrified."

His expression shifts, some of the anger washing away, revealing more of the vulnerability.  "Of what?"

"Of this!" You exclaim, gesturing between you. "Of whatever this conversation is. Of-" Your voice breaks.  "Of ruining everything."

He stares at you for a long moment, trying to figure out how to articulate what he wants to say. Then, quietly, he says, "What if you already did?" …That’s the best he could come up with?

Your heart stops. "What?"

"What if you already ruined it?" He's not angry anymore. He just sounds... tired. "I just mean what if I can't go back to pretending I don't-" He stops, shakes his head. "Fuck."

"Garrett." You take a step toward him. "What are you saying?"

He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I'm saying I'm in love with you."

Time feels like it stops in this moment. Did you hear that right? Or are you in a dream? You move your hands behind your back and pinch your palm… no, not a dream.

"I'm saying I've been in love with you for months, and I've been too much of a coward to do anything about it because I didn't want to fuck up what we had. And then you said it first, and I thought-" He runs his hand through his hair again. "I thought maybe I wasn't crazy. Maybe you felt it too."

You can't speak. Can't move. Can't do anything but stare at him.

"But then you woke up, and you didn't remember," he continues, his voice getting rougher. "And you looked at me like nothing had changed, and I realized that you didn't mean it. Or you did, but you didn't want to mean it. And I don't- " He stops, his jaw clenching. "I don't know what to do with that."

You look down at your feet, processing everything he’s just admitted to you. "When?" The word comes out as barely a whisper.

He looks at you, confused. "When what?"

"When did you-" You glance back up at him. "When did you realize?"

He's quiet for a moment, and you can see him deciding whether to answer. Whether to give you this. He clears his throat. "Uh, remember that night in June? It was like the last week you were on campus before you went home for the summer. We stayed up all night watching movies and were just about to go to bed when you mentioned The Princess Bride. You couldn’t believe I had never seen it, so you ended up forcing me to watch it."

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"You knew every single line," he says, and there's something soft in his expression now. "You did all the voices, Vizzini's lisp, Inigo's accent. The whole sword fight scene. You were so animated, so completely in your own world." He shakes his head. "You weren't performing for me. You were just... being you. And I remember sitting there on the couch, watching you act out 'Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya' for the third time, and thinking-" His voice catches. "Thinking I could watch you do this for the rest of my life."

Your eyes are burning.

"You had this look on your face when Westley said 'As you wish,'" he continues. "Like it was the most romantic thing you'd ever heard. And I just- I wanted to be the person who made you look like that."

A tear slips down your cheek.

"And then there was that time you came to my game," he continues. "The one against the Vipers. You wore my spare jersey, and you screamed so loud when I scored that Tucker said he could hear you from the bench. And after, when we all went to grab dinner, all you could talk about was the game. You were so enthusiastic about it, too; you just kept talking about the game, every play, every call. You were so enthusiastic about it, like you actually understood. Like you actually cared."

"I do care," you manage.

"I know." His smile is small, sad. "That's the problem. You understand hockey and literature, and you make terrible jokes, and you sing karaoke like you're performing on Broadway, and you quote The Princess Bride like it's scripture, and you-" His voice cracks. "You're the most interesting person I've ever met, and I’m terrified that if I tell you that, you'll realize you can do better."

"Better than you?" You're crying now, you realize. Tears streaming down your face. "Garrett, you're-"

"I'm the guy who doesn't do relationships," he cuts you off, moving in closer to you. He lifts a hand to your face to wipe away the tears rolling down your cheeks. "I'm the guy everyone warns their friends about. I'm the guy who's spent the last year sleeping with you and pretending it doesn't mean anything because I was too scared to admit that it means everything.” He takes a shaky breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is raw. "But last night-" He stops. Starts again. "Last night, when you sang that song..."

Your breath catches. "What song?" You ask with a sniff as if you don’t know the answer.

"'Forever Your Girl.'" He's looking at you now, really looking at you, and there's so much emotion in his eyes it makes your chest ache. "You sang it right to me. You looked me dead in the eyes and sang 'hey baby, you gotta remember I'm forever your girl,' and I-" He laughs, but it sounds broken. "I couldn't breathe. Because you were telling me. Right there, in front of everyone, you were telling me how you felt."

"Garrett-"

"And then in bed, you said it out loud." His hands are shaking now. "You said 'I love you', but you were drunk, and I didn't know if you'd remember, and I was so fucking scared that you'd wake up and regret it."

He steps closer, close enough that you can see the tears in his eyes.

"But tonight, watching you talk to Henry… watching him look at you like he has any right to, I realized I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend I don't love you. I can't watch you smile at other guys and act like it doesn't kill me. I can't-" His voice breaks completely. "I can't lose you without at least telling you the truth."

You're sobbing now, your whole body shaking.

"So here it is," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I love you. I'm in love with you. I have been for months, maybe longer. And if you don't feel the same way, if last night was just the alcohol talking, then-" He swallows hard. "Then I'll deal with it. But I needed you to know."

For a moment, you just stand there, tears streaming down your face, your heart hammering so hard you think it might burst.

And then you're moving.

You close the short distance still between you in one step, your hands finding his face, pulling him down to you. You kiss him roughly, like it's the only way to speak, like it's the only thing that will make him understand.

"You're an idiot," you whisper against his lips after breaking the kiss.

He freezes. "What?"

"You're an idiot," you repeat, pulling back just enough to look at him. "Because I do feel the same way. I have for months. And I meant it last night… I meant every word, I just didn't remember saying it because I was drunk and terrified and-" you stop for a moment to collect your thoughts. "I do love you," you say, and this time you remember. This time it counts. "May," you whisper.

He blinks. "What?"

"May." You wipe at your face with shaking hands. "It was May for me. The night you got food poisoning," you continue. "Remember? You texted me at like two in the morning because you were dying and Tucker wasn’t home and Logan and Dean were useless."

"Bug-"

"I came over in my pajamas," you say, the words tumbling out now. "And you were so pathetic, Garrett. You were lying on the bathroom floor in your boxers, and you looked up at me and said 'I think I'm dying' in this tiny, miserable voice."

He huffs out a laugh.

"And I sat with you," you say. "For hours. I got you water and crackers, and I rubbed your back while you threw up, and at some point, you fell asleep with your head in my lap on your disgusting bathroom floor. And I remember sitting there at four in the morning, with your head in my lap and my back against the bathtub, thinking-" Your voice breaks. "Thinking that I would sit on a thousand bathroom floors for you. That I would rub your back and bring you water and listen to you complain about dying from bad sushi for… well, for forever if that’s what you needed."

"Bug," he breathes.

"And I was terrified," you continue. "Because that's not what friends with benefits do. That's not casual. That's-" You shake your head. "That's love. And I knew it then, sitting on that bathroom floor, and I've been running from it ever since because I was so scared of losing you."

"You're not going to lose me," he says, his voice rough.

"You don't know that." You're shaking now. "We have this perfect thing, Garrett. We have this arrangement that works, and if we- if we try to make it more and it doesn't work out-"

"What if it does?" He closes the distance between you, his hands coming up to cup your face. "What if it works out? What if we're actually good at this?"

"What if we're not?" Your voice is barely a whisper. "What if we try and we fail and I lose my best friend?"

"You won't." His thumbs brush away your tears. "Bug, you won't. I promise you won't."

"You can't promise that."

"I can." His forehead drops to yours. "Because even if we crash and burn, even if this is the worst decision we've ever made… I would rather have tried and failed than spend the rest of my life wondering what if."

You close your eyes, fresh tears spilling over.

"I love you," he whispers. "I love you so much it scares the shit out of me. And I know you're scared too, but-" He pulls back just enough to look at you. "Can’t we just be scared together?"

You let out a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob. "That's the worst line you've ever used."

"I know." He's smiling now, even though he's crying too. "But did it work?"

You look at him. Really look at him. At the boy who sat through your dramatic impression of nearly every line from The Princess Bride. Who let you paint his nails for fun. Who held you when you got too high and couldn’t stop crying about a dog food commercial. Who made you laugh until you couldn't breathe. Who looked at you like you were the most important person in the world.

Who loved you.

"Yeah," you whisper. "It worked."

And then you're kissing him again.

It's not like the other times. It's not casual or easy or friends-with-benefits.

It's desperate and messy and perfect, his hands in your hair, your fingers clutching his shirt, both of you crying and laughing and kissing like you're trying to make up for all the months you wasted pretending.

When you finally pull apart, you're both breathless.

"So," he says, his voice rough. "What now?"

You laugh, pressing your forehead to his. "I have no idea."

"Me neither." He's smiling, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. "But I'm willing to figure it out if you are."

"Yeah," you say, looking over his face. "But now it's complicated. Now we have to figure out what this means and what we're doing and what happens if it doesn't work out and-"

"What if it does? We just said we’d try, and we’d be scared together. You-"

"I know! But what do we do if it's a disaster?" You counter. "What if we date for two months and realize we're better as friends? What if you get bored? What if I'm too much? What if-"

"Bug." His hands come up to frame your face, and the gentleness of it makes you want to cry harder. "You're spiraling."

"I'm being realistic," you argue, but your voice is weak.

"You're being scared." His thumbs brush away your tears. "Which is fair. I already told you, I fucking terrified too. I've been having a panic attack for the past twenty-four hours. Ask any of the guys. I've been a complete mess."

"You seemed fine this morning."

"I was deflecting." He gives you a look. "Kind of like what you're doing right now."

You want to argue, but he's right. You're deflecting. You're spiraling. You're doing everything you can to avoid the actual question hanging between you.

"What do you want?" you ask quietly. "Like, actually. What do you want this to be?"

He's quiet for a moment, his hands on your face, thumbs rubbing against your cheeks slowly, his eyes searching yours.

"I want to take you on a real date," he says finally. "Not just hanging out at my place or going to Malone's with everyone. A real date where I pick you up and take you somewhere nice, and we don't have to pretend it's casual."

Your heart is racing. "Okay."

"I want to be able to kiss you in public without worrying about what people think."

"Okay."

"I want to tell people you're my girlfriend." His voice drops. "If that's- if that's what you want."

"Is that actually what you want?" You have to ask. Have to make sure. "Or are you just saying that because it’s what sounds right?"

"I'm saying this because I've wanted to say it for months," he says firmly. "Last night just- it gave me a reason to stop being a coward about it."

"You're not a coward," you say, setting your hands over his and moving them away from your face. You flip his hands over and hold them in yours, squeezing them tightly. 

"I am when it comes to this." His jaw tightens. "I've spent years building this stupid reputation of being anti-relationships because it was easier than admitting I was scared of actually caring about someone. And then you-" He stops, shakes his head. "You made me care. You made me want things I didn't think I wanted."

"Like what?"

"Like a future." The words are quiet, almost hesitant. "Like someone to come home to. Like-" He stops, and you can see him struggling with the vulnerability of it. "Like someone who knows me. Really knows me. Not the image I’ve built up. Just... me."

"I know you," you whisper.

"I know." His forehead drops to yours. "That's why I'm so fucking scared of losing you."

You close your eyes, breathing him in. "So what do you propose we do?"

"I don't know." He laughs softly. "I've never done this before. The whole... feelings thing."

"Me neither." You pull back slightly to look at him. "Not like this."

"So we figure it out together," he says. "We try. We probably fuck it up sometimes. But we try."

"What if people talk?" You have to ask. "What if everyone on campus-"

"Let them talk." He says it so simply, like it's that easy. "I don't care what people think. I care about you."

"And if it changes things?" Your voice is small. "If we try dating and it's weird and we can't go back to how things were?"

"Then we deal with it." His hands let go of yours and slide up to your shoulders, grounding you. "But we can't go back anyway. Not after this. Not after last night. We can either move forward or we can-" He stops, his expression pained. "I don't want to lose you. But I can't keep pretending I don't want more."

You're quiet for a long moment, letting his words sink in.

He's right. You can't go back. The second you said "I love you," everything changed. And maybe it changed before that. Maybe it changed months ago, in all those little moments you've been cataloging in your head.

"What if you realize I'm not—" You stop, struggling with the words. "What if I'm not enough? What if the reality of actually dating me is different than what you've built up in your head?"

His expression softens. "Bug. You think I don't know you? We've been doing this for a year. I know you're grumpy in the mornings. I know you cry when you’re angry. I know you have strong opinions about The Great Gatsby. I know you stress bake before exams. I know you’re a little bit of a slob sometimes."

"Rude, but accurate," you mutter.

"I know all of that," he continues. "And I still-" He stops, takes a breath. "I'm not building anything up in my head. I'm just finally admitting what's already there."

You search his face, looking for any sign of doubt, any hint that he's not sure. But all you see is Garrett, your Garrett, looking at you like you're the only person in the world.

"Okay," you whisper.

He blinks. "Okay?"

"Okay." You nod, more firmly this time. "Let's try. Let's do this. Actually do this."

"Yeah?" There's hope in his voice, cautious but real.

"Yeah." You reach up, your hands covering his, where they rest on your shoulders. "I want to try. I want-" You take a shaky breath. "I want you. Actually want you. Not just the arrangement or the benefits or whatever we've been calling it. I want you."

The smile that breaks across his face is devastating.

"But," you add quickly, because you need to say this, "we have to be honest with each other. If something's not working, if one of us is feeling weird about it, we have to talk about it. We can't just-"

"We won't," he promises. "We'll talk. We'll figure it out."

"And we're exclusive," you say. "Like, actually exclusive. No more-"

"Bug." He's laughing now. "There hasn't been anyone else for months. You know that, right?"

You blink. "What?"

"I haven't hooked up with anyone else since-" He thinks. "Since… Well, probably since that night you made me watch The Princess Bride at least, maybe longer."

"But we said—"

"I know what we said." His thumbs trace circles on your shoulders. "But I couldn't. I didn't want to. I just wanted you."

Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. "I haven't either," you admit. "Been with anyone else, I mean. Honestly, since a couple months after… we started."

"Good." The word is almost possessive, and it sends a shiver through you.

"So we're doing this," you say, needing to confirm it one more time. "We're actually dating."

"We're actually dating," he confirms.

"And we're telling people?"

"If you want to."

"Do you want to?"

He considers this. "I want people to know you're mine," he says finally. "But I also don't want to deal with everyone's opinions about it. So... maybe we tell our friends first? See how it goes?"

"Our friends already know," you point out. "They've been pushing us together for months."

“True,” He chuckles and glances around the yard. “They were probably spying on us at some point.”

“Oh, for sure.” You say, looking at the kitchen window. You spot Aria sitting on the counter, talking to Dean. She turns her head, and her eyes immediately land on you and Garrett as if she knew exactly where to look already. She immediately notices the two of you looking at the house and turns her head away in a flash.

"Want to give them a show?" He grins.

"Garrett-"

But he's already kissing you again, and you can't help but laugh against his mouth, your arms wrapping around his neck as he pulls you closer. When you finally break apart, you're both smiling.

He rests his forehead against yours, both of you catching your breath. "So," he says quietly. "What now?"

You glance back toward the house, where you can see silhouettes moving past the windows, hear the bass thumping through the walls. The thought of walking back in there and facing the inevitable knowing looks, friendly interrogation, and countless I-told-you’s… 

"What if we didn't go back inside?" you say.

Garrett pulls back slightly to look at you. "What?"

"I just-" You bite your lip. "I don't want to deal with them right now. With everyone. I just want..." You trail off, not quite sure how to finish.

"You want to be alone," he finishes, and there's something soft in his expression. Understanding.

"Is that okay?"

"Bug." He laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "I've been wanting to get you alone all night."

Your heart does a little flip. "So we just... leave?"

"We just leave." He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Come on. Before they notice we're gone."

You let him lead you along the fence line, staying in the shadows cast by the string lights. The backyard gate is on the far side, away from the house. You can hear voices from the bonfire, laughter from inside, but no one's paying attention to the two of you slipping away.

Garrett eases the gate open slowly, wincing when it creaks. You both freeze, waiting to see if anyone heard. When no one comes running, he pulls you through and closes it carefully behind you.

His Jeep is parked on the street, and you're practically jogging by the time you reach it, both of you glancing back like you're escaping a crime scene.

"Get in, get in," he says, unlocking the doors. You scramble into the passenger seat, and he's behind the wheel a second later. He doesn't start the engine right away. Instead, he looks at you, and then you're both laughing, quiet, breathless laughter that feels like relief.

"We just ditched your own party," you say.

"Well, technically, if it's my party," He's grinning. "I can ditch if I want to."

"They're going to kill us tomorrow."

"Worth it." He reaches over and takes your hand again, bringing it to his lips. The gesture is so casual, so natural, but it makes your breath catch. Because he can do that now. You can do this now.

He starts the truck, and you lean back in your seat, watching the streetlights blur past as he drives. It's only a ten-minute drive to your apartment, but it feels both too long and too short.

When he pulls into your parking lot, the reality of it hits you. You're bringing Garrett back to your place. Which you've done a hundred times before, but this time it's different. This time you're his girlfriend. This time, he's your boyfriend.

"You okay?" he asks, killing the engine.

"Yeah." You squeeze his hand. "Just... processing."

"Yeah." He brings your joined hands to rest on the center console. "Me too."

You sit there for a moment, neither of you moving. Then you take a breath and open your door. "Come on."

Your apartment is dark when you let yourselves in. Aria's still at the party, obviously. You flip on the light in the entryway, suddenly hyperaware of the space. The throw blanket draped over the couch, the stack of textbooks on the coffee table, your mug from this morning still sitting by the sink.

"You want something to drink?" you ask, heading to the kitchen. "I think we have tea. Or I could make coffee, or-"

"Bug." Garrett catches your hand as you pass him, pulling you to a stop. "Breathe."

You let out a shaky laugh. "Sorry. I'm just-"

"Nervous," he finishes. "Me too."

"You are?"

"Yeah." He tugs you closer, his hands settling on your waist. "This is new. We're... figuring it out."

You nod, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm, quick and strong. You move one of your hands up to the back of his neck to pull him in for a kiss, your other hand sliding down his chest, then his abs until your fingers reach the hem of his shirt. As you move your hand under his shirt, he pulls away from the kiss, just enough to see your face. “Hey,” he says softly, cupping your face in his hands. "We don't have to-"

"I want to," you say quickly. "I just... it feels different now."

"I know." His forehead touches yours. "Good different?"

"Yeah." You close your eyes, breathing him in. "Really good different."

He kisses you then, soft and slow, like he has all the time in the world. Like he's savoring it. His hands slide from your face to your neck, your shoulders, down your arms. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with want.

"Bedroom?" he asks, voice rough.

You nod, taking his hand and leading him down the short hallway to your bedroom. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it. Inside your room, you turn to face him, and suddenly you're both just standing there, looking at each other.

"Come here," he says softly, and you step into his arms.

This kiss is different, deeper, more urgent. His hands find your belt first, undoing the large buckle and casting it off to the floor. Then the hem of your dress, and you lift your arms so he can pull it over your head. "Fuck," he breathes, looking at you in just your bra and tights. "You're so beautiful."

You've heard him say it before, but it lands differently now. Now it means something.

Your thumbs hook into the waistband of your tights, sliding them down your legs before stepping out of them. He watches you the whole time, and as you step closer to him, hands finding the hem of his shirt again, his breath catches.

"I love you," he says. "I need you to know that. This isn't just- it's not like before."

"I know." You slide his shirt up and over his head, pressing your hands to his chest after discarding it to the pile of clothes forming on your floor. "I love you too."

He kisses you again, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed. You sit, and he follows you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His mouth moves to your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast above your bra. You arch into him, fingers threading through his hair.

"Garrett," you breathe, and he groans against your skin.

"Say it again."

"Garrett-"

"No." He lifts his head to look at you, eyes intense. "Say you love me."

"I love you," you whisper, and something in his expression cracks open. "I love you, I love-"

He kisses you hard, swallowing the words. His hands are everywhere, unhooking your bra, sliding your thong down your legs, touching you like he's memorizing every inch. When his fingers finally slip between your thighs, you gasp into his mouth.

"So wet already," he murmurs, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "This all for me, Baby?"

"Yes," you manage, hips rolling against his hand. "Always. Fuck, Garrett-"

He works you with practiced ease, knowing exactly how to touch you, but there's something different in the way he watches your face. Like he's cataloging every reaction, every sound you make. Like he never wants to forget this.

When you're close, trembling on the edge, he pulls his hand away. You whimper at the loss, and he smirks.

"Patience," he says, standing to shed his jeans and boxers. He opens the drawer of your nightstand, shifting a few things around until he finds a condom.

You watch him, taking in the familiar lines of his body. The broad shoulders, the defined abs, the way his cock juts out, hard and ready. You've seen him naked countless times, but right now it feels like the first time.

He climbs back over you, settling between your thighs. The weight of him, the heat, it's overwhelming in the best way.

"You sure?" he asks, even though you've done this so many times before.

"I'm sure." You cup his face, pulling him down for a kiss. "I want this. I want you."

He reaches between you, lining himself up, and then he's pushing inside. You both groan at the sensation. He goes slow, giving you time to adjust, and when he's fully seated, he drops his forehead to yours.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel so good."

"D-don’t stop," you urge, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Please, Garrett-"

He listens, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in. The rhythm is slow at first, deliberate, like he's savoring every thrust. His eyes never leave your face.

"I've wanted this for so long," he says, voice strained. "Wanted you like this. Not just the sex. All of it. Wanted to be able to tell you-"

"Tell me," you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as he hits that perfect spot inside you.

"That you're mine." He punctuates the words with a harder thrust that makes you cry out. "That I'm yours. That this means everything to me."

"It m-means everything to me too," you manage, and then you're kissing him again, desperate and messy.

The pace picks up, both of you chasing that edge. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, and you arch off the bed with a broken moan.

"That's it," he encourages, voice rough. "Come for me, Baby."

The orgasm crashes over you, hot and overwhelming. You cry out his name, clenching around him, and he groans, his rhythm faltering.

"Fuck, I'm-" He buries his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he comes with a low moan escaping his lips.

For a long moment, you just lie there, breathing hard, hearts racing in sync. He's still inside you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you've never felt more complete.

Finally, he lifts his head to look at you. His hair is a mess, his lips swollen from kissing, and there's something soft and vulnerable in his expression.

"Hi," he says.

You laugh, breathless. "Hi."

"That was-“

"Yeah."

He kisses you again, soft and sweet, before carefully pulling out. You both wince at the loss, and he rolls onto his back, pulling you against his side. You curl into him, resting your head on his chest. "Stay," you whisper.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as he pulls the comforter over the two of you.

You tilt your head up to look at him. "We're really doing this? Like, for real?"

"For real." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're stuck with me now, Bug."

"Good," you say. "That's exactly where I want to be." You smile softly, closing your eyes while listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "Garrett?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad you asked me to talk tonight."

He's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, you can hear the smile in his voice. "Me too, Bug. Me too."

You fall asleep like that, wrapped up in each other, knowing that tomorrow you'll have to face your friends and their inevitable teasing. But that's tomorrow. Tonight, it's just the two of you, finally on the same page, finally admitting what's been true for months.

Tonight, everything is exactly as it should be.

He had been trying to drown his thoughts out with some music, but nothing was working. He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his playlists. He needed the kind of music that matched the ache in his chest. He skipped through song after song, nothing quite right, until the opening notes of "Something" by The Beatles filled the room.

He turned the song up and dropped his phone in his lap before closing his eyes.

“Something in the way she moves / attracts me like no other lover.”

His throat tightened. That was it. That was exactly it. The way you moved through space, the way you commanded a room without trying, the way you'd looked at him from the bar last night before singing directly to him.

“Somewhere in her smile she knows / that I don't need no other lover.”

But did you? Did you know? Or had those three words been nothing but tequila and exhaustion, a slip of the tongue that meant nothing in the harsh light of morning?

“Something in the way she knows / and all I have to do is think of her.”

He pressed his palms against his eyes. You didn't know. That was the problem. You didn't know what you did to him, how completely you'd undone him, how he'd spent a year pretending this was casual when it was anything but.

The song swelled around him, and he felt it in his chest, the wanting, the terror, the desperate hope that maybe you felt even a fraction of what he felt. That maybe saying it back wouldn't destroy everything.

His hand reached for his phone to call you, then stopped.

He couldn't risk it. Not yet. Not until he knew for sure.

The song starts to come to an end, and he continues sitting there, trapped by his thoughts. That is, until Tucker barges in. He looks over Garrett, taking note of the state he's in. Still in the same clothes from his run, hair a mess, soaking up the lyrics to the song like it will somehow give him the answer to all his problems. “You’ve spent enough time in here listening to music like an angsty 14-year-old, any longer and you’ll start writing poetry or something.” He says, standing in the doorway with a worried expression on his face. “We can’t let you sit in here all day, man.”

“I’m fine, Tuck,” Garrett says, opening his eyes and putting on a smile that definitely looks more forced than genuine.

“You’re really not. Now come on, lover boy,” He crosses the room to his bed and grabs Garrett’s phone, pausing the music just as “Linger” by the Cranberries starts playing. “We’re going to the store to get stuff for the party. You have no choice.” Garrett wanted to protest, but Tucker was already heading for the door, clearly not taking no for an answer. He sighed and pushed himself off the bed, grabbing his wallet and keys.

The drive to the grocery store was quiet at first. Tucker had control of the aux and put on some Foo Fighters, nothing too heavy, just background noise to fill the silence. Garrett stared out the window, watching the familiar streets of campus blur past.

"Remember last year?" Tucker said suddenly, breaking the silence. "When you decided you were gonna learn to skateboard?"

Despite everything, Garrett felt his mouth twitch. "Don't."

"You were so confident about it, too. Like, 'I'm an athlete, how hard can it be?' Famous last words, my friend." Tucker turned onto the main street toward the grocery store. "You lasted approximately forty-five seconds before eating shit in front of the library."

"It was icy," Garrett muttered, but there was the ghost of a smile on his face now.

"It was not icy. It was a beautiful seventy-degree day. You just have zero balance on a skateboard." Tucker glanced over at him, fighting his own grin. "And then you tried to play it cool like you meant to do it. Like you were just... testing the ground with your face."

Garrett actually laughed, a real one, rough and surprised. "I had a concussion."

"You did! And you still tried to convince everyone you were fine. Logan literally had to drag you to the health center." Tucker shook his head, remembering. "Dean was convinced you had brain damage because you kept insisting the skateboard was 'probably worth it for the experience.'"

"It wasn't," Garrett said, still smiling.

"No shit, it wasn't. You haven’t touched that thing since." Tucker pulled into the grocery store parking lot and killed the engine. "But for like three weeks, you were the most determined idiot I've ever met."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, and Garrett felt something in his chest loosen, just slightly. Just enough to breathe. Tucker didn't push, didn't ask questions. He just reminded Garrett that life kept happening, that there were stupid memories and ridiculous moments that existed outside of whatever spiral he was in.

"Thanks, man," Garrett said quietly.

Tucker just nodded, unbuckling his seatbelt. "That's what I'm here for."

They climbed out, and Tucker grabbed a cart from the corral. The automatic doors slid open, and they were hit with the fluorescent brightness and generic pop music of a typical Saturday afternoon grocery run.

"Alright," Tucker said, pulling out his phone to check the list Dean had texted him. "We need beer, obviously. Chips. Those little pretzel things Logan likes. Mixers for drinks. And Dean wants limes for some reason."

"He's probably making margaritas again."

"God help us all." Tucker steered the cart toward the alcohol section. "Remember last time? He made them so strong that y/n couldn't feel her face."

Garrett grabbed a case of beer and set it in the cart. Then another. "She's coming tonight," he said quietly.

Tucker didn't look at him, just kept scanning the shelves. "Yeah, I figured she would."

"I invited her. In the car this morning."

"That's good, man."

Garrett grabbed a third case, even though they probably didn't need it. His hands needed something to do. "I don't know what I'm doing, dude."

"None of us do." Tucker moved them toward the snack aisle. "That's kind of the point of being in your twenties, isn't it? Stumbling around in the dark, hoping you don't fuck up too badly?"

They walked in silence for a moment, Tucker tossing bags of chips into the cart while Garrett just followed along, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"Salt and vinegar or barbecue?" Tucker held up two bags.

"Both."

"My man." Tucker tossed them in. "Oh, and we need some solo cups."

Garrett nodded absently, pulling out his phone. He stared at your contact for a long moment. The photo he'd taken of you last month, when you'd fallen asleep on his couch, was adorable. You looked so peaceful and soft in the afternoon light. His thumb hovered over the call button.

Tucker glanced over and saw. He didn't say anything at first, just grabbed the solo cups and added them to the cart. "You said she’s gonna be there tonight."

"I know."

"So you'll see her in like, what, a few hours?"

"I know," Garrett repeated, shoving his phone back in his pocket.

Tucker leaned against the cart, studying him. "You good, man?"

Garrett wanted to say yes. Wanted to brush it off like he always did, make a joke, change the subject. But this was Tucker. Tucker, one of his best friends. Tucker, who'd seen him at his worst and never judged. Tucker, who'd watched this thing with you unfold from the very beginning and never once said "I told you so," even though he absolutely could have. 

"I don't know," Garrett admitted. 

Tucker nodded slowly. "That's fair." He pushed the cart forward again, heading toward the checkout. "For what it's worth? I think you're overthinking this."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Tucker started loading items onto the conveyor belt. "I've seen the way she looks at you, G. That's not nothing."

Garrett wanted to believe him. But the fear was louder than hope right now.

They checked out in relative silence, Tucker making small talk with the cashier while Garrett loaded bags into the cart.

Back in the car, Tucker didn't immediately start the engine. He sat there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. "Look," he said finally. "I'm not gonna tell you what to do. That's not my place. But I will say this, you're my boy. And I've got your back no matter what happens tonight. Whether you tell her or you don't. Whether it works out or it doesn't. I'm here. We all are."

Garrett felt something tight in his chest loosen just slightly. "Thanks, man."

"Don't mention it." Tucker started the car and pulled out of the parking spot. He fiddled with the aux for a second, then put on "Everlong" by Foo Fighters—the acoustic version, soft and yearning.

They drove back in comfortable silence, the kind that only exists between people who've known each other long enough that words aren't always necessary. Garrett stared out the window again, but this time the spiral in his head felt a little less intense, less suffocating.

When they pulled up to the house, Tucker killed the engine and turned to him. "You've got plenty of time to figure out what you're gonna say to her."

"Or to talk myself out of saying anything at all."

Tucker shook his head, grabbing bags from the backseat. "Nah. I don't think you will."

"Why not?"

Tucker paused at the door, looking back at him with something like certainty. "Because you're in love with her, man. And that's not the kind of thing you can keep quiet forever."

He headed inside, leaving Garrett standing by the car with an armful of grocery bags and a heart full of terror.

He could do this.

Maybe.

With a sigh, he started making his way to the house. Garrett pushed through the front door with his shoulder, arms loaded with grocery bags. The house smelled like cleaning products, and someone had actually vacuumed, which meant they were taking this party seriously.

Logan appeared in the hallway immediately, like he'd been waiting. "There he is. The man of the hour."

"Move," Garrett muttered, heading toward the kitchen.

"Wow. Rude." Logan followed him anyway. "You look like shit, by the way."

"Thanks," Garrett said sarcastically, shooting his friend a fake smile.

Dean was already in the kitchen, organizing red solo cups into neat stacks on the counter. He looked up when Garrett entered, took one look at his face, and said, "Still spiraling, huh?"

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Dean said flatly. "You look like you're about to throw up."

“Chill, guys, we had a great discussion at the store. He’s- well, he’s kinda feeling better?” Tucker came in behind Garrett with the rest of the bags and set them on the counter. "Now, let's get this stuff put away."

Logan immediately started pulling things out of bags with zero organizational system. "So… because you guys had a ‘great discussion’, we’re just gonna pretend Garrett isn't having a full-blown existential crisis over a girl?"

"I'm not having a crisis." Garrett scoffed.

"You are absolutely having a crisis," Logan said, holding up a bag of chips like it proved his point. "This is textbook C.R.I.S.I.S."

Garrett closed his eyes. "Please don't."

"Completely Refusing Inevitable Sentimental Involvement Syndrome." Logan grinned, looking way too proud of himself. "It's a real thing. I just made it up."

"That doesn't even make sense," Tucker said, grabbing stuff out of a bag and setting it on the counter.

"It makes perfect sense. He's refusing to admit he's emotionally involved even though it's inevitable at this point." Logan pointed at Garrett. "Textbook."

Dean grabbed a bag of ice and shoved it in the freezer. "He's not wrong."

"I hate all of you," Garrett said, but there was no heat in it. 

"Look, man," Dean said, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. "You've got two options here. You either tell her how you feel tonight, or you spend the rest of your life wondering what would've happened if you had."

"That's dramatic."

"It's not, though." Dean's voice was steady, pragmatic. "You think this feeling is just gonna go away? You think you're gonna wake up one day and suddenly not be in love with her?"

Garrett's hands stilled as he reached for a bag of chips. He didn't answer.

"Exactly," Dean continued. "So you can either do something about it, or you can let it eat you alive. Those are your options."

Logan hopped up to sit on the counter, swinging his legs. "He's right, you know. This is a classic case of F.E.A.R."

"Logan—"

"Fucking Everything And Running." Logan held up his hands. "Or, alternatively, Face Everything And Rise. Your choice, buddy."

"That's actually not terrible," Tucker admitted, pulling out a bag of limes.

“He’s literally just describing fight or flight,” Garrett mutters, crossing his arms.

"Thank you, Tuck." Logan ignored Garrett’s comment. "I've been working on my acronym game."

"You guys don't get it. If I tell her and she doesn't feel the same way, I lose her. Completely. We can't just go back to how things were."

"And if you don't tell her," Dean said, "you lose her anyway. Just slower."

That hit harder than Garrett wanted to admit. He braced his hands on the counter, staring down at the granite.

"She said she loves you, man," Tucker said quietly. "Drunk or not, people don't just say that for no reason."

"She doesn't even remember saying it."

"So remind her," Logan said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "Tonight. At the party. Pull her aside, tell her what happened, and then tell her you feel the same way."

"What if she freaks out?"

"What if she doesn't?" Dean countered. "What if she's been waiting for you to say something this whole time?"

Garrett looked up at him. "You really think that's possible?"

"I think," Dean said carefully, "that you've been so busy protecting yourself that you haven't noticed she's been doing the exact same thing."

Logan nodded enthusiastically. "This is a textbook case of M.I.S.C.O.M.M.U.N.I.C.A.T.I.O.N."

"That's just the word miscommunication," Tucker pointed out.

"Yeah, but I capitalized it, so it's an acronym now."

Garrett felt his mouth twitch. "You're an idiot."

"Maybe," Logan said cheerfully. "But I'm an idiot who's right. And that is all that matters"

Dean pushed off the counter and clapped Garrett on the shoulder. "Look. I'm not saying it's gonna be easy. I'm not even saying it's gonna go well. But I am saying that if you don't at least try, you're gonna regret it for the rest of your life."

Garrett let out a long breath. His friends were staring at him.

"So what do you propose I say?" he asked finally.

"The truth," Tucker said simply. "You tell her the truth."

"That you're in love with her," Dean added.

"And that you've been a complete dumbass about it," Logan finished. "Also, maybe throw in an acronym. Chicks dig acronyms."

"They absolutely do not," Tucker said.

"You don't know that."

Garrett ran a hand through his hair, feeling something shift in his chest. Not confidence, exactly. More like... resignation. Acceptance. The kind of feeling you get when you realize you're about to do something terrifying and there's no way around it.

"Okay," he said quietly.

Logan's eyes widened. "Okay?"

"Okay." Garrett looked at each of them. "I'll tell her tonight."

Dean nodded, satisfied. "Good."

"Finally," Logan said, hopping off the counter. "I was running out of acronyms."

Tucker smiled and squeezed Garrett's shoulder. "You've got this, man."

Garrett wasn't sure he believed that. But as he looked around at his friends, he realized he didn't have to do this alone. They'd be there. They'd have his back.

Even if it all went to shit.

"Alright," he said, grabbing the bag of limes. "Let's finish setting up for this party."

"That's the spirit," Logan said. "Oh, and Garrett?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to throw up on her when you confess. That's a real mood killer."

"Noted."

Tucker laughed, and Dean shook his head, and for just a moment, the terror in Garrett's chest felt a little more manageable.

He could do this.

He had to do this.

Tonight.

***

You're sitting cross-legged on your bathroom counter, leaning close to the mirror as you carefully line your eyes, when Aria appears in the doorway holding two dresses.

"Red or black?" she asks.

"Black," you say without looking. "The red makes you look like you're trying too hard."

"Rude." But she tosses the red one onto your bed and disappears back into her room.

You finish your eyeliner and hop down, surveying the chaos of makeup scattered across the counter. Your hair is half-curled, hanging in loose waves over one shoulder. You're still wearing Garrett’s t-shirt, but swapped his sweatpants for a pair of pajama shorts.

Aria returns in the black dress, spinning once. "Okay, this is the one."

"Told you." You grab your curling iron and section off another piece of hair. "Can you do my back? I can never get it right."

"Obviously." She takes the iron from you and starts working on the pieces you can't reach. There's a pause. "So… Are we gonna talk about it, or are we just gonna pretend you didn't drunkenly confess your love to Garrett last night?"

Your stomach drops. "I was drunk. I don’t even remember it. It- It doesn’t have to mean anything."

"Bullshit." Aria wraps a strand around the barrel, holding it for a few seconds before releasing a perfect curl. "You don't accidentally say 'I love you' to someone. Drunk or not."

"People say stupid things when they're wasted all the time." You say, which is true, but this wasn’t just some stupid thing.

"Not that." She moves to the next section, her voice gentler now. "Babe, you've been hooking up with him for over a year. You spend more time with him than anyone else. You light up every time he texts you. And now you've confessed your true feelings, and you're acting like it's nothing."

You busy yourself with your makeup, grabbing a lipstick you don't need yet. "He probably doesn't even care. If I bring it up, it’ll make things complicated. That’s why he wouldn’t tell me what happened."

"He cares." Aria sets down the curling iron and turns you around to face her. "And that’s why he was acting weird with you all morning. Tucker said he barely slept. Logan said he's been spiraling. This isn't nothing."

"Then why didn't he say anything this morning?" Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. "If it mattered so much, why did he just... pretend it didn't happen?"

"Maybe because he's terrified," Aria says quietly. "Just like you are."

You pull away and walk into your bedroom, suddenly needing space. "I'm not terrified."

"You are absolutely terrified." She follows you, arms crossed. "You said you love him, and now you don't know what to do with that. So you're pretending it was just drunk rambling, hoping it'll go away."

"It was drunk rambling."

"Was it?"

You don't answer. You can't. Because the truth is sitting heavy in your chest, and you're not ready to look at it yet.

Your phone buzzes on your desk.

You grab it, grateful for the interruption, and your breath catches when you see Garrett's name.

Garrett: Hey. What time should I pick you two up? People are probably gonna start showing up soon.

You stare at the text for a long moment. You completely forgot that he said he would pick you guys up when he dropped you off this morning. It's such a simple offer. Considerate. Normal, even. But something about it feels... loaded. He hasn’t texted you all day, and now he's reaching out? Like he’s testing the waters.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

"What'd he say?" Aria asks, leaning over your shoulder.

You angle the phone so she can see, but it was too late.

"Oh my god, you didn’t say he was gonna come get us."

"I forgot… He said he would when he dropped me off, but I don't know…"

"What do you mean you don't know?" She grabs your shoulders. "He's literally offering to pick us up. That's boyfriend behavior."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"He wants to be."

"The party is literally at his house; it's easier to just meet him there.” You pull away, your chest tight. "And it will be an awkward care ride… I need a drink before I can talk to him."

You type out a response before you can second-guess it.

You: Actually, I think we’re just gonna uber, so dw about it. See you later :)

You hit send.

Aria stares at you. "Did you just turn him down?"

"We're getting an Uber. It's fine."

"That's not why you said no." Her voice is sharp now, frustrated. "You're literally running away from him."

"I'm not-" You say, turning toward your closet.

"Yes, you are." She steps in front of you, blocking your path to the closet. "You said you love him. He heard it. And now you're too scared to even be in a car with him for ten minutes."

"That's not-" You stop, because she's right. You know she's right. "I just need some space to think."

"You've had all day to think." Aria's expression softens, but her voice stays firm. "Babe, you can't avoid this forever. You said you love him. That changes things whether you like it or not."

"Maybe it doesn't have to."

"But it does." She sits on the edge of your bed, patting the spot next to her. You sit. "Look, I get it. You're scared. He's Garrett Graham, the guy who’s well known for not doing relationships. But he's also one of your best friends. The guy who spent all night taking care of you. Who's been acting like a lovesick puppy all day, remember? That's not nothing."

Your phone buzzes again.

Garrett: Okay. See you tonight.

"He's giving you an out," Aria says quietly, reading over your shoulder again. "But that doesn't mean you should take it."

You shrug her away and don't respond. You just stare at the text, your heart racing.

"Come on," Aria says, pulling on your arm to get you to follow her back to the bathroom. "Let's finish getting ready. But when we get to that party, you need to actually talk to him. Not avoid him. Not pretend it didn't happen. Talk to him."

"And say what?"

"The truth." She squeezes your hand. "Whatever that is. You can try to deny it all you want, but you know what the truth is. Deep down, you know."

Almost an hour later, you're both standing in front of the full-length mirror in your room. Aria looks stunning in her frilly black dress that you helped her pick out. You went with a plum-colored lace mini dress that skimmed your figure, the off-the-shoulder neckline exposing your collarbones. You paired it with an oversized black leather belt with silver embellishments and knee-high black platform boots.

"We look good," Aria says, snapping a picture.

"We do," you agree.

But as you grab your jacket and head for the door, the anxiety creeps back in. You're about to see Garrett. You're about to face whatever happened last night. Whatever you said. Whatever it means.

And you have no idea what you're going to do.

"Hey," Aria says as you lock the apartment door behind you. "Whatever happens tonight... I’ll be there."

You squeeze her hand. "I know."

The Uber pulls up, and you climb in, your stomach in knots.

Tonight, something is going to change.

You can feel it.

***

The off-campus house is already packed when you and Aria arrive. Music pulses through the walls loud enough that you can feel it in your chest before you even reach the front door. People spill out onto the porch, red cups in hand, shouting over the noise. Someone's already broken something; you can see shattered glass glinting on the walkway.

"Ready?" Aria asks, squeezing your hand one more time.

You're not. But you nod anyway.

The moment you step inside, the heat hits you, bodies pressed together, the air thick with sweat, and cheap beer. The living room is a mess of movement: people dancing, people talking, people making out against the wall like they're the only ones in the room.

You scan the crowd instinctively, looking for-

No. You're not looking for him.

You force your gaze away and focus on Aria instead. "Drinks?" you shout over the music.

"God, yes."

You weave through the crowd toward the kitchen, keeping your head down, your shoulders tight. You don't look around. You don't search the room. You just follow Aria and try to breathe.

The kitchen is slightly less chaotic—only because there's more space. Tucker's manning the makeshift bar on the counter, pouring shots with the precision of someone who's done this a hundred times. He grins when he sees you.

"There she is!" He slides two cups toward you. "Vodka cran for the lady, with lime of course. and-" He looks at Aria. "What're you drinking tonight?"

"Tequila," Aria says without hesitation. "Make it a double."

"I like your energy." Tucker pours her shot, then looks at you. "You good?"

You nod, grabbing your drink and taking a long sip. The vodka burns, but it's grounding. "Yeah. I'm good."

Tucker doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. "Well, if you need anything, I'm here all night. Designated bartender and emotional support."

"Thanks, Tuck," you say with a soft smile.

Aria loops her arm through yours and pulls you back toward the living room. "Okay, game plan. We stay together. We have fun. We do spiral."

"I'm not spiraling."

"You're absolutely spiraling." She takes a sip of her drink. "But that's okay. We're gonna dance, we're gonna drink, and we're gonna-"

"There you are."

You freeze.

That voice. Low, familiar, with just enough edge to make your stomach flip.

You turn around slowly, and there he is.

Garrett.

He's leaning against the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, arms crossed, dark eyes locked on you. He's wearing a black t-shirt that fits him just right, baggy jeans that sit low on his hips, and that stupid smirk that makes your heart race and your brain short-circuit.

"Hey," you manage, your voice surprisingly comes out steadier than you feel.

His gaze flicks over you. A quick, assessing look, like he's cataloging every detail. "You look good."

"Thanks." You take another sip of your drink, using it as a shield. "You too."

There's a beat of silence. 

Aria clears her throat. "I'm gonna go find Logan. You two... talk."

"Aria-"

But she's already gone, disappearing into the crowd with her drink held high.

Traitor.

You look back at Garrett, and he's still watching you. Not smirking anymore. Just... looking. Like he's trying to figure something out.

"So," he says finally. "You came."

"I said I would."

"You also said you'd let me pick you up."

Your chest tightens. "Aria and I were still getting ready. I thought it was easier to just-"

"Yeah." He cuts you off, his jaw tightening. "Uber, I know. I got your text."

The tension between you is suffocating. You want to say something, but the words won't come. Because what are you supposed to say? Sorry that I drunkenly told you I loved you?

"I should-" You gesture vaguely toward the living room. "I'm gonna go find Aria."

"Right." He steps aside, letting you pass. But as you move past him, his hand brushes your arm. Just barely, just enough to make you pause.

"Bug," he says quietly.

You look up at him, and for a second, you see something in his eyes. Something raw and unguarded.

But then someone shouts his name from across the room, and the moment shatters.

"Go," he says, his voice rough. "I'll find you later."

You nod and slip past him, your heart pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it.

***

You didn’t know that Garrett saw you the second you walked in.

He was upstairs, leaning against the railing, talking to one of his teammates, when the front door opened, and you stepped inside. The noise of the party faded for just a second, or maybe that was just in his head, and all he could see was you.

The deep plum lace clung to you like twilight. Showing just enough skin and defining your curves in just the right way to make his mouth go dry. Your hair falling in loose waves over your shoulders.

You looked beautiful.

And you didn't look at him. Not once.

He watched you weave through the crowd with Aria, watched you grab a drink from Tucker, watched you laugh at something Aria said. You looked so normal. So unbothered.

Like last night didn't happen.

Like you didn't say you loved him.

His chest tightened. He was sure you didn't remember now. And that would make this even harder for him.

"Dude, you good?" His teammate was staring at him.

"Yeah." Garrett pushed off the railing. "I'm good."

He wasn't good.

He made his way downstairs, weaving through the crowd, his eyes tracking you the entire time. He found you in the kitchen, and for a second, he just stood there, watching.

You were laughing at something Tucker said, your hand wrapped around your cup, your shoulders finally relaxed.

God, you were beautiful.

And you were avoiding him.

He could see it in the way you held yourself. Sort of tense, guarded, like you were bracing for impact. In the way you didn't look around the room. In the way you stayed close to Aria, like she was your lifeline.

You were scared.

And he hated that. Hated that he was the reason you looked like that.

So he stepped into the doorway and said your name.

And when you turned and looked at him, he saw it all. The flicker of panic in your eyes, the way your breath caught, and the way your fingers tightened around your cup.

You were running.

And he didn't know how to make you stop.

***

You find Aria in the living room, dancing with Logan and some girl you don't recognize. She waves you over, grinning, and you join them, letting the music drown out everything else.

You don't look for Garrett.

You don't scan the room.

You just dance.

But you can feel him. Somewhere in the crowd, watching. Waiting.

You take another long sip of your drink and try to ignore it.

You're three drinks in when Henry appears.

You're standing near the edge of the living room, watching Aria dance with Logan, when someone taps your shoulder.

You turn, and there he is.

Henry. From your disastrous date. The guy who talked about himself for two hours straight and tried to kiss you without asking. "Hey!" he says, grinning. He's holding a beer, and his cheeks are flushed. Definitely drunk. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"Hey," you say, forcing a smile. "Yeah, my friends live here."

"No way! Small world." He takes a sip of his beer, swaying slightly. "Listen, I wanted to apologize. About the other night. I was... not my best self."

You blink. "Oh. Uh, it's fine."

"No, seriously." He leans in, and you catch the smell of beer on his breath. "I was nervous, and I talked way too much, and I didn't ask you anything about yourself. That was shitty."

You're surprised. Genuinely. "I mean... yeah, it wasn't great. But it's okay."

"Can I make it up to you?" He gestures toward the makeshift bar. "Let me get you a drink. We can start over."

You hesitate. You should say no. You should find Aria and stick to the plan.

But then you catch a glimpse of Garrett across the room, leaning against the wall, talking to some girl with long blonde hair. She's laughing, touching his arm, leaning in close.

Your stomach twists.

"Sure," you hear yourself say. "Why not?"

Henry grins and leads you toward the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Garrett sees you with Henry, and his entire world tilts.

You're standing by the counter, laughing at something Henry said, your hand resting on his arm. Henry's leaning in, saying something that makes you smile, it’s the kind of smile that lights up your whole face.

And Garrett can't breathe.

He's been watching you all night. Watching you avoid him. Watching you dance with Aria and Logan. Watching you drink and laugh and pretend like everything's fine.

But now you're with him.

The guy who took you on a date. The guy who only talked about himself. The guy who—

"Dude." Dean appears beside him, following his gaze. "You alright?"

"Why do people keep asking me that?" Garrett says, rolling his shoulders. “I’m fine.”

"You don't look fine." Dean takes a sip of his beer. "You look like you're about to punch someone."

Garrett doesn't respond. He just watches as Henry says something else, and you laugh again, your head tilting back, your hand still on his arm.

"She's just being nice," Dean says.

"I know."

"Then why do you look like you're planning a murder?"

Because you’re his. Because you told him you loved him. Because he’s spent nearly twenty-four hours spiraling over what to say to you, and now you’re standing ten feet away, smiling at someone else.

"I'm not," Garrett says finally.

"Bullshit." Dean nudges him on the shoulder. "Go talk to her."

"She doesn't want to talk to me."

"How do you know?"

"Because she's been avoiding me all night."

Dean sighs. "Dude. She said she loved you. She's probably remembered, and she’s terrified. And now she's talking to some random guy because it's easier than facing you."

Garrett's jaw tightens. "So what am I supposed to do?"

"Interrupt." Dean shoves him forward. "Go over there. Claim your girl. Tell her how you feel. Do literally anything except stand here and watch her with someone else."

Garrett looks at you again. You're still smiling, still laughing, still touching Henry's arm.

And something inside him snaps.

He pushes off the wall and starts walking.

You're mid-sentence when you feel it.

That sense of awareness.

You glance up, and your breath catches.

Garrett's walking toward you. His eyes are locked on yours, dark and intense, and there's something in his expression that makes your heart race.

He looks... determined.

"Hey," Henry says, oblivious. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you manage. "I just-"

But Garrett's already there.

He stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell his cologne, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him.

"Bug," he says, his voice low. "Can we talk?"

Henry looks between you, confused. "Uh, we were kind of in the middle of-"

"It'll just take a second," Garrett says, not looking at him. His eyes stay on you. "Please."

Your heart is pounding. Your hands are shaking.

This is it.

"Okay," you whisper.

Garrett's hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours, and he pulls you away from Henry, away from the crowd, toward the back door.

And as you follow him, you realize-

Tonight, everything changes.

Part Four

He sighed and opened his eyes after a couple of minutes of trying to fall back to sleep. You were still tucked into his arms and looked so peaceful sleeping. He looked over your face for a moment, studying the way your lashes rested against your cheeks and the slight part of your lips as you breathed. He kissed your forehead softly and attempted to slip out of bed without waking you. You stir in your sleep, and he freezes, waiting to fix the covers until you’re still again. 

Garrett grabs the bottle of Advil from his bathroom and sets it on his nightstand next to a water bottle. Just in case you wake up with a headache before he gets back. He slips on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, grabbing his headphones as he heads downstairs to slip on his sneakers.

“Where ya going, G?” Tuck asks from the kitchen. Garrett looks over to see that Tuck is already getting a head start on making breakfast. He considers telling him what happened last night, but it would probably be best to tell all the guys at the same time. Hopefully, the other two would be up by the time he was back from his jog, and you would still be asleep. As much as he’s dreading it, he needs someone to talk to about this. “Uh, just a run. Gotta clear my head.” Garett says, sliding his headphones onto his ears and heading out the door. 

The cold morning air hits his lungs, sharp and bracing. He trots down the steps and begins jogging, his breath coming out in visible puffs. His body felt heavy, like he was running through a sea of water instead of the pavement.

I love you.

Did you really mean it? Or was it just drunk rambles? Like when people say tequila loosens their tongue. You had been so out of it, giggling, stumbling, barely able to keep your eyes open on the drive home. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe you wouldn’t even remember saying it.

He couldn’t stop thinking about all the what-ifs… What if you do remember? What if you meant it? What if you heard him say it back?

His chest tightened at the thought of you hearing. What if you remember everything when you wake up? And you hadn’t meant it, but you heard him? What if you panicked? Decided your situation wasn’t working out, that you needed space, that you couldn’t keep doing this?

He pushed himself harder, his sneakers pounding against the pavement. His heart was hammering, and he couldn’t tell if it was from the physical exertion or the spiraling thoughts that he was unable to shut off. Probably a combination of the two. 

He had convinced himself that this was enough. Being your friend, your go-to for hookups, and your safe person was better than risking anything by asking for more. But hearing those three words come from your mouth last night brought something to the surface that he had been trying to drown for months.

He wanted it to be real. He wanted it so badly it terrified him.

He spends about 45 minutes making a couple of laps around the neighborhood. His mind was racing faster than his running pace. As he nears the house again, he contemplates taking another lap just to put off the inevitable. Avoid having to go inside and admit to his friends that he was completely fucked.

But his feet carry him to the front steps as dread pools in his stomach. His hand hesitates at the doorknob, but he opens it and steps inside. 

“There he is!” Dean announces as Garrett walks through the front door. “What’s this we hear about you having to clear your head?” he smirks.

Garrett slips off his shoes and sets his headphones on the banister. “If I tell you idiots, it stays between us.” He says, seriously, as he walks into the kitchen. “And I don’t want to hear any I-told-you-so’s.” 

The guys all nod their heads. “Alright, but no promises on the I-told-you-so’s,” Logan says. They all watch in anticipation as Garrett makes himself a plate of the fresh batch of pancakes. 

“Come on, man, we are on the fucking edges of our seats here!” Dean exclaims, throwing his hands in the air.  

“Alright, alright…” Garrett leans back against the counter, staring at his pancakes for a couple more seconds before he starts cutting off a piece with his fork as he tries to figure out what to say. “Last night when we got back… she… okay, she was kinda coming onto me. But she was too drunk, so I told her to sleep.” His jaw tightens a bit as he racks his brain for the right words. “Uh, and as she was falling asleep, she-” He pauses, pushing pieces of pancake around his plate. “Fuck… she whispered ‘I love you’, so quietly I barely heard it.” 

“She meant it,” Tucker says, setting down his coffee. They all already knew where this was going; Garrett was in denial.

“There’s no way on earth that she didn’t,” Dean adds.

“It was just the alcohol talking,” Garrett says flatly. “She was still drunk. Half asleep. It doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely counts,” Logan scoffs. “Drunk people do not just accidentally confess shit that they don’t mean.”

“She could have been tired and didn’t realize-”

“Stop,” Tucker interrupts. “You know that’s not true. We all know it. She was vulnerable enough to say it in that moment, you are just too scared to believe it.”

Garrett sets his plate down. The guys are right, and he hates it. He hates that they can see what he has been refusing to admit for months. “Well, it doesn’t matter, I’m not gonna bring it up to her. She might be embarrassed. She’ll deny it. Things will get weird.” Garrett shakes his head, picking his plate back up, and shoveling another bite of pancakes into his mouth out of habit more than hunger. “There’s no winning in this scenario. We lose…"

“Lose the excuse to keep pretending this is casual?” Dean offers.

Silence.

“Listen, there’s no winning if you do nothing either,” Logan says.

“You guys just don’t get it.” He mumbles, shifting awkwardly in his place. “I’m not risking her.”

***

You wake up to the sun shining directly in your eyes and let out a groan. You can feel the throbbing headache right between your eyes that suggests last night's tequila shots were a crime. Your mouth is dry and tastes like something died in it. Possibly your dignity. Obviously, you did too much last night. 

Your eyes finally open to see that you’re in Garrett’s room. Oh, right, he took you home. You look around, and there’s no sign of him, but what you do see is the water and Advil that he’s left for you. “Thank god,” you mumble to yourself as you sit up slowly and reach for the pill bottle. It's such a Garrett thing to do—thoughtful in that quiet, unspoken way. But why does it feel loaded? Like he left you a care package before making his escape?

You wonder where Gare is; he normally sleeps in on a Saturday if there’s no game. It seems a bit odd that he wouldn’t wake you up to let you know he had to go or leave a note, but you try not to read into it too much. Instead, you shake two pills out of the bottle and chug the water he left for you while trying to remember the events of last night. 

Your memory recall isn’t the best when you’re hungover; it feels like sifting through a barren gold mine. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to think, but the memories are still pretty hazy. Aria and you went to Malone’s. You met up with the guys. There were a few drinks. There was karaoke. Garrett brought you here.

You remember almost falling asleep in the car. Him carrying you up to his room. Changing into his shirt. 

You remember kissing him. His hand on your waist, the way he pulled back and told you to sleep. Then the feeling of him rubbing your back until you dozed off. 

You have been drunk around Garrett plenty of times before. You’ve hooked up drunk before, but maybe last night you were too drunk? You’re not sure, but something just feels off about the way he left you this morning. Maybe you embarrassed yourself last night? Crossed a line? Maybe you’re just overthinking this, but there’s something in the back of your mind telling you that you are missing an important detail. Like a missing key that unlocks a mystery you’re not sure even exists.

“Get it together,” you mutter to yourself. You swing yourself out of his bed and open his dresser to steal a pair of sweatpants. Then you smell it: pancakes. The rich, buttery scent wafting up from downstairs, cutting through your nausea and producing a loud grumble from your stomach.

Tuck made pancakes. Just what you need. 

As you slip on Garrett’s sweatpants and tie the string tight enough to keep them from falling off of you, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You look like death. A hungover, confused mess of a person stares back at you. You take a breath and head downstairs, following the delightful smell of Tuck’s pancakes.

Tucker’s standing at the stove, flipping what seems to be the last batch of pancakes. Logan’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone. Dean’s lounging on the couch, watching ESPN. And Garrett is sitting at the table, sipping his coffee. 

The moment he sees you walk in, his face lights up with the most shit-eating grin. “Well, well, well,” he drawls, leaning back in his chair. “Look who has finally decided to grace us with her presence.”

“Morning,” you mumble, shuffling towards the coffee pot.

“Morning?” Logan snorts. “It’s almost noon, party girl.” he exaggerates, you checked your phone, it’s only 10:30. “Any longer, and we were gonna have to check to see if you were still alive.”

“Don’t call me that,” you groan, grabbing a mug from the cabinet and pouring yourself some coffee. You move to the fridge and grab the oat milk that Garrett always makes sure to put on the grocery list just for you.

"Oh, but it's so accurate," Garrett says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Especially after last night."

Your hand that was just about to tip the carton of oat milk freezes. "What about last night?" you ask hesitantly, proceeding to top off your mug.

"Oh, nothing," he says innocently. Too innocently. "Just that you were absolutely wasted."

“I was not that drunk,” you mumble, turning to glare at him, but he's grinning at you with that infuriating mix of affection and amusement that makes your heart do stupid things. You turn back to your coffee, adding in your sugar and hoping the heart flutters will just go away on their own.

"Bug," he says, standing up and crossing the room to you. "You and Aria downed double shots of tequila and then sang Chicago as a duet. You somehow took turns doing the background vocals."

"That's called performing," you shrug, taking a long sip of coffee for liquid courage before turning to face the guys again.

“You signed up for another song immediately after and sang Paula Abdul to me.” 

“Mm, I don’t recall ever dedicating it to you.”

Tucker laughs from the stove. "You absolutely did. With your eyes."

"It was very touching," Dean adds, smirking into his coffee.

Garrett's standing close now, he reaches up and gently tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. "You were a mess," he says softly. "A very cute mess."

"I hate you," you mutter, but it wouldn't even sound believable to a stranger. You couldn’t convince someone that you hated Garrett Graham if your life depended on it.

"No, you don't." He grabs your mug from your hands and refills it, making sure to add a touch more oat milk and sugar the way you like it without asking. Then his hand moves to the small of your back as he guides you to the table and pulls out a chair. "Sit. Tuck's making you pancakes."

"I can get my own pancakes."

"Sit," he repeats, firmer this time, and you do.

Tucker slides a plate with two perfectly golden pancakes in front of you and sets the bottle of syrup next to it. "Eat," Tuck orders. "You need to soak up whatever's left of those tequila shots. I added cinnamon to this last batch just for you." 

You smile and mumble a thank-you as your hand reaches to pick up your fork. Garrett sits down next to you, watching you like he's making sure you actually eat. "Did you take the Advil I left you?"

"Yes, Dad," you say, rolling your eyes.

"Good." He reaches over and pushes a glass of water toward you. "Drink some more water."

"You're very bossy this morning."

"You're very hungover this morning."

Logan snickers from across the kitchen. "You should've seen him earlier. He’s been up since like 7, pacing around like a nervous wreck ever since."

Garrett shoots him a threatening look. "I just went for a jog."

“Right, just a normal jog," Dean says, exchanging a glance with Tucker that you don't quite understand.

You look between them, the fork paused halfway to your mouth. "What’s going on?" you ask suspiciously.

"Nothing," Garrett says quickly. Too quickly.

Tucker coughs into his fist. Logan suddenly finds his phone very interesting. Dean just smirks.

"You guys are being weird," you say slowly.

"We're always weird," Garrett says, reaching over to steal a piece of your pancake. You smack his hand away.

"Get your own food."

"Yours tastes better."

"They’re literally the same."

"Mmm, no, Tuck said he added cinnamon to yours, Princess." He steals another bite, grinning when you glare at him.

And just like that, the weirdness dissolves. You eat your pancakes while Garrett teases you about your karaoke performance, doing a truly terrible impression of your dancing. Tucker joins in, recounting the way you and Aria dramatically bowed after your first song. Even Logan contributes, pulling up a video on his phone that you immediately try to delete.

It's normal. Easy. The kind of morning you've had a hundred times before.

But something feels different.

The way Garrett keeps touching you. His hand on your shoulder, his fingers brushing yours when he hands you more water. The way the guys keep exchanging looks when they think you're not paying attention.

The way Garrett looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention.

Like you're something precious. Something he's afraid to lose.

You just can't figure out why.

***

Twenty minutes later, you're in Garrett's car, the morning sun filtering through the windshield as he drives you back to your apartment. The Advil is starting to kick in, dulling the sharp edges of your hangover into something more manageable. You're more aware now… of the way his hand rests casually on the gear shift, of the playlist humming softly through the speakers, of the fact that he keeps glancing over at you like he's checking to make sure you're still there.

"So," you say, breaking the comfortable silence. "Last night."

"What about it?" His tone is light, but there's something guarded in it.

"What happened? After karaoke, I mean." You shift in your seat to face him. "Everything's kind of... fuzzy."

"You were drunk," he says simply, eyes on the road. "Not much to tell."

"Garrett."

"Bug."

You narrow your eyes at him. "You're being weird."

He glances at you with a smirk. “No, I think you’re the one being weird."

“Gare, don’t try to deflect. You’ve been weird all morning. You and the guys. It’s like you’re keeping something from me.”

He laughs, and it sounds almost nervous. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do." You cross your arms. "You’re being like extra caring and bossy. The Advil. The water. The way you kept touching me at breakfast. And the way the guys were acting. Looking at each other like they were communicating with their eyes. It’s like they knew something I didn't."

"They always act like that."

"Garrett." You reach over and poke his shoulder. "What happened?"

He's quiet for a moment, his jaw working like he's chewing on his words. Then he shrugs. "You let loose last night. Sang Paula Abdul at me. Whined about having to leave the bar. Made me carry you inside. And tried to make a move on me. Nothing out of the ordinary.” He winks at you.

"That's it?" You blush when he mentions that you wanted to have sex last night. But you know that he would not be acting like this over something like that… He’s still not telling you something.

"That's it."

You don't believe him. Not for a second. "Did I say something embarrassing?"

"You say embarrassing things all the time."

"Garrett."

"Bug." He glances at you, grinning. "You're overthinking this."

"I'm not overthinking anything. I just-" You huff, frustrated. "I feel like I'm missing something. Like there's this whole chunk of the night that's just... gone."

"You were drunk," he repeats, softer this time. "It happens."

"But did I-" You hesitate, suddenly afraid of the answer. "Did I do something? Or say something that-"

"No." He cuts you off, firm but gentle. "You didn't do anything wrong."

The way he says it makes your chest tighten. Like he's reassuring you. Like he's protecting you from something.

"Then why won't you tell me what happened?"

"There's nothing to tell." He pulls up to a red light and finally looks at you fully, his expression unreadable. "You were drunk. I took care of you. That's what friends do."

Friends.

The word sits heavily between you.

"Right," you say quietly.

The light turns green, and he drives on. The silence stretches, not quite comfortable anymore.

You're about to push again when he speaks. "The guys want to throw a party tonight. For the end of midterms." His tone is casual, but there's something underneath it. Something tentative. "You wanna come?"

You blink at him. "A party?"

"Yeah." He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "Thought you might want to."

“Are you asking me if I want to come, or are you asking me to come?” You ask.

“What’s the difference?”

“You know the difference.”

He takes a moment and looks away before answering. “I’m asking you if you want to come to a party. Nothing crazy.” He shrugs, but there’s something in his tone that makes it seem like he wants you there.

You study him for a moment, trying to read between the lines. Is this just a normal friend invite? Or is this something else? Something more?

"Okay," you say finally.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll come."

His shoulders relax, just slightly. "Cool."

"Cool," you echo.

He pulls up in front of your apartment building and puts the car in park. For a moment, neither of you moves. "Garrett," you say quietly.

"Yeah?"

"If something happened last night… something I should know about, you'd tell me, right?"

He looks at you, and for a split second, you see it. The hesitation. The weight of something unsaid.

Then he smiles, easy and familiar. "Of course I would, Bug."

But you don't believe him.

"Okay," you say, unbuckling your seatbelt. "I'll see you tonight, then."

"Tonight," he confirms.

You open the door and step out, but before you close it, you lean back in. "Thanks. For last night. For taking care of me."

His expression softens. "Anytime. I'll, uh, swing by and pick you guys up later, okay?"

"Okay." You shut the door and head toward your building, feeling his eyes on you the whole way. When you glance back, he's still there, watching you like he's memorizing the moment.

You wave. He waves back.

And then he drives away as you walk through the main door. 

What the fuck happened last night?

You speed walk up the stairs and down the hall, reaching your apartment and bursting through the door. "ARIA!"

There's a crash from the kitchen, followed by a muffled curse. Aria appears in the doorway, clutching a coffee mug and looking like death warmed over. Her hair is in a lopsided bun, and she's wearing sunglasses indoors. "Jesus Christ, why are you yelling?"

"Because something happened last night and nobody will tell me what it was!" You kick off your shoes and march toward her. "The guys were acting weird. Like, weirder than usual."

Aria winces and takes a long sip of coffee. "Define weird."

"Weird like-" You gesture wildly. "like they all knew something I didn't. Logan kept giving me these pity looks. Tucker kept smiling at me like I was a baby that had just said their first word. Dean wouldn't even make eye contact with me. And Garrett-"

"What about Garrett?" Aria's voice is suddenly very careful.

"He was being so sweet. Like, too sweet… aggressively sweet. He left me some Advil and water on his bedside table, practically forced me to sit down and eat breakfast, refilled my coffee, and-" You pause, trying to find the words. "and he was watching me like I might disappear if he blinked. And when I asked him what happened after karaoke, he completely shut down. Just kept saying I was drunk and there was nothing to tell."

Aria sets her mug down slowly. "Okay."

"Okay? Okay?" Your voice pitches higher. "Ari, I remember karaoke. I remember singing with you, and then I remember singing to Garrett, and then everything after that is just... gone. Like someone dumped my memory into a shredder and scattered it in a field to keep me from piecing it back together."

"You had a lot of vodka crans and tequila shots."

"I know I had a lot! That's not the point!" You're pacing now, hands running through your hair. "The point is that something clearly happened, and everyone knows about it except me, and I need you to tell me what I did."

Aria is quiet for a long moment. Too quiet.

"Aria." Your stomach drops. "What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything-"

"Oh my god, did I throw up on him? Did I cry? Did I-" You freeze mid-pace. "Did I try to have sex with him in front of everyone? I know he said I was trying to get in his pants, but there’s no way-“

"No!" Aria laughs despite herself. "No, nothing like that."

"Then what?"

She takes off her sunglasses and looks at you with an expression you can't quite read. Something between sympathy and vindication. "You really don't remember?"

"If I remembered, would I be having a full-scale meltdown in our living room right now?"

Aria sighs and sits down on the couch, patting the cushion next to her. "Sit."

"I don't want to sit, I want you to tell me what the fuck-"

"Sit."

You sit.

Aria turns to face you, her expression serious now. "You told him you loved him."

The world stops.

"I-what?"

"Last night. After you guys went back to his place. You told him you loved him."

The blood drains from your face. "No. No, I didn't. I wouldn't-"

"You did." Aria's voice is gentle. "Garrett told the guys this morning, and they texted me saying that he was kinda spiraling about it. That's why they were acting weird. That's why he was acting weird."

"Oh my god." You stand up abruptly, then sit back down. Then stand up again. "Oh my god. Aria, I- we have an arrangement. We have rules. No feelings, no complications, just-" You press your hands to your face. "I’ve just ruined everything."

"Or," Aria says carefully, "you finally said what you've been feeling for months."

"I haven't been feeling-"

"Don't." She cuts you off with a look. "Don't lie to me, and don't lie to yourself. You've been in love with him for a while now. I've watched it happen."

"That's not-" You slump back onto the couch, defeated. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

"What did he say? When I told him?"

Aria hesitates. "I don't know. The guys didn't say."

"Great. Perfect. So I confessed my love to a man who is famous for not doing relationships, and I don't even remember doing it, and now I have to see him tonight at a party and pretend everything is fine." You laugh, slightly hysterical. "This is fine. Everything is fine."

"Hey." Aria grabs your hand. "For what it's worth? I think he feels the same way."

"You always think that."

"Because I'm always right." She squeezes your fingers. "The way he looks at you? The way he takes care of you? That's not just friends-with-benefits behavior. That's 'I'm in love with you but too scared to admit it' behavior."

You want to believe her. God, you want to believe her so badly it hurts. But all you can think about is the look on Garrett's face this morning. The hesitation. The careful way he deflected your questions.

The way he called you his friend.

"I’m gonna tell him I’m not coming," you say quietly. “I’ll just say I’m still feeling too tired from last night or something.”

"Absolutely not."

"Aria-"

"No." She stands up, pulling you with her. "You're going to that party. You're going to look hot as fuck. And you're going to figure out what happens next."

"What if he doesn't feel the same way?"

Aria looks at you with absolute certainty. "Then he's an idiot."

You wish you had her confidence.

Part Three

What you didn’t know was that Garrett wasn’t just some dumb jock. He took his school work just as seriously as he did Hockey. Getting good grades and applying himself academically were highly important to him. And this kinda shocked you.

You had never taken notice of him in the same way that other girls at Briar did. You just saw him as any other guy, but that project changed your perspective on him. During the time spent together in those few weeks of research, he had grown on you. Dare you say… You kinda liked him?

Well, maybe more than just liked him. The two of you had started hanging out almost every day. It started with just the two of you hanging back after class to work on your project and quickly developed into grabbing lunch together. Then he started inviting you over to the off-campus house, and the research project sessions turned into hang sessions. 

And well… hanging sessions led to hookups.

You’re not quite sure why being research project partners led to friends with benefits, but it’s best not to question it. Why question something that just works so well? He doesn’t do relationships, and you don’t particularly care for them either. So for over a year now, you and Garret have been hooking up with no strings attached while also being best friends. And it’s perfect. A true “everyone wins” type of situation. What could go wrong?

“Where’s the princess?” Dean asks as Garrett gruffly walks through the front door of the house. He drops his bag at the bottom of the stairs and glances at his friend with a shrug.

Logan shifts his gaze from the TV to Garrett for a moment and furrows his eyebrows. “W S I Y C?” he says, honing his attention back in on the game.

“Logan, no one knows what that means.” Tucker chimes in from the kitchen.

“Yeah, I’m really not in the mood for your dumbass acronyms right now.” Garret huffs, making his way to the fridge and grabbing a beer.

“Who shit in your Cheerios… duh.” Logan says, looking at Dean as he laughs and shakes his head.

“Seriously, though, she isn’t coming over tonight? Last day of midterms week, and you two aren’t hanging out? You haven’t had her over all week.” Tuck asks, glancing at Garrett as he opens his beer. “I made sure to make an extra piece of salmon just for her.” 

Garrett takes a sip of his beer and leans against the counter, closing his eyes before acknowledging the pressing question that seems to be on everyone’s minds. “She’s busy.” He shrugs again and glances up from his beer to see the curious expressions on his friend’s faces. “What?”

“Busy? Like she picked up a shift at Malone’s?” Tuck questions.

“No.”

“So… she’s got a theater thing?” Logan glances away from the game again.

“No.”

“Then she-“ before Dean can finish his guess, Garrett stops him with a groan.

“Why does it matter so much to the three of you what she’s doing?” He asks, running a hand over his face. “She’s going on a date. So she’s busy and not coming over… that’s all.”

The three guys look at each other, then back at Garrett and smirk. Dean chuckles, “Ohhh, so you’re jealous, man. Could have led with that.”

Garrett chokes on his sip of beer and stands up straight. “What? I’m not jealous. She can- she can do whatever or whoever she wants. We’re just friends.”

“Okay, so you wouldn’t mind if I-“ Garrett once again cuts Dean off. “Shut the fuck up.” he says, starting to walk off toward the stairs. 

“If jealousy was a disease, you’d be on life support!” Dean calls after him as Tuck and Logan try to suppress their laughter. 

***

“We should do this again.” The tall brunette guy from your literature class says as he walks you to the door to your apartment. 

You smile softly and nod, “Uh, yeah, it was fun,” you say, not really meaning it. You did have a somewhat nice time, but all he did was talk about himself. Not once did he ask you anything about yourself, and barely let you get a word in. So no, this will not be happening again, but he doesn’t need to know that for now. “Thanks again for dinner.”

He nods and leans in to kiss you, but you dodge it, turning your head so that his lips land on your cheek. “Have a good night!” you say hurriedly and scurry into your apartment, shutting the door without another word.

“Back so soon?” Your roommate, Aria, says from the couch. 

The two of you were dorm roommates in freshman year and have been inseparable ever since. She’s the closest friend you’ve made at Briar, like the sister you never had.

“He makes the top five worst first dates list.” You grumble, slipping off your coat and slumping onto the couch next to Aria. “I’ll tell you the details later. It’s too soon for me to relive it.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she chuckles, and you glare at her playfully.

“Think it’s too late for me to become a nun?” you ask, jokingly, and she shakes her head in reply with a smirk. 

“I’ll find you a nice convent if you’d like,” she says.

You nod your head. “Please do, maybe one near a beach.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” she jokes, offering you the bowl of popcorn, which you gladly take a handful. “Why don’t you go over to G’s? I’m sure he’d help you forget all about your terrible night with… what was his name?”

“Henry,” you sigh, munching on a couple of pieces of popcorn. “I don’t know, it’s kinda late, and Gare was acting kinda weird when I told him what I was doing tonight.”

“Weird how?” she quirks an eyebrow.

“Like I don’t know… he seemed kinda offended? His expression kinda gave ‘you’d rather go on a date with this guy than hook up with me?’ vibes, which is fair cause clearly I chose wrong.” You pop another piece of popcorn in your mouth and glance at Aria to see that her smirk has returned. “Don’t start with your theories of him being in love with me. Friends who have sex sometimes, nothing more.”

“He so is in love with youuuuuuuuu,” she says, giddily as she reaches for her phone. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, trying to peer over her shoulder.

“Asking Tuck what they’re all up to,” she responds, tapping away on her phone. You sit back and focus your attention on the movie she has playing on the TV, not bothering to stop her. A couple of minutes pass before she abruptly grabs the remote and turns off the TV. You look up as she gets off the couch and beelines it to her bedroom. “Malone’s in 20! Put your new red top on! Oh, and the black boots I let you borrow last week!”

***

The guys had convinced Garrett to come out with them to Malone’s after dinner. “If you’re not getting any action tonight, you can’t sit here and sulk about it.” Logan had warned him before proceeding to nag him until he caved into joining them. 

“When are you gonna admit that you’ve got a problem?” Logan asks Garrett as the two of them sit at their friend group's usual booth. Dean is across the room making out with a random girl as usual, and Tuck’s at the bar, grabbing another round. 

Garrett looks up with a raised brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he deadpans.

“Yes, you do.” Logan rolls his eyes. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Mister ‘I can’t have a girlfriend’ has finally met his match. You’re hooked on her, dude… Admit it.”

Garrett rolls his eyes and tunes his friend out as his eyes glance around the room. Just as he’s about to tell Logan to shut up, his eyes land on you walking in through the front door with Aria in tow. Damn, you looked stunning, he thought to himself. He wondered if that was what you wore on your date. Then suddenly his stomach tightened, and his mind started whirling with more thoughts. It’s not the first time you’ve gone on a date since you guys met. As he said before, you guys weren’t exclusive in any way, shape, or form. You were free to do what you wanted, and you were a beautiful girl with an amazing personality. What guy wouldn’t want to take you on a date? Every time you mentioned a new guy you were seeing to Garrett, it made him uneasy, but he’d never admit that. No stings meant he had no right to voice any opinions on you seeing other people. 

Garrett didn’t realize that he had been staring at you until Logan’s irritating voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Huh?” he said, tearing his eyes away from you for a moment to glance at Logan. His eyes snapped back at you to get one more look before he committed to listening to Logan.

“I said- never mind, you’ll never fucking listen.” He says, after following Garrett’s gaze to see that it led to you.

Aria and you walk over to the bar to grab a drink and talk to Tucker. He sets his hand on your shoulder and turns back to motion towards Logan and Garrett sitting at the booth. “You guys are gonna join us, right? And share the details on your date?” He smiles, nudging your shoulder. “Can’t believe you didn’t mention it in the group chat, by the way.”

Your face starts to heat up, and you shake your head. “If someone asks me about that, I will have to go jump off a bridge, Tuck. And I’ll drag you with me.” You say in the most serious tone, making Aria laugh.

“Oh, um, noted,” he nods, starting to slowly back away. “No, mentions of the date. Promise!” Aria continues to laugh as Tucker quickly turns on his heels and makes his way to the booth. You glance past him and notice Garrett looking at you, so you smile and wink at him before turning back to Aria.

“Listen up! No, and I mean absolutely no, mentions of her date. I’ve been threatened.” Tucker warns, moments before the two of you make your way to the table.

Logan grins, looking from you to Tucker. “Well, well, well, how was-“ Tucker practically dives into the booth, almost knocking over the beers he’d just set down, and slaps his hand over Logan’s mouth. “HOW WERE YOUR MIDTERMS?” He practically shouts, smiling at you and Aria before shooting a glare at Logan.

You feel your face start to flush again as you slide into the booth next to Garrett and cross your arms. “Midterms were just swell.” You say sarcastically, slipping off your jacket and setting it in your lap. Garrett instinctively snakes his arm over your shoulders, and you lean back without a thought.

“You missed out on Tuck’s honey-glazed salmon tonight,” Logan says after prying Tucker’s hand off of his face. 

You frown, “John Tucker, you made my favorite? Without me there?” you say, shaking your head. “For shame.”

“He didn’t know you weren’t coming over,” Garrett says, reaching for one of the fresh beers and bringing it to his lips. He adds “in his defense” before taking a sip. 

“Yeah, you usually come over on Fridays, so I was honestly making it for you. I saved your piece tho! Buried it under some stuff in the vegetable bin, so Dean wouldn’t find it.” Tuck says with a smile. 

“Oh well, I take back the ‘for shame’ comment, please accept my humblest of apologies, sweet Tuck.” You say with a hand to your heart for the extra dramatic effect.

“Consider yourself forgiven.” He winks.

“You guys think we can convince them to set up Karaoke?” Aria asks, changing the subject. “I’m itching to sing some Michael Jackson, but I’m gonna need like 2 shots first. I need to completely forget midterms even happened.”

“I don’t-“ Tuck starts to say before Aria elbows him and flashes a threatening look at him.

“Let’s go, we have to sweet-talk Robin!” She announces, sliding out of the booth, pulling Tuck with her as he rubs his side. “You too, Logan! I need both Johns in on this.”

“Robin doesn’t even-“ She flashes Logan the same look she gave Tuck, and he instantly straightens his spine and scoots toward the edge of the booth. “I mean, sure, yeah. We all have to hear you perform Thriller… Robin will understand.” 

The three of them walk off, and you furrow your eyebrows as you watch them rush to where the manager, Robin, is standing behind the bar. You know why she’s doing this, and you also know it’s useless. Garrett Graham, the king of the anti-relationship club, is not in love with you. But Aria will never give up on her theory that he is.

“So you don’t wanna talk about your date with Harry?” Garrett asks, tracing shapes over your shoulder with his thumb as he looks down at you.

“Henry.” You correct him, lifting your drink to your lips and taking a long sip. “And no, G… I don’t particularly want to talk about it.” You glance at him to see that his eyes are set on you with a concerned look on his face. You realize that looking into his eyes was a big mistake because you can feel yourself starting to melt under his gaze. “He just made it all about him.” You cave after a few more seconds and sigh. “He seemed like a sweet guy when we were in study group together the last couple of weeks, but the whole dinner, he would just talk about himself. What he likes to do, his goals for after he graduates, his spring break plans, and it was just on and on and on. Not one question about me. When I would try to relate to something, he’d just steer the conversation back to him. I eventually just stopped trying to speak. And then when he drops me off, he suggests seeing each other again and tries to kiss me… I bet he thought I would invite him in.” You roll your eyes at the thought.

Garrett chuckles after you finish your little rant, and you glare up at him. “It’s not funny, Gare.” You huff, crossing your arms. You shrug his arm off your shoulders and turn to slide out of the booth. As your bottom makes it to the edge, you feel his large hands grab your waist and pull you back to him. “Sorry.” He says softly as you look back up at him. “I was really rooting for you and Harry,” he bites his lip to hold back another laugh. 

“Oh fuck you, Garrett.” You try to push away from him, but one of his hands is still firmly planted on your waist. “Stop, I’m sorry! I couldn’t help myself. I’m done with the jokes. I swear,” he maintains his grip on your waist and leans down to kiss the top of your head. “And fuck that guy. You’re the most interesting woman I know, and if he didn’t want to get to know you, it’s his loss.”

You can tell he’s being genuine, and it makes your heart flutter a little. “Thanks.” You say with a smile. “I am pretty interesting.” 

“And sweet. And sexy. And smart. I could go on.” He smiles.

“Oh, feel free to.”

“A bit of a brat.” He smirks. “With a nice-“

You glare at him again and slap his shoulder as you cut him off. “That’s enough,” you say sternly and turn your head away to hide the blush that’s surely rising to your cheeks. Aria starts to near the booth, so Garrett leans in to whisper in your ear. “Seriously, though, you deserve a guy who will take the time to get to know you. You’ll find better.” You turn your head back just enough, you glance at him, and he winks at you, causing your cheeks to heat up even more.

Aria slams her hands on the table, snapping your attention away from Garrett. “Karaoke is being set up as we speak, my friends. Feel free to thank me with a tequila sunrise.” She smirks as Logan and Tucker walk up behind her. Tuck hands you a shot. “Ari said it was a necessity for you to participate.” He says. “Double of tequila.”

“No lime?” You frown. “Despicable.” You knock it back anyway and take the last sip of your vodka cran as your chaser. 

“That’s my girl,” Aria says, grabbing your hand and tugging it for you to stand. “Please release her, G. Her and I will be performing Chicago, and we must get our names on the list as soon as Robin hangs it.” Garrett removes his hand from your waist reluctantly, and you slip out of the booth quickly to save your arm from nearly being ripped off by your best friend. She drags you over to the bar to grab another while you wait for the list.

“Did she tell you about her date?” Logan asks as he and Tuck sit back down.

“Yeah, she said he just talked about himself the entire time like a narcissist douche bag.” He shrugs, grabbing a mozzarella stick. “She’ll find better.”

“She’ll find better?” Tucker repeats, furrowing his brows. “You want that for her?”

“Uh, why wouldn’t I want her to find a better guy?”

“Well, there’s a better guy that’s been right in front of her, doofus,” Logan says, prompting Garrett to roll his eyes.

“Dude, you know that if her date had gone well and she kept seeing this guy, you would be pissed,” Tucker says.

“Who’s pissed?” Dean asks, sliding into the booth next to Garrett. 

“G would be pissed if y/n’s date had gone well.”

“Ah, so it didn’t go well? That’s a win for you, Graham.” Dean pats Garrett on the back, and he grimaces. “Man, you were in the worst mood just because she was going on a date. If she had a good time, you’d be murdering the guy.”

“Don’t worry, we’d help you hide the body.” Logan teases.

Garrett sighs, looking over to see you and Aria writing your names down on the Karaoke sheet. His eyes rake over you, and he doesn’t know if the pit in his stomach is just because of the greasy order of mozzarella sticks he’s been eating or if it's that he is genuinely coming to terms with his feelings for you. “Even if I wanted her all to myself-“ Garrett starts, and Dean interjects. “You do.” Garrett shoots him a warning look. “Even if I did… She doesn’t want that. If she did, she wouldn’t be going on dates with other guys.”

The three guys look at each other before collectively looking back to Garrett. “She’s gone on plenty of dates since meeting you, and none have been successful, right? Well, at least not successful enough for her to explore a relationship with one of them. Don’t you think there’s a reason? Like maybe they don’t compare to you in her eyes?” Tucker speaks up.

Before Garrett can answer, Chicago by Michael Jackson starts playing over the bar speakers. He looks to the stage to see you and Aria back to back with mics in hand. He smiles, watching as you start singing. You were in your element on the stage, being goofy and theatrical and so unapologetically yourself. It was one of the things he liked most about you, but it wasn’t something everyone got to see. It was only when you loosened up or were surrounded by people whom you’re really comfortable around that this side of you came out. 

“She feels the same way about you, G, but if you wait for her to tell you it’s never gonna happen. She’s not going to confess her love to the guy who’s notorious for shooting down relationships.” Dean says, regaining Garrett’s attention. 

“Whatever, I need another drink.” Garrett nudges Dean’s shoulder, prompting him to move. Dean shakes his head and gets up to let Garrett out of the booth. “All I’m saying is get your girl before she actually does find someone else.”

Garrett brushes past him without a word and makes his way to the part of the bar closest to the stage. He assumes you downed your drink before going on stage, so he orders you another and a beer for himself before sitting on one of the free stools. While watching you sing, he starts to mull over what the guys were saying. They’ve been bringing this up to him at least once a month for at least the past six months, and it just leaves him feeling frustrated and confused. Talking about feelings has never been his strong suit, and he couldn’t imagine how he’d be able to confess his to you. Not when he wasn’t 100% sure they’d be reciprocated. He couldn’t tell you he was falling in love with you when there was even the smallest possibility of you not feeling the same way and then ending what you guys already had together. Because what you have now is just too good to risk. 

While Garrett’s mind was racing, you had finished the song and made your way over to him. “Gare, were you watching?” You ask excitedly, stepping between his legs and setting your hands on his shoulders. He looks at you with a smile and nods. “Of course, Bug,” he says, leaning in to give you a quick kiss as his hands move to your sides and slide into place at the small of your back. “I got you another drink.”

You smile widely and kiss his cheek before picking up the vodka cran with lime, your favorite. “Thank you.” You take a sip and tell him you've already signed up for another song. “Oh yeah, what’s your next song?” he asks, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. You were so beautiful and obviously drunk. Your face always flushed a bit when you were drunk, but somehow you made it just makes you even cuter. “I haven’t decided, but another oldie for sure.” You lean into him and rest your forehead against his. “Any suggestions?” 

He ponders for a moment, but before he can offer up a suggestion, your name is called from the stage by Robin, who looks like she is really regretting setting up karaoke. “Oh! My turn!” You hand Garrett your drink and quickly walk over to the stage, stumbling a little in your drunken state. You whisper your song choice to Robin before taking the mic and waiting for the music to start.

“Hey, baby, you gotta remember I’m forever your girl.” You start singing, your eyes set on none other than Garrett. He blushes and proceeds to watch you dancing around and singing your heart out on the stage. His attention was so locked on you that he hadn't even noticed Dean sitting next to him. “No denying that this song is dedicated to you, buddy,” Dean smirks. 

He looks to Dean for a few seconds, too tired to argue with him at this point. “I can’t risk what we have now.” Is all he says, watching you and not even attempting to hide how completely enamored he is by you. “If she didn’t feel the same… it’d ruin everything. I just can’t.”

“Sometimes the benefits outweigh the risks, my friend.” Dean pats Garrett on the back. He sighed and tried to ignore Dean’s words so that he could see more of your theatrics, but in the back of his mind, her couldnt stop wondering if Dean was actually right. Was he too oblivious to realise that his feelings for you would be reciprocated? 

Your song comes to an end, and you skip back to the bar, flushed and buzzing. Garrett and Dean both tell you how great you were, and you grin so wide your cheeks hurt. “Karaoke is the best.” You sigh contentedly. “Where are the guys?” You ask, scanning the room. It’s definitely getting late, and the crowd of people is trickling out. “And Ari?”

“Aria got a little too enthusiastic with the tequila,” Dean says, standing up. “Logan and Tuck took her home. I’m gonna head out too.” The moment he leaves, the bar feels quieter. Smaller. Just you nd Garette and the hum of the music. 

“Aw man…” You pout, grabbing your drink from Garrett’s hand. “I don’t wanna go yet.”

Garrett reaches to take your drink, and you take a step back. He shakes his head, “Mmm, I don't think you need to finish that. And Dean is right, time to go.”

You raise your glass defiantly and finish what's left of your drink. “Can I sleep over?” you ask, setting the now empty glass down on the bar counter. Garrett nods and stands up, placing his hands on your waist to turn you around. “Of course, who else was I gonna cuddle with tonight?”

The two of you walk out of Malone’s together, hand in hand, and make your way to Garrett’s car. He opens the passenger side door for you, helping you get in before shutting the door and walking to his side. “I’m glad I ended the night with you.” You say as he gets in and starts the car. “Way better than how my night began.” He smiles at you and sets his hand on your thigh. “Me too, Bug.”

You watch the city lights blur for a moment before looking over at Garrett and shutting your eyes. Before you know it, he parks the car and looks over to see that you’re practically asleep. “Y/n, we’re here,” He says softly, reaching over to place his hand on your cheek, producing a small smile from you. You hum in response, feeling too tired for words, and he chuckles. “Come on, let's go inside,” He says. You peek one of your eyes open. “Carry me?” You ask, quietly, with the puppy dog eyes that you know he can’t say no to. He chuckles again. “Anything for you, princess.” He gets out of the car and makes his way around to your side, opening the door and reaching in to unbuckle your seat belt. He picks you up and lifts you out of the car, shutting the door with his foot and smirking as he decides to throw you over his shoulder. “Hold on tight.”

“Hey!” you shout, suddenly wide awake and upside down. “Put me down, Garrett.” He carries you to the front door and up the stairs like this despite your protests. Finally, he gently throws you down on his bed and grins. “Feeling dizzy?” He asks. “If I throw up in your bed, it’s your fault,” You murmur, burying your face in a pillow. He laughs and starts looking through his dresser to find a shirt for you to wear. “Here ya go, sleepy head.” He tosses it to you, and you sit up slowly. You start to undress, tossing your clothes to the floor. He watches you as he strips down to his boxers himself, his eyes studying your body as if he hasn't already seen every inch a million times over. 

You eventually pull his t-shirt over your head and settle back against the headboard of the bed. He settles in beside you and kisses your forehead-a gentle gesture that makes your heart ache. “C’mere,” he says softly as he lies down and opens his arms. You don’t hesitate. You move under the covers and close the distance between the two of you, your body fitting into the hollow of his like it always does. For a moment, you just look at him. His dark curls are messy, falling across his forehead. Your hand reaches up to push them back without a thought. He watches you, patient and still, something in that quiet moment makes your breath catch. Maybe the look of adoration in his eyes. 

Then you’re leaning in, and his lips meet yours. Soft at first, but as your palm finds his cheek, the kiss deepens. His hand tightens on your waist, and you moan into him. The familiar ache of wanting someone you’ve been trying not to want too much floods both your senses. For a second, he lets himself have this before pulling away. “Sleep,” he murmurs against your mouth, and it’s not a suggestion. His hand moves in steady circles across your back, and you want to protest, want to stay in this moment, but your body has other ideas. The day has caught up to you-midterms, the bad date, the bar, him- and the exhaustion wins.

You feel goosebumps forming on your arms, and a shiver runs down your spine from his touch. Moments like this with him just feel too perfect to be real. You tuck your head under his chin and start to doze off as you listen to his heartbeat. “I love you,” you whisper, too drunk and tired to realize what just came out of your mouth. 

Garrett goes completely still as he feels his heart rate spike. ‘I love you’ is something the two of you have never said to each other, at least not in such an intimate way. There’s been the casual ‘love ya’ said between friends. But this… This felt very different. This was you, unguarded and honest, and the sound of it sparks something in him that he has been trying to keep at bay.

He wants to say it back. He needs to. 

“I love you, too.” He whispers once he’s sure that you’re asleep. 

A confession to himself.

Part Two