A'lanah৻ꪆ

However, you let doubt shroud the clarity of your judgment and his feelings towards you when things like this happen.

When he swings open his dorm room door to find you standing in the hallway with the biggest, happiest grin on your face, he immediately panics and pulls you in. He sticks his head out into the hallway to check if anyone saw you. His eyes dart around every nook and cranny in search of probing gazes. It is only when he is satisfied with the quiet that he closes the door behind him with a deep sigh.

“Baby, calm down,” you laugh, dropping your bag onto the floor before coming up to him and pressing him up against his door.

“I am calm,” he says nervously and nudges his glasses up on his face again. His eyes fall to meet yours first, then drop to your lips — glossed up shiny the way he likes it, before lifting back up.

Your lips curl into an amused smirk at how red he has gotten. “Nobody saw me, Clark. Don’t worry, I’m still your dirty little secret.”

His brows furrow at your words and, before he can respond, you’re sliding your hands up his broad chest and around his neck to tug him down to meet your lips. You chase after him hungrily, eager to taste the familiar kick of bubblegum on his tongue. Clark groans into your mouth as he picks you up, your legs immediately wrapping around his torso.

You giggle when he stumbles back onto his bed, and you’re scrambling to climb and straddle his lap. He tastes as good as always. His hair is slightly damp from his fresh shower, based on his text only minutes ago when he confirmed you’re good to come over. He smells like that lavender shampoo you love, the one you left once at his place and he never returned. His skin is warm and soft, tender underneath your delicate fingertips as you trace up his arm.

Times like these, the voices in your head quiet down. You’re not two kids from two different social circles. It’s only you and Clark, and Clark and you.

Clark spends his time with people who have 4.0s and are out there ready to change the world — if not already working towards it. They are future Nobel Peace Prize winners, the kind that do not have to buy them with daddy’s money. Revolutionaries. You hear them in classrooms, answering questions in rapid fire and challenging professors with words you can barely grasp.

You, on the other hand, are surrounded by people who host tailgates and Greek parties, who are inebriated more than sober throughout the week, and have abysmal class attendance to the point of surrender from most teachers. You love them, you absolutely do, but you also understand that they aren’t ones to care about changing the world — making money and networking, sure, but not so much about the other good stuff.

The two of you might as well live on different planes of existence.

Part of it is your personal insecurity (that’s something to deal with in therapy!), but another part of you is sincerely concerned that Clark doesn’t feel as strongly about you as you do him. Sometimes, when the worries get too much, when they occupy too much space in your brain, you let the words roll off your tongue.

“Why are we still doing all this in secret, Clark?” The moan that leaves your lips is caught between both petulance and desire as Clark drags his lips down your neck, sucking little love bites onto your skin. You’ve learned that, even if he is relatively secretive of you, he loves marking his territory. Typical men.

“Dunno what you mean,” he mumbles lazily against your skin, clearly too distracted to be having this conversation. Drunk off your smell, your warmth, your skin.

You giggle when his breath tickles your skin. He slowly makes his way back up, slanting his lips over yours and nibbling on your pout. “Come on, we’ve been hiding our relationship for months. I want to go on dates with you. I could take you to parties, you said you wanted to meet more people — and, even if I don’t understand half the presentations you do on thermonuclear dynamics, I’ll still sit in the audience to support you.”

You’re fully taking advantage of the fact that Clark is distracted by the wet drag of your mouth down the column of his throat, his throat bobbing as his heart rate picks up. You’re coaxing him to give you permission with soft kisses along his jaw while he mutters incoherently, his usually big and brilliant brain taking a little more time to compute your words.

It’s satisfying, you have to admit. To have someone as big, as handsome, as smart as Clark putty in your hands. You smile quietly into his neck as you shift your hips just right, just enough to have him let out a little whine.

“If we were out in the open, I could kiss you anywhere you want. Remind everyone that you’re mine,” you hum, pleased.

“Honey,” he breathes out in a near whimper.

“So tell me, hm, what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours? Why won’t you let us go public?” You press up against him and ensure every inch of you is touching every inch of him. All you need is a teensy yes. One word from him to allow you to share this with all your friends.

For someone who shares everything with their best friends, keeping this relationship a secret has been an impossible feat. Nights you sneak away from your shared apartment. Days spent dodging questions about your whereabouts. Lying to your friends. It’s not you.

It’s not Clark’s fault. The two of you agreed to this early on; well, Clark mentioned the desire to keep it hush-hush, and you — like he is now — were too caught up in him and immediately agreed to his terms and conditions. You should’ve known better, should’ve read all the stipulations.

“Please,” he pleads, lungs devoid of any capacity for oxygen.

But please isn’t an answer. Not really. That silence is louder than anything. Your chest tightens as another fear sinks and takes root in the stiffness of your muscles. “Are you embarrassed by me?” Your voice is a tad quieter this time, a tremor in your fingers as you draw away from him.

Clark looks at you through hazy eyes, his usually bright sapphire irises clouded over into a murky blue. Confusion tugs at his brows. “Honey,” he says again.

Still not an answer.

With a heavy heart, you decide that it's best if you leave now — while you still can, while your pride is still semi-intact. Self-awareness has always been your strong suit, but self-restraint balances on the precarious line of your greatest strength and your fatal flaw. This time, you remind yourself that you know better. So you rewind your movements, reluctantly peeling yourself off him and getting to your feet.

His eyes follow you, wide and bewildered, as you gather your bag. You avoid his prying gaze. It’s easier to focus on the rough fabric of your backpack and the cool metallic touch of the doorknob on your palm. Just as you’re about to twist the door open, a hand settles against the door beside your head.

A shudder wracks through you when his lips ghost the back of your neck. His lips hover, never quite touching. “Stay,” he murmurs quietly.

Resolve, you remind yourself. You have some of that left. “I should go,” you say, with none of it.

“Stay,” he urges once again. For a man who usually babbles nonstop about whatever topic is plaguing his mind, he is a man of few words today.

“I can’t do this, Clark. I don’t want to keep hiding like this. If you’re ashamed of me—” your throat tightens, “—then maybe you should find someone who makes more sense for you.”

“Makes more sense for me,” he repeats, numb.

Before you can step away, his hands tighten on your shoulders to turn you around. Your head immediately ducks, eschewing the expression on his face that will undoubtedly be your undoing. Your resolution crumbles like sand when he uses his fingers to gently tip your chin up to face him.

Clark watches the slight quiver of your lips and searches your eyes. “Honey,” he murmurs, voice frayed, “what’s going on? Why now?”

“I don’t know, I just— I don’t understand. If you don’t want to be seen with me, why see me at all?” The words tumble clumsily from your lips as you struggle to form the syllables on your tongue.

“What makes you think I don’t want to be seen with you?” His tone is soft, almost patronizing if you didn’t know Clark any better, but you know his question comes from a point of curiosity, confusion.

Your lips twist in displeasure as you scowl up at him. His gaze smooths around the edges. “Why do you think?” There are no teeth to your words. Even when you try to protect yourself, you’ve never been able to be cruel to Clark Kent.

Clark’s lips part again, another explanation — or excuse — on his tongue.

“Don’t,” you cut in, sharper now, though your voice wavers, “I don’t want to hear it. Just… let me leave with a little pride left. If you— if you don’t want to be with me, then I don’t want this either. I deserve better than this.”

His expression splinters and shifts between confusion and hurt, and a touch of what you may mistake as love. His gaze cracks as he leans down again to capture your lips with his. He swallows your little protests, weak ones that carry no weight, and lifts you again to plant you on his desk. Relentlessly chasing after you, your love, your lips. His mouth trails fire across your skin and you are only human.

“Clark,” you exhale sharply when he kisses a particularly sensitive spot behind your ear. “Hold on. We need to— oh fuck.”

“That mouth of yours,” he mutters and steals another kiss. “I know. We need to talk. Can’t help myself when I’m with you.” The weight of his unwillingness to be apart from you is heavy in the air as you make every effort to regain control of your breathing.

“We need to talk.” It’s your turn to echo him, mostly for your own sanity.

“I love you.” The words that leave Clark’s mouth come out in such a rush that you almost get whiplash. You’re not even entirely sure that you heard him right. Judging by the flush that spreads quickly up his neck, across his cheeks, to the tips of his ears, your listening skills may be better than you think.

However, your brain is still struggling to connect the dots. There are so many questions circling through your mind, one a far cry from the next. You don’t know if this is him pulling a get-out-of-jail-free card, an easy phrase to tame the wildfires spreading in your brain.

“What?” is the only response you can muster, and it comes out as a squeak.

“I love you,” he repeats, firmer this time. He says it again and again, punctuating each word with a kiss to your temple, your cheek, your nose, your jaw. He says it like a prayer, a promise.

“W-where is this coming from?”

Clark only grins down at you, boyish in a way that makes your heart stutter against your ribs. “Think I’ve always known. I just… never found the right time to say it.”

“How is this— what are you talking about?”

“I was never ashamed of you. Never even crossed my mind.”

“Then why all the secrecy?”

Clark scratches his cheek as pink tints it again. “Well, funny you mention it,” he starts, voice dripping with apprehension. “You’re going to think it’s silly, but I never wanted you to be ashamed of me.”

“Ashamed of you?”

“You’re… really cool. Like really cool. You’re completely out of my league and every day I question why you’re even seeing me,” Clark swallows thickly, “I keep waiting for the day you realize that you deserve better and I thought we were doing both of us a favor if you want to end things clean. No mess, no fuss since nobody would know about us in the first place.”

“Clark,” you scold as your brows pucker disapprovingly. 

He ducks his head and presses his temple against yours, closing his eyes as his chest rises with a deep inhale. “I love you, I do. I realize now that I’ve been stupid for making you feel that way, because that’s the last thing I want you to feel. Never want you to doubt my feelings for you.”

Tilting his head, he kisses you — swift and chaste. Sweet, just like him. “I guess we’ve both been incredibly silly then,” you laugh against his lips. 

Clark picks you up again, easily, for that matter. His strength sends a shiver up your spine. He brings you back to his bed and lets you fall back, limbs sprawled comfortably across his mattress. The sight of you just like this, exposed but not vulnerable, has molten lava traveling through his veins. 

He traces his fingers up your stomach, revealed from where your shirt has ridden up, towards your sternum, over the hem of the lace clinging onto your body like second skin. Clark proceeds to spend the next thirty minutes or so — he doesn’t quite know, time is abstract when he’s with you — worshipping every single inch of you. 

Distracted by everything that is you, he misses the door swinging open until he hears a cry that immediately has him faltering, his large frame covering every exposed piece of you. You don’t seem frazzled, instead looking over his shoulder with an amused quirk of your lips. 

Lex has a hand slapped over his eyes, blindly grabbing around his desk before his fingers catch the corner of his laptop. They immediately latch onto it and drag it towards him. “Fucking hell, Clark, warn a man,” he snaps as he shoves his laptop against his chest. 

“I thought you had calc at this time!”

Lex smartly chooses not to respond, instead reaching for the door on his way out. “Next time, put a sock on the door!”

Color spreads quickly across his face and you can’t help but drink in how pretty he looks all red. “Think Lex will tell anyone?” You muse, more entertained than anything.

Clark rolls his eyes with a grin, leaning down to capture your lips again. “Can’t care less. Now, where were we?”

clark is saving (taglist): @houseofhyde @phoenix-in-writing @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @pinksplace @lunexiax @esunarint @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @natskisses @parker-barnes-af @kelbrave @steviebbboi @onecojg @clarknsun @kryptidfiles @stegosaurussims @angelryex @mollymal @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @lynnidc @winnichu173 @zhaixiaowen @macbaetwo @rach2602 @garfieldhollander @my-drvidess @deeninadream @lillilam @fruitypebsworld @vivshome @ella-rowen @reenielane @smorgasbrods @jbennsquared @royaljewellerycurator @ruptureedspleen @yelanare @take-it-on-the-run @ghostgirlwrites @anon-188 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @stanmarvelous @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @jackierose902109 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt @xreader1989 @shewhorunswithfandoms @theonlyaphrodite @wowitsafemale @yagurlannastasia @lettucel0ver @velvetnightmoonsandbows @tushy4toot @hoodharlow @lichi-dunkera @mansaaay @yagurlannastasia @solynoche @thedarkseidofthemoon @burrowedinmyheart @annabethboleyn @lil-mann @magicwithaknife @kissmekissme5 @moonlightspencie @shoutingcardinal @youotterbekiddingme @potter-solomons @theyluvreynira27 @sunnliqht @victoriuhmm @micnicmabel @eloucherry @everydaydreamer @pinknerdyunicorn @jasontoddswhitestreak

“Dislocated shoulder, broken clavicle, and a mild concussion. Surgery went well, though. The orthopedic surgeon’s happy with everything, so now it’s mostly just recovery.”

She flips through the chart tucked beneath her arm before adding almost as an afterthought, “He came out of surgery a little while ago, so he’s still pretty groggy. Between the anesthesia, the pain medication, and the concussion, he may not make a whole lot of sense for a little while.”

You nod absentmindedly, though you’re hardly listening anymore. Your thoughts are somewhere else entirely, drifting back over the last couple of weeks whether you want them to or not.

There hadn’t been one big betrayal. Just enough little ones that, eventually, they all started to feel like one.

A semester-long group project with a girl who never seemed to leave his side. A few too many study sessions that stretched late into the evening. A ride home after class. Friends mentioning they’d seen them grabbing coffee together.

Then there was Dean and Beau’s birthday party, where she’d shown up in bunny ears and a Briar hockey jersey Garrett had lent her.

When you cocked an eyebrow at him as she walked into the party, he’d brushed it off, saying she’d needed something for the costume, but everyone knew what it looked like when a girl walked into a party wearing a hockey player’s jersey.

It wasn’t just something she’d borrowed. It looked like a claim, and judging by the way she kept angling herself to show off the number on her back and the last name on her shoulders, you knew she knew that too.

The second you left Garrett’s side to run to the bathroom, she pulled the rest of their marketing group together and suggested a picture, leaning into Garrett with one hand against his chest while Garrett hooked an arm around her waist.

By the time you came back, the picture had already been taken, posted, and buried inside a photo dump beneath a caption about everyone’s favorite bunny. You didn’t even know it existed until your best friend sent you a screenshot twenty minutes later with one message underneath it.

Wtf? Did you and Garrett break up?

The nurse studies you for a second before offering another small smile, one that almost looks like she’s debating whether she should warn you about something. “I should probably mention…” She lets out the tiniest laugh, shaking her head. “His teammates have been here almost the entire night. They’re a lively group.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “And there’s another young woman in the room who’s been…very determined to stay by his side.”

Your chest tightens before you can stop it, though you keep your expression carefully neutral. The nurse catches it anyway. “For what it’s worth,” she says quietly as the two of you stop outside a closed hospital room door, “she wasn’t the person listed when we asked who to call.”

She eases the door open before stepping aside. The room is larger than you’d expected, though it somehow still feels crowded.

And just as the nurse mentioned, the boys are there. Logan is sitting in a chair, one ankle crossed over his knee as he works his way through a family-sized bag of Doritos.

Beside him, Tucker is completely folded over an iPad, tapping the screen with the concentration of a twelve-year-old who’d been told he had five more minutes before bedtime. He jabs Dean in the side, trying to show whatever's happening on his screen.

Dean waves him off without tearing his attention away from the stunning nurse standing beside Garrett’s bed. “So…” Dean says smoothly, tilting closer. “Hypothetically speaking, if someone wanted to thank the nurse who saved his best friend’s life…” His grin grows when she doesn’t immediately tell him to get lost. “You free for dinner next week?”

She laughs without looking up from Garrett’s hospital bracelet, giving him a fresh round of fluids and pain meds.

Your attention drifts past them before settling on the bed. Garrett Graham. His left arm is tucked securely into an immobilizer across his chest, thick white bandages disappearing beneath the collar of the pale blue hospital gown hanging loosely from his broad shoulders.

A dark bruise has already started spreading along the sharp line of his jaw, another peeking out beneath the curls flattened awkwardly against one side of his head from hours spent unconscious. His lips are dry, cheeks faintly flushed, and even from the doorway you can tell he’s struggling to stay awake.

Then your eyes slide to the other side of the bed and there she is, the girl from Garrett’s marketing class, perched on the edge of the mattress like she belongs there. Garrett, meanwhile, has somehow managed to scoot himself nearly to the opposite edge.

His body is angled as far away from her as physically possible without rolling straight onto the floor, shoulder pressed awkwardly against the raised guardrail.

His heavy eyelids lift, and when he spots you across the room, the corners of his mouth pull into the softest, dopiest smile you’ve ever seen. It isn’t forced or uncertain. If anything, it’s relief, like he’s been waiting for you to get there all night.

His shoulders loosen against the raised hospital bed, his head tipping lazily into the pillow as though the simple act of seeing you has convinced his body it can finally relax. “…There’s my wife.”

The boys start to lose it while the nurse presses her lips tightly together, lowering her clipboard as she bites the inside of her cheek, her shoulders betraying her anyway when they begin to shake with a laugh she’s very obviously trying not to let out.

“…Your wife?” Dean asks, already knowing exactly what he’s about to do.

Garrett blinks at him slowly, his eyebrows furrowing just enough to wrinkle the bandage stretched across his temple before his sleepy gaze drifts back to you again. “…Yeah?”

Garrett’s eyebrows pull together almost immediately, his sleepy smile slipping into a confused frown as he watches Dean laugh himself breathless. “No…” Garrett mumbles, shaking his head against the pillow. “Not my wife.”

“There you go, buddy,” Logan soothes, tapping his hand against the white blanket covering Garrett, leaving orange fingerprints in his wake.

Garrett nods once, satisfied again. “My girlfriend.”

Logan drops his forehead into his hand while another laugh escapes him, Tucker simply closing his eyes like he’d reached the point in the night where nothing could surprise him anymore. Even the nurse gives up trying to look professional, turning toward Garrett’s chart so she can hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“What?” Garrett asks, his words still thick with anesthesia. “She is.”

Dean winces dramatically. “Ooh, buddy…” He rubs the back of his neck before looking back at him. “I hate to be the one to tell you this…”

“Huh?” Garrett’s attention snaps right back to him.

“…She ain’t that either.”

The color drains from Garrett’s face and his mouth falls open.

“…What?”

Logan pushes himself out of the plastic chair beside the window without saying a word. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he says softly, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze as he guides you toward the empty seat. “You don’t need to stand over there.”

Garrett doesn’t look away from you as Logan helps you into the chair beside the bed, panic beginning to replace the sleepy haze clouding his expression.

“…Baby?” His voice is smaller now. “What do you mean?”

He tips his head toward Dean, clearly attempting to keep the conversation between the two of them. It would’ve worked a lot better if he wasn’t speaking at his normal volume.

“What do you mean she’s not my girlfriend?”

As far as he’s concerned, you still belong right there beside him, your hand in his. Nothing else makes sense.

“If he’s awake now,” you ask quietly, glancing toward the nurse, “am I actually needed anymore?”

“—Yes,” Garrett answers quickly.

“Technically? No,” the nurse corrects him gently. “He’s doing well. You’re more than welcome to stay if you’d like, but you’re free to head home.”

You nod once, your fingers curling around the strap of your purse.

“Don’t go,” Garrett mumbles.

His brows pull together as he slowly looks around the room, his good hand lifting off the blanket as he begins pointing from person to person. “One…” His finger lands on you. “Two…” He points toward Dean. “Three…” Tucker. “Four…” Logan. Then his finger circles back toward himself. “…Five.”

He blinks once before his gaze drifts across the bed toward Cami.

“…Six.”

His sleepy eyes settle back on the nurse. “Maximum capacity’s probably five, right?”

The nurse presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Okay.” He points toward Cami with complete sincerity. “Then she can go.”

Cami’s eyebrows shoot up, her head snapping toward the boys when she hears some snickering across the room.

“Fine. I’ll scoot over,” Garrett says, shifting the centimeter that remains between him and the guardrail. “My girl stays.”

Logan looks at the microscopic amount of space Garrett just created before looking back at you. “Enjoy your extra inch, sweetheart.”

“I can try harder,” Garrett assures.

And for the first time since you walked through the door, the laughter begins to fade. Because underneath the anesthesia, he’s completely and utterly devastated by the fact that he lost you.

A knock sounds against the side of the already open door before a man in navy scrubs steps inside, flipping through the pages of Garrett’s chart.

“Hey,” the doctor says warmly when he spots you. “She’s here. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Dr. Reynolds,” he introduces with an easy smile, completely oblivious to the fact that the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

You slip your hand back into the pocket of your sweatshirt, refusing to look anywhere near the other side of Garrett’s bed where the girl still lingers, arms folded now, her smile disappearing a little more every minute.

“Nice to meet you,” you say quietly.

Dr. Reynolds nods once before turning back toward Garrett, flipping another page in the chart.

“Well,” he says, “your surgery went exactly how we hoped. Shoulder’s stable, clavicle’s repaired, concussion symptoms are mild so far. You’re going to be sore for a while, but everything looks great.”

Garrett isn’t listening. He’s still watching you, and the doctor notices, letting out a low laugh before he sighs. “I’ve got to tell you… You must be pretty special. He has asked for you… What?” He glances over at his teammates. “…I think eleven times since he woke up.”

“Mhmm,” the nurse confirms too. “Every few minutes he’s like ‘Where’s my girl?’ ‘Did she get here yet?’ ‘Call my girl.’”

“…Garrett,” you sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he pouts. “I wanted to make you jealous. I just…” He swallows thickly. “I just wanted you to look at me again.”

Dean buries his face in his hands while Tucker bites the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh.

“I just…I just want my girlfriend back.”

Across the bed, the girl shifts uncomfortably where she’d been perched on the mattress all evening, her shoulders drawing in as she looks toward Garrett, silently willing him to stop talking.

“Ex-girlfriend,” Dean reminds him.

“…I don’t like that.”

“Garrett?” Cami’s voice comes out much smaller than it had before. His attention drifts toward her for the first time in what feels like forever, his heavy eyelids lifting just enough to acknowledge she’d spoken.

“Hi.”

“Last week, you told me you were over her,” she says. “Was that a lie?”

“For the love of god, Graham. Plead the fifth,” Logan murmurs with a mouth full of chips.

“I lied.”

The girl’s face drains of what little color it had left. His brows pinch together as his concussed, medication-clouded brain slowly catches up with the words that had just come out of his mouth.

His eyes drift toward the ceiling for a second before he lets out the tiniest, most disappointed sigh. “Probably shouldn’t’ve said that. But…” His voice is quieter now, almost sleepy. “It wasn’t gonna work anyway. That’s my wife—my girlfrie—no. Holy fuckin’ shit…” He gestures toward you helplessly. “She just…she owns me, okay? And I love it. I love that shit so much.” His eyes drift back to you, soft and unfocused. “She’s everything.”

“Dude,” Dean sighs through a chuckle, shaking his head. Tucker bites the side of his cheek to keep his laughter at bay as Logan runs a hand down his face in exhaustion.

“…Can you blame me?” Garrett gestures toward you. “Look at her. She’s… perfect.” He yawns and trails off, his lashes lowering as he drifts toward sleep. “So pretty.”

“Hey, G. We get it, buddy,” Logan says.

“Like…” He slurs, fighting sleep, “…A princess.”

Cami looks around the room like she’s waiting for someone to stop him, someone to tell everybody this is just the medication talking. Nobody does.

Garrett’s attention drifts past her, settling on you, that same tired, lovesick smile he’d been wearing since you’d walked through the door.

Cami lets out a slow breath before pushing herself off the edge of the mattress, smoothing both hands down the front of her sweater. “Well…” she says, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I guess I’ll get out of everyone’s way.”

Click. Click. Click.

Her heeled boots tap against the old linoleum floor.

“Is she gone yet?” Garrett slurs, lifting one eye just enough to peek out of before slamming it shut.

“I’ll see you around,” she says to you with a careless shrug. “I’m sure it won’t be long.”

You don’t answer. You simply meet her eyes, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. She adjusts the strap of her purse higher onto her shoulder, her smile turning just a little sharper.

“So when you two break up next time, tell him not to lose my number, bitch.”

The words barely leave her mouth before Dean pushes himself out of the chair.

“Alright,” he says, his big arms folding across him as he steps between the two of you just enough to break her line of sight. “You can be upset. Nobody’s gonna blame you for that. But you don’t get to take it out on her.”

Cami scoffs and rolls her eyes, letting out a short, disbelieving laugh. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” Tucker interrupts evenly as he locks the iPad and tucks it beneath his arm. He doesn’t raise his voice, but he doesn’t leave any room for an argument either.

“And you’re done,” Logan pipes in fast. “Nobody talks to her like that. Leave.”

“Seriously?” she snips, looking around the room before her eyes rest on Dean’s.

Dean takes one slow step forward, his expression never changing. “You made your point. Time to go.”

“—Whatever.”

Her hand settles on the curtain, yanking it back dramatically enough that the little metal rings clatter—loud enough to startle Garrett awake, breathing sharply through his nose as he looks around the room in complete confusion.

“…What happened?” Garrett mumbles.

Dean glances over at you for a second, watching the way you sit at the edge of your chair, watching your eyes widen when he wakes up. Even though the two of you are over, the panic that catches in your chest when Garrett wakes makes it painfully clear that some part of you still belongs to him.

The nurse told you you could leave. You still hadn’t left. You hadn’t smiled much. Sure. But you’d answered the hospital’s phone call. You’d driven over. You were still sitting in his room hours later, despite every opportunity to walk back out that door.

“Alright,” Dean says casually, fishing his wallet out of his pocket. “I’m gonna go find coffee before I fall asleep.” He nods to the boys to follow along. “Figured we’d give you two a little break from the crunching of chips and Fruit Ninja—”

“I’m not playing Fruit Ninja,” Tucker mutters, still looking down at the iPad. “It’s Overcooked. And, if anyone should leave, it’s you—whoring yourself out to any nurse that walks in here.”

“Rude.” Dean chuckles, even though Tucker isn’t wrong.

A quiet laugh slips through the room, the tension finally beginning to unwind. You look down at your phone for something to do, trying not to think about the fact that you’re finally alone with him, when a soft rustling sound pulls your attention back toward the bed.

Garrett’s watching you still, his good hand lazily patting the empty space beside him when he finally catches your eye. “C’mere.”

You shake your head and roll your eyes. “No.”

“Please.” Garrett’s voice cracks a little, his throat still raw from the tube they’d used during surgery.

“Garrett…”

“Baby, c’mon,” he whispers.

You shake your head, already losing the battle with yourself as you stand from the chair and make your way over to him. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” you warn, carefully settling onto the edge of the mattress without jostling his shoulder. “And it definitely doesn’t mean we’re getting back together.”

Garrett nods along with every word like he agrees completely, the sleepiest smile spreading across his face. He waits until you’ve finally settled beside him before his good arm finds your waist, his fingers bunching lightly in your sweatshirt as he draws you as close as you’ll let him.

“I’m just happy you’re here.”

You glance over at him after a few minutes, watching him shift carefully against the mattress, a quiet breath hissing through his teeth as another ache settles into his shoulder, and for the first time all night he actually looks tired instead of simply high.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

Garrett nods and winces, carefully adjusting his arm in the immobilizer. “It hurts a little more now.”

“The medicine’s wearing off?” you ask, and he nods, his heavy head moving a little slower. “Let me go get your nurse to tell her, okay?”

You can see the worry gathering in his glassy eyes, his lashes lifting a little higher as panic begins to creep back into his expression. “Promise you’ll come back?”

“I promise,” you whisper, lifting a hand to push his flattened curls away from his face. “I still smell like hockey, m’sorry,” he murmurs, leaning into your touch.

You chuckle breathily, making the corners of his mouth tilt into a small smile. “It’s okay.”

“If no one's out there, just come back,” he pleads softly.

You peek around the curtain, catch the nurse’s eye, and quietly ask whether Garrett can have more pain medication.

You walk over to the hospital chair and grab your purse and he calls out for you quickly. “You said you’d stay. Don’t go—”

“Just getting you some chapstick, baby,” you sigh.

The word hangs between the two of you for a second longer than either of you expects.

Baby.

You’d said it without thinking, the pet name slipping free before you had a chance to stop it, and judging by the way Garrett’s eyes soften almost immediately, he’d caught it too.

“What?” you ask quietly, already knowing.

“Nothin’,” he hums, smiling so hard it makes his cheeks hurt. “I just…” He tilts his head into the pillow, the movement ending in a quiet wince before he looks back at you. “Missed hearin’ you call me that.”

He taps on the bed, impatiently waiting for you to come back.

You walk back to the bed and settle carefully on top of the blanket, cupping his sharp jaw in your hand. The lip balm glides across his pouty lips—his head leaning into your hand for a moment, his dark lashes skimming his cheeks.

Your body responds before you can stop yourself, your lips pressing softly against the corner of his mouth. His body melts farther into the mattress as a little sigh of relief passes his lips.

“Sorry,” he murmurs as a tear slides down his cheek. “For everything.” Your thumb brushes it away as you look back into his half-lidded eyes, more tears gathering along his lashes.

You rest the chapstick on the cool metal nightstand. Your hand rests on the bed in between you, and the second your palm hits that crisp cotton his fingers lace in yours.

“I missed you,” he admits. “I missed you every day.”

You keep your eyes on your hands, watching his rough thumb move over your knuckles.

“I’d wake up and reach for my phone without even thinking.” Garrett lets out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head at himself. “I’d think, I gotta tell her this, and then…” His smile falters. “I’d remember I wasn’t allowed to anymore.”

He stares down at your joined hands for a long moment, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles.

“I kept hoping you’d answer one of my calls.” He shrugs carefully with his good shoulder before immediately wincing. “Or open the door when I came over. Anything.” Another quiet laugh slips out, this one sounding more defeated than amused. “I would’ve taken anything.”

He finally looks up at you. “I just wanted you to notice me—to want me in your life.” He swallows hard. “Instead, I gave you another reason to walk away.”

Another tear slips free before he can stop it, disappearing into the pillow beneath his cheek. “I’ll do anything,” he says, his voice breaking as his eyelids lift and fall against sleep. “Just give me another chance, please. I love you—”

The last word trails off as exhaustion takes over, a soft snore slipping from him when his cheek settles deeper into the pillow.

You move a little closer, sharing his pillow, brushing away a stray curl before you kiss him softly on his forehead. Your body melts into the bed next to him, and though it’s neither his bed nor yours, it feels a lot like home.

Your eyes fall closed, and every thought about what might happen when you wake drifts away.

Garrett lets out a quiet breath through his teeth as he carefully tries to adjust himself against the mattress, the movement small enough that he clearly isn’t trying to wake you, but enough that the bed shifts beneath your weight.

Your eyes blink open, taking a second to adjust to the darkness before they settle on him.

“Hey, baby,” he whispers the moment he realizes you’re awake.

“Hey.” Your voice is soft with sleep. “How’re you feeling?”

Garrett looks down at the blanket covering the two of you, clearly weighing his answer. If he admits he feels better, will you decide it’s finally safe to leave?

“A little better,” he says under his breath.

“Better?” You study him carefully.

“Just a little…not enough for you to leave,” he admits, his voice soft and sheepish.

“You’re impossible,” you whisper. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he looks away, rubbing his thumb across the back of your hand where your fingers are still intertwined hours later.

“You remember anything?” You watch his expression change.

“I remember more than I wish I did,” he admits with a tired laugh. “I remember calling you my wife…” His gaze finds yours again. “…And I remember asking you not to leave.”

You wait patiently, giving him room to keep talking. Garrett’s smile slowly fades, replaced by something much more earnest.

“And I remember telling you I still love you.”

He doesn’t rush to explain himself or blame the medication. Instead, he simply watches you.

“I know I don’t deserve another chance just because I finally got my head out of my ass. Trust isn’t something I get back overnight.”

You look down at your joined hands for a moment before lifting your gaze back to him.

“I never cheated on you, I swear on my life. Did I let her get too comfortable around me? Yeah. I would’ve lost my shit if the roles were reversed.”

Garrett glances toward the TV glowing in the dark, his eyes shimmering again with tears. He swallows hard, trying to get on top of his emotion, but he’s in too deep.

“I texted you, I called, I brought flowers, I showed up at your apartment more than once hoping you’d answer the door.” He lets out a shaky sigh. “Every day I kept thinking maybe today’s the day she’ll finally talk to me.”

He drags the back of his hand beneath his eyes, wiping at the tears clumsily.

“When none of it worked, I got desperate. I didn’t want to hurt you—I just wanted something. Anything. I thought if I could make you mad enough, maybe you’d yell at me. Maybe you’d tell me I was an idiot. Maybe we’d finally have a conversation I could apologize in.”

You let him talk, saying nothing. Because just like the little things had slowly chipped away at your trust, the apologies, the flowers, the unanswered calls, and now the quiet honesty spilling out of him were beginning to chip away at the walls you’d spent weeks trying to build.

“I don’t deserve a second chance. The fact that you’re here… I don’t even deserve that.”

Garrett studies your face carefully, searching for something in your expression.

“You didn’t ask her to come here tonight—”

“No,” he cuts in, answering fast and certain. “I came in here a mess before they gave me anything, and when the nurse asked who they should call, I couldn’t answer fast enough. I swear, baby. I didn’t ask her to come.”

His brows pinch together. “I don’t know how she got this far—” He trails off, blinking at you. “…What are we talking about?”

“Cami.”

“Cami?” he mumbles.

“Cami,” you answer quietly. “Marketing partner Cami. The one with the high heels and bunny ears… who wore your jersey.”

His eyes squeeze shut. “…Jesus Christ.” The words leave him on a long breath as his head sinks back into the pillow. “That was so fucking bad.” He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

His gaze finds yours again, hazy with exhaustion.

“We never even kissed.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay, what, baby?” he asks sweetly, his concussion doing a number on his short-term memory.

“I understand, Gare. Don’t worry,” you say through a soft laugh, his attention still fixed on you.

After another moment, the corner of his mouth lifts again.

“If I tell you that I’m still kinda fucked up…”

You already know exactly where he’s going with it, and your eyes roll away before he even finishes.

“…Will you stay?”

A quiet laugh slips past your lips as you look back at him. “Garrett Graham. It’s three in the morning.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been here since yesterday,” you answer.

“I know.”

“I fell asleep in a hospital bed that has a maximum capacity of one large hockey man because you wouldn’t stop patting the mattress.”

“You did,” he hums, glancing down the length of the cramped hospital bed toward your tangled legs.

“And you’re absolutely still fucked up.”

“You think so?” he asks, trying not to chuckle.

“I’m staying,” you whisper, your thumb lingering against his skin. “You make it really hard to stay mad at you.”

“That’s great news for me.” His arm tightens around your waist when your smile grows. “So pretty,” he whispers.

“Like a princess,” you finish for him, and he laughs.

“Don’t let me wake up,” he murmurs with a shaky laugh. “‘Cause if this is some lucid dream, I’m gonna cry like a fuckin’ baby.”

“And I love you too.” You lace your fingers more firmly through his, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“You do?” he asks softly, tilting his head as close as he can get toward you.

“Mhmm,” you hum against his lips.

“Thank you, baby.”

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