Bleep

The last of your belongings is crammed into the back of Luke's SUV and you lean against the cool metal of the doorframe, catching your breath. Moving day is a special kind of torture, but having two of the Hughes brothers there to haul your life up three flights of stairs has made it almost bearable.

"Okay, I think that's it," Luke says, slamming the rear door with a loud bang. "Good luck fitting back there. It's a solid wall of your stuff."

You peer inside. The back seat is a chaotic jumble of boxes, bags and a lone floor lamp, leaving only one small, empty space.

Quinn is already leaning against the opposite door, his arms crossed over his chest. "I've got an idea." He nods toward the sliver of free seat. "You can just… sit with me."

Your heart does a little flip-flop. You and Quinn have always had an easy, teasing chemistry, but sitting on his lap feels like crossing a line from friendly into something else entirely. "Are you sure?"

Quinn just shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. "It's better than walking. Come on."

Luke groans, already sliding into the driver's seat. "Can we just go? I'm starving."

Quinn slips into the back first, making room for you to climb in after him. You settle onto his lap, your back against his chest. It's surprisingly comfortable, until he closes the door and the space shrinks, forcing you closer.

"Alright, let's do this," Luke says, pulling out into traffic.

The first few blocks are fine. But then Luke takes a sharp left turn to avoid a pothole and you're thrown sideways. Your hand flies out to steady yourself, landing right on Quinn's thigh. In the process, your hips grind down against him.

A sharp intake of breath hisses right next to your ear. "Easy there," Quinn says, his voice suddenly tight. His hands come up to rest on your waist, holding you in place.

"Sorry," you mumble, your face starting to burn. You try to shift away, to give him some space, but there is nowhere to go. Your movement only presses you more firmly against him and that's when you feel a growing hardness beneath you.

Oh.

You go completely still, every muscle tensing. You've felt it before, in fleeting moments during hugs or when you've been too close on the couch, but never like this. Never so intentional.

"Luke, maybe watch the road signs a little better?" Quinn's voice is strained.

"I'm watching! I'm watching! Relax, I'm not gonna get us in an accident," Luke retorts, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to a song on the radio.

Quinn's grip on your waist tightens. "You need to stop moving," he murmurs, his lips so close to your ear you can feel the warmth of his breath.

The command sends a jolt of arousal straight through you. You should listen to him. You know you should. But the car hits another bump and you can't help the way your body rocks. It's a small motion, but it's enough to make his cock twitch against you.

A quiet, choked sound escapes him. "Seriously. Stop."

Instead of stopping, a reckless urge takes over. You do it again. A roll of your hips, pressing down against the hard length of him.

His response is immediate. His hips lift, a shallow thrust that meets your movement halfway. A soft whimper escapes your lips before you can bite it back. The sound seems to undo him. He's impossibly harder now, a thick pressure that has a slick heat pooling between your legs.

"You're playing with fire," he warns, but his voice has lost its edge, replaced by a raw need that mirrors your own.

One of his hands slides from your waist, sneaking under the hem of your skirt. His fingers are warm against your bare thigh, tracing a path upward that makes your breath hitch. He doesn't stop until he reaches the edge of your panties. He pauses for a second, giving you a chance to pull away.

You don't. You press back against him, a silent invitation.

His fingers slip beneath the fabric and they find you instantly. "Christ," he breathes, his voice thick with awe as he discovers how wet you are. "You're soaked."

You can only nod, your face hidden in your hands as a fresh wave of embarrassment washes over you. He starts to move, his fingers exploring your slick folds with a confidence that makes your head spin. He finds your clit, circling it with a slow, maddening pressure that has you seeing stars.

"I'm going to make you come right here," he whispers, his lips brushing against your neck. "Right next to my brother. And you're not going to make a sound."

The threat, the promise, is enough to push you closer to the edge. You grind against his hand, against his cock, chasing the pleasure that's building low in your stomach. His fingers are relentless, his thumb working your clit as he slides a finger inside you, then another, stretching you.

The car slows down and you hear the click of a turn signal. "We're here," Luke announces cheerfully. "Just gotta find parking."

Panic wars with pleasure. You're so close. Quinn must feel it, because his movements become more precise. He curls his fingers inside you, hitting a spot that makes your whole body tremble.

"Come on," he urges, his voice a low growl. "Let go for me."

Your orgasm hits you, a shudder that racks your entire body. You have to bury your face in the seat in front of you to muffle the cry that wants to escape. Quinn's arm bands around your waist, holding you tight as you shake, his own breathing ragged in your ear.

As you're still coming down, you feel him tense beneath you. A low, guttural groan is muffled against your shoulder as his hips jerk up once, twice. A warmth spreads through his jeans as he finds his own release, his face buried in your hair.

"Found a spot!" Luke says, pulling into a parking space and killing the engine. The sudden silence is deafening. "Let's get this show on the road. I call dibs on not carrying the box of books."

Quinn clears his throat, his voice hoarse. "Yeah. Be right there."

You slowly push yourself up, your legs feeling like jelly. You can't bring yourself to look at him as you awkwardly climb out of the car, your skirt wrinkled and your face on fire. You smooth down your clothes, trying to regain some semblance of composure before Luke hops out of the driver's seat.

Chapter Four. I Would Wait Forever and Ever.

By the time Garrett collected her from her final class, she had begun to suspect he’d taken the morning’s public execution of his recovery plan slightly more seriously than expected.

He didn’t mention the schedule again. He didn’t inform her when she was supposed to eat or produce another handwritten document dividing her day into medically approved increments. He didn’t message Allie behind her back, station freshmen near exits, or speak about her concussion like it had placed her under the temporary jurisdiction of Briar hockey.

He only waited outside each building.

Every time she stepped through a set of doors, there he was beneath the weak winter light with his shoulders tucked into his jacket and something in one hand. 

A yoghurt after rehearsal. Crackers and her painkillers outside movement class. Half a turkey sandwich after working at the events office, wrapped in café paper and held out without comment until she took it.

Garrett never told her she had to finish any of it. He asked how her head felt, accepted the answer, and handed her the medication bottle only after checking whether she wanted it. Then he took her hand with the other one and walked her to wherever she was going next.

It was nice. Annoyingly, dangerously nice.

His touch hadn’t disappeared with the schedule. If anything, it had become quieter. His fingers sliding between hers on the path outside the theatre annex, the pad of his thumb brushing once over her knuckle while she complained about a professor assigning two thousand words as though nobody at Briar possessed other obligations. 

His palm settling briefly at the small of her back when somebody pushed through a crowded doorway too quickly. His hand curving around the back of her neck beneath her hair while they waited at a crossing, warm and broad and absent-minded in the old way, before he remembered himself and glanced down at her.

Each time, her body softened toward him before her mind had completed the necessary administrative review.

It made the entire day feel slightly unreal, like she had stepped into a room built from pieces of her old life, every chair and doorway familiar but shifted a few inches from where memory insisted it belonged.

Garrett was Garrett. His hand was still warm. His smile still did something deeply irritating to the centre of her chest. But he stopped when she stiffened. He asked instead of deciding. He listened to her answer without searching for a loophole inside it.

By seven, she was sitting at the hockey-house dining table with a pair of scissors in one hand, a stack of raffle tickets beneath the other, and the strange feeling that she had somehow been folded back into their life without anybody announcing when it happened.

Tomorrow night’s fundraiser had colonised most of the ground floor.

Poster board leaned against the pantry. Rolls of coloured paper crowded the kitchen island beside Tucker’s chopping board. A cardboard box near the stairs contained donated gift cards, restaurant vouchers, signed sticks, and one aggressively scented candle Logan had accepted from a local business because he had panicked when asked whether the team supported artisanal wellness.

The Hurricanes were a youth hockey programme, one of the local organisations Briar partnered with every year. Equipment grants, travel costs, registration fees for kids whose parents couldn’t comfortably absorb several thousand dollars in skates, pads, sticks, tournament hotels, and the forty-seven other expenses hockey produced before anyone actually reached the ice.

Logan had been a Lil Cane himself, a fact Dean had stated earlier that afternoon.

“Did they actually call you that?” Dean asked again from the kitchen, where he was arranging silent-auction forms beneath Tucker’s increasingly hostile supervision. “Like officially? Little Cane?”

“Lil Cane,” Logan corrected without looking up from the poster he was lettering. “And shut the fuck up.”

Dean pressed one hand to his chest. “That’s adorable.”

“I was eleven.”

“You were a tiny tropical storm.”

Logan looked across the table. “Can I stab him with this?”

She glanced at the blunt-tipped craft scissors in his hand. “You could disappoint him with those.”

Tucker snorted near the stove.

The house felt normal again. Or as normal as it ever became when Dean was banned from using the paper trimmer after trying to demonstrate that he had excellent spatial awareness and nearly removing the corner of an auction sheet. 

The stiff, apologetic attention from the rink had dissolved. Nobody asked her how her head felt every ninety seconds. Nobody whispered around her. Logan had called her an idiot ten minutes after she arrived because she suggested his hand-painted hurricane looked like an angry comma.

It was a relief. She finished slicing through another line of tickets, tapped the edges against the table to straighten them, and added them to the neat pile beside her elbow.

Across from her, Logan stopped cutting. She continued for several seconds before noticing the silence and looking up. He was staring at her pile, then at the mangled collection beside his own hand. 

His tickets had varying widths, several diagonal edges, and one strip that had somehow narrowed toward the bottom like it was fleeing perspective. “Jesus Christ, dude.”

Her brows lifted. “What?”

“How are you doing that?”

She looked down at the tickets. “Doing what?”

“Cutting them like that.” He picked up one of hers and held it beside his own. The comparison was violent. “They’re all the same.”

She waited for the rest of the question. It didn’t come. “Cutting in a straight line?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What the hell do you usually do?”

“I’m trying.”

“No, I can see that. I’m asking what method produced this.” She lifted one of his tickets between two fingers. The top edge rose noticeably toward the right. “Did the table move?”

Logan took it back. “Scissors are harder than they look.”

“They’re really not.”

“To you.”

She smiled down at the tickets and resumed cutting. The small movement pulled faintly at the bruise behind her skull, enough to make her slow but not stop. 

Garrett had left her at the table twenty minutes ago after confirming she genuinely wanted to help, then disappeared upstairs to shower after practice with a promise to return and make her work on the assignment she had been avoiding for four days.

Her laptop sat closed beside the poster board like a threat. She was deciding whether hiding it beneath the donated candle would count as a reasonable response, when footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Her attention lifted automatically. Garrett came down wearing grey sweats and nothing else. For one blank second, her body stopped processing the house around him.

His hair was still damp, dark curls pushed loosely away from his forehead and beginning to fall back into place. His sweats sat low enough on his hips to reveal the sharp inward lines beneath his stomach, and his chest still carried a faint flush from the shower, skin warm-looking beneath the kitchen lights.

There were bodies that invited appreciation, and then there was Garrett Graham walking shirtless through a domestic room as though this was not an act of psychological warfare.

She wanted to lick him. Lick him. Kiss him. Push him backward onto the nearest available surface and climb into his lap. Ride him until the smugness left his face, then possibly smack him when it returned. Kiss him again afterward, because she was committed to a sophisticated emotional process.

Garrett’s eyes found hers before he reached the bottom step. The corner of his mouth moved. Smug fuck.

He knew. Maybe not the full breadth of her internal response, but enough. He knew exactly what he looked like. Garrett had spent most of his adult life inside a body people openly admired; he had never developed the humility required to wear it accidentally.

She lowered her gaze to the ticket in her hand with such concentration that the scissors slipped half a centimetre off the line.

Logan noticed. “Oh, now you fuck one up.”

“Shut up.”

Garrett crossed into the dining room. “How’s it going?”

“Great,” Logan said. “She’s making me feel completely inferior.”

“That doesn’t sound difficult.”

“Fuck you.”

Garrett laughed and stopped behind her chair. The heat of him reached her before his hands did, close and clean from the shower, smelling like soap and the faint familiar trace of whatever deodorant he used.

His palms settled over her shoulders. The contact was so natural that her body nearly accepted it without incident. His thumbs pressed carefully into the muscle near the base of her neck, avoiding the injured part of her head, and began moving in slow little circles.

Holy fuck.

Her eyes closed for half a second before she could stop them. The muscles beneath his hands had been tight for days, stiff from sleeping at her desk, rehearsal, stress, and spending every waking hour with her shoulders creeping slowly toward her ears.

Garrett’s thumbs dragged outward, pressure firm enough to make the ache loosen. “That okay?” he asked quietly.

“Mhm.”

His hands moved again, and pleasure rolled warm down the centre of her back. At the same time, something in her tightened.

The sudden awareness of how casually he was touching her. How familiar the position was: Garrett standing behind her chair, her body resting inside the loose bracket of his arms, the boys moving around them without looking twice.

Girlfriend-shaped.

They weren’t together. They had kissed – twice, because Garrett had kissed her again over breakfast like that was something they were allowed to do now – but nobody had asked anything. 

Nothing had been decided. She didn’t know whether she was rebuilding a relationship or temporarily living inside the softest parts of the old one while they both avoided naming it.

Half of her wanted to turn and press her mouth to his stomach just to find out what happened. Half of her wanted three feet of space and written clarification.

Half of her remained concussed, which was mathematically incorrect, but felt emotionally accurate.

Her audition was in three fucking days. She had assignments stacking themselves into little academic burial mounds. Her head still hurt if she moved too quickly. Garrett’s bare chest hovered somewhere above her, and his thumbs had just found a spot beside her shoulder blade that made her fingers weaken around the scissors.

She inhaled carefully.

Garrett felt it. His hands slowed but didn’t disappear. “Too much?”

Before she could answer, Logan looked up from the poster. “Hey– G. Forgot to ask, man. Did you get that signed jersey for the fundraiser over break?”

Garrett’s thumbs stopped. The change moved through his whole body behind her. A slight stillness beneath the warmth, his fingers resting at the tops of her shoulders without pressure.

Logan remained focused on his poster, turning it ninety degrees and squinting at the hurricane he had already been told resembled punctuation. “That Phil Graham merch room is legit. He’s gotta have, like, fifty old jerseys sitting around in there.”

Her eyes lifted. Garrett looked down at her. For one second, the room narrowed to his face. The easy expression was gone, not replaced by anything obvious enough for Logan to catch. Only a small withdrawal behind his eyes. A door closing somewhere too far inside him to make a sound.

He shook his head. “Uh, not this year.”

She opened her hand on the table. Garrett looked at it. The gesture was partly instinct and partly choice. She didn’t reach behind herself or pull him closer. She only held her palm up beside the neat stack of tickets and waited.

His hand slid from her shoulder. He came around the side of the chair, then changed his mind halfway and folded both arms around her from behind instead, chest warm against the back of her head without touching the sore place. His forearms crossed loosely beneath her collarbones. She laid her hand over one of them, thumb moving once across the fine hair near his wrist.

Thanksgiving returned in fragments she could feel rather than see. Garrett’s hand shaking faintly in the Jeep. Cindy’s bruised wrist. The way Garrett had said he couldn’t go back there and then looked at her as though he expected somebody to explain why he still felt responsible for everyone inside the house.

“Logan,” she said, keeping her voice light, “concentrate on your poster.”

He ignored her with the confidence of a man who believed his fundraiser requirements outranked redirection. “We were really counting on that Phil donation.” He frowned at the table, apparently running figures inside his head. “I mean, I can reach out.”

Garrett tightened around her. Barely. Enough that the inside of his forearm pressed more firmly beneath her thumb.

“I’ll sign a jersey,” he said.

Logan glanced up. “What?”

“I’ve got extras upstairs.” Garrett cleared his throat and lifted one hand briefly toward his face, rubbing the underside of his nose with his knuckle before putting his arm back around her. “I’ll sign one. You can auction that.”

Logan’s frown deepened. “Okay, big shot. You’re not in the pros yet.”

The joke should have landed. On any other night, Garrett would have told him to enjoy poverty or reminded him Boston had drafted Garrett and not whatever tragic remains of Logan’s junior career he still carried around for emotional support.

Instead, Garrett’s body stiffened behind her. She pressed the side of her face more firmly into his arm, cheek against warm skin.

Garrett straightened slightly. “I didn’t mean–” He stopped, jaw shifting above her. “I’m trying to help.”

There was something in his voice that made Logan finally look at him properly. Garrett sounded genuinely uncertain whether he had stepped wrong, as though the morning had left him suspicious of every instinct to solve a problem before someone asked.

Logan blinked once. “I know, man. I was kidding.”

“Right.” Garrett nodded. “Yeah.”

Silence threatened to settle over the table with too many sharp edges. She lifted her scissors and pointed them toward Logan’s poster. “Hey, where is it again?”

Logan’s attention moved to her. “What?”

“The fundraiser.”

“Oh.” He sat back, still looking between them for another second before letting the subject move. “Malone’s. Original venue fell through, but Allie and Hannah pulled some strings.”

Dean whooped from the kitchen so loudly her head gave one irritated pulse. “That’s my girl!”

Tucker shoved a stack of forms against his chest. “Your girl is the reason we still have a venue. Go put these by the door.”

Dean accepted them with dignity. “We’re a power couple.”

“You’re standing in my kitchen doing nothing.”

Dean considers this. “Our strengths compliment each other.”

She nodded slowly, eyes returning to the half-finished ticket beneath her hand. Malone’s. Tomorrow night. Crowded, loud, full of hockey people, auction donors, local families, and apparently Hannah.

“Hannah will be there?”

Garrett’s gaze dropped to her immediately. “Probably.”

His arms loosened enough to give her room to turn if she wanted. She looked up over her shoulder and found him watching her face.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I just–”

The rest stopped behind her teeth. Logan knew Hannah. Obviously. Everybody knew Hannah. But she had no idea whether he knew that Garrett and Hannah’s relationship had been fake, or that the two of them had spent months publicly pretending to date while she and Garrett existed on opposite sides of their breakup trying not to watch.

It wasn’t her thing to explain. Not here. Not with Garrett standing behind her and Logan holding a marker cap between his teeth. She looked back down.

Hannah was nice. That was almost the problem. She had spent so long imagining her as something polished and impossible from a distance – the girl who could stand beside Garrett without shrinking, who wore his attention easily, who kissed him where people could see – that discovering Hannah was funny and warm and capable of rescuing charity events from administrative collapse had nowhere clean to go.

She had kissed Garrett. Garrett had kissed her back, even if it was supposed to look real. They were friends now. Genuine friends. The comfortable kind, from what she could tell. 

Hannah could say his name without anything tightening around it. Garrett spoke to her without guilt or visible history pressing between every word. 

Her stomach still pulled faintly inward at the thought of them behind the bar together tomorrow night.

“Nothing,” she said. She cleared her throat, lifted the poster board beside her, and turned it toward the room. “Thoughts?”

The poster carried the Hurricanes logo across the top, cleaned up from Logan’s original angry-comma concept, with the fundraiser details set beneath it in large block letters. 

She had added little hockey sticks along the bottom border and arranged the auction, raffle, and donation information so people could actually read it. All four boys looked over.

Dean nodded first. “Amazing.”

“Looks great,” Tucker said.

Logan stared at it with the reverence of somebody watching competence from a safe distance. “How the fuck did you make my hurricane look normal?”

“I gave it structure.”

Garrett laughed above her, the sound warm near her ear. Some of the tension had left his arms, enough that his thumb moved absently along the side of her shoulder.

She smiled and set the poster back down. “Good.”

Garrett released her carefully and stepped around the chair. He held out his hand. “Come on.”

She eyed it. “Where?”

“Assignment time.”

A groan left her before she could stop it. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m concussed.”

“You’ve used that excuse for three separate things today.”

She glared at him. “It remains relevant.”

“You told me the assignment is due Friday.”

“Friday is, like, basically next year.” She looked toward Tucker. “Do something.”

Tucker began stacking donation envelopes. “He’s right.”

“Traitor.”

Dean crossed the kitchen carrying the auction forms. “Academic foreplay. Hot.”

Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Keep walking.”

“I’m not walking anywhere.”

His hand remained open between them. She looked at it, then at him. Shirtless, damp-haired, patient Garrett was an unreasonable thing to place between her and academic avoidance. 

His mouth curved slightly when he caught her staring at his chest again, but he didn’t say anything. The restraint was worse than smugness. It gave her nowhere to put the heat climbing slowly beneath her sweater.

She put her hand in his. Garrett closed his fingers around hers and drew her gently to her feet. The room stayed level, though his other hand still came to her waist for one quiet second until he was sure of it.

“Bring your laptop,” he said.

“You bring it,” she huffed. 

“Bossy.”

“You like it.”

His eyes flashed. The hand at her waist tightened before he caught himself. Across the room, Dean made a tiny, delighted noise.

Garrett pointed at him without looking away from her. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I’m supporting the recovery process.”

She reached for her laptop with her free hand, then let Garrett take it before the weight fully left the table. “Where are we working?”

“My room.”

Garrett’s gaze moved over her face, catching something there. His thumb brushed the side of her hand.

“Door open,” he said quietly. Giving her the shape of it before she had to ask. “Assignment first. You can leave whenever you want.”

The tightness beneath her ribs loosened by one degree. She nodded. “Okay.”

Garrett picked up her tote and slung it over one shoulder, the pink strap crossing his bare chest. Then he led her toward the stairs with her hand still inside his, his pace slowing automatically when she reached the first step.

She noticed that too. She had spent the entire day noticing Garrett in pieces: the way he checked the pavement before she stepped off a curb, then pretended he had only looked down because something caught his attention; the sandwich waiting in his hand outside rehearsal; the medication bottle he offered instead of opening for her; the quiet flex of his fingers whenever she reached for him first.

Now he climbed half a step ahead without pulling, their joined hands hanging between them while his thumb moved once over the side of hers. The house grew quieter with every stair. 

Logan’s scissors opened and closed below them. Dean said something about premium cardstock and Tucker told him he didn’t know what that meant. The ordinary noise thinned beneath Garrett’s bare feet until there was only the soft creak of the staircase and the drag of her tote against his side.

His bedroom door stood open at the end of the hall. Garrett reached it first and stepped aside to let her enter, his fingers slipping from hers only when the space between them required it.

The room looked the same as it always did, which felt unfair. His bed sat beneath the window with the dark comforter folded badly near the foot, one pillow dented. A Briar sweatshirt hung from the corner of his desk chair.

Textbooks were stacked in uneven little towers across the desk, hockey notes mixed with lecture printouts, pens, loose tape, and a protein-bar wrapper flattened beneath his laptop.

The air still carried the faint damp warmth of his shower, mixed with detergent and the cedar-heavy cologne clinging to the clothes in his wardrobe. Familiar enough that something low in her body softened before the rest of her had approved it.

Garrett set her tote beside the bed, then stayed near the door with one hand resting on the knob. “Open or closed?”

She looked at him. He wasn’t making it suggestive. Somehow that made the question more intimate. Shirtless Garrett Graham, standing in his own bedroom asking whether she wanted an exit visible.

“Closed is fine,” she said.

His gaze searched hers for half a second, checking the answer rather than merely hearing it. Then he nodded and pushed the door shut. The latch caught with a small, definite click. Nothing happened.

It was only a closed door. They had been behind hundreds of them together. Dorm rooms, hotel rooms, bathrooms at parties where she had hauled him inside by the front of his shirt because he had smiled at her the wrong way across a crowded kitchen. Garrett’s bedroom door had once closed behind her so often that the sound became part of the house.

Now it seemed to change the pressure in the room. She crossed to the bed and sat near the edge. Garrett moved toward the desk, unaffected by atmospheric conditions, though he opened the same drawer twice before finding the stapled paper he was looking for.

Interesting.

He dropped into the desk chair and pulled one foot beneath him, then reached toward the floor and rolled himself across the short stretch of carpet until the chair stopped in front of her knees.

The wheels made a faint plastic complaint beneath his weight. He sat close enough that his bare shin nearly brushed hers, the paper resting across one thigh while he flipped through several pages covered in blue ink and Professor Martin’s compact, disappointed handwriting.

“Okay.” Garrett cleared his throat. “So… this was my assignment.”

He handed it toward her, then pulled it back long enough to glance at the mark written at the top.

“Got a sixty-six for it, so.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “Not awful.”

She stared at him. “That’s the endorsement?”

“I passed.”

“You’re offering me a paper that got sixty-six.”

“Yeah, but I figured you could use it to help.” He held it out again. “See what I did, then do something better.”

“Academically inspiring.”

“I’m a mentor.”

She glared at him. “You’re shirtless.”

“That doesn’t affect my qualifications.”

“It absolutely affects the learning environment,” she muttered.

Garrett’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t take the bait far enough to save either of them. “You can just have it, baby.”

She took the paper. His fingers brushed hers across the top page, the contact brief and warm. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

She opened it across her lap. The first page carried a title she remembered making fun of because Garrett had spent forty minutes arguing that Professor Martin’s assignment question was deliberately vague, then another thirty insisting he worked better while lying horizontally across her bed with his feet in her lap.

“Oh, yeah,” she murmured. “I remember you writing this.”

Garrett hummed. “Mm.”

She turned the page, smiling faintly at the familiar sight of his citations. Half correct, half assembled with the confidence of a man who believed punctuation could sense fear. “You made me check this bibliography.”

“I remember.”

“You argued with me about italics.”

He huffed. “I still think it’s elitist.”

She looked up, ready to tell him that made no sense, and found him watching her. Garrett’s gaze didn’t move away when she caught it. 

His eyes travelled slowly over her face, not hungry in the obvious, careless way they used to become when he wanted to turn a conversation into something else. This was quieter. Almost worse.

His tongue moved over his bottom lip. Then he caught it lightly between his teeth, pressed down, and dragged it free. Every useful thought left her body.

“What?” she asked.

Garrett blinked, as if he had forgotten she could see him too. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

He shifted in the chair and looked down at the assignment. “Um.” One finger landed on the page in her lap. “This section here.”

His knuckle brushed the inside of her thigh through her jeans. Whether it was accidental became an impossible question because Garrett immediately stilled and she immediately stopped breathing like a normal person.

He moved his hand half an inch higher on the paper. “That’s what let me down.”

She looked where he was pointing. There were three separate comments in the margin and one question mark so aggressive it appeared Professor Martin had tried to pierce the page.

“Your entire argument disappears,” she read.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve asserted this without evidence.”

He sighed. “Right.”

“This paragraph appears to be negotiating with itself.”

Garrett frowned. “That one felt personal.”

A laugh slipped out of her. It caught softly in the room and did nothing useful to the way he was looking at her.

“So.” He tapped the page once. “Do that bit better.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Rest of it’s solid.”

She ran her thumb along the corner of the paper, suddenly unable to think about cultural theory or performance or whatever else the assignment expected from her. Garrett’s knee had drifted closer. The chair sat between her legs now, not deliberately, except it had to be at least a little deliberate because there were other places chairs could exist.

“Thanks,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

His expression softened. “Course.”

She looked at him. Garrett looked back. The room seemed to hold for one stretched, stupid second. Her assignment rested open across her lap. His hand stayed near the bottom of the page. 

The house moved beneath them in muffled bumps and distant voices, but none of it reached the narrow space between the bed and his chair.

She could see the tiny line where his hair was still damp near his temple. The shadow of stubble across his jaw. The faint pink mark her nails had once left near his collarbone and probably hadn’t left at all, because that had been months ago and her mind was inventing ghosts directly onto his skin now.

Garrett’s eyes dropped to her mouth. Something inside her gave way. It happened at the same time for both of them, or close enough that nobody could reasonably be assigned blame.

The paper slid from her lap as she shoved it aside. Garrett pushed out of the chair so quickly it rolled backward and struck the desk with a dull bang. Then his hands were on her face and hers were on his, both of them moving into the kiss with enough force that her teeth caught briefly against the inside of her lip.

Garrett made a rough sound into her mouth. She barely heard it. His lips were warm and open against hers, no careful question this time, no concussion hovering at the edge of every movement. 

She pulled him closer by the sides of his face and kissed him harder, her fingers pushing into the short hair above his ears while his thumbs pressed beneath her jaw.

The first kiss in her dorm had felt like returning to a house after years away and finding the key still worked. This felt like setting the house on fire.

Garrett stepped between her knees. Her head tipped back beneath the pressure of his mouth, but he caught the movement immediately, one hand sliding from her cheek to the back of her neck to protect the bruised place before it could touch anything.

Even desperate, he remembered. The thought moved through her and disappeared beneath his tongue.

She opened for him with a quiet gasp, and Garrett kissed her like he had spent the entire day holding every want inside his body by hand. His mouth dragged slowly over hers before deepening again, tongue pressing warm against hers while his fingers tightened in her hair.

Her palms slid from his face to his shoulders, then down the hard, heated planes of his chest. Garrett’s skin shifted beneath her hands. He breathed sharply against her mouth when her nails caught near his ribs, his whole body pressing closer until she could feel the solid line of him between her thighs.

She wanted him. The wanting was immediate, physical, almost relieving in its simplicity. Her body had no interest in timelines or labels or whether rebuilding trust required a waiting period approved by people with healthier coping mechanisms.

Her fingers curled around the back of his neck. Garrett bent into her, one knee pressing against the mattress between hers as the kiss turned wet and greedy, months of restraint collapsing into the soft sounds of their mouths and the unsteady drag of breath through his nose.

His hand left her neck. It skimmed down her side, caught briefly at her waist, then moved over the curve of her hip and closed around her ass.

The contact changed everything. Not because she didn’t like it. That was the problem.

Her body pushed into his hand before her mind found the past hiding beneath it. Garrett’s room. His bed. His hands moving over her as if they had never stopped belonging there. A closed door and all the old rules rushing back into place around them without either of them saying yes to the whole thing.

Her chest seized.

She pulled her mouth from his and shoved both hands against him. “Stop. Stop, stop.”

Garrett released her before the second word fully left her. He stepped backward so fast his calf hit the rolling chair. Both hands lifted, palms open near his chest, his breathing hard enough to move through his shoulders.

“Stopped,” he said immediately. “Done.”

The air between them felt torn open. She stayed on the edge of the bed with her hands braced beside her thighs, lips wet, lungs working too quickly. 

The paper had fallen onto the floor. One page lay facedown beneath Garrett’s foot, the blue marker comments hidden against the carpet.

“What the–” She dragged a breath in and found it too shallow. “What the fuck are we doing? What’re– what are we doing?”

Garrett’s hands lowered slowly, though he kept them away from her. His mouth was red from kissing her. His chest rose and fell, and the look on his face hurt worse than anger would have.

“I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought we were trying to be us again.”

Her stomach dropped. She pushed one hand into her hair, careful of the bruise and not careful of anything else. “Oh my god. I broke up with you. Why’re you–”

Garrett flinched. It was small, the faintest pull between his brows, but she saw it.

“Baby, I’m trying to–” He stopped and rubbed one hand over his mouth, eyes falling toward the floor. “I’m trying to get you back. I’m trying to get my girl.”

The words should have warmed her. Yesterday, they might have. An hour ago. With his hand wrapped around hers on the stairs, they might have settled into her like something she had been waiting to hear.

Now they struck against every locked place inside her at once. His girl. The girl who had loved him enough to keep cutting pieces from herself because they were easier to lose than him. The girl who waited at parties for him to remember she existed. The girl who turned mean and sharp and watchful because softness around Garrett had once become another way to be hurt.

Her pulse climbed into her throat. “We can’t,” she said.

Garrett’s face tightened. “What?”

“We can’t go back to that.” She shook her head, hair catching against her fingers. “Ever. How I was? You will never – ever – have me like that again.”

The last words left too loudly. Somewhere below them, the house went briefly quieter, though that might have been her imagination pressing the whole world flat around the room. Garrett stood still.

“I was so, so in love with you,” she continued, every sentence arriving before she could decide whether it should. “I was in love with you enough that I didn’t even know who I was anymore unless I was standing beside you, and you won’t–”

Her voice broke off. Garrett’s expression stopped her. The old version of this fight had already built itself inside her body. His jaw hardening. His brows lowering. That defensive little shake of his head before he told her she was being unfair, that he hadn’t meant it like that, that she couldn’t keep punishing him for something he hadn’t understood.

None of it came. Garrett looked devastated.

His eyes shone beneath the bedroom light. He pressed his bottom lip between his teeth hard enough to drain the colour from it, then dragged it free and looked away. His throat moved twice before he managed to clear it.

“I know,” he said.

The quietness of it emptied something inside her.

Garrett nodded once, mostly toward the floor. “I know you’re scared. And I know that’s…” His breath caught. He rubbed his palm against the side of his sweatpants, restless and nowhere safe to put it. “I know that’s partially on me. And I’m sorry for that.”

She stared at him.

“But that’s… what you just said?” He shook his head, frustrated now, though the frustration folded inward instead of turning on her. “I mean– fuck.”

“Garrett–”

“I’m not trying to make you go back.” His eyes returned to hers, red around the edges. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to be how you were. I don’t want us to be how we were.”

She pressed one hand over her mouth.

“I thought we were trying,” he said. “Not pretending it didn’t happen. Not just jumping back into…” He glanced toward the bed and immediately looked away again. “I thought we were trying to do it differently.”

The ache beneath her ribs spread outward until it seemed to sit against every bone. “I’m–” Her hand fell. “I’m so sorry.”

Garrett shook his head immediately. “You don’t have to–”

“No.” She stood too quickly and had to catch herself against the mattress when the room gave one faint, sickening tilt. Garrett moved instinctively, then stopped before touching her, hands suspended helplessly between them.

She looked at those hands. The way he held himself away because she had told him to stop. The way he was hurt and still waiting for permission to help.

“I don’t mean that,” she said. Her voice had gone thin. “I don’t mean that you can’t– God, I don’t even know what I mean.”

Garrett stayed where he was.

She shook her head again, slower this time. “I’m just scared.” The words came smaller than everything before them. Her throat tightened until the next breath hurt. “I’m so scared.”

Garrett’s face changed, a soft collapse around the eyes, like he had finally found the thing beneath all the sharper words and recognised it.

He took one careful step forward. She took the rest. Her body crossed the space before pride could build another argument. Garrett’s arms opened, and she walked directly into them, forehead finding the warm centre of his chest while both hands caught around his waist.

He folded himself around her. There was no hesitation once she touched him. One arm came securely across her back, the other curving around the back of her head without pressing the bruise. His chin rested lightly against her hair. He held her close enough that the shaking in her breath moved through both of them.

“I know,” he murmured.

She shut her eyes against his skin. His heartbeat knocked hard beneath her cheek, too fast and painfully familiar.

“I don’t want to do that again,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

“We won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No.” Garrett’s hand moved slowly along her back, once from her shoulder blades to her waist. “But I know I don’t want that either.”

Her fingers tightened at his sides.

“I know your walls are up,” he said quietly. “I know.”

The words should have embarrassed her. Instead they settled into the space between his chest and her face, warm and unchallenged.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. 

She shook her head against him. “It’s not.”

“It is.” His mouth pressed gently into her hair. “You got scared. You told me to stop. I stopped. Then we talked.”

“I yelled at you.”

“Yeah.” His palm rested broad and steady at the centre of her back. “You’re good at that.”

A wet, unwilling laugh caught in her throat. Garrett’s arms tightened faintly. 

She stayed against him, breathing soap and warm skin while the panic slowly loosened its grip around her lungs. The assignment remained scattered near their feet. His chair sat crooked against the desk from how quickly he had abandoned it. 

Somewhere downstairs, Dean began talking again in a deliberately normal volume, and Logan told him to shut the fuck up with enough force to suggest everyone had heard more than they planned to acknowledge.

Garrett didn’t ask what they were. He didn’t ask whether the kiss still counted or whether she wanted him back or how long he would have to keep proving that he had changed. He only held her while her hands stayed wrapped around his waist, letting the frightened parts of her press themselves flat against him without turning them into a promise.

After a while, his thumb moved once beneath the edge of her sweater. “Head okay?” he asked softly.

She nodded against his chest. “Mhm.”

“You dizzy?”

“No.”

“Want me to open the door?”

Her eyes burned again for an entirely different reason. “No,” she whispered. “Closed is fine.”

Garrett’s mouth rested near the top of her head. “Okay, baby.”

And the door stayed closed. They remained standing in the middle of his room until the tension left her body by slow, reluctant degrees. 

Some of it stayed gathered beneath her shoulder blades and along the inside of her ribs, a shape her body intended to keep in case the situation required another immediate evacuation. 

But her breathing stopped catching against Garrett’s chest. Her hands loosened around his waist. His heartbeat slowed beneath her cheek from the hard, frightened rhythm it had taken on during the argument.

Garrett didn’t move first. That seemed important somehow. He didn’t decide the hug had lasted long enough or turn it into something lighter because the silence had begun making him uncomfortable. 

He stood barefoot on the carpet with both arms around her and let her use him until she no longer needed to grip.

The pain at the back of her head returned quietly beneath it all. A dull, persistent pressure spreading from the tender lump behind her ear and settling into her temples. She tried to ignore it. Her body had already interrupted the evening enough.

Garrett felt the tiny shift anyway. Her forehead pressed more heavily into his chest, and his hand stopped halfway down her back. “Hurting?”

She considered lying, then remembered he had spent the morning watching her eat half a croissant with the vigilance of a prison guard. “A bit.”

His arms loosened immediately. “Come sit down.”

“I’m standing fine.”

“Historic achievement.” Garrett kept one hand at her waist as she stepped back, not holding her in place, only following closely enough to catch whatever her balance decided to do. “Still sitting.”

She let him guide her toward the bed, partly because her head hurt and partly because arguing required lifting her face far enough to see him. 

The assignment lay scattered near the mattress, pages turned at strange angles where they had shoved everything aside in their brief attempt to destroy the emotional progress of the previous forty-eight hours through aggressive kissing.

Garrett crouched to gather them. The movement brought his shoulders level with her knees, muscles shifting beneath warm skin, and despite everything her brain managed to produce one last unhelpful thought about licking the centre of his back.

Concussions were a complex medical experience.

Garrett stacked the pages on the desk without looking at the comments or the section they had abandoned. He rolled the chair back into place, then straightened and reached for her tote. “You still wanna do this?”

She rubbed two fingers gently against her temple. “The assignment?”

“Yeah.”

She looked at the laptop he was pulling free. “I have to.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Her eyes lifted. Garrett rested the laptop against one forearm. There was no edge in his face now, though the redness around his eyes had not completely faded. His mouth still looked sore from the kiss and from how hard he had bitten down on it afterward.

“Do you want to work on it,” he asked, “or do you want me to take you home?”

Something tender moved through her before she could name it. “I want to work on it.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nodded once. “Tell me if your head gets worse.”

“I will.”

Garrett gave her a look that suggested her record regarding bodily disclosure remained under review, but he carried the laptop to the bed without challenging her. 

He sat beside her, leaving several inches between their thighs, and balanced the computer across his own lap while it woke.

The distance was careful enough to hurt. She knew why it was there. She had created it less than five minutes ago, had shoved him backward and asked what the fuck they were doing, then told him he would never have her like that again. 

Garrett’s feelings didn’t stop existing simply because she had eventually put her face against his chest and admitted fear lived beneath the cruelty. Still, her body noticed the space.

Garrett opened the assignment instructions, skimmed them once, then passed the laptop over. “You got a question yet?”

She settled it across her thighs. “I have several. Most of them are directed toward Professor Martin and unsuitable for academic correspondence.”

“Read me the prompt.”

She read the prompt aloud. It asked them to examine the relationship between performance, labour, and public identity through two course texts and one contemporary example, which sounded almost manageable until the instructions added three more clauses and a requirement to distinguish authentic self-presentation from performed social function without treating authenticity as a stable category.

Garrett’s face changed halfway through. He leaned across her carefully, taking the trackpad with one finger and scrolling back toward the top. The side of his arm brushed hers. He noticed immediately and started to pull away.

She kept her arm where it was. Garrett paused, then left his beside it.

“I used athletes,” he said. “Public version versus private person. Like how there’s Garrett Graham, Briar hockey player, and then there’s me.”

She glanced at him. “That distinction occasionally becomes theoretical.”

“Funny.” He tapped one of the subheadings in his paper. “But that’s basically what I did. The athlete’s still real. It’s not fake because cameras are there, but it’s… selected.”

“Curated.”

“That.”

She tilted her head. “Managed.”

“Also that.”

“Marketable.”

Garrett nodded. “Yeah. Use those words. Mine were worse.”

She opened a blank document and typed the title page, then stared at the empty space beneath it while the cursor blinked with increasing hostility. Garrett waited.

She typed one sentence. Deleted it. Typed another beginning with public identity is– Deleted that too.

“What are you trying to say?” he asked.

“That I hate this.”

“After that.”

She leaned back against the wall beside his bed, immediately regretted the pressure near the sore part of her head, and shifted sideways instead. “That performing a version of yourself doesn’t make that version untrue. But once other people expect it from you, you have to keep doing it even when it doesn’t feel like you anymore.”

Garrett looked at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He reached for the laptop. “Write that.”

“I can’t write it like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because ‘doesn’t feel like you anymore’ isn’t academic.”

“So ruin it with longer words.”

She snorted softly, but her fingers returned to the keyboard. The sentence came slowly, altered as it moved onto the screen, losing its blunt edges beneath phrases like sustained external expectation and the instability of performed identity.

Garrett read over her shoulder. “See? Worse.”

“It’s academia.”

“Still worse.”

She kept typing. Once the opening paragraph existed, the rest became marginally less hostile. Garrett found the section of his own paper where he had explained the public athlete as a commercial and institutional identity, then warned her not to use his argument because Professor Martin had written reductive beside it twice.

“You can use the source, though,” he said, turning the page around so she could see the citation. “This one was good.”

“How do you know?”

“No angry comment.”

“That’s your standard?”

He pointed. “She drew a star near it.”

She leaned closer. “That’s an asterisk.”

“Positive symbol.”

“It directs you to a note.”

“Which says useful.”

She read the cramped blue handwriting beneath the paragraph. “Useful, but underdeveloped.”

Garrett pointed at the first word. “Positive.”

She laughed, and something in the room finally loosened. They worked like that for almost an hour. Or she worked while Garrett acted as a highly specific research assistant with selective literacy. 

He remembered which articles had been useful, where Professor Martin tended to object to overstatement, and which section of his paper had collapsed because he had tried to make three separate arguments in one paragraph.

He didn’t write anything for her. Every time she tried to hand him the laptop and tell him to make a sentence less ugly, he returned it and asked what she actually meant.

It was irritatingly helpful. At some point he pulled on the Briar sweatshirt hanging from his desk chair, perhaps because the room had cooled or perhaps because her ability to discuss cultural theory while looking at his bare chest had been visibly deteriorating. 

The fabric dropped over his stomach and hid most of the immediate threat, though the collar sat loose around his neck and his forearms remained exposed where he pushed the sleeves up.

She reached six hundred words before discomfort began moving through her body in too many places to ignore. Her jeans pinched where she had been sitting too long, the fitted sweater had twisted beneath one arm, and the underwire of her bra had apparently declared war against her left rib.

She shifted for the fourth time in two minutes. Garrett looked up from the article he was reading. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You keep moving.”

“My clothes are annoying me.”

His gaze travelled briefly over the sweater and jeans before returning to her face with admirable discipline. “Want something else?”

“Like what?”

Garrett stood and crossed to his dresser. He pulled open the second drawer, moved through several folded shirts, then held up a pair of grey sweatpants. “These?”

She looked at them. They were his softer ones, old enough that the drawstring had begun fraying at the ends and GRAHAM was written inside the waistband in black marker from whichever year four grown men had struggled to identify their own clothing.

“And a hoodie,” she said.

Garrett opened another drawer. “Demanding.”

“I’m injured.”

“You’ve really embraced that.”

She sighed dramatically. “It’s my identity now.”

He tossed the sweats onto the bed, then took a dark Briar hoodie from the back of the door and placed it on top. “Bathroom’s free.”

She gathered the clothes and rose more carefully this time. Garrett still stood immediately, one hand lifting toward her elbow before stopping short. The room stayed level.

She glanced at his hovering hand. “You can touch me.”

His eyes met hers.

“I mean to help me stand,” she clarified.

“Right.” His mouth moved faintly. “Yeah.”

She rolled her eyes and carried the clothes into the adjoining bathroom before either of them could make that worse.

The bathroom smelled like his body wash and damp towels. Garrett’s toothbrush stood beside the sink in the same blue cup he had owned during their relationship, one bristle bent permanently sideways because he chewed it while brushing. A razor lay near the tap. His shampoo sat open in the shower.

She closed the door and leaned against it for one second. Her reflection looked back from above the sink. Lips still pink from kissing. Hair disturbed around her face where Garrett’s hands had held it. 

Eyes tired and slightly swollen, her whole expression carrying the strange, tender wreckage of a person who had spent the last several days walking toward something and then panicked upon discovering it had moved toward her too.

She changed quickly. Garrett’s sweatpants were too long. The waistband sat loose over her hips until she tightened the drawstring, and the cuffs gathered heavily around her ankles. His hoodie swallowed the rest of her, falling nearly to the tops of her thighs, sleeves covering both hands until she pushed them back.

The clothes smelled like laundry detergent, Garrett, and the faint cold-metal scent of the rink that seemed permanently attached to everything he owned.

She opened the bathroom door. Garrett looked up from the laptop. His face softened before he could stop it.

“Don’t,” she warned.

“I was gonna say you look comfortable.”

“Mhm.”

“You do.”

She crossed back to the bed, holding the waistband of the sweatpants with one hand even though the drawstring had already secured them. “Your legs are stupidly long.”

“Your legs are tiny.”

“My legs are normal.”

“Compared to what?”

“Women.”

Garrett nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll need a larger sample.”

She threw one of the decorative pillows at him. He caught it against his chest, laughing, and the sound settled warmly into the room.

They abandoned sitting upright after that. She climbed farther onto the bed and lay on her stomach with her head toward the foot, the laptop open in front of her and her knees bent so her socked feet lifted behind her. Garrett joined her on the opposite side, stretching out with one forearm beneath his chest and his old paper spread beside the keyboard.

The position put them shoulder to shoulder. Close without being tangled. His bare foot brushed hers near the pillows once, and neither of them moved it.

She typed another paragraph. Garrett read it, caught one repeated phrase, and acted so pleased with himself that she considered deleting the correction out of principle. “You used performance three times in one sentence.”

“The assignment is about performance.”

“Still sounds bad.”

She glared at him. “You got sixty-six.”

“Because nobody helped me.”

She turned her head to look at him. Garrett’s cheek rested near his folded arm, eyes on the screen, lashes dark beneath the bedroom light. His hair had dried into loose curls again, one falling across his forehead.

Her gaze lingered. He noticed. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“No, I’m not.”

Garrett smiled into his arm. “You are.”

She returned to the laptop. “Shut up.”

The paragraph took another twenty minutes because exhaustion had begun eating holes through her concentration. She would type half a sentence, stop to ask Garrett whether subject and identity sounded too repetitive, then rest her head on her folded forearms while he answered.

Sometimes her eyes closed before he finished. He never pointed it out. He waited until she lifted her head again, then repeated the last part without making her ask.

By eight hundred words, her forehead stayed pressed to her arms longer than it remained upright. The light from the laptop felt too bright even after Garrett lowered it twice. Every blink dragged.

“You’re done,” he said eventually.

“No.”

“You’re asleep.”

“I’m listening,” she mumbled. 

“What did I just say?”

She considered it. “Something supportive.”

Garrett huffed a laugh. “Save it.”

“I need a thousand.”

“You’ve got eight-thirty.”

“That’s not a number.”

“Eight hundred and thirty.”

“Oh.” She opened one eye toward the word count. “Close.”

“You can finish tomorrow.”

She sighed. “I have rehearsal. And class. And the fundraiser.”

“And an audition in three days,” Garrett added quietly.

Her face tightened against her sleeves. He noticed but didn’t build a schedule around it. Didn’t tell her what she was going to cancel or announce that he had already arranged transport. He only reached over and saved the document himself.

“There,” he said. “Nothing’s disappearing.”

She made a small sound of protest but didn’t lift her head. Garrett stayed beside her. The mattress shifted faintly as he settled onto one hip, then went still again. Her body had become heavy inside his clothes, warm and boneless, every thought taking several seconds longer than it should to travel from one end of her mind to the other.

“Garrett?”

“Mm?”

“Can you give me the…” She swallowed against a yawn. “The tickles.”

A quiet laugh left him. “The tickles?”

“On my back.”

“I know what you meant.”

She huffed grumpy breath. “Then why’d you ask?”

“Wanted to hear you say it.”

She lifted one hand enough to shove weakly at his arm. “Asshole.”

Garrett caught her wrist gently and placed it back near her face. “Go to sleep.”

“I’m not sleepin’.”

“Right.”

His fingers came down between her shoulder blades. At first, he scratched lightly over the hoodie, short slow strokes moving from the centre of her back toward one shoulder and then the other. The thick fabric softened most of the sensation, but even that was enough to pull a pleased breath from her.

She shifted beneath his hand, shoulders rolling slightly.

Garrett smiled. “That good?”

“Mmph.”

“Clear response.”

His nails dragged down the length of her spine over the hoodie. She arched faintly into it, then wriggled her shoulders again with growing dissatisfaction.

Garrett understood. His hand paused at the hem of the hoodie. “Under?”

She nodded into her arms.

“Use words.”

“Yes,” she mumbled. “Please.”

“Okay.”

His fingers slipped beneath the back of the hoodie, warm against the thin shirt she had kept on underneath. He found bare skin where the fabric had ridden upward above the waistband of his sweats, then traced lightly there, nails moving in slow, wandering patterns.

The tension left her in one long breath. Garrett’s hand travelled higher, pushing the shirt gently along her spine until his fingertips reached the middle of her back. He scratched with exactly the pressure she liked, soft enough to soothe without becoming ticklish, little lines beneath her shoulder blades and circles along the muscles beside her spine.

She hummed into her forearms.

“There?” he asked.

“Mhm.”

He continued. Her breathing changed before either of them acknowledged it. Each exhale grew slower, softer, loosening into the sleeves beneath her face. 

The laptop remained open in front of them, cursor waiting at the end of an unfinished sentence while the screen gradually dimmed.

Garrett propped himself on one elbow and kept his other hand beneath the hoodie. He could have stopped when she fell asleep. She wouldn’t have known. Her body had gone completely loose across his bed, one knee drawn slightly higher than the other, cheek turned into her folded arms. 

The first tiny snore slipped out after several minutes, soft enough that Garrett’s mouth pulled at one corner. He kept scratching her back.

The movement had become almost automatic by then. Slow passes from the base of her spine to the warm space beneath her shoulder blades, his fingertips following the same paths until her breathing settled into something deep and even.

Garrett watched her sleep. His clothes looked strange on her and right enough to make his chest hurt. The hoodie bunched around her waist where his hand had disappeared beneath it. One sleeve covered most of her hand. Her hair spread over her forearms and across his comforter, hiding part of her face.

She hadn’t meant to stay. He was almost certain of that. Her tote still sat beside the desk with everything shoved inside for the day. She had no toothbrush here, no overnight bag, no careful decision folded into the evening about sleeping in his bed again. 

She had come upstairs to finish an assignment, kissed him like she wanted to crawl inside his ribs, then looked at him as though the love between them was something that might still kill her if she stood too close.

The memory tightened behind his sternum.

You will never – ever – have me like that again.

Garrett’s hand slowed against her back.

Fuck.

The words had hurt. They still did. He could feel them lodged beneath the relief of her sleeping beside him, sharp little pieces he hadn’t worked out how to hold yet. There had been one ugly second after she said them when every old instinct rose at once.

Defend himself. Tell her she had loved him because he had loved her too. Remind her that he hadn’t asked her to disappear inside the relationship. Tell her she was acting like every terrible part had belonged to him while she had been the one who walked away, the one who used other men to make him jealous, the one who knew exactly which sentences would cut deepest and used them when she felt cornered.

The words had reached the back of his teeth. He had swallowed every one. Not because they were completely untrue. Some of them weren’t. Not because his hurt mattered less than hers. It didn’t. 

But he had finally understood that pain wasn’t a puck sent across the ice requiring immediate return. He didn’t have to fire something back simply because she had hit the place that hurt.

She had been frightened. He had been hurt. Both could sit in the same room without one of them needing to win.

Garrett eased his hand out from beneath the hoodie. She made a small, unhappy sound in her sleep, shoulders shifting as though searching for the lost touch. His face softened despite the ache.

“Yeah, alright,” he murmured.

He gave her three more slow scratches over the fabric before reaching across to close the laptop. The click sounded too loud in the quiet room. She didn’t wake.

Garrett moved it carefully to the desk, then returned to the bed and lifted the edge of the comforter. Getting her underneath it without waking her required a level of strategic coordination normally reserved for line changes. 

He eased the blanket beneath her side, lifted one hip just enough to free the trapped edge, then drew it over her legs and up to her waist. She sighed and curled slightly toward the warmth. Garrett sat beside her for a moment.

The room had gone still around them. Downstairs, a cupboard closed and someone laughed, muffled by the floorboards. A car passed outside, headlights dragging briefly across the ceiling before disappearing.

He bent and pressed his mouth softly to her shoulder through the hoodie. The kiss lingered. Then Garrett lowered his forehead to the same place and closed his eyes.

Fuck, there was so much more work to do than he had realised.

Showing up with food and remembering her schedule had been easy compared to this. Easy compared to sitting in front of the damage without insisting she admire how hard he was trying to repair it. Easy compared to hearing exactly what loving him had cost her and not reaching for every reason he had not meant to take it.

His throat tightened. He took one slow breath against her shoulder, then another, until the hurt settled somewhere he could carry without putting it into her hands tonight.

She was asleep. She was safe. She had asked him for the tickles. For now, that was enough.

Garrett lifted his head and lay down beside her, keeping a careful strip of mattress between them at first. He turned onto his side with one arm tucked beneath his pillow and watched the back of her hoodie rise and fall.

She shifted within a minute. Still asleep, she moved backward across the sheet until the soft curve of her back found his chest. Garrett went completely still. Then one of her hands reached behind her, searching blindly across the mattress until her fingers caught in the fabric near his waist.

His breath left quietly through his nose. “Okay,” he whispered, though she hadn’t asked anything.

He drew the blanket higher over both of them and rested one arm loosely around her middle, careful not to trap her or turn sleep into permission she hadn’t given awake.

She wasn’t meant to stay tonight. He didn’t think she had planned on it. Garrett wasn’t going to complain at fucking all.

notes from me – okay hi babies how are we feeling. miss petal has some issues i fear BUT we're working on it 🙂‍↕️

once again am so nervous for you guys to read this chapter but i hope you enjoy and i hope you understand our girl and where she’s coming from 💌

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

“I have. He lacks vision.”

Garrett was halfway through telling him Coach had every reason to be afraid when a shadow fell across the end of the table. Three guys stood there in Briar football sweats. Garrett recognised one of them from Beau’s frat – a receiver, maybe, with a familiar square jaw and the permanently dazed expression of someone who had been hit for sport since childhood.

“Graham,” the guy said.

Garrett nodded once. “What’s up?”

The three of them looked at one another. There was communication happening in the silence. A full, bleak committee meeting carried out through widened eyes and tiny movements of the mouth. Dean lowered his fry.

The guy from Beau’s frat cleared his throat. “We heard who you’re, like, dating.”

Garrett frowned before he could stop himself. He said her name, careful and automatic, then added, “I’m not dating her.”

Dean’s eyes slid toward him, but Garrett ignored it. He didn't need commentary from a man who had once called forcing Tucker to Venmo her for mozzarella sticks husband behaviour.

The football player’s expression tightened with something close to pity. “Don’t.”

Garrett blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t do it, man.”

One of the others – a massive guy with a healing split through one eyebrow – nodded hard enough to move his entire upper body. “Seriously. She fucked us up.”

The third guy hadn't spoken yet. He stood clutching a sports drink against his chest with both hands, staring at Garrett as if he had arrived too late to prevent an industrial accident. “I think I have legit PTSD, bro.”

Dean’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Garrett slowly put the water bottle down. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

The guy with the split eyebrow dragged a hand over his face. “I cried in bed for, like, a week, dude.”

“You cried?”

He nods earnestly. “My mom had to come get me.”

Dean made a choking sound and covered it with a cough that fooled nobody.

The first guy pointed at Garrett, growing more urgent now that the testimony had begun. “She’s so fucking fine, right? Like, insanely fine. But that’s what gets you. It’s deceiving.”

“Her face is deceiving?” Garrett asked.

“The whole thing,” the guy with the sports drink said grimly. “The little skirts. The hair. The way she smiles at you like you’re the only person in the room.”

Garrett pictured that smile. Usually right before she said something designed to make his blood pressure spike.

The guy continued, “Then two weeks later you’re apologising for shit you didn’t even know men could do wrong.”

“I don’t believe in love anymore,” Split Eyebrow added.

“You dated her?” Garrett asked.

“Not officially.”

Dean’s head came up. “Oh, so she wasn’t dating you.”

The guy looked wounded by the distinction. “We were together all the time.”

“For how long?”

“Three weeks.”

Dean pressed his lips together, nodding as though this had answered several important questions about the plaintiff.

The first guy leaned closer to Garrett. “She’s a maneater, man. She'll chew you up and spit you out. She's like a–” He snapped his fingers, looking to the others for help. “Like a viper.”

“A viper doesn’t chew you up,” Dean said. “It injects venom.”

All three football players looked at him.

Dean lifted one shoulder. “Accuracy matters.”

“Whatever,” the guy insisted. “You know what I mean. She’s crazy.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose. “You’re talking about Kitty?”

“What?” Split Eyebrow said.

“Kitty,” Dean repeated.

Garrett huffed, shaking his head before the nickname could develop its own campus folklore. “It’s a nickname. Never mind.” He looked back at the three men gathered around his lunch like shell-shocked survivors at a support group. “So what, you came over here to warn me?”

“Yes,” they said together.

Something deeply uncharitable warmed behind Garrett’s ribs. He nodded with as much solemnity as he could manage. “Right. Thanks for the warning.”

The relief on their faces was almost offensive. The first guy clapped him on the shoulder, told him to stay strong, and led the others away through the tables, sports drink still held protectively against the third guy’s sternum.

Garrett watched them go.

Across from him, Dean had gone completely still, eyes fixed on Garrett’s face. “You look unbearable.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” Dean leaned back in his chair, studying him with open disgust. “You’re doing that smug little captain thing.”

Garrett picked up his water. “Maybe I’m glad people care about my wellbeing.”

“No. You’re sitting there thinking you’re different.”

Garrett took a drink.

Dean pointed at him. “You are.”

Garrett shrugs. “She likes me.”

“They probably thought she liked them too.”

“She does like me,” Garrett said, because that part was not arrogance. Or not entirely. He knew the difference between her looking at somebody and her looking at him.

He knew the exact little pinch that appeared between her brows when she was pretending not to be bothered, the sound her nails made when she tapped them against his phone and asked who was texting him, the way she crawled into his bed already complaining and then stole his pillow before she fell asleep.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You know she’s going to ruin your life.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. He had heard her threaten bodily harm because Logan drank the oat milk she liked. He had watched her make a sophomore cry using only words. She could dismantle a man in public without raising her voice, all glossy lips and long nails and a sweet expression that made the damage worse.

But Garrett also knew what happened when the bedroom door shut. She talked a big game. She arrived with that sharpened little smile and called him hockey boy like she hadn't spent half the week wearing his clothes.

Then he got his hands on her, and the whole performance loosened one breath at a time. Her insults broke apart. Her grip changed. She ended most nights clinging to him and saying his name like it was the only word she had left.

Garrett shrugged. “I’ve got it under control.”

Dean stared at him for a long moment. “That's what every guy says immediately before an animal mauls him.”

Hours later, Garrett was lying on his back beneath the low amber light of his bedside lamp, one arm crooked behind his head and the other spread over the warm curve of her spine.

Her body was folded into his side, boneless with sleep and whatever was left of the attitude she had arrived with. One bare leg rested across his thighs. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, hair tangled over his shoulder, and she had been quietly playing with the chain around his neck for several minutes without seeming entirely conscious of it.

The room carried the soft, overheated stillness of aftermath. Clothes across the floor. Douglas abandoned near the pillows. The faint sound of Logan laughing downstairs, blurred by the walls.

She slid the chain between two fingers, watching it catch against his skin with heavy-lidded concentration. Then she leaned up and pressed a small, absent kiss beneath his jaw. Another followed near his chin.

Garrett smiled at the ceiling.

His shoulders and chest were covered in evidence, half-moons from her nails, a dark mark near his collarbone, another pulsing beneath his jaw where she had held him still with one hand and bitten down like she had something to prove.

His back would probably look worse. The guys would see it tomorrow in the locker room and Dean will become impossible to live with.

She kissed his jaw again, softer this time, and murmured something that dissolved against his skin before it became language.

Garrett lowered his chin. “What was that?”

Her eyes stayed closed. “Nothin'.”

“Sounded like something.”

“Go to sleep.”

Her voice had no edge left in it. Barely enough volume to qualify as a command. She tucked her face more firmly into the side of his neck and curled her fingers around his chain, holding it as though she had decided it belonged to her too.

Garrett’s hand moved slowly up her back. She sighed and melted closer, warm mouth brushing his skin in one last drowsy kiss.

Maneater, his ass.

He looked down at the marks covering him, then at the woman sleeping with her whole body wrapped around his and one hand possessively closed around the chain at his throat.

He had this completely under control.

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She’s been hinting at going further for weeks. Heavily. She doesn’t know if her best friend got dropped in the head as a baby or anything, but nothing she’s doing is getting through to him. It’s like he had taken the boundaries they’ve set when they were just friends and multiplied it to form the fucking Berlin wall. 

It started simple. 

They’re having another one of their movie nights–Garrett’s pick, this time, so they’re stuck watching some B grade horror movie that she knows will haunt her in her sleep. Over the course of the film, she’s progressed from hiding her face in his neck to straight up straddling his lap, her back turned to the TV to “avoid seeing” the gory bits. Garrett takes this development in stride; he adjusts in his seat, places one hand to support her lower back, and continues watching. If not for the way his breath hitched when she pressed their pelvises together, she wouldn’t have thought he was affected at all. She proceeds to spend the entirety of the movie right there on his lap, silently fuming at her best friend’s self-control. 

And then there were the games. 

She had always gone to Garrett’s games. She can count on one hand the number of times she missed them–mostly away games when she was still with Jason. He’d always act shitty about having to make the drive, or shame her for riding the puck bunny bus. Sometimes his words get to her and she’ll skip watching, but even from however far away, she stays glued to her phone, watching live updates from The Fifth Line like her life depended on it. And when she does make it, she always wears Garrett’s jersey, and has stolen probably a dozen of them over the years. That’s nothing out of the usual. 

What is unusual is Garrett looking at her after every score and every assist, his grin splitting his face. Sometimes he looks cocky; all ego and athletic smugness. Other times, it’s just pure delight, like he can’t believe he gets to do his favorite thing in the world in the presence of his favorite person. It’s that look that gets her in trouble. 

Another score. This time, Garrett actually extends his arm and points at her, making her roll her eyes but smile anyway, huddling his letterman jacket closer to her body. She’s never been so happy to be a cliche. 

Afterwards, she waits for him in the tunnel, back resting against the cold cement wall, mindlessly thumbing through her phone. 

“Angel.”

She looks up when she hears his voice, and the sight of him with his curly hair still wet from his shower and his gray henley and black sweat pants stretching over his overexerted muscles makes her stomach pulse with heat. 

She meets him halfway, wrapping her arms around his waist and tilting her head to look up at him. “You won.”

“I did,” he nods, lips pulled to a smile and looking down at her like she’s the prize. “What’s my reward?”

Instantly, her heart stutters in her chest. Her fingers grip the back of his shirt tightly to steady herself, going on her toes to press a kiss a hair’s breadth away from his lips. “There.”

He exhales shakily but narrows his eyes at her. “That’s it?”

She pulls at his shirt again, this time with a bite of her lip. “Well, what do you want?”

Garrett leans down, pressing his forehead and nose against hers. “That’s easy.”

“What?”

“I want,” he pauses, breath fanning across her face. She’s dizzy enough with how close he is that she almost closes her eyes. “Della’s fries. And a strawberry milkshake.”

What. 

She pulls away at once. “What?”

“What?” he repeats, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Were you thinking of something else?”

Her arms drop from his waist, face immediately pulled into a frown. “No.”

“No?” He echoes, a smug smile stretching his lips. 

She very nearly stomps her feet. Instead, she opts to shove his shoulders, finally making him cackle out loud. “Let’s just go.”

Their study sessions in the library are even worse. 

She would set aside an hour to complete all her course work, Garrett on his phone in front of her. Their usual spot is secluded, one of three four-seater tables in between two tall shelves on the fifth floor. The table is against the floor-to-ceiling window looking over the quad, and sometimes Garrett likes to distract her from her studies by making random commentary on the students walking by outside, the made-up stories getting more obnoxious depending on his mood. 

Once her hour is up, she would open her planner but set it aside, subtly looking at Garrett through her eyelashes. She would start small; a pencil to her mouth, trying not to be too obvious at watching how he’s reacting. He would always look up from his phone, gulp harshly, and pretend to have seen nothing. 

And that’s when she goes for the killer: one leg extending until her foot is caressing up his calf. That never fails to make Garrett jump in his seat, his knees hitting the table and a quiet curse leaving his mouth. 

“Angel,” he warns, the tips of his ears turning red. 

She blinks up at him innocently. “What?”

And then he would excuse himself. Sometimes it’s to the bathroom. Other times it’s for practice, or someone on the team needs him, or he has to do an errand that simply could not wait. She sees through the lies, obviously, but she lets him go, thighs clenched together in frustration. 

The thing is she knows Garrett like the back of her hand. She knows when he’s riled up, or when he’s holding himself back, or when his control is slipping. But for some reason, she has no clue how to crack him. 

They hold hands everywhere. If they don’t, he has his arms thrown over her shoulder, because some days they need that extra closeness. She stops trying not to check him out; she does it deliberately, even, raking her eyes from his head to toe whenever he’s freshly out of the shower, or whenever he waits for her in the parking lot, his back pressed against his Jeep. She runs her hands through his hair, sometimes even down his torso, feeling his abs contract beneath her palms. He always lets her, sometimes even closing his eyes at her touch. But he doesn’t do a damn thing about it. 

She’s been single for over four months now. To her knowledge, Garrett hasn’t hooked up with anyone else, either. And therein lies another problem they both hadn’t anticipated: everyone at Briar seems to think they’re free game. 

They’re at Malone’s for post-game drinks when the inevitable happens. 

Their usual booth is crowded; her and Tucker are sandwiching Logan on one side, while Dean, Allie, and Garrett are on the other. It’s a blessing that Garrett and her have the aisle seats, making it easier to get up or lean over to whisper against each other’s ears. 

She’s about to do that very thing when Garrett perks up in his seat, neck extending and mouth opening to call out, “Wellsy!”

She follows his gaze and sees Hannah, Allie’s roommate and a waitress at Malone’s. 

The girl pauses at the counter upon hearing her name, frowning at Garrett before walking over. “What is it?”

“That Philosophy paper the other day,” he begins to say. “You aced it.”

Hannah rolls her eyes. “Yes, you’ve only mentioned one hundred other times.”

“Well,” Garrett drawls out. “How?”

Hannah remains unimpressed. “I actually studied. You should try it sometimes.”

“Hey, I study,” Garrett says, dramatically offended. He turns towards her, then, his eyes alight with mischief. “Angel, tell Wellsy I study.”

She thinks of their library sessions, Garrett playing games on his phone and his textbooks spread open yet staying unread in front of him, and raises both of her arms up. “I plead the fifth.”

“Traitor,” Garrett frowns, throwing a crumpled piece of napkin at her that she expertly dodges with a duck.

She chuckles, kicking at his feet under the table before looking up at Hannah with a wide grin. “Hannah, is this guy bothering you?”

Hannah laughs, but she gets cut off by Beau arriving with a couple of his football friends.

“Maxwell!” Dean calls out, raising one hand. “Over here!”

Beau saunters over with a wide grin, flanked by two tall guys who practically scream ‘jock!’ from their clothes alone. He looks over their table, eyeing the cramped space and how Logan constantly twitches away whenever Tucker accidentally elbows him. “Well, aren’t you guys crowded?”

Dean and Beau get into it while Garrett is still talking to Hannah about their philosophy class, and Tucker apparently knows the other guy Beau is with, so for a few minutes it’s just overlapping conversations in the most chaotic way possible. She widens her eyes at Allie who returns the look, and then Logan overhears something Tuck is saying and joins in, making the table even louder. The noise is almost enough that she doesn’t notice someone clearing their throat. But it happens again, a little louder this time, more pressing for attention, so she allows her head to go look at where it’s coming from. 

It’s one of the other football guys that came with Beau. She doesn’t know him; she’s not even sure if she’s seen him around campus before. He has that very common athlete look that’s slightly forgettable. Far from ugly, but not standing out either, especially when you’re used to being around more gorgeous athletes. 

“You okay?” She asks tentatively, just to say something. 

He clears his throat again. She takes note of the nervous fiddling he’s doing with his hands. Uh-oh. “You’re Angel, right?”

“No,” she says immediately, watching his face drop. “I mean, I am. But that’s not my name. It’s a nickname.”

He perks up at that. “Oh. My bad. It’s just what I always hear the other guys call you.”

“Yep,” she pops the p, moving her eyes away to go look at literally anything else. 

“Art History major right?” She hums at that. “Cool. I’m in Fine Arts myself, so there’s a bit of overlap there.”

That intrigues her, at least. “Cool. You a junior?”

He laughs breathily, like that tiny bit of attention she’d given is a lifeline. Mentally, she’s already going over all the least painful ways she can turn him down. “Senior, actually. I graduate this May. I’m Peter, by the way.”

“Awesome. Congratulations.” She smiles up at him politely, and then turns away again. 

Unfortunately, he can’t seem to read body language or take a hint. “I know you’re mostly friends with hockey players but it would be really cool to see you at a game some time.”

And there it is. She almost closes her eyes in frustration. Instead, she looks at Garrett, who’s still talking to Hannah and completely unaware of what’s happening right in front of him. Oh, boy. 

“Well, I’m pretty busy these days–”

“Cool. No worries, no worries.” He raises his arms up, and it’s just her luck that the conversations around the table seem to die down just when he opens his mouth and says, “If you’re not up to a game, then maybe coffee?”

The entire table goes silent. 

Garrett’s head snaps towards them with a dark look.

“Oh, shit,” Dean says, but his eyes are twinkling like this is the best thing he’s ever witnessed. 

She begins to shake her head, trying to catch Garrett’s eyes. It’s then that shit turns even weirder; Hannah spots someone by the door that makes her whole body tense up, and in mere seconds she’s dropping to Garrett’s lap and announcing, “It’s a date!”

Logan chokes on his drink. Dean looks like he’s about to cry from joy. Tucker suddenly looks like his sandwich is very interesting. And she sits there, a heavy weight on her chest, staring at the supporting hand Garrett had put on Hannah’s waist on instinct. 

Now, it’s Garrett’s turn to look at her, eyes wide in panic. “Uhm–”

Dean, because he’s a shit-stirrer on a good day and clearly has a death wish, suddenly says, “Great! You guys can go on a double date!”

Lesser beings would crumble under the glare Garrett shoots him, but Dean takes it in stride, his lips stretched to a wide grin. 

Hannah blushes at that, straining her neck to look at the door before deeming the coast clear and finally getting up from Garrett’s lap. “Oh my god, I am so sorry about that.”

“What was what, Wellsy?” Garrett asks, but his eyes are still trained carefully on his best friend’s face and the asshole hovering beside her. 

Hannah makes a pained noise. “It’s just–that was Justin. Justin Kohl. We got paired to do this really important showcase together and yesterday while doing a session, he accidentally saw…”

“What?” She asks, equally invested now. 

Hannah covers her face with her hands. “My Justin Kohl playlist.”

Tucker lets out a low whistle at that.

“I know.” Hannah mumbles embarrassingly. “To save face, I subtly told him I had a boyfriend. And haven’t spoken to him since.”

Allie makes a pained noise at that. “Oh, Hannah.”

That seems to shake her out of her embarrassed daze. Hannah turns to Garrett with a determined look on her face. “Look. Justin’s band has a small gig at this dive bar in the next town this weekend. If you just do this one thing for me, I promise I'll tutor you to shit.”

Garrett gapes at her. In fact, almost the entire table does. And then he looks at Angel with wide eyes, as if asking her–to intervene or for permission, she doesn’t know. 

She’s silent for a few seconds. Something in Hannah’s words rings in her ears, a half-formed idea settling inside her brain like a cancer. She looks at Hannah’s flushed cheeks, the desperate hope in her eyes. And then she looks at Garrett’s clueless face; Garrett who still hasn’t made a move despite all her attempts to hint at wanting more, Garrett whose lips and touch she dreams about every night since that time they almost forgot their boundaries, Garrett who’s her best friend and the guy she wants like oxygen. 

She swallows the sudden lump in her throat. “Do it.”

Every head snaps to her. 

Garrett’s eyebrows raise to his hairline. “What?”

She avoids his eyes, opting to look at the fries on her plate. “You need to pass your philosophy final, right?”

“Yeah, but I figured you would–”

She turns to Hannah. “He’ll do it.”

“Angel!” Garrett finally snaps, his eyes confused and a little bit scared. If they were in any other situation, she would have found the sight hilarious. 

“What?” She says back, trying to act nonchalant. “I’ll do it, too.”

And then she turns to the footballer still standing awkwardly beside where she’s sitting. “See you this weekend, Carter.”

“Uh, actually, it’s Peter–”

“You can go now.”

They’re in the mostly empty parking lot when Garrett finally loses his cool. At least he waited until they were alone. “What the fuck, Angel? What was that?”

She snatches his keys from his pocket, still avoiding his eyes. “Hannah needs help and you need to pass that class. Seems pretty simple to me.”

“You got me a B last time,” Garrett points out, face still screwed up in confusion. “I’m pretty sure you can help me get another passing grade.”

“And Hannah?” 

“Wellsy’s a big girl,” he shrugs. “She can handle herself.”

She scoffs at that, finally opening the driver’s side door. “I’m driving.”

“Of course you are,” Garrett mutters under his breath but otherwise doesn’t complain. 

They’ve barely pulled out of the parking lot when he twists in his seat and tells her, “You are not going out with that asshole.”

“Yes, I am,” she rebuttals, trying to focus on the road.

“Angel.”

“Garrett.”

She hears him sigh. From her periphery, she can see him run a hand through his hair. “What’s your play here? I…I’m confused.”

Her chest does something stupid at that. Softens like it suddenly became moldable just at hearing Garrett’s unsure voice, the shock and annoyance trickling out of him until there’s only confusion and a little bit of hurt left. 

The thing is she’s not even sure that Hannah’s plan–her plan–will work. It would probably be easier to just straight up tell Garrett how she feels; how she’s wanted to kiss him since she was thirteen and knew what kissing someone meant; how she dreams of the night they almost slept together constantly; how she craves his touch and his scent and his everything so much that some days she feels separate from her body. She wants to tell him that she’s ready; that they’ve waited long enough; that she doesn’t give a fuck about Jason or other people who will for sure have something to say about her moving on too soon or Garrett stealing her or some other shit. 

She’s spent the last few weeks dropping hints–embarrassing ones that keep her up at night–trying to get him to make a move. Trying to convey to him that he can touch her without overtly opening her mouth and saying the words out loud. Because saying them out loud makes the risk feel more real. Makes her being in love with her best friend something unhidden, something exposed for everyone to scrutinize. 

“There’s no play,” she finds herself saying, voice soft and a little choked. When Garrett shoots her a disbelieving look, she rolls her eyes. “There isn’t.”

“Angel,” he says, suddenly serious. He catches her eyes and the look on his face makes it impossible to look anywhere else. “Please don’t go out with him.”

She looks at him for a second. The tense line of his jaw. The controlled breathing. The eyes, dark with meaning. And she’s weak–embarrassingly weak–for him, so she says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She huffs out a breath. “I already said so, didn’t I?”

“Thank you,” Garrett says simply, which is a whole other thing that makes her heart stutter in her chest. 

For a second she thinks that this is it. They’re finally going to address the Godzilla-sized elephant in the room. Finally cut the tension clean. But Garrett just studies her face, his breathing still controlled in a way that tells her that he’s still a little mad. And the moment passes, and her stomach is filled yet again with cold disappointment. 

“But you need to go with Hannah,” she says suddenly, making him tense up in his seat once more. Before Garrett can protest, she’s already opening her mouth. “You already agreed. It would make me feel bad if you just cancel on her.”

“I didn’t agree to shit,” Garrett says, eyebrows pinched again. “You did.”

“Well, yes,” she says. “And that’s basically the same thing. So.”

“Angel.”

“Garrett.”

“Fuck,” he sighs in defeat, making her lips twitch up. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

“Right back at you, Xavier.”

Her and Garrett continue with their week as normal as possible. They still have their movie nights. They still have brunches. They still go to the library. She tones down the hintings, though she does miss seeing his reaction every time she does things like deliberately licking her lips in front of him, or moaning after a spoonful of food, or pressing up against him every chance possible. If Garrett notices her acting any different, he doesn’t say anything about it–not to her face at least. 

To his friends, on the other hand…

“I’m going fucking insane,” Garrett tells the boys midweek after their morning workout, the edge of his shirt lifted up to wipe at the sweat on his eyebrows. “Like. Literally.”

Dean, Logan, and Tucker all exchange knowing looks. Logan says, “oh boy,” just as Dean says, “oh, here we go.” They all fucking suck. 

“She told me we needed to take it slow,” Garrett stresses the words out, hands on his hips and staring down at his friends like he would find the fix to his problems in their smug little faces. “Wait a couple months. She told me that. So I agreed, because it’s what she wants and I trust her and because she’s Angel, you know? And then she–like–put her foot on my–”

“Okay, woah,” Logan interrupts him with wide eyes, one hand held up to his face. “I don’t think we need to hear that, G.”

Dean moves closer. “Oh, we do. We so do. Continue, please.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Garrett slaps him upside the head lightly. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that I’ve been trying really hard to, like, respect her boundaries, you know? Even if she’s more…touchy now. It’s driving me crazy, but I don’t want to do something and then have her pull away because she’s not ready yet.”

Tucker nods. “That makes sense.”

Dean makes a face at that. “What? Fuck that. G, you said it yourself. She’s more touchy. She puts her foot on wherever it is on your body that’s totally not your penis–”

“Fuck you–”

“–and,” Dean continues unabashedly, “She’s basically acting like your girlfriend already. I think it’s pretty clear that she’s ready.”

Logan shakes his head in agreement. “House says?”

“Yay.”

“Fucking yay, dude.”

Logan looks at Garrett pointedly. “So we’re all in agreement. G’s a dumbass and he should just get over himself and make a move. Glad we cleared that up.”

The weekend comes quicker than expected. Before she knows it, she’s standing in front of the full-length mirror she had thrifted a couple of months ago and forced Garrett to carry up the endless flights of stairs of her new apartment. The dress she picks is pretty enough; cream inner fabric with an intricate black sheer outer layer and a hem that hits high on her thigh. She pairs it with a pair of pointed knee-high boots that’s definitely gotten her through many night-outs, and she leaves her hair in its natural state. 

It’s Garrett’s date with Hannah. Technically, she’s not really invited, but Garrett insisted that he needs her there and Dean overheard them arguing about it, so now they’re all coming to Justin Kohl’s gig to watch Garrett and Hannah pretend to date. 

A knock comes from her door, and for a while she lets herself think it’s Garrett. It usually is. She can’t remember the last time they went to the same place in separate cars–probably when she was still with Jason, and even then she rarely hangs out with them both at the same time, so really she’s always been arriving at places with Garrett by her side. So when she opens her door to reveal Dean and Allie, a pang goes straight to her chest before she could do something practical like ignore it. 

“Oh,” she says, resting her weight on one foot. “I thought–”

“What?” Dean asks with a knowing smirk. “You thought G’s here?”

“No.”

“Oh, Angel,” Dean says with a shake of his head, ignoring the ‘don’t call me that’ that automatically comes from her lips. “G’s on a date. With Hannah. Remember? You made it happen.”

She glares at him. “I know.”

“He left the house, like, half an hour ago to pick her up.”

“I know,” she says again, more pointedly this time. “ I was just about to say that I thought you guys said you’d pick me up at nine. It’s only eight-thirty.”

“Sure,” Dean nods condescendingly. 

“Ignore him,” Allie tells her with a roll of her eyes, nudging Dean aside. “He was dropped as a baby. You ready, babe? You look hot.”

That finally gets her to smile. “Let me just get my purse.”

The dive bar is small and cramped, much tinier than Malone’s and with fewer booths. Dean parks beside Garrett’s Jeep, and the sight of it already there ahead of them sends another weird feeling to her stomach. She knows she’s being ridiculous. Garrett didn’t even want to go with Hannah in the first place. She practically forced him to do so. In fact, just the previous night while Garrett was over her place for dinner, he had shifted his chair closer to hers and nudged her leg with his foot, telling her, “Last chance, Angel. Tell me not to go and I’ll text Hannah right this second.”

She scoffed and pushed his face away with her hand. “Don’t be stupid.”

She’s the one feeling pretty stupid now. 

Justin’s band is already mid-set when they get inside. They’re playing a cover of a pop song she’s been hearing over the radio for the past week but can’t bring herself to remember the title of. Dean leads them to a cocktail table before announcing that he’s getting them shots. Allie is already dancing in place, hair flying side to side. 

She looks around the crowded bar. There are plenty of college-aged people, most of them familiar enough that she’s sure they go to Briar as well. A few stragglers; older ones who are probably regulars at the place, staying put by the bar with their drinks and content to watch the younger crowd do stupid things like force their best friend who they’re in love with to go on a date with another girl. 

Garrett is easy to spot once she puts her mind to it. He always has been, to be fair. He’s taller than the average American male, so usually all she has to do is scan the crowd for his head and she’d see him instantly. Tonight is no different. One quick glance and she sees him standing near the left of the stage, smiling down at Hannah with one hand holding a…is that a piña colada? 

“There’s your man,” Allie nudges her side, a knowing smile painted on her lips. 

She rolls her eyes. “He’s not my man.”

“Not yet,” Allie corrects her with a wink.

Thankfully, Dean arrives before Allie could say anything more, tequila spilling over the shot glasses and all over the black tray he’s holding. 

From the stage, Justin announces another song, an original this time, and they use the half-hearted clapping of the audience to fuel their own energy, clanking their shot glasses together with a cheer. 

Garrett is looking straight at her when she allows her eyes to flit back to where he’s standing. Hannah is leaning over his ear slightly to tell him something, but she knows he’s hardly paying attention. He gives her a look; raised eyebrows, slightly pouted lips, eyes turning wide comically. 

She lets herself grin, raising her empty shot glass in the air. 

Garrett rolls his eyes before turning back to Hannah. 

The night is more tolerable than she imagined it would be. For one, Hannah isn’t really one for egregious PDA, so most of the time she can just turn her back on her and Garrett and it would do the job of eliminating the uncomfortable feeling pressing against her chest at the sight of them together. She spends her time dancing and jumping around with Allie, even to songs they don’t know the words to. Justin’s band isn’t bad, if a little bit pretentious. Once Logan and Tucker get there, Dean makes it his mission to ply them with enough alcohol to be in serious trip-to-the-ER danger, and she and Allie decide early on to remove themselves from that potential disaster. 

Before she knows it, she’s close to being tipsy, her forehead lined with sweat, her breath coming out in short pants. 

Allie is not much different. She grips both of her arms when the music comes to a lull and leans her head close. “You are so much stronger than me.”

“What?” She laughs in confusion. 

“I wouldn’t be able to do it with Dean,” Allie nods at her solemnly, like her words are making complete sense. “You really are an angel. Pun intended.”

She shakes her head, her confused smile still in place. “Babe, I fear I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Allie tilts her head. She follows the direction and sees Garrett with his arm thrown over Hannah’s shoulder. The touch is casual, natural. Like he’s done it a million times before. Like they’re already so comfortable with each other. Hannah’s cheeks are flushed and Garrett is smiling smugly. They’re talking to Justin Kohl, which is probably an important detail, but her mind flies over it like it’s irrelevant information. 

“Hannah’s my best friend in the entire world and my favorite person ever,” Allie continues. “So I’m not really worried about her, you know? But you. You don’t really know her. If I were in your shoes and my man had to fake-date someone I don’t really know that well, I would lose my shit.”

She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. Her eyes go to Garrett and Hannah again. She has one arm wrapped around his waist now, hands laying comfortably on his hip. Not for the first time that night, she begins to feel that uncomfortable something pang in her chest. Only, it starts to spread, outward and outward until her whole body feels cold with it. 

“I had a plan,” she starts to say, shoulders slumping in defeat. She takes a hold of Allie’s wrist and begins walking them away from the dance floor. “A terrible one, now that I’m thinking about it.”

“What do you mean? What plan?”

She sighs, finally stopping at one corner of the bar where she can rest her back against a wall. The posters all over it have begun peeling at the corners, itching at the skin of her shoulders and back, but she pays it no mind. “When Hannah asked Garrett to do this to make Justin jealous, I guess that sparked an…idea. That's why I told him to do it. And why I said I’d go out with that football guy.”

“You wanted to make Garrett jealous?” Allie sounds way too delighted at her confession. 

“I know,” she groans, covering her face with her hands. “A new low, honestly. But then he asked me not to do it, and he was just so serious about it, you know? And I can never really hurt him like that, so I cancelled my date. Just like that. Only, I felt really bad for Hannah, so I told him he still had to go through with their date.”

Allie’s quiet for a moment, lips parted and brows furrowed as she tries to process her words. And then she says, “Wow. You intrigue me so much.”

“Shut up,” she laughs, pushing her hair back from her face. “It’s so fucking stupid. I just…I told him we had to wait. We were at my place and we made out and it was everything but I just broke up with Jason so I told him we had to wait. So I didn’t feel like a completely terrible person for jumping to the guy my ex had always been worried about. So we can make sure that we want this for real, for the long haul.”

Allie nods. “I support that, honestly. Like, kudos to you both for holding back. You’re being way more mature than most people would give you credit for.”

“Thank you,” she points at her with a smile. Then she sighs. “But like. It’s been months. I’ve been ready for the real thing for ages. I’ve been dropping embarrassing hints. Practically throwing myself all over him. And Garrett’s just–he’s not taking the jump. He reacts, of course he does. I can’t even count the number of times I’m sure I made him get a hard-on in public and made him run for the bathroom to hide it, but. He’s not doing anything. And I keep thinking that maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he doesn’t want me anymore, you know? Now that all my time is spent with him again. Maybe he just missed his best friend when I was taken.”

“I may not know Garrett that well,” Allie begins. “And definitely not as well as you do, but anyone with eyes can see how freaking gone that man is for you. Like, Hannah and I were actually talking about it just the other day. She said he basically spent their whole Philosophy lecture yapping about you when they were supposed to discreetly discuss their game plan tonight. And don’t even get me started on the bathroom conversations I’ve heard over the years. Garrett’s, like, stupidly into you, even when you guys were still in denial and you were still with Jason.”

“Bathroom conversations?” She asks with furrowed brows. 

Allie nods enthusiastically. “Yes. You know. Girls talk, and we both know Graham’s been with more than his share. And literally every one of them knows that he will always put you first. I mean, how many hook ups has he cancelled or turned down because you needed him? How many other guys will do the same for their supposed best friend?”

She finds Garrett in the crowd again. Logan’s with him this time, one hand on his shoulder while they’re both laughing so hard their heads are thrown back. Unbidden, almost like she can’t help it, her lips begin to tug up in a small, private smile. 

He looks beautiful. 

It’s the only word she can use that is apt enough to describe how she sees him. He was beautiful even as a kid, in the boarding school uniform he never seems to wear properly, always with one or three buttons undone and the collar all crooked. He was beautiful when he dressed up as Wolverine for Halloween and spent hours in the emergency room getting his arm stitched up because of her. He was beautiful in 9th grade when he had a buzzcut, no matter how much she likes to give him shit for it. He was beautiful when they were fourteen and kissed each other for the first time, or when they were sixteen and she first felt what it was like to have his tongue inside her mouth. He was beautiful in her apartment, sprawled shirtless below her on the couch, looking up at her with wide eyes and pure adoration. 

Garrett Graham is beautiful. He’s her best friend. And she’s completely head over heels in love with him. 

He finds her a couple of minutes later, still standing in the corner of the bar that she and Allie claimed for themselves. Dean had long since dragged Allie back to the dancefloor, and Logan and Tucker are drunk off their faces somewhere else. 

Garrett slides next to her smoothly, inching close enough that her bare arm is touching the soft fabric of his sweater. “Hey.”

She moves her head to the side to look at him. “Hey.”

He presses closer. “I missed you.”

“You saw me this morning,” she tells him immediately, tone exasperated but the corners of her lips tugging up anyway. 

Garrett scoffs. “Yeah, and that was way too long ago.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Rude.”

He shifts, and then her shoulders are suddenly bearing the weight of his arm, him pulling her close enough to flush their bodies together. 

“You’re pretty,” he tells her, his fingers playing with the sheer fabric of her dress. “I like this dress.”

She squeezes his hip. “Thanks, prof.”

“It was weird coming here without you,” Garrett suddenly says. When she looks up at him, he’s staring ahead, eyes going over the bar like he’s looking for something he can’t name. 

“Yeah?” When he just shrugs, she squeezes his hip again, tight enough that he jumps in place. “Why?” 

Garrett laughs. “I don’t know, Angel. It was just weird. I don’t like going places without you.” 

The breath that releases from her mouth is slow, a bit shaky. She presses closer to him. 

Sometimes, Garrett will stop holding himself back and allow himself to say things like that; things that make her whole world tilt off its axis. Things that make her reexamine her entire week to see if he’s been this transparent the entire time. 

“How was your date?” She asks. 

Garrett glares down at her instantly. “Don’t.”

“What?” She laughs lightly, pushing her side further into him. “It’s a genuine question!”

“Angel.”

“Garrett.”

He gives her a look for a second before sighing. “It was fine. Hannah’s cool.”

She says nothing for a moment, her jaw working overtime to get the next words out. There goes that feeling again, and this time it comes tenfold, like hearing about Garrett’s date straight from his mouth is the final straw. “The night’s young. You should probably get back to her.”

“Angel,” the nickname comes out rough, part frustration and part amusement. Garrett’s lips are doing that thing it usually does, twitching like he’s going to bite down into it but is holding himself back. He tilts his head to point to the opposite corner of the bar. “I think Wellsy’s doing just fine.”

She follows his gaze. Hannah is standing there grinning up at Justin, one hand coming up to tuck her hair behind her ears. Justin has his hands shoved in his back pockets, rocking gently. He says something that makes her laugh, loud enough the edges of it reach her ears from where she’s standing. 

“Oh,” she says, feeling her own cheeks blush. “The plan worked, then.”

Garrett gives her a shrug. “Apparently.”

“Cool,” she mutters under her breath. Garrett’s still looking at her like he knows something she doesn’t. It makes her skin itch. “What?”

He finally smiles. “Nothing.”

“What?” She asks again, more insistently annoyed this time. 

Garrett considers her for a second, eyes narrowed and lips slightly pursed. She tries her best not to stare at how inviting they look, all puckered and red. “I know you like to call me by his name but I’m not actually Charles Xavier, you know. I can’t read your mind.”

“Okay. Is ‘asshole’ better suited for you?” She snipes back. 

The banter is automatic and familiar. It washes away the weird feeling she’s been getting since that night at Malone’s when she practically forced Garrett to take part in this stupid plan. It takes her back to her couch, watching High School Musical with Garrett, unknowing of how drastically their relationship is about to change. 

“I just wish you’d speak your mind,” he tries to shrug again, going for casual. But she knows him. She sees the tense line of his shoulders. The unsure movement of his eyes across the room. 

She feels her heart pound in her chest. She glances around the crowded bar. Dean and Allie have disappeared off to god-knows-who. Tucker and Logan are talking to a group of people she doesn’t recognize. Hannah is still with Justin. She looks at Garrett again. “Should we really be talking about this here?”

She sees Garrett swallow visibly. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

Her mind goes blank. “What?”

“Let’s go,” he repeats, pulling out his car keys and wriggling them in front of her face. “You driving?”

“Duh,” she answers automatically, snatching his keys from him even when she’s still confused about what’s about to happen. “Should we tell our friends we’re going?”

Garrett almost snorts. “Nah. I’ll send Logan a text later. It’ll be fine.”

She expects the drive to be awkward, but Garrett turns the stereo on with the volume low and settles back in the passenger seat the same way he’s done the past hundred times they’ve driven around aimlessly with each other before, and it’s enough to get her to calm down. 

Sometimes, she gets confused about what she wants. Does she want Garrett the way she’s been wanting him since she could remember, his lips and his spit and the strong muscles of his arms and torso? Does she want him in the way that she never allowed herself to entertain for fear of ruining their friendship, in the way that carves him into the beating organ in her chest permanently? Or does she want her best friend, the person who knows her the most in the entire world, the guy who would drop everything if she called but still annoy her by messing up her hair or pinching the skin of her waist? It’s hard to keep track. The strings have all been tangled. The boundary lines all but erased. Now, all that’s left are the two of them not knowing where they stand. 

She drives until they find a spot secluded enough to honor the quietness that the night has slowly morphed into; an empty playground near the suburban part of the town they’re in. The place is unfamiliar, new, and strangely apt for the conversation she’s sure they’re about to have. 

There’s a strange finality when she kills the engine. The air feels suspended between them. She can still hear the phantom music softly playing in the background, but she can’t for the life of her focus on it enough to recognize the sound. 

Her eyes flit over to Garrett. He’s already looking at her. 

A hitch of breath, and then–

“Your parking is so fucking ass,” Garrett suddenly says, the corners of his lips twitching up. 

The words make the anxious air evaporate entirely. Her whole body relaxes, her chest shaking in a quiet laugh before she can even acknowledge the amusement that suddenly floods her veins. “Genuinely fuck off.”

Garrett laughs, his head falling back into the seat and one hand coming up to rub down his face. “You steal my car literally every time. You hardly let me drive and yet–”

“Garrett!” She interrupts him with a whine, slapping one hand on his shoulder which only serves to make him laugh harder. 

He catches her hand and holds it close to his chest, intertwining their fingers together. Her breath gets stuck in her throat at the casual movement. “What am I going to do with you, Angel?”

“You’re the one who taught me how to drive,” she tells him, a stubborn tilt to her chin. “Sounds like a you problem.”

His jaw drops at the accusation. “Only because you wouldn’t stop pestering me about wanting to learn!”

“Still,” she insists, squeezing the hand she’s holding to emphasize her words. “I never said you should teach me explicitly. You’re the one who showed up to my house the summer before I turned sixteen and offered me your keys.”

Garrett’s grin softens into something more fond and private. “I’ve never felt so scared to watch someone drive at a Stop & Shop parking lot.”

“Oh god,” she suddenly says with a laugh, a memory coming to her mind at the words. “Remember when you had your first date with that cheerleader in 9th grade? What was her name? The blonde one.”

“Britt–wait, no, Bethany.”

“Bethany!” She repeats triumphantly, shifting in the driver’s seat so she can turn her body to face him fully. “You were so sure you were going to lose your virginity that you panicked and made me go with you to Stop & Shop to buy condoms.”

Garrett closes his eyes with an inhale. “Fuck. Don’t remind me.”

“G, we stood in that aisle for so long,” she croaks out, her eyesight almost blurring with amusement. “I had my phone in hand researching about, like, sizes and flavors and the pros and cons of Trojans versus Skyns.”

He gives her a look, but she knows from the twitch in his mouth that he finds the story funny too. “You done?”

“And you didn’t even get to kiss her,” she finally cracks, crouching her body to contain her laughter. “You sat through your date with a whole-ass box of condoms on you and the only thing you got to do was hold her hand.”

He moves their hands to rest on his lap. “Great. So glad you find my suffering amusing.”

“Oh, prof,” she sighs, wiping at a tear in her eye. “It was cute. We were so innocent.”

Garrett scoffs. “Hardly. I did lose my virginity that year, thank you very much.”

The laughter drains out of her body slowly, in time with her letting out a slow exhale. “Yeah. With Savannah?”

“Yep.”

The words come out unbidden. “I hated her.”

She feels Garrett instantly tense up, but his hold on her hand never falters. “What?”

Her eyes avert forward, suddenly finding the empty swingset in front of them fascinating. “Savannah. I hated her.”

“Why?”

She squeezes his hand again, like the contact is enough to gather her nerves, before looking back at him. “She got you first.”

Garrett stills in his seat. She sees it in the way he seems to stop breathing. Feels it in the freezing of his hand on hers. His lips part, and a small gust of breath gets out, but that’s the extent of moving he does. 

She lets the truth settle over them heavily, warm like a weighted blanket. Over the past few weeks–hell, months–she’s been waiting for him to make his move. To cross the line once again, until “just friends” have been erased completely from their vocabularies. She’s been silently putting all the pressure on him in fear of tackling the jump herself. Because at her core, she’s still that seventeen year old hoping to get kissed on the train by her best friend, going back to her dorm room disappointed because he didn’t. 

“I think that was the first time I acknowledged it for real, you know? At least to myself. Because it didn’t make sense to feel my heart break a little when you told me the news. Not if you’re just my best friend.” She tries to look away again, but one of Garrett’s hands darts out and cups her jaw, making her meet his eyes. His are wide, a little panicked, a lot hopeful. It steels her nerves even more. “Until that point, I think every significant thing that happened in my life was spent with you. All the firsts that matter. The ugly and the beautiful. And I don’t know. I guess I always assumed…” she shrugs with a wet laugh. “I don’t know.”

“I guess…” Garrett works his jaw. Once, then twice, like the words are buried underneath the bone there and needs digging to get out. “I guess I never really believed it was possible. Us. Because in my head, you’re either my best friend or you’re not, and I never want to live in a reality where you’re not.”

One of her hands goes up to rest against the one he’s using to hold her face. “And now?”

“You know what I want, Angel,” he tells her, exhaling heavily enough that the air around them warms with his breath. “I’m just waiting for your signal.”

That causes her to give him a deadpan look. “Seriously? Haven’t I been doing enough?” A laugh slips out from her mouth. “Jesus Christ, prof. You’re more obtuse than I thought.”

He grips her jaw tighter. “Words, Angel. I need you to say it out loud.”

“Why?”

Garrett makes a sound between a laugh and a groan. “Or else I’ll convince myself that I made it up just because I want this so much.”

“Fine,” she clicks her tongue moving her head closer towards him. “I’m done waiting, Garrett. I’m done pretending I don’t want this. I don’t want you. I’m done pretending I don’t think about being with you constantly. I’m done pretending like seeing you with Hannah or any other girl doesn’t bother me because it does. I hate it. It makes me feel stupid and possessive when I have no right to be. At least, not yet.”

“Okay,” he gulps. 

She laughs again, a little disbelieving, a little breathless. “Okay?”

“I mean…” she feels his hand clench against her cheek. “That was pretty clear, I guess.”

“Holy shit, you’re terrible at this,” she tells him, a grin beginning to take up her face. 

Garrett glares at her. “Fuck off. I don’t–I’ve been, like, going over this scenario since I was thirteen, alright? Leave me alone.”

“G,” she says, softer this time. He takes a deep breath before looking at her. “Please kiss me.”

His face breaks open. There’s no other word for it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she repeats through the sudden lump in her throat, voice a little broken now. “Kiss me because you’re my best friend. Because your contact photo on my phone is still the one I took in 9th grade when you got your buzz cut and I’m never changing it. Never. Kiss me because I’m in love with you, and I’m hoping you’re in love with me too.”

A shaky breath leaves him. An almost laugh that sounds like it came straight from his chest. “Well, in that case–”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Their mouths meet together roughly, his hand finally releasing hers if only to pull her closer by the back of her neck. 

It’s different from the time in her apartment, when it was all heat and uncertainty and this pressing wanting beating in their veins. The wanting is still there, of course, and it’s evident in the punched out groan that leaves Garrett’s chest the second their lips touch and the gasp that she lets out when she feels him tracing her mouth with his tongue, but it’s more purposeful. Steady. Like it won’t crumble under their indecision anymore. 

“I wouldn’t even know who I am without loving you,” Garrett pants against her mouth, then presses another kiss there, and then another, and then another. “I love you, Angel.”

She feels her eyes burn. At the reverie in his words. The pure adoration. The sense of rightness clicking into place. Because of course they’d end up here. Of course. How can she even think otherwise? “Good.”

A laugh bubbles from his chest. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re too far away,” she says back, then moves to get across the center console and get closer to him. It’s not an easy task; her legs shift awkwardly, and the back of her dress catches on the gearshift and makes her curse out loud, trying to untangle herself to no avail until Garrett decides to help her out with a bitten down smile. Finally, she settles over his lap with an exaggerated breath. “Fuck. That went over way smoother in my head.”

When she looks up, Garrett’s grinning so wide his eyes are crinkling with it. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” his mouth moves through the grin stubbornly. 

She slaps his chest lightly. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!” He repeats with a laugh. His hands find themselves on her hips, and the contact is enough to cut across the amusement with a stinging warmth. “Come here.”

The kiss is less clumsy this time, but somehow more heated. With her straddling his lap, space becomes nonexistent between them, their hips pressing together, their thighs touching with each movement. She feels him straining against the denim of his jeans, and it makes her grind down on him harder. They both moan at the same time. 

“Shit,” Garrett curses, tightening his grip on her. He grinds her against him again, causing her to throw her head back with a gasp. “Can you cum like this?”

She tries to gather her thoughts, but everything feels secondary to the blinding pulsing she feels in between her legs. “Probably,” she breathes out before gulping. “Not tonight, though.”

She taps one of his hands on her hips and guides it under her dress. “You can touch me.”

His nose flares. His right hand skates up, brushing against the skin of her legs before moving inward. The touch is rough yet gentle all at once. His skin is calloused from hockey, a stark contrast to the trembling softness of her inner thighs. He reaches her underwear in no time.

“Fuck,” his head falls back. “You’re so fucking wet.”

His thumb rubs her through the soaked fabric, and her breath catches in her throat. 

“This all for me?” Garrett asks roughly. His thumb presses against her harder, making her hips buck up. “How long have you been like this?”

She manages a laugh. “An embarrassingly long time.”

His other hand finds its way under her dress, until both are placed at the waistband of her panties. “Can I?”

“Please,” she nods, her voice cracking. 

Garrett tugs her underwear down. She lifts her hips, letting the flimsy pair slide down her thighs and pool at her knees. It takes work to take it off completely, but she barely notices it because Garrett begins pressing kisses down her neck and to the skin of her chest exposed by her dress. 

“You look so fucking good,” he tells her against her skin. “I’ve wanted to do this forever.”

“So I’ve heard,” she pants with a smile. “How many times have you gotten off thinking of your best friend, Xavier?”

Garrett narrows his eyes at her, and then he’s pushing two fingers inside of her unrelentingly, causing her to cry out. 

“An embarrassing amount of times,” he repeats her words smugly, completely unashamed, and then he’s kissing her again, one hand tugging down the sleeves of her dress until her breasts are exposed to the warm air of his car. His lips close around one nipple immediately. 

“Garrett,” she gasps against his hair. She cradles his head closer.

He continues to open her up with his fingers, the slick sound obscene and filthy and doing its job to make her face flush. The windows begin to fog up, and she braces one of her hands on the glass so she could move her hips more efficiently. 

“More?” Garrett asks, like he already knows her body inside out. She nods blithely. He adds a third finger, curling them up until they brush against the rough spongy part inside of her that makes her toes curl. 

“Shit,” she huffs, her eyes closing shut. “I’m close. Don’t–don’t stop.”

He presses a kiss against the slack line of her jaw. “Like this?”

“Yes,” her voice edges on the verge of a cry. He doesn’t speed up or press against her clit harder, the way other men tend to do when you tell them you’re about to finish. Instead, Garrett keeps his pace steady, his mouth catching hers again in a deep kiss. He pulls away to lean his head down and catch one of her nipples with his teeth. The sharp sting of it cuts through her like a knife, and she comes just like that, riding his fingers, eyes fluttering shut, Garrett kissing the noise away from her mouth. 

“There you go,” he whispers against her, their breaths mingling together from how close they are. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I can’t wait to fuck you. Will you let me?”

She takes her hand off from where it’s pressing against the window to hook her arm around his neck. “If you don’t, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Garrett’s shoulders begin to shake with laughter, but then he quickly sobers up. “Shit. Wait. We can’t fuck for the first time in my fucking car.”

“Why not?” She asks, already feeling heat stir low in her abdomen again at the thought of riding more than his fingers. Her thighs twitch against where they’re pressing against his jeans. “Let’s be real, Xavier. This car has seen far worse from us.”

He pulls back just enough to give her a confused look. “Like what?”

“Uhm,” she purses her lips in thought, before her eyes light up at a particular memory. “Freshman year. Our first party crawl that Dean dragged us into. You threw up all over your lap and I threw up afterwards in solidarity.”

Garrett makes a face. “In solidarity? You think you threw up in solidarity?”

“Well, I didn’t want you to be too embarrassed,” she shrugs with an innocent look that he definitely doesn’t buy. 

“Right,” he clicks his tongue. “You definitely threw up in solidarity because you were thinking of my well-being and not because you’ve always been a sympathetic vomiter. Thank you for that, by the way.”

She sticks her chin out. “You’re welcome.”

“Legendary pull,” Garrett continues, sliding the palms of his hands from her waist to her lower back. “Totally not a mood-killer.”

She pulls back enough to narrow her eyes at him, then reaches one hand down to cup him through his jeans. 

“Motherfucker,” he hisses, his hips lifting up at the contact. 

The smirk that forms across her face is a smug and immediate thing. “Still a mood-killer?”

“Mood’s been resurrected,” Garrett grits through his teeth. “Mood’s very much alive and not dead.”

“That’s what I thought,” she mumbles before kissing him again. 

Kissing him is quickly becoming addicting. The warmth of it. The idea that it’s Garrett she’s tasting; Garrett’s lips on hers, Garret’s teeth clanking against her teeth, Garrett’s spit on her tongue. She can probably be content to spend forever just feeling him against her like this. Like how she’s always wanted to feel him. 

She pulls away and rests their foreheads together, eyes focused downward on the next task. Her fingers make quick work of his belt and the button of his jeans. Garrett doesn’t protest the idea of car sex anymore. In fact, he almost seems out of his body, his eyes dark and unfocused and his breathing getting heavier by the minute. Finally, after what seems like minutes and hours and years of pining over her best friend, she manages to pull him free from his boxers. 

The sight of his hard cock produces a staggered exhale from her parted lips. He’s heavy in her hands, slightly curved to the left, the tip red and leaking and so pretty her mouth waters instantly. 

She’s seen him before, of course. That summer when they were in middle school and decided to go to the newly opened water park near her house and she walked in on him changing into his trunks. That one time in high school when she caught him masturbating in his dorm and he couldn’t look her in the eyes for days. She’s even had him against her wet entrance before, that night on her couch before they got interrupted by confessions of desire and the fear of ruining their friendship. 

But this feels different somehow. More real. Because the truth hangs over them this time, the years of love and the hiding of it finally uncloaked and acknowledged and accepted. There’s no need for restraint or doubts. The only need pressing against her veins is to feel him closer, to know what it’s like to have him inside of her, to feel their bodies connect in the most human sense of the word. 

“Are you sure?” Garrett manages to ask, catching her eyes solemnly. 

The seriousness of his tone doesn’t quite catch her off guard, but it’s a close thing. Her throat feels tight all of a sudden, and her voice is scratchy when she nods and finally says, “Yeah.”

“I love you,” he tells her, both of his hands coming up to cup her face.

She lets out a wet chuckle, just because she feels like she has to lighten the intense air. “I love you too.”

He reaches down to rub his head against her. Her eyes flutter shut, and she lets out a moan when she feels his cock catch at her clit, sending sparks of pleasure up her spine. 

“Condom?” She breathes out, even though a large part of her wants to feel him closer without the barrier. 

Garrett reaches behind her with one hand to open the glove compartment. He fishes out a box of condoms and gets to work opening it. 

She feels the corners of her mouth twitch. “Skyns?”

“Shut the fuck up, Angel,” he mutters, still fumbling with the packaging.

She laughs more freely this time, her forehead falling forward against his. “Glad to see my 9th grade research has been useful all this time.”

“I hate you so much,” Garrett sighs, exasperated and fond and immediately betraying himself by the way one of his hands brushes her hair away from her face gently. He presses a quick kiss against her mouth. “Ready?”

“Please.”

He guides her up by the hips. Their foreheads are still pressed together, their lips close to touching, and she feels more than hears the gasp they both let out at the same time when he finally presses inside. She sinks down on his cock slowly, her pussy fluttering, trying to adjust to his length and his girth and stealing the breath from her lungs. 

“Garrett,” his name comes out in a whimper that makes his hands grip her hips tighter. “Oh fuck.”

She knows he’s big. Obviously. She’s seen his cock and categorized it and dreamt of it, even. None of that prepares her for the real thing. She tenses reflexively at the sting of her cunt making space for him, causing Garrett to rub one hand on her lower back.

“You can take it,” he says against her mouth. “You’re doing so well.”

Her thighs twitch at his words, and Garrett presses another kiss to her lips, his tongue diving inside and letting the warmth of it relax her into taking him deeper.

It feels like forever before he finally bottoms out, their pelvises rubbing against each other with each twitch and her brain melting out her ears. She feels like she’s floating, like her center of gravity has shifted. The muscles of Garrett’s thighs are hard and steady beneath her own. They’re both trembling, she realizes. She pulls back to look at him.

Garrett’s gazing up at her, sweat beading at his temples, his eyes dark and clear, his lips wet and parted. He’s panting harshly. He looks in awe of her. He looks like he’s still trying to convince himself that this is real, that this is happening. It makes warmth bloom in her chest until it settles permanently under her breastbone. It sends a pulse in her cunt so violently she feels untethered with it.

She makes to move her hips, but he holds her still with a bruising grip. “Fuck. Don’t–don’t fucking move.”

“What?” She’s already flushed and breathless. He’s so deep inside of her it’s hard to focus on anything other than how he feels. 

“Just–” Garrett works his jaw so harshly she can practically hear his teeth grind together. “Give me a second.”

The realization hits her quick, and a startled chuckle bubbles airily out of her. “Why? Afraid you’re going to cum so soon?”

“Angel,” Garrett grits out the warning, squeezing her hips tight. “I’m fucking trying here.”

She laughs again in disbelief. “Holy shit. You are.”

Garrett’s jaw twitches. “I’ve wanted this since I could remember and you’re so fucking tight. Jesus Christ. Give me a second.”

The words quickly sober her up. She shifts restlessly against him. The need for friction itches at her skin. Like she can’t help it, her cunt clenches around him, neglected. 

Garrett curses under his breath. “Fuck. Okay.”

He thrusts up gently, like he’s testing the waters. Even the small movement is enough to punch a breath from her chest. She adjusts her hands so she’s bracing down his shoulders. The next thrust is harder, more sure of himself, and it makes her throw her head back in pleasure. 

“Fuck,” she cries out, moving her own hips down to meet him halfway. 

The sting is still there, but the pain blends with the pleasure so seamlessly she can’t bring herself to wait any longer. Still, Garrett notices the small wince she makes, because of course she does. He doesn’t stop his movements, but he tilts her chin to make their eyes meet. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she breathes out shakily, continuing to fuck herself down on his cock. “You–just. You’re big.”

That pulls a grin out of him in an instant, smug and validated and so fucking annoying. “Yeah?”

“Shut the fuck up,” she hisses before catching his lips with her teeth. He lets out a deep groan, using his hold on her to adjust her slightly and begins bearing her body down to sink on him harder, faster. 

“Shit, Angel,” Garrett says when he pulls away. He places frantic kisses all over every inch of her skin that he can reach. “You feel so fucking good. You’re so fucking beautiful. You’re everything.”

One of his hands slides around her to squeeze her ass. It makes her buck into him, their rhythm faltering for a second before finding its way back. 

It feels so good. He feels so good branding himself inside her flesh. It’s like every press of him into her is rewiring everything she thought she knew about sex and pleasure and intimacy. She never imagined it would be this good and it would feel this right. She can only hope she’s not the only one. 

“Garrett,” she manages to say. Her voice sounds raw even to her own ears. Cracked. She feels her eyes begin to sting. It’s overwhelming; to feel so much in such a confined space. To grapple with being in love with her best friend and finally being able to do something about it. To realize that she can never take back all the years they spent trying to deny themselves from feeling this. “We wasted so much time.”

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until one of his hands moves up to wipe her cheek free from her tears. “Shh.”

She sniffs. “We wasted–”

“We’re okay,” he whispers against her mouth before pressing a deep, quick kiss there. “We’re okay. We’re perfect.”

He reaches down to rub her clit again. She cries into his mouth, moving one hand from his shoulder to his neck, her thumb pressed against his Adam’s apple, feeling it bob with each breath and swallow he makes. 

She glances down to watch him disappear into her. Over and over, the curls at the base of his cock wet with their combined arousal. The sight is so erotic she has to let out another moan. It’s filthy and obscene and the sound of him fucking into her pussy fills the air. 

“God, Angel,” Garrett lets his head fall back. “You’re–fuck. I want to feel you come around my cock.”

She clenches around him, deliberately this time. “Only if you come inside me.”

“Fuck,” his chest moves harshly with the word, like it’s been pulled from deep inside him. He pounds up into her with enough strength to make her bounce on him without any effort from her end. She has to hold one of her hands against the driver’s seat headrest for support. 

Now that the idea has taken root, it’s all she can think about, even through the haze of the pleasure and the fucking and the constant oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck that her inner voice has turned into. She wants to feel him finish inside her. She wants to feel the warmth of it fill her up until she’s so full of him she’s spilling with it with every thrust, even when his cock tries to plug her close to keep his cum inside. He’s wearing a condom, but the thought still persists, and something in her brain stores it for next time. Her thighs begin to shake, and the heat building in her stomach travels down, down, down, until the edge of pleasure tips over and she’s coming around his cock with a short scream.

“Holy fucking shit,” Garrett’s voice breaks into a long moan, his thrusts going erratic until he’s coming as well, pumping the condom full of his release. She imagines being filled with him, just the way she wants it. He keeps going, keeps giving little thrusts until her pussy begins to flutter in protest at being overstimulated. She squeezes his arm to warn him, and he finally stills. 

Their chests heave with every heavy breath. Garrett pulls her close by the back of her neck and kisses her. It’s calmer now, more indulgent, their tongues sliding over each other like they have all the time in the world. When they pull away some time later, him still softening inside of her, a string of spit forms between their mouths that makes her giggle. She swipes through it and wipes at Garrett’s lips, and he does the same to her. 

“Holy shit,” Garrett exhales, pressing another chaste, close-mouthed kiss against her lips. “Holy fucking shit, Angel.”

She giggles again, more breathlessly. “I know.”

“You okay?” He asks, hands going to her back to rub her there gently, pulling her closer while he does so. 

She nods. “Yeah.”

They stare at each other for a moment, matching grins beginning to form on their faces. 

“Hi,” she says, almost shyly. Her hands move from his neck so she can brush his eyebrows with the pads of her thumbs.

Garrett swallows visibly. “Hi.”

“Masterful work, prof,” she suddenly says through bubbling laughter. “10/10, no notes. That mind-reading thing really comes in handy–Garrett!” She shrieks, twisting away from his fingers which have begun to tickle her waist unrelentingly. 

She finally catches both of his wrists, prying them away from her body to stop his assault. 

Garrett sighs heavily, exasperated and familiar. “You really had to ruin it.”

His curls have fallen to his forehead now, damp and messy. She runs her fingers through it to push it back, his head tilting up with the movement. She scans his face for a second. “I love you.”

“So you’ve said,” his mouth twitches, but his eyes remain soft. “I love you too.”

She smiles tenderly at that. Her throat tightens again, because apparently her emotions are all over the place tonight. “You’re still my best friend, though.”

“And you’re still mine,” Garrett tells her immediately, leaning forward to close the distance between their faces. “Always, Angel.”

She nods, then looks down at where their bottom halves are still pressed together. “This is pretty good, though. We can keep doing this.”

Garrett snorts. “Great. That’s good to know.”

Laughter spills from her lips, the same sound that Garrett has been privy to since they were twelve and powering through boarding school together, since they were fifteen and wading through the lethal combination of teenage angst and hormones, since they were seventeen and trying to avoid acknowledging the shift in their friendship, since they were eighteen and nineteen and twenty and twenty-one and having to watch each other be with other people and pretend it doesn’t physically hurt them like a tear through the limbs. 

Garrett uses the hand he has on her back to guide her closer, and this is where the difference lies. The fundamental shift that feels as novel as it is inevitable. He kisses the laughter from her mouth, heated enough to make her twitch against him, but soft enough that it doesn’t go anywhere beyond the pressing of two body parts that haven’t been allowed to press together before. She settles against him, her body becoming warm and pliant and moldable. Garrett makes a noise at the back of his throat. 

She shifts in his lap and smiles against his lips, content to waste the night away kissing her best friend. 

His smile is soft and charming as he looks you over. You’ve applied a light layer of makeup similar to your look at the party last weekend. Your hair remains in a ponytail, but you’ve thrown on your lucky, sparkly headband for good luck. Not that you needed any luck. Garrett had assured you there was nothing to worry about. 

You suddenly feel like you’re forgetting something. “Oh, my purse!”

You hurry back into your apartment to retrieve it. Your roommate, Paige, and her boyfriend are making pancakes for dinner in the tiny kitchen you share. She isn’t wearing pants, and he’s made himself completely at home in nothing but his boxers. The moment you told her you wouldn’t be back until later, she’d invited him over.

You climb over your neatly made bed to grab your purse from the side table, which leaves you more out of breath than it probably should. Even though it contains only lip gloss, your license, a stick of gum, and a debit card with approximately seventy dollars on it, you feel much more secure carrying it.

When you turn around, Garrett is standing fully in your doorway, his eyes roaming over your shoebox apartment before settling on the couple in the kitchen.

“No way, you're Garrett Graham, right?” Paige’s boyfriend doesn’t go to school at Briar. You remember her saying he was about five years older than her, although you thought he could easily pass for thirty. 

Your heart pounds as Ethan makes his way over to your date, hand out for Garrett to politely shake. He’s close to rambling about Garrett’s last game, and then he brings up the score and some more terms you have no clue about. And because Garrett’s so good at commanding a room and taking up space, which you’ve never been good at, he cuts through the conversation. 

“Ready now, Bunny?”

Paige’s mouth gapes at his words, and you’re left with no time to process your new nickname. “Yes.” You’re next to Garrett in a flash, and his hand becomes wrapped around your waist. “Uhm, I’ll see you guys later!”

You have to close your front door tightly to relieve the awkward tension. “I’m so sorry.”

He shushes you as he leads you down to the elevator, as if he’s already comfortable navigating the building. Once you were in the privacy of the old elevator, Garrett asked, “That’s her fucking boyfriend?”

You nodded quietly. 

“How often is he there?”

“Well, they just got back together–”

“Before she started fucking Dean. How often was he over?”

You shrugged, “A few nights a week, I guess. He works from home.”

You watch as his face twists into something close to disappointment. Or disgust. “And how often does he walk around with no clothes on?”

“Not often,” You say almost to soften the blow, “He’s just comfortable there, I guess. And it’s okay. She makes sure I’m okay with it before he comes over.”

“Ha,” He laughs softly before his lips form a thin line. Bad start to the night, you thought. And it’s all because of Ethan’s Ninja Turtle briefs. The elevator dings, and the two of you walk out to his car. Like a gentleman, he opens your car door for you, and you take the opportunity to get a few deep breaths in as the door shuts and he rounds the hood of the car. 

You’re not sure why it’s so much harder to breathe when you’re close to him. You chalk it up to the two of you practically being strangers and your nerves.

During the drive to Garrett’s house, he doesn’t push the subject of your roommate and her boyfriend, which you’re thankful for. He decides to talk to you about his own roommates instead. You knew Dean, of course, and Garrett makes the point that he’s sweeter than he looks. Although he’s just as sexual as he comes off. Logan is his hardworking best friend. Tucker is also kind and is an amazing cook, according to Garrett. You do your best to listen, but as he parks his car on the street in front of the house, you realize that you’re about to actually meet all of them. Not in the setting of a party being hosted, but a casual weeknight where they’re living life normally. 

The seriousness of the situation hits you. Garrett assured you that the night would be low-key, but what was casual about meeting all of his best friends? 

“You okay?” A smooth voice snaps you out of your spiral. 

You nod, nervously smiling back at him, “Sorry, I’m okay …hungry.”

“Good. C’mon, Tuck made stir-fry.” 

You find that you don't actually need the courage to go inside and say hello to his friends because Garrett's hand on your lower back does the work for you. You don't have to say much. You don't have to figure out where to walk or stand because Garrett guides you.

Tucker stands near the stove, an apron tied around his waist, while Logan and Dean sit on bar stools at the kitchen island. They've already started digging into their meals, and when Tucker presents the two of you with your dinner plates, you can't help but marvel at both the presentation and the amount of food piled onto each one.

"Oh my goodness, you really didn't have to, Tucker—"

"No worries at all. Our casa is su casa, Y/N," he says, his voice warm and welcoming. "And I won't be offended if you don't eat it all. We eat a lot here."

Garrett squeezes your hip, and it serves as a reminder to stop smiling at him like an idiot.

"Thank you so much."

"Thanks, Tuck." Garrett's hand finally leaves your waist so he can grab both plates. "You ready to go upstairs?"

"Yeah," you say, and Logan and Dean exchange a knowing glance.

Garrett tilts his head toward the stairs, and you take that as your cue to follow.

"I-It was nice meeting you guys," you manage to say, offering a small wave.

Logan and Tucker return it immediately. Dean, meanwhile, is already shoveling a spoonful of rice into his mouth. Before anyone can say much else, you hurry after your date.

Garrett's room is large and dark-toned. The windows are huge, but nighttime doesn't offer much light. You've only taken a few steps inside, but the air already feels intimate.

"Your friends seem nice," you say as you stand frozen, your eyes wandering over every poster and piece of memorabilia. "And this house is also... super nice."

"They are. And thanks." Garrett sets the plates down on his nightstand before patting a spot on the other side of the bed. "Sit down and get comfortable."

You'd already taken your shoes off at the door, even though Garrett insisted you didn't have to, so now you're walking around in socks covered with tiny strawberries. You take a seat where he gestures, leaning against his pillows and crossing your legs.

He hands you your plate of food before grabbing his laptop.

"So, what kind of movies do you like to watch, little bookworm?" Garrett asks casually as he settles beside you. He makes sure to close the gap between you, his knee brushing yours and his arm resting against your shoulder.

"We can watch whatever. I don't mind."

"Hmm, okay, but that's not what I asked."

You turn toward him and find that he's already watching you.

"What do you like to watch, Bunny?"

"Uhm." You're suddenly embarrassed as you think over your taste in media. "I like... romance. And historical dramas, I guess. But I understand if you don't want to watch—"

"So what's your favorite movie?"

And that's how you end up watching Little Women with Garrett Graham.

You do your best to tackle the mountain of restaurant-quality food Tucker provided. Garrett finishes his plate, and as the movie plays, he becomes more invested than you'd expected.

The movie reaches the Christmas scenes, where Beth is feeling better and their father returns home. Garrett asks a question—something about whether a certain moment happened in the book—when your phone starts to vibrate.

You pick it up to silence it, only to find five unread messages from your roommate. Worried something bad has happened, you open the text chain.

Paige: Are you still coming home tonight? Paige: Also, is it cool if Ethan stays for the rest of the week? Paige: Since you're gonna be busy with your new friend :) Paige: BTW I can't believe you're hooking up with Garrett Graham and today is the first time I'm hearing about it Paige: Oh and I need rent earlier than the 1st

"What's wrong?"

"What? Nothing."

You realize Garrett has paused the movie.

You know you should ignore her, but then you start thinking about what she'll think if you don't respond. You find yourself staring down at your phone.

"Your hands are shaking."

The deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. His mouth is close to your ear, and he's looking down at your phone too.

Instinctively, you tilt the screen away.

"What did she say?"

"I'm sorry I interrupted the movie—"

"Y/N."

Garrett's voice is stern enough to silence the anxious thoughts racing through your mind.

Then he holds out his hand expectantly.

Your heart starts beating faster.

You hesitate—or at least it feels like you do—before handing over your phone.

You wipe your sweaty palms on your pants, uncrossing and recrossing your legs as you let him read the messages.

"So her boyfriend's moving in?"

"Just for the week."

"And she's making you pay half the rent when you sleep on the couch, and she's letting some asshole stay there?"

You can't meet his eyes.

"It pulls out," you mumble.

"Fuck that."

"You don't understand, Garrett. She's been there for me. She really has..."

"Do you even have the money to give her?"

"Yes. Well, I can use my savings until I get paid again—"

"Fuck that for sure. Tell her to fuck off."

A startled yelp escapes you at the shocking suggestion.

Garrett's jaw ticks.

You don't know him well, but even you can tell he's angry.

"Please, can we finish the movie?"

Your face falls as you pull your knees to your chest. Tears sting your eyes, and you know you can stop them from falling if he just... moves on.

Please.

Please.

Please.

You hear him sigh before you hear the click of your phone locking.

"C'mere."

His large arms wrap around your shoulders as the movie starts playing again.

You soften against him, resting your head on his shoulder.

His tone lightens.

"Just because she blows up your phone doesn't mean you need to answer. She can wait."

"Okay," you say, and you believe him. "I'm sorry I made you mad."

"You didn't do anything, baby," he reassures you.

You do end up crying that night, but it isn't because of Paige.

It's Beth March's death that gets you.

The two of you make it almost to the end of the movie. Mr. Dashwood is just about to publish Jo's book when your eyes begin to grow heavy. Getting up early for class that morning has finally caught up with you.

The rolling credits are the last thing you see.

And the last thing you feel is Garrett Graham pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Garrett had no intentions of stalking you, given he’d already decided you were his now. And he could acknowledge that going through someone’s phone is bad behavior, but he had to understand this situation with your roommate more. How else was he going to solve your problem if you refused to admit it was one? 

Your roommate sent you the occasional good luck for a test, and there were a few times she told you to have a fun weekend. At least through text, he didn’t see any indications that she was supportive. Half your conversations were her just asking you to do the most outlandish things for her. Just two weeks ago, she asked you to clean the entire apartment, including her room, because she wanted to have friends over. A week before that, she asked if you could stay out of the apartment from seven o'clock to ten o'clock at night because a guy was coming over and she wanted privacy. 

And all of your responses were the same. 

So sorry!!

Of course!! 

That’s fine!! 

I really don’t mind!!!!

His hindbrain was telling him to find a way to escalate the situation, blow up your life, and let him pick up the pieces. The more logical part of his brain knew it was a matter of time before this bad situation got worse and that he could be the one to save you when that inevitably happened. And maybe, just maybe, he could help it hurt a little bit less. He could also make someone else suffer for hurting you. 

He watched you sleep for a short while, and when he inevitably settled against you, grabbing your waist and pushing your bottom against his crotch, you didn’t even stir. 

Garrett felt grateful that you were here with him tonight and sleeping peacefully in his bed instead of squeezed onto that pathetic pullout couch. His own anxiety felt better knowing you were safe. Whatever feeling you had planted inside of him at that party was only growing. 

Garrett pressed his face into your hair and closed his eyes.

He'd make sure this became a regular thing.

You were so embarrassed when you woke up the next morning and realized you'd fallen asleep. As if you were the one taking advantage of him. It took some time for you to regulate and for Garrett to convince you that you hadn't done anything wrong.

"I wanted you here, Bunny. You look good in my bed," he'd said.

Over the next week, the only time you spent apart from Graham was when you had class or work. Even then, he offered to pick you up and drive you everywhere. It just made sense. You had no car. He did.

"I want to send you money. I'm wasting so much of your gas," you said as the two of you drove back to the hockey house.

"I don't want or need your money, Y/N."

"There has to be something I can do." Garrett watched the wheels turning in your mind. "I know. I'll bake you something."

"You can bake?" Garrett's eyebrows rose.

"No, but I could try." You shrugged, and his eyes softened as he held your gaze.

"That would be nice, Bunny, but I know what I want."

"What?" you'd asked with a smile.

"A kiss."

You stared back like a baby deer caught in headlights. "A kiss? From me?"

"Yes, genius."

"I've never kissed anyone—"

Then it was Garrett's turn to blanch. "What? You're serious?"

"No, I mean, I've been kissed. I have. I've just never done the..."

"You've never kissed someone first?"

You nodded hesitantly.

"Then let me be your first."

A long silence passed between the two of you as the radio played softly through Garrett's speakers. After he parked the car and undid his seatbelt, he reached over, like usual, and unclicked yours. Garrett had started noticing more and more of your nervous tics. Right now, your leg was bouncing so hard it practically shook the entire car.

"I mean, you kinda owe me, right?"

You bit down on your lip as you pulled your knees onto the seat and folded them beneath you. Leaning toward the center console, your smaller hands found his shoulders. Slowly, they slid to his neck and then the sides of his face. Your thumb brushed over his stubble, and you watched his eyes darken.

Garrett's eyes closed when your lips pressed softly against his. The kiss was brief and sweet, but it still left his head spinning.

You were still holding his face when you asked, "How was that?"

Garrett answered by leaning in and kissing you again.

Your lips worked to keep up as Garrett set a steady rhythm. Your hands found his shoulders while he reached for your waist. Before you knew it, he was hoisting you over the middle console until you were straddling his lap.

If there was any control you had left, you let it go.

Making out was kind of like all your conversations. Garrett pushed, forcing you to open up, and he peeled back your layers slowly. And he decided when it ended.

His hands traveled up your waist and beneath your shirt, his large palms roaming over the expanse of your skin. You felt warmth gather low in your stomach as your hips shifted against him.

You only tried to pull away because you needed air.

He kissed you so thoroughly that your lips already felt sore and swollen.

"Garrett," you breathed.

Immediately, he loosened his grip.

"Can we... I feel..."

"You feel what, Bunny?"

"Overwhelmed."

"I'm not gonna fuck you if that's what you're scared about. I just wanted to taste you."

"Oh." You weren't entirely sure how to respond to such blunt honesty. "Okay."

Maybe you'd been wrong to assume he wanted some kind of relationship.

Maybe he wanted something in between.

You'd never been in a real relationship before, so it wasn't like you knew exactly what you wanted. But deep down, you knew you didn't want a casual situationship.

And if that was what Garrett wanted... how would you even say no to him?

"What's wrong? Do you want more, Bunny?"

He toyed with the waistband of your jeans before his hand slipped lower and grabbed a handful of your ass.

You couldn't help how flustered you became. Suddenly, the car felt far too small.

"I like you like this."

He pressed a soft kiss to your jaw, and your eyes threatened to roll back at the pleasure of it.

"Like what?"

"Squirming on top of me." His voice dropped lower. "I can't think about anyone else, you know?"

"You can't?"

"I'm crazy about you."

He kissed your cheek.

Then the other.

Teasing you.

And you found yourself melting against him.

"I hate when you leave."

"Why?"

"This feels right, doesn't it?"

A kiss against your nose.

"You with me."

Another brush of his lips.

"I think you need me."

"I do?"

He hummed as his lips hovered over yours.

"I'll take good care of you."

You leaned closer, but he still didn't close the distance.

"You'll let me take care of you, right?"

Your lips parted.

You knew you didn't fully understand what he meant.

But you knew exactly what he wanted to hear.

And somehow, you wanted to give it to him.

"Yes."

A dark satisfaction flashed across Garrett's face.

"Good fucking girl."

Then his lips were on yours again, and every sensible thought you'd ever had disappeared from your mind.

Paige is right. You find that you're barely home over the next month, mostly because Ethan has been there every day since they'd gotten back together. You have no privacy to study, no room for your groceries, and Paige and Ethan have sex loudly most nights. Worst of all, he uses up your favorite brand of overpriced conditioner, the only kind that helps tame your hair.

The hockey house, although it's full of rowdy college boys, ends up feeling more peaceful. Garrett protects your space, makes sure you always have quiet when you study, and even buys you another set of all your toiletries so you don't have to pack a toiletry bag every time you come over. Plus, there's a free dinner almost every night, and Garrett's friends seem to actually like you. They ask questions about your classes, and they don't talk over you even though their voices boom much louder than yours.

You've started to rely on Garrett so much that the situation with Paige becomes something you want to handle on your own.

It takes everything in you not to just give in. You throw up twice before you can bring yourself to face her, but you eventually do. You're logical. You explain that you don't think it's fair to keep paying half the rent for a quarter of the space and no privacy.

She agrees.

She actually hears you out and promises she'll find a split that's more proportional.

Your shoulders feel lighter when you finally tell Garrett. He's frustrated, of course, that you kept it from him, but supportive nonetheless. Feeling any sort of control in your relationship with Paige is strange.

And ultimately, short-lived.

A week later, you have a babysitting gig that Paige helped set up for you. A friend of a family friend of hers. It should be an easy night considering the child you're babysitting is less than a year old.

Garrett has a game that night at Harvard, and Paige promises she'll be able to pick you up from the nearby city when she tells you about the job.

So the clock turns to eleven, the baby's parents come home, and you expect to find Paige waiting for you outside the apartment building's lobby.

Except she's nowhere to be found.

The lobby doors lock behind you, and she isn't picking up her phone.

The bus isn't running anymore.

And Garrett is at least an hour away in Boston.

Maybe she's just busy driving.

11:20.

You sit down on the steps outside the building, glancing between your phone and the city street in front of you.

11:35.

Your body starts to shake, and your heart pounds so hard in your chest that you can feel it in your ears.

11:45.

Garrett's smiling face appears on your screen, and it takes you a long moment to muster the courage to answer.

"Hello," you say. Your voice sounds smaller than it ever has before.

"Why are you still in the city?"

You'd forgotten he could see your location on his phone, a feature you'd never particularly used before but that Garrett insisted was for safety reasons.

"I'm, uh..." You hiccup. "Waiting f-for... Paige."

"She was supposed to be there an hour ago."

Not a question.

An observation.

"Why didn't you call me? Shit. Are you just standing outside?"

"I'm sitting outside the building."

"Jesus. Here's what you're going to do. Are you listening, Bunny?"

You nod before realizing he can't see you.

"Y-yes."

"Stand up. Turn to your right and start walking."

Although your knees wobble, you manage to do as he says.

"There's a fast-food place two blocks over. You're going to go inside and sit there. Don't talk to anyone, okay?"

You do your best to avoid eye contact with everyone you pass, from the twenty-somethings enjoying their night out to the shadier characters lingering on the sidewalks.

"Okay, Garrett."

You hold your bag tightly against your side. The night air has turned frigid, and your light blue crewneck does little to keep you warm. The cold motivates you to pick up your pace.

"I'm stuck here. I don't have my car, but I'm gonna call Jules, okay? I want you to wait there for them."

"Okay. I-I'm sorry I can't do anything right."

You're close to sobbing. You want to throw up. You're embarrassed, cold, and miserable.

"You just won your game. You should b-be celebrating."

"You're okay, baby. I'm gonna make sure you get home safely. I'm not mad at you."

His voice is deep and eerily controlled.

"Are you inside yet?"

The neon sign comes into view. It's still chilly inside, but you can finally breathe a little easier when you slide into an empty booth. A few people are scattered around the restaurant, but it's mostly quiet.

"I'm inside."

"Okay. I'm gonna call Jules. Stay put, okay? I'll call you right back."

"Okay. Thank you so much."

"Yeah, of course, baby."

His smile is soft and charming as he looks you over. You’ve applied a light layer of makeup similar to your look at the party last weekend. Your hair remains in a ponytail, but you’ve thrown on your lucky, sparkly headband for good luck. Not that you needed any luck. Garrett had assured you there was nothing to worry about. 

You suddenly feel like you’re forgetting something. “Oh, my purse!”

You hurry back into your apartment to retrieve it. Your roommate, Paige, and her boyfriend are making pancakes for dinner in the tiny kitchen you share. She isn’t wearing pants, and he’s made himself completely at home in nothing but his boxers. The moment you told her you wouldn’t be back until later, she’d invited him over.

You climb over your neatly made bed to grab your purse from the side table, which leaves you more out of breath than it probably should. Even though it contains only lip gloss, your license, a stick of gum, and a debit card with approximately seventy dollars on it, you feel much more secure carrying it.

When you turn around, Garrett is standing fully in your doorway, his eyes roaming over your shoebox apartment before settling on the couple in the kitchen.

“No way, you're Garrett Graham, right?” Paige’s boyfriend doesn’t go to school at Briar. You remember her saying he was about five years older than her, although you thought he could easily pass for thirty. 

Your heart pounds as Ethan makes his way over to your date, hand out for Garrett to politely shake. He’s close to rambling about Garrett’s last game, and then he brings up the score and some more terms you have no clue about. And because Garrett’s so good at commanding a room and taking up space, which you’ve never been good at, he cuts through the conversation. 

“Ready now, Bunny?”

Paige’s mouth gapes at his words, and you’re left with no time to process your new nickname. “Yes.” You’re next to Garrett in a flash, and his hand becomes wrapped around your waist. “Uhm, I’ll see you guys later!”

You have to close your front door tightly to relieve the awkward tension. “I’m so sorry.”

He shushes you as he leads you down to the elevator, as if he’s already comfortable navigating the building. Once you were in the privacy of the old elevator, Garrett asked, “That’s her fucking boyfriend?”

You nodded quietly. 

“How often is he there?”

“Well, they just got back together–”

“Before she started fucking Dean. How often was he over?”

You shrugged, “A few nights a week, I guess. He works from home.”

You watch as his face twists into something close to disappointment. Or disgust. “And how often does he walk around with no clothes on?”

“Not often,” You say almost to soften the blow, “He’s just comfortable there, I guess. And it’s okay. She makes sure I’m okay with it before he comes over.”

“Ha,” He laughs softly before his lips form a thin line. Bad start to the night, you thought. And it’s all because of Ethan’s Ninja Turtle briefs. The elevator dings, and the two of you walk out to his car. Like a gentleman, he opens your car door for you, and you take the opportunity to get a few deep breaths in as the door shuts and he rounds the hood of the car. 

You’re not sure why it’s so much harder to breathe when you’re close to him. You chalk it up to the two of you practically being strangers and your nerves.

During the drive to Garrett’s house, he doesn’t push the subject of your roommate and her boyfriend, which you’re thankful for. He decides to talk to you about his own roommates instead. You knew Dean, of course, and Garrett makes the point that he’s sweeter than he looks. Although he’s just as sexual as he comes off. Logan is his hardworking best friend. Tucker is also kind and is an amazing cook, according to Garrett. You do your best to listen, but as he parks his car on the street in front of the house, you realize that you’re about to actually meet all of them. Not in the setting of a party being hosted, but a casual weeknight where they’re living life normally. 

The seriousness of the situation hits you. Garrett assured you that the night would be low-key, but what was casual about meeting all of his best friends? 

“You okay?” A smooth voice snaps you out of your spiral. 

You nod, nervously smiling back at him, “Sorry, I’m okay …hungry.”

“Good. C’mon, Tuck made stir-fry.” 

You find that you don't actually need the courage to go inside and say hello to his friends because Garrett's hand on your lower back does the work for you. You don't have to say much. You don't have to figure out where to walk or stand because Garrett guides you.

Tucker stands near the stove, an apron tied around his waist, while Logan and Dean sit on bar stools at the kitchen island. They've already started digging into their meals, and when Tucker presents the two of you with your dinner plates, you can't help but marvel at both the presentation and the amount of food piled onto each one.

"Oh my goodness, you really didn't have to, Tucker—"

"No worries at all. Our casa is su casa, Y/N," he says, his voice warm and welcoming. "And I won't be offended if you don't eat it all. We eat a lot here."

Garrett squeezes your hip, and it serves as a reminder to stop smiling at him like an idiot.

"Thank you so much."

"Thanks, Tuck." Garrett's hand finally leaves your waist so he can grab both plates. "You ready to go upstairs?"

"Yeah," you say, and Logan and Dean exchange a knowing glance.

Garrett tilts his head toward the stairs, and you take that as your cue to follow.

"I-It was nice meeting you guys," you manage to say, offering a small wave.

Logan and Tucker return it immediately. Dean, meanwhile, is already shoveling a spoonful of rice into his mouth. Before anyone can say much else, you hurry after your date.

Garrett's room is large and dark-toned. The windows are huge, but nighttime doesn't offer much light. You've only taken a few steps inside, but the air already feels intimate.

"Your friends seem nice," you say as you stand frozen, your eyes wandering over every poster and piece of memorabilia. "And this house is also... super nice."

"They are. And thanks." Garrett sets the plates down on his nightstand before patting a spot on the other side of the bed. "Sit down and get comfortable."

You'd already taken your shoes off at the door, even though Garrett insisted you didn't have to, so now you're walking around in socks covered with tiny strawberries. You take a seat where he gestures, leaning against his pillows and crossing your legs.

He hands you your plate of food before grabbing his laptop.

"So, what kind of movies do you like to watch, little bookworm?" Garrett asks casually as he settles beside you. He makes sure to close the gap between you, his knee brushing yours and his arm resting against your shoulder.

"We can watch whatever. I don't mind."

"Hmm, okay, but that's not what I asked."

You turn toward him and find that he's already watching you.

"What do you like to watch, Bunny?"

"Uhm." You're suddenly embarrassed as you think over your taste in media. "I like... romance. And historical dramas, I guess. But I understand if you don't want to watch—"

"So what's your favorite movie?"

And that's how you end up watching Little Women with Garrett Graham.

You do your best to tackle the mountain of restaurant-quality food Tucker provided. Garrett finishes his plate, and as the movie plays, he becomes more invested than you'd expected.

The movie reaches the Christmas scenes, where Beth is feeling better and their father returns home. Garrett asks a question—something about whether a certain moment happened in the book—when your phone starts to vibrate.

You pick it up to silence it, only to find five unread messages from your roommate. Worried something bad has happened, you open the text chain.

Paige: Are you still coming home tonight? Paige: Also, is it cool if Ethan stays for the rest of the week? Paige: Since you're gonna be busy with your new friend :) Paige: BTW I can't believe you're hooking up with Garrett Graham and today is the first time I'm hearing about it Paige: Oh and I need rent earlier than the 1st

"What's wrong?"

"What? Nothing."

You realize Garrett has paused the movie.

You know you should ignore her, but then you start thinking about what she'll think if you don't respond. You find yourself staring down at your phone.

"Your hands are shaking."

The deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. His mouth is close to your ear, and he's looking down at your phone too.

Instinctively, you tilt the screen away.

"What did she say?"

"I'm sorry I interrupted the movie—"

"Y/N."

Garrett's voice is stern enough to silence the anxious thoughts racing through your mind.

Then he holds out his hand expectantly.

Your heart starts beating faster.

You hesitate—or at least it feels like you do—before handing over your phone.

You wipe your sweaty palms on your pants, uncrossing and recrossing your legs as you let him read the messages.

"So her boyfriend's moving in?"

"Just for the week."

"And she's making you pay half the rent when you sleep on the couch, and she's letting some asshole stay there?"

You can't meet his eyes.

"It pulls out," you mumble.

"Fuck that."

"You don't understand, Garrett. She's been there for me. She really has..."

"Do you even have the money to give her?"

"Yes. Well, I can use my savings until I get paid again—"

"Fuck that for sure. Tell her to fuck off."

A startled yelp escapes you at the shocking suggestion.

Garrett's jaw ticks.

You don't know him well, but even you can tell he's angry.

"Please, can we finish the movie?"

Your face falls as you pull your knees to your chest. Tears sting your eyes, and you know you can stop them from falling if he just... moves on.

Please.

Please.

Please.

You hear him sigh before you hear the click of your phone locking.

"C'mere."

His large arms wrap around your shoulders as the movie starts playing again.

You soften against him, resting your head on his shoulder.

His tone lightens.

"Just because she blows up your phone doesn't mean you need to answer. She can wait."

"Okay," you say, and you believe him. "I'm sorry I made you mad."

"You didn't do anything, baby," he reassures you.

You do end up crying that night, but it isn't because of Paige.

It's Beth March's death that gets you.

The two of you make it almost to the end of the movie. Mr. Dashwood is just about to publish Jo's book when your eyes begin to grow heavy. Getting up early for class that morning has finally caught up with you.

The rolling credits are the last thing you see.

And the last thing you feel is Garrett Graham pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Garrett had no intentions of stalking you, given he’d already decided you were his now. And he could acknowledge that going through someone’s phone is bad behavior, but he had to understand this situation with your roommate more. How else was he going to solve your problem if you refused to admit it was one? 

Your roommate sent you the occasional good luck for a test, and there were a few times she told you to have a fun weekend. At least through text, he didn’t see any indications that she was supportive. Half your conversations were her just asking you to do the most outlandish things for her. Just two weeks ago, she asked you to clean the entire apartment, including her room, because she wanted to have friends over. A week before that, she asked if you could stay out of the apartment from seven o'clock to ten o'clock at night because a guy was coming over and she wanted privacy. 

And all of your responses were the same. 

So sorry!!

Of course!! 

That’s fine!! 

I really don’t mind!!!!

His hindbrain was telling him to find a way to escalate the situation, blow up your life, and let him pick up the pieces. The more logical part of his brain knew it was a matter of time before this bad situation got worse and that he could be the one to save you when that inevitably happened. And maybe, just maybe, he could help it hurt a little bit less. He could also make someone else suffer for hurting you. 

He watched you sleep for a short while, and when he inevitably settled against you, grabbing your waist and pushing your bottom against his crotch, you didn’t even stir. 

Garrett felt grateful that you were here with him tonight and sleeping peacefully in his bed instead of squeezed onto that pathetic pullout couch. His own anxiety felt better knowing you were safe. Whatever feeling you had planted inside of him at that party was only growing. 

Garrett pressed his face into your hair and closed his eyes.

He'd make sure this became a regular thing.

You were so embarrassed when you woke up the next morning and realized you'd fallen asleep. As if you were the one taking advantage of him. It took some time for you to regulate and for Garrett to convince you that you hadn't done anything wrong.

"I wanted you here, Bunny. You look good in my bed," he'd said.

Over the next week, the only time you spent apart from Graham was when you had class or work. Even then, he offered to pick you up and drive you everywhere. It just made sense. You had no car. He did.

"I want to send you money. I'm wasting so much of your gas," you said as the two of you drove back to the hockey house.

"I don't want or need your money, Y/N."

"There has to be something I can do." Garrett watched the wheels turning in your mind. "I know. I'll bake you something."

"You can bake?" Garrett's eyebrows rose.

"No, but I could try." You shrugged, and his eyes softened as he held your gaze.

"That would be nice, Bunny, but I know what I want."

"What?" you'd asked with a smile.

"A kiss."

You stared back like a baby deer caught in headlights. "A kiss? From me?"

"Yes, genius."

"I've never kissed anyone—"

Then it was Garrett's turn to blanch. "What? You're serious?"

"No, I mean, I've been kissed. I have. I've just never done the..."

"You've never kissed someone first?"

You nodded hesitantly.

"Then let me be your first."

A long silence passed between the two of you as the radio played softly through Garrett's speakers. After he parked the car and undid his seatbelt, he reached over, like usual, and unclicked yours. Garrett had started noticing more and more of your nervous tics. Right now, your leg was bouncing so hard it practically shook the entire car.

"I mean, you kinda owe me, right?"

You bit down on your lip as you pulled your knees onto the seat and folded them beneath you. Leaning toward the center console, your smaller hands found his shoulders. Slowly, they slid to his neck and then the sides of his face. Your thumb brushed over his stubble, and you watched his eyes darken.

Garrett's eyes closed when your lips pressed softly against his. The kiss was brief and sweet, but it still left his head spinning.

You were still holding his face when you asked, "How was that?"

Garrett answered by leaning in and kissing you again.

Your lips worked to keep up as Garrett set a steady rhythm. Your hands found his shoulders while he reached for your waist. Before you knew it, he was hoisting you over the middle console until you were straddling his lap.

If there was any control you had left, you let it go.

Making out was kind of like all your conversations. Garrett pushed, forcing you to open up, and he peeled back your layers slowly. And he decided when it ended.

His hands traveled up your waist and beneath your shirt, his large palms roaming over the expanse of your skin. You felt warmth gather low in your stomach as your hips shifted against him.

You only tried to pull away because you needed air.

He kissed you so thoroughly that your lips already felt sore and swollen.

"Garrett," you breathed.

Immediately, he loosened his grip.

"Can we... I feel..."

"You feel what, Bunny?"

"Overwhelmed."

"I'm not gonna fuck you if that's what you're scared about. I just wanted to taste you."

"Oh." You weren't entirely sure how to respond to such blunt honesty. "Okay."

Maybe you'd been wrong to assume he wanted some kind of relationship.

Maybe he wanted something in between.

You'd never been in a real relationship before, so it wasn't like you knew exactly what you wanted. But deep down, you knew you didn't want a casual situationship.

And if that was what Garrett wanted... how would you even say no to him?

"What's wrong? Do you want more, Bunny?"

He toyed with the waistband of your jeans before his hand slipped lower and grabbed a handful of your ass.

You couldn't help how flustered you became. Suddenly, the car felt far too small.

"I like you like this."

He pressed a soft kiss to your jaw, and your eyes threatened to roll back at the pleasure of it.

"Like what?"

"Squirming on top of me." His voice dropped lower. "I can't think about anyone else, you know?"

"You can't?"

"I'm crazy about you."

He kissed your cheek.

Then the other.

Teasing you.

And you found yourself melting against him.

"I hate when you leave."

"Why?"

"This feels right, doesn't it?"

A kiss against your nose.

"You with me."

Another brush of his lips.

"I think you need me."

"I do?"

He hummed as his lips hovered over yours.

"I'll take good care of you."

You leaned closer, but he still didn't close the distance.

"You'll let me take care of you, right?"

Your lips parted.

You knew you didn't fully understand what he meant.

But you knew exactly what he wanted to hear.

And somehow, you wanted to give it to him.

"Yes."

A dark satisfaction flashed across Garrett's face.

"Good fucking girl."

Then his lips were on yours again, and every sensible thought you'd ever had disappeared from your mind.

Paige is right. You find that you're barely home over the next month, mostly because Ethan has been there every day since they'd gotten back together. You have no privacy to study, no room for your groceries, and Paige and Ethan have sex loudly most nights. Worst of all, he uses up your favorite brand of overpriced conditioner, the only kind that helps tame your hair.

The hockey house, although it's full of rowdy college boys, ends up feeling more peaceful. Garrett protects your space, makes sure you always have quiet when you study, and even buys you another set of all your toiletries so you don't have to pack a toiletry bag every time you come over. Plus, there's a free dinner almost every night, and Garrett's friends seem to actually like you. They ask questions about your classes, and they don't talk over you even though their voices boom much louder than yours.

You've started to rely on Garrett so much that the situation with Paige becomes something you want to handle on your own.

It takes everything in you not to just give in. You throw up twice before you can bring yourself to face her, but you eventually do. You're logical. You explain that you don't think it's fair to keep paying half the rent for a quarter of the space and no privacy.

She agrees.

She actually hears you out and promises she'll find a split that's more proportional.

Your shoulders feel lighter when you finally tell Garrett. He's frustrated, of course, that you kept it from him, but supportive nonetheless. Feeling any sort of control in your relationship with Paige is strange.

And ultimately, short-lived.

A week later, you have a babysitting gig that Paige helped set up for you. A friend of a family friend of hers. It should be an easy night considering the child you're babysitting is less than a year old.

Garrett has a game that night at Harvard, and Paige promises she'll be able to pick you up from the nearby city when she tells you about the job.

So the clock turns to eleven, the baby's parents come home, and you expect to find Paige waiting for you outside the apartment building's lobby.

Except she's nowhere to be found.

The lobby doors lock behind you, and she isn't picking up her phone.

The bus isn't running anymore.

And Garrett is at least an hour away in Boston.

Maybe she's just busy driving.

11:20.

You sit down on the steps outside the building, glancing between your phone and the city street in front of you.

11:35.

Your body starts to shake, and your heart pounds so hard in your chest that you can feel it in your ears.

11:45.

Garrett's smiling face appears on your screen, and it takes you a long moment to muster the courage to answer.

"Hello," you say. Your voice sounds smaller than it ever has before.

"Why are you still in the city?"

You'd forgotten he could see your location on his phone, a feature you'd never particularly used before but that Garrett insisted was for safety reasons.

"I'm, uh..." You hiccup. "Waiting f-for... Paige."

"She was supposed to be there an hour ago."

Not a question.

An observation.

"Why didn't you call me? Shit. Are you just standing outside?"

"I'm sitting outside the building."

"Jesus. Here's what you're going to do. Are you listening, Bunny?"

You nod before realizing he can't see you.

"Y-yes."

"Stand up. Turn to your right and start walking."

Although your knees wobble, you manage to do as he says.

"There's a fast-food place two blocks over. You're going to go inside and sit there. Don't talk to anyone, okay?"

You do your best to avoid eye contact with everyone you pass, from the twenty-somethings enjoying their night out to the shadier characters lingering on the sidewalks.

"Okay, Garrett."

You hold your bag tightly against your side. The night air has turned frigid, and your light blue crewneck does little to keep you warm. The cold motivates you to pick up your pace.

"I'm stuck here. I don't have my car, but I'm gonna call Jules, okay? I want you to wait there for them."

"Okay. I-I'm sorry I can't do anything right."

You're close to sobbing. You want to throw up. You're embarrassed, cold, and miserable.

"You just won your game. You should b-be celebrating."

"You're okay, baby. I'm gonna make sure you get home safely. I'm not mad at you."

His voice is deep and eerily controlled.

"Are you inside yet?"

The neon sign comes into view. It's still chilly inside, but you can finally breathe a little easier when you slide into an empty booth. A few people are scattered around the restaurant, but it's mostly quiet.

"I'm inside."

"Okay. I'm gonna call Jules. Stay put, okay? I'll call you right back."

"Okay. Thank you so much."

"Yeah, of course, baby."

Gathering your books, papers and pens, you shove everything into your bag, quickly standing from your chair. Your best friend looks in the direction your attention is glued to, a mischievous smile tilting her lips now.

“Oh, I see you, girl. Dirty details later, don’t think you’re getting out of this one Y/L/N!”

You narrow your eyes, playfully giving her the middle finger before you turn and head straight towards Dean.

He’s standing at the very back of the library now, tucked away behind large, wooden bookshelves filled to the brim with books ranging from old as dirt to brand new. You inch closer to Dean, ready to talk to him about last night, but the conversation he’s already having with none other than Allie Hayes, stops you dead in your tracks.

“I completed the assignment, Allie-Cat, and I have to be completely honest, I didn’t really feel good doing it.”

Allie scoffs, her brown eyes shining with amusement as she looks back at Dean. “Oh, come on, Dean. You were this campuses biggest playboy when I first met you, I don’t believe for a second you didn’t enjoy whoever you slept with last night.”

Her words are like a knife to your heart. They’re discussing you. They’re discussing what you and Dean did last night, and Dean called it an “assignment”, what the fuck does that even mean?

Dean steps closer to Allie, his hand reaching out and tucking a strand of her wild, curly hair behind her ear. The way she looks at him… eyes full of adoration. How could you have been so blind? So stupid?

You’ve liked Dean for as long as you can remember, so when he came up to you at Malone’s last night, bought you a drink and charmed the pants off of you — literally — you thought it meant he liked you.

Not that you were some fucking assignment, which you’re still unsure what the hell that even means.

“I like you, Al, I told you this. I completed the stupid assignment because you did. You said if I completed it, we’d be even, and then we could move forward, so why are you-”

You can’t listen to anymore, you make your presence known, stepping into view of both Allie and Dean.

Clearing your throat, you lock eyes with a very stunned Dean.

“What the hell is the assignment you completed, and why am I somehow part of this?”

Dean stutters, his blue eyes wide as they volley back and forth between you and Allie.

You raise a single brow, placing one hand on your hip, waiting on him to explain.

“Any fucking day now would be great, Dean. Why the hell are you telling Allie you ‘completed the assignment’ and she’s saying you enjoyed whoever you slept with. You slept with me last night, so please, explain any fucking time.”

“Okay, listen..” Dean begins, but Allie quickly cuts him off.

“I’m sorry, you didn’t tell her that it wasn’t going to be more than sex, Dean?”

Dean’s pretty eyes find Allie, looking shameful as he says, “It didn’t really come up, no, but I also didn’t even want to complete your stupid assignment and didn’t think about saying anything because I knew what it was for me.”

Allie blinks, her eyes wide with bewilderment at what Dean just said.

“Dean, girls have bigger feelings than… boys.” she points at him, her hand waving up and down while she does. “You needed to be transparent with her, now you’ve probably hurt this poor girls feelings.”

Your narrowed eyes slide to Allie, not necessarily angry at her, but not liking being considered a “poor girl”, that just makes it seem like you’re someone who needs to be pitied, and you don’t want that.

“Okay, listen, yeah it sucks, but I don’t want or need your pity, I’m just waiting on Dean here to explain himself.”

Dean sighs, running a hand through his messy blond hair. His blue eyes lock on yours, finally giving you the explanation you’ve been waiting on.

“I didn’t mean to use you, my intentions weren’t to hurt you either, I just…” he runs his hand through his hair again. “Allie and I started a no-strings attached type of relationship a few months back, we both started catching feelings, but she wasn’t ready for that, so we made a pact, kind of, we called it the assignment.” Dean pauses to take a breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he gathers his thoughts.

“The assignment was basically for each of us to sleep with someone else to prove the feelings weren’t that strong, that we could remain no-strings. You were the girl I was drawn to last night, so, while yes you were my way of completing the assignment, I really was into you… I know that probably doesn’t make anything better, but, you weren’t just a girl I used, I mean.. not really at least.”

You scoff. His explanation makes sense in a way, but it doesn’t change the fact that he did use you. He may not have intended to use you, or hurt your feelings, but the bottom line is, he wasn’t upfront and honest with you. He didn’t tell you what last night was, and that is just plain unacceptable.

“So I was just, what? A game basically? You sleep with me, prove to Allie you don’t have strong feelings for her and the two of you can continue your friends with benefits relationship? I mean seriously, Dean, did you just not think I’d ever find out? That I wouldn’t want to talk to you today?”

Dean lets out another sigh, a look of defeat on his face. “I’m sorry, I truly wasn’t thinking. I never meant for this to happen.”

Rolling your eyes, you grip the strap of your bag tighter. “Fuck you, Dean. I truly didn’t ever want to believe the shit that’s said about you around this campus, but of course, that was just plain stupid of me. You are the fuckboy everyone says you are.”

Dean cringes, a flash of hurt crossing his face before he quickly schools it. “I understand.”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure you do.”

Turning on your heel, you rush out of the row of bookshelves the three of you were in. Rushing past the table you and your best friend were occupying, you see she’s now gone. You keep your head down, hiding the tears that are already threatening to fall. Fuck Dean. Fuck him and his little “assignment” that he and Allie had going on. He used you. The fact that he used you hurts so much more than the feeling of being invisible to him.

You rush out of the library doors and into the crisp fall air, letting the first tear fall. You rush all the way back to your dorm room, letting the tears flow as you try and clear your mind of Dean and his stupid assignment.

His foot bounced impatiently against the hardwood while he stared at his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time that afternoon. One more text couldn’t make it any worse than it already was.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢?

He watched the little “Delivered” appear underneath it. Still nothing.

Dean dragged a hand over his face before opening Instagram instead. He was running out of places to check.

Maybe you’d posted something. Maybe you’d liked somebody’s story. Hell, maybe you’d accidentally give him some tiny sign you weren’t planning on pretending he didn’t exist forever.

Your profile loaded. Then it disappeared. He frowned, searching for your username again. Not found.

He closed the app and opened it again.

Nothing.

His eyebrows pulled together as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, thumb tapping impatiently against the side of his phone. He muttered to himself, shaking his head.

You, meanwhile, had just finished throwing a load of towels into the dryer when your own phone buzzed across the kitchen island.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

Hadn’t you blocked him? You distinctly remembered pressing the button. You’d even smiled a little afterward because you knew it’d drive him insane. You opened his profile. Sure enough. Following.

You scowled, blocked him again, tossed your phone back onto the counter, and went back to the towels.

Three minutes later it buzzed again.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.

This time you stopped folding altogether. “…Absolutely not.”

You opened your settings again. Your blocked list was empty.

You stared at the screen for a long second before another thought crossed your mind.

Slowly, you reached for your laptop instead.

Two minutes later you were staring at your account activity, and there it was. One active login. MacBook.

Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking asshole.”

You didn’t even hesitate this time, changing your password completely, logging out of all devices, adding two-factor authentication as a giant fuck you.

Your phone started ringing before you could even set it back down. ˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜

You watched it buzz until it stopped. Then it started again. And again. By the fifth call your curiosity finally got the better of you. You answered without saying a word, lifting the phone to your ear while you folded another towel.

“Baby? Holy shit. Hi—Hey,” his voice cracked nervously, fumbling over his words. You stayed silent, folding your laundry, listening to his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Sweetheart?”

You let the washer lid fall with a clap, giving him the only sign of life he deserved for the moment.

“Uh… did you…” He cleared his throat. “Did you change your Instagram password or somethin’?” he asked casually, like that’s a normal thing.

You smoothed the towel across the counter, stacked it neatly with the others, and reached for another. Dean let out a long breath through his nose, his frustration building on the other end.

“Babydoll?”

Silence.

“Honey?”

Still nothing.

“Are you for real?” he asked, his voice tightening with frustration. “I know I pissed you off. I deserve some of this, alright? But all of it? Why are you shuttin’ me out?” He lets out another breath. “Please, baby.”

You stopped for half a second before reaching for another towel.

“Yell at me… Tell me to fuck off. At least tell me to stop calling. Just talk to me—” You heard a commotion on the other end of the phone—Garrett and Tucker walking through the kitchen, talking about something he couldn’t even make out, Logan yelling about his blue tie and where the fuck it was.

Dean clears his throat, forcing some of the softness out of his voice before Garrett or Tucker can hear it. Even though this weeklong silent treatment had lasted six days and twenty-three hours too long, he still knew you’d be at his game.

You always come.

So he keeps grabbing onto that instead.

You’ll yell at him after if you want. Hell, maybe you’ll wait until they’re back at the house and tear him apart in private. He can live with that.

Silence leaves too much room to think, and every time he lets himself, he ends up somewhere worse than before.

“I love you, baby. I’ll see you tonight, alright? Left you some tickets at will-call like always. Just—wish me luck. Something?” Click.

You hang up before you can give him what he wants, already picturing the look on his face.

The ride to the arena feels longer than usual because pretending he isn’t worried in front of the boys is harder than he thought it’d be.

The locker room is loud, music echoing off the concrete walls while sticks clatter against the lockers, equipment bags unzipping and dropping to the floor, the conversations he should be paying attention to like static.

He sits at his stall, staring at his phone one last time before dropping it into his bag. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No miracle message telling him to quit overthinking it. You’ll be there after the game.

His fingers fumble his helmet strap twice before it finally clicks into place. He mutters under his breath, frustrated by a task that should’ve been simple. Garrett finally nudges him. Dean ignores it, so the second one comes a little harder.

“You good?” Garrett asks through a weak laugh, searching for Dean’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he hums.

“Everything alright?”

“Great.”

Garrett snorts out a laugh, leaning into a locker, arms crossing over his chest. “…Everything good with your girl?” he asks. “Feels like I haven’t seen her around.”

The words hit harder than Dean expects, and for half a second, he nearly tells him—says he hasn’t heard your voice in almost a week. No texts. Nothing but one-sided voicemails and desperate pleas for anything. That you blocked him. That he got himself kicked out of your Instagram twice before you changed your password.

That he’s one missed hockey game away from driving to your place and refusing to leave until you look at him.

“‘Course it is. She’s just…” Dean shrugs without looking up. “She’s got a bunch of shit goin’ on with school. Just busy.”

“Yeah?” Garrett tears a fresh piece of hockey tape between his teeth, glancing over. “Doesn’t seem like her.”

No, it doesn’t.

Dean can’t even come up with something in reply.

“We’ll catch up with you guys after the game. We just got into it a little bit. Stupid shit. Nothin’ serious.”

Garrett nods, the answer believable enough to let it go for the moment.

The team skates onto the ice to the roar of the crowd, lights flashing around the arena while the student section pounds against the glass.

Dean skates his usual lap, eyes drifting toward the section where you always sit. The girls you usually come with are already there.

Your seat is empty.

His stomach sinks and by the time they line up for the national anthem, Dean catches himself looking over a third time before forcing his eyes back toward center ice.

The puck drops, and from the first shift he knows he’s in trouble.

Every decision feels a stride behind. His reads come just a little too late. By the second period he’s taken an interference penalty trying to recover from another mistake, left sitting in the box staring at the far end of the rink while the game carried on without him.

The scoreboard keeps getting uglier. Four goals against, then five. Every time he hops over the boards he tells himself to wake the fuck up, and every shift somehow ends worse than the one before it.

The final horn sounds sixty miserable minutes later, leaving Briar with a six-to-one loss. He barely remembers lining up to tap gloves with his teammates before they drift toward the tunnel. Barely remembers skating off the ice.

Dean drags both hands over his face, standing in front of his stall as the room empties around him like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. He’s exhausted, pissed off, embarrassed as fuck, and somehow still thinking about you instead of the scoreboard.

He wants to be mad at you. He really does. It would be so much easier. Instead, all he can think about is the fact that if he’d acted right in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Whatever the hell he did, it was bad enough to make you do things you normally wouldn’t. Hell, Graham said it best. “This isn’t like you.”

His phone is already in his hand before he’s even halfway down the hallway, thumb hitting your contact out of muscle memory more than anything else. The call doesn’t even get a chance to ring.

Straight to voicemail.

His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as his grip tightens around the strap of his hockey bag. Water wicks off his hair, not even bothering to fully towel off before running out the door.

Another call. Another voicemail.

The doors slide open and cold night air hits his soaked skin as he steps into the parking lot. The other team filters toward their bus, still laughing about the game as Dean fishes his keys from his bag without slowing down.

“Rough one tonight, Di Laurentis,” an enforcer from the other team hollers lazily, tossing his bag into the side of the bus.

Dean ignores it—ignores the snickering that follows from the opposing team. Garrett yells something back in Dean’s defense, but he barely hears it over the pounding in his head.

“Guess somebody forgot how to play defense.”

“Fuck you,” Dean barks and Garrett grabs him by the shirt, holding him where he is with a heavy hand.

“Let it go, alright?” he says calmly. “You got shit you wanna do, yeah?”

The chuckles die down, but his blood is still simmering. Garrett nods Tucker and Logan toward his Jeep. Something ugly climbs up the back of his throat before he can swallow it down.

He presses your contact again as he sinks into his car. This time, he can’t hold it in. When the beep comes, the frustration that’s been building for a week finally boils over.

“So that’s it, huh? You’re seriously gonna keep doin’ this? Blocking me, changing your password, ignoring my texts—what, now you can’t even pick up the fucking phone?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, the words practically tripping over each other.

He turns over the engine, letting out a humorless laugh. “Grow up. If you’re pissed, use your fucking words. Tell me you never wanna see me again. But quit pullin’ this silent treatment bullshit because it’s driving me fuckin’ insane.”

His foot slams on the gas, his car screaming toward the exit as he peels out of the lot, breathing so heavily he can hear it in the receiver of his phone.

“You don’t get to disappear when you’re angry. That’s not how this works.” Beep.

The silence afterward is deafening, weighing heavy on his shoulders. It barely has time to settle before his stomach turns and the guilt washes over him like a wave.

The second the adrenaline starts bleeding off, he knows none of that was what he wanted to say. Not a single fucking word.

You hadn’t screamed at him. You hadn’t called him names. You hadn’t done anything except refuse to answer him.

And he’d just repaid that by leaving the kind of voicemail he’d hate hearing from anyone he loved.

His eyes sting with unfallen tears, his chest aching as his speed creeps higher than it should while the phone rings and rings.

“…Hey,” he breathes, emotion clinging to his words. “So… That last voicemail…” He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, dragging away the sweat as he turns into the gas station a block away from your place.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stepping out of the car. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

He drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his eyes, turning his hat to the front—lower than before, head down as he grabs a bouquet of flowers.

“And I know I said you disappear when you’re angry. That’s not fuckin’ true. You don’t do that. I know that—you know that. This—this isn’t like you, and I still talked to you like it was.”

He walks up to the register, pinning the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he fumbles for his wallet, hand trembling as he flips past the picture he has of you tucked inside, grabbing his card, jogging out as soon as “approved” flashes across the screen.

“That game, baby. That was the worst game I’ve played since I’ve been at Briar. Got yelled at by Coach for a half hour. Got chirped by those pricks from the other team on the way out,” he mutters as he pulls out onto your street. “I took it out on you. I’m pissed off. I’m embarrassed. None of that’s your fault and I made it your problem.”

The phone stays pressed against his ear, capturing the silence. The wordlessness was never the problem. The two of you had always been good at that. But now every time he glances toward the passenger seat, it’s dark and empty. That little smile that’s always waiting for him when he looks over is gone.

And he still doesn’t have an answer.

He’s gone looking for it more than once this week.

He knows where you study and where you stop for coffee between classes. He knows which parking lot you leave your car in during the afternoons.

And somehow all of that only makes it worse. It’s painfully obvious you’re avoiding him.

He’s driven past your house enough times this week to notice you finally fixed the little porch light that used to flicker above the front door.

Every time he gets close, he talks himself out of it. The texts and phone calls already feel like they’re pushing the line. Showing up uninvited means admitting this isn’t just another argument.

It means admitting he might actually be losing you.

If you wanted him there, you’d open the door.

His throat tightens and his hands curl around the steering wheel. “Don’t…” The words scrape past his lips into the phone, so soft and broken you probably won’t even catch them when you play the voicemail back—if you play it back. “Don’t fucking cry.”

His head falls back against the headrest, his arms going rigid as he stares through the windshield. His mind circles the last few weeks again, picking through every conversation, every plan, every promise he’s made.

And still, nothing.

What the fuck did I do, baby?

His thumbs tap nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls up to your house.

For the first time all week, your bedroom window is glowing in the dark.

“I’m here. I’m gonna figure out what’s wrong. I’m gonna apologize. And, I’m gonna make it right, alright? I’m a fucking mess without you.” Beep.

He kills the engine, grabs the flowers, and climbs out into the cool night air. Gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he makes his way up the sidewalk, every step giving him another opportunity to rehearse what he’s going to say.

By the time he reaches the porch, his heart is pounding hard enough to feel it in his throat. He shifts the bouquet into one hand and knocks twice against the front door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood before everything falls still again.

Dean waits, listening hard—nothing. No footsteps. No doors. No muffled voice telling him to give you a second. Just silence.

His stomach twists as the realization settles in. You heard the knock. You heard the bell. And, even though you know exactly who’s standing on your front porch, and you’re choosing not to answer.

Maybe it was the voicemail sitting in your phone. Or, maybe that was just a new addition to the laundry list of bullshit that got him to this point.

He lets out a long breath through his nose before stepping off the porch, backing into the yard so he can see your window a little better.

“Baby!” His voice carries through the stillness of the neighborhood before fading away.

Nothing.

He bends down, picking up a rock, rolling it once between his fingers, before he tosses it. Pop. The little stone kisses the glass with a soft tap before bouncing harmlessly away, clicking against the siding and falling back to the pavement below.

His eyes stay fixed on the window.

The flowers hang forgotten at his side while he waits. “C’mon, baby. Please,” he mumbles under his breath.

What the hell happens after this? Sleep in his car? Sit on your porch until sunrise? One more try.

His fingers close around the smooth stone, drawing back, but something catches his eye. The window—cracked open just enough that he barely notices it.

You can ignore his calls. You can ignore the doorbell. You can ignore the knocks and rocks, but he isn’t going home knowing you’re twenty feet away with your bedroom window open. Absolutely not.

The thought of leaving after the week he’d had, the voicemail he wishes he could take back, and the worst game of his career makes his chest tighten all over again.

He looks up, your bedroom turning glassy behind the tears gathering in his eyes.

He pinches his tear ducts between his big fingers, blowing out a breath. His eyes drift toward the side of the house, to the old wooden lattice that climbs to the roof—thick vines and bright flowers—something he’s seen a hundred times over but never seriously considered climbing it.

Because he’d always assumed he’d be welcome through the front door—climbing to your bedroom was never supposed to be the easier option.

He walks toward the lattice, staring down at the flowers for a second, before he lifts the cellophane-wrapped stems to his lips, biting down before he starts to climb.

The wood protests, letting out a long creak that sounds like a warning. A sharp snap echoing through the breezeway when he doesn’t listen, then a sharp crack that has him looking down at just how far he made it.

By the time he finally hauls himself to the roof, he’s sweating and panting, letting the flowers tumble from his mouth into his limp hand. He lifts his hand, tugging his hat from the front to the back, mentally preparing for whatever happens next.

Dean steadies himself against the old shingles before carefully making his way across the shallow slope of the roof—shoes scraping against the weathered surface while his hand trails along the siding for balance.

His hand finds the window frame before his eyes do.

You’re curled up in bed, laptop glowing softly, lighting up the space around you. You’re facing away from the window entirely, watching some old movie on the network he knows airs right after his game.

You snuggle a little more into your blanket, Dean’s away jersey draped over your frame, just a pair of little black panties peeking out the bottom. He exhales through his nose, taking in the rest of your room, following the little trail that got you there—your discarded jeans, sneakers, your jacket, and at the very end of the line your keys.

You were supposed to be at the game.

You made it right to the point of cracking before talking yourself out of it because you were still too angry to watch him play.

His stomach twists. He’d spent the last seven days missing you, but somehow knowing you almost came hurts even worse than if you’d never considered it at all.

Dean doesn’t think. He reaches forward and wraps both hands around the edge of the window, the old frame sliding upward with a rough scrape.

“…Don’t you fucking dare, Dean.” Your voice cuts through the silence, making him flinch, his feet stumbling a little on the roof.

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head once as though maybe he’d misheard you.

“Just leave.”

“Well…” He gestures helplessly toward the open window, still trying to smile through the knot twisting tighter in his stomach. “You’re talking to me now… so?” His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Why would I leave?”

Your eyes don’t leave his as you slam your laptop shut and step off the bed. “Yeah?” you ask quietly, the softness in your voice somehow making him more uneasy than if you’d screamed. “And why the hell would you listen to me?”

Dean’s eyebrows pinch together, his heart ramping up at your words. Without another word, Dean lets go of the window frame completely.

Even though he doesn’t fully understand what he did, he knows whatever it was, he’s still doing it.

He lowers himself until he’s sitting on the roof beneath your window, his back settling against the old siding with a dull thud.

He stretches his long legs out in front of him, setting the bouquet beside him, dragging his clammy hands down his thighs.

Dean finally clears his throat, his voice coming out rough enough that it barely carries through the open window. “Please.” He swallows hard, fingers knotting together between his knees. “Please just talk to me, baby.”

The silence stretches in the space he’d hoped you’d fill.

“I miss you,” he whispers. “I need you. I...” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck before tipping his head against the siding, finally finding the nerve to look back through the window. “I don’t know what else to do to make it better, but I will.”

He watches your face for any sign at all that you’re softening, finding none. The uncertainty in his chest only grows heavier before he speaks.

“You’re killin’ me.”

Dean blinks at you through the window as you look back at him like you’re trying to decide whether this conversation is even worth having.

“Baby—”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you mumble, grabbing the frame to shut it, but he rests his fist down, not letting it fall.

“Can’t,” the word breaks past his lips. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t get to tell you when to forgive me. But I can’t do another night of this. I’m not gonna climb through your window. It’s clear you don’t want me in there. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just sitting here begging you to talk to me.”

“Fucking finally, Dean.”

“What am I missing, baby? Holy shit,” his voice breaks.

“Stop calling me baby right now. I’m not—I’m your baby when it’s convenient for you.”

“What?” he asks, the crease between his brows deepening. “What does that even mean?”

“Why do you suddenly care?”

“I've always cared about you—”

“Always?” you ask with a breathless laugh.

“Yes, always. When haven’t I?”

“Making reservations because my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to call the restaurant when you told me you’d handle it—”

“I—”

“You forgot. So I made them.”

“Okay,” he answers, shifting on his forearms, desperate to get closer, but the glass stays between you. “I just… I didn’t. I don’t know. I'm sorry—”

“I'm not done.”

His eyes widen on yours, taken aback, his big frame seeming to shrink a little. “Of course,” he assures you quickly.

“I waited all week for you to do it yourself. When I finally called, they told me you never did. So I did. I did my hair. I put on that dress you said you liked. I sat there waiting for your text after the game.”

Dean’s stomach twists because he already knows where this is going. Before he’d texted you, he’d already assured the boys you wouldn’t mind—speaking for you. Without you.

“You texted me let’s do Malone’s.”

“Okay,” he whispers, careful not to cut you short this time.

“And then you said we'd swing through there on our way out.”

“I remember,” he breathes.

“Do you think an Italian restaurant is open after bar close?”

He looks down at your hands braced on the window, his heart breaking even more seeing how much you don’t want him inside.

“No. I think they’d be closed, honey. I’m sorry.”

“Of course they would be. You know what I ate for dinner that night?” you ask, and he purses his lips because honestly he doesn’t know.

“What did you eat?” he asks softly.

“Dry cereal after you passed out when you were done fucking me. Alone in your fucking kitchen after I was done playing captain’s girlfriend all damn night.”

His stomach sinks and the blood drains from his face. “Woah—hey, sweetheart. C'mon," he panics. “That’s not what this is—”

“I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal. Hockey season. Captain stuff. Team bonding.”

“You know I wasn’t trying to—”

“I’ve done every single thing you’ve wanted to do because I wanted to spend time with you. I asked for one dinner. One.”

He swallows hard, lashes fluttering as he nods, because for the moment that’s all he can manage without breaking completely before he speaks.

“I want to spend time with you too. That’s why I ask you to come with me. I didn’t know that’s how you were feeling.”

“I keep telling you what I want, and you keep telling me how it’s going to work. You don’t listen to what I want.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“So I stopped…” you whisper, voice tight as you see his eyes shimmer with tears. “I stopped asking. I stopped texting. I stopped calling.”

Dean lifts the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wiping the wet away after it tumbles down his cheeks.

“It took me disappearing for you to finally care.”

He can’t even defend himself anymore because every single thing you’ve said is true—cancelled plans, “let’s do this instead,” “after practice,” “just one beer.”

Every promise turned into another night surrounded by hockey while you quietly lowered your expectations.

“And look,” you sigh, your voice fraying at the edges. “Look how much time you have when you think you’re gonna lose something you love.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to get your attention. I didn’t know how to handle this, okay? I didn’t know what I did. I was just—”

“How’s it feel?” you ask, cutting off his rambling, nodding at the bouquet.

“What?” he asks.

“Desperately fighting for someone’s attention?” you whisper, your eyes lingering on the little white tag still hanging from the plastic wrap before you look back at him. “I wouldn’t even say you’re there yet. Tag’s still on them, Dean. $2.99? Really?”

He opens his mouth to apologize again, but you don’t let him.

“This probably wasn’t even a part of your gameplan. You didn’t plan anything because you didn’t think you had to.”

Your voice stays level, but every word lands with more weight than the last.

“You thought I’d be in my seat like I always am. You thought I’d meet you after the game like I always do. You thought you’d say you’re sorry, I’d forgive you because I always have, and we’d move on.” You give a small shake of your head. “You didn’t plan for me not to show up.”

He looks away, unable to face you for the moment, gathering the courage to look back at you, drawing in a shaky breath.

“That’s why you’re here, Dean,” you say softly. “Not because you had some grand gesture planned. Because the bare minimum stopped working.”

“Sweetheart…” he starts carefully, his voice softer than it’s been all night. “We’re halfway through the season. It’s been a lot. I know that.” He nods to himself like he’s finally found the answer. “But it’s not forever. Think about this summer.”

A tired smile tries to find its way onto his face. “We practically lived together. We stayed up ’til three in the morning watching shitty movies. We took road trips because we could. Dates all the time. We were good.” His eyes lock onto yours. “We get through this season and everything goes right back to normal.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Dean knows it’s the wrong answer.

You shake your head slowly, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “I’m not waiting for an entire hockey season to get my boyfriend back. I’m not gonna do this—”

“No. No, hey. I thought you were just giving me the silent treatment,” he blurts, voice shattering around the admission. “Please don’t…” He shakes his head, whatever composure he’d been clinging to finally slipping away. “Don’t break up with me. Please.”

“We’re still together.”

He swallows hard, nodding as his head hangs between his shoulders, tears slipping off his cheeks onto the shingles. “Thank you.”

“You asked me to put our relationship on hold until hockey’s over, and you don’t even realize that’s what you said.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“I don’t want the version of you that’s available when the season ends. I want the one who’s supposed to be my boyfriend while it’s happening—and before you even get it into your head that I’m asking for too much… I’m not. And, it wasn’t just this. It was a bunch of little moments exactly like this.”

He nods in agreement, waiting for more.

“I’m asking for a date once in a while, Dean.”

“Of course, honey.”

“I’m asking for a night where I don’t have to split my boyfriend with twenty hockey players. And, I’m asking that you stick to that plan. Three things. That’s it. If you can’t manage that…” you say quietly, “…then that’s okay.”

“What?” he asks, moving closer like he heard you wrong because nothing about this situation is okay.

“Really. It is. Just means you can’t handle being in a relationship right now. Maybe that’s where you’re at, and I’d respect you a hell of a lot more if you just admitted it.” The words land squarely between the two of you. “Because I’m not spending the few months letting you decide everything we do before summer starts.”

“Of course.”

“And if you can’t give me that, then you can’t handle me.”

Dean bites his cheek, nodding as he takes in every word.

“This summer was amazing… you’re right. Why do you think I’m still here?”

“‘Cause you love me?” he asks pathetically.

“Obviously.”

“I know. I love you too,” he mumbles.

“I know who you are, Dean. That’s why this hurts so much.” You gesture between the two of you. “Because I know you’re capable of loving me better than this.”

His eyes fall to the shitty bouquet by his side, the ones he bought in a panic, his brain on autopilot. The sale sticker covering the barcode only adding insult to injury—the fact that it’s your least favorite color landing like the final nail in his coffin. He pulls the little price tag off the plastic wrap, crumples it into his fist.

“I hate that these still got the fuckin’ tag on ’em,” he says weakly. “Not… Not because you called me out for it. I need that… Just proves exactly what you’ve been trying to tell me all night.”

He nods, rolling everything over just like he has all week, finally seeing what he’d been missing.

His eyes shut softly, thinking about the last weekend, the sound of your voice when you called him between classes, letting him know you made the reservation and the—subtle sound of your disappointment when he yelled over the locker room noise that you should go to Malone’s instead.

His mind lingers on the look on your face at the bar as you smiled for the boys, picking through the bar peanuts as they broke down the game to exhaustion. The way you fucked him just like he liked and then kissed him goodnight. How you were gone when he woke up to piss and he didn’t think twice about it. Just thought maybe you had gone downstairs to get water.

And now, he knows you were all alone.

And this was just a moment, in a collection of moments just like this for you.

His lips tremble, wishing he could rewrite what’s happened but he can’t. And even though you’d said you’re not breaking up, he feels like you have every right to end it—and he can’t risk not telling you everything he wants to say.

“I stopped on the way here because I panicked. I didn’t stop because I planned something. I didn’t stop because I thought about what would actually make you happy.” He pinches his eyes shut—letting the tears fall freely—his pride long gone by now. “I stopped because I realized I was about to lose you.”

He lifts a finger, tapping it against the glass like he’s trying to close a little of the distance between you.

“You’re right about everything… I was counting on you coming.”

He shakes his head, hating what’s going to leave his lips next. “You asked me earlier how it feels. It feels fucking awful.” He laughs but there’s nothing funny about it, he’s just hysterical at this point, leaving it coming out hollow. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind.”

Your lips draw to the side as you fold your arms across your chest. He doesn’t take this time. His fist slips away from the glass, leaving the space between you completely open—and the next move entirely up to you.

“I got too fucking comfortable.” The words come out, without hesitation. “Not because I loved you less. You just—you’re the one thing I never worried about losing. I treated you like you’d always be there.” His eyes fall for a second, picking at a wilted petal nervously. “That wasn’t me loving you the way I should’ve.” He shakes his head. “That was me taking you for granted.”

You take a step forward, fingers wrapping around the window’s edge, lifting it higher, dropping down to the windowsill yourself.

He takes a breath, blowing it out through his nose. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, but he holds himself back, settling for leaning a little closer instead.

“You asked me if I can handle you.” His eyebrows pull together. “And, baby—Sorry…” He stops himself after the name leaves his lips, shaking his head with a weak laugh. “Just… habit. I’m sorry.”

“Dean—”

“Please,” he stops you cautiously. “Can I… I’m—I’ve got a little more to say. Just…” the word cracks and he lets out a breath, watching as you rest your hand on the roof, so close he can feel his hand tingle.

“Go ahead,” you whisper.

“I don’t want someone easier. I don’t want somebody who expects less from me. I don’t want any girl. I want you. I can handle you.” He nods with absolute certainty. “I should’ve been handling this relationship with the same care I’ve been giving everything else.”

His voice trembles. “I can’t undo this hockey season with one apology.” He reaches a little, palm open, asking for yours. “But I swear…” His eyes shine under the street lights. “If you give me the chance to prove that I heard every single word you said tonight… we’ll never have to have this conversation again. I promise.”

You rest your hand in his and he closes his around you quick like you might change your mind. His eyes cut away for a moment, the contact alone threatening another wave of tears. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders falling.

“You fucking hate this color. I’m sorry,” he mutters, tossing them out toward the driveway, the discount bouquet hitting the hood of his car with a thump. “Shit’s so fucking embarrassing, dear god.”

He hangs his head for a moment, his thumb rubbing absently against your knuckles.

“Tonight is shot,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, right? Just… Please go out with me tomorrow. Let me make up for a little bit of anything you deserve.” He looks back at you, head resting heavy against the side of your house. “Good flowers, pretty dress, dinner, dessert—I know exactly where you wanna go. Just, please. I’m begging you. And, I know I’m telling you what to do. I’m sorry if you already have plans—”

“I don’t,” you answer with a soft smile. “Seven?”

“I’m tailgating in your front yard. I’m so serious. I’m fucking miserable,” he answers breathlessly, leaning in as you lean in too, your lips meeting with a desperate kiss.

He grabs you, hauling you closer, pulling you into his lap as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Tell me you still want me here,” he mumbles between kisses, his voice rough enough that you almost don’t hear it, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks.

“I want you here.”

“Let me in? Please,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth.

“You can ask me sweeter than that, Dean Di Laurentis.”

“Please, baby… Let me come in,” he mumbles, his lips brushing softly against yours. “I’ll be so fuckin’ good for you. I missed you so much.”

“Yes,” you whisper.

Dean’s feet hit the floor a heartbeat later, every bit of tension he’d been carrying for the last seven days finally unraveling. He buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like he’d almost forgotten what it felt like before finally looking back at you.

“Promise me something,” he says as he carries you toward the bed.

You pull his hat free, tossing it somewhere behind you before your fingers disappear into his hair. His eyes close for a second, a tired smile finding its way across his face the moment you scratch lightly at the back of his head.

“Okay,” you breathe.

“Tell me next time. Anything. Right away. Don’t let me keep getting it wrong again.”

“Promise,” you whisper.

“One more promise,” he asks, his voice softer than before.

“Depends,” you whisper teasingly, feeling his trembling lips curl into a little smile.

“Unblock me.”

“Right now?” you whisper through a breathy laugh.

“No—We’re busy. So, so fucking busy,” he hums, holding you a little closer. “Just whenever you get a chance.”

“I promise,” you whisper.

“Thank you, baby.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“Should’ve come earlier,” he says before you can answer. “But I want you to know. I hear you,” he says quietly. “I heard every word you said out there.”

He shakes his head once before speaking again.

“I don’t wanna be the guy that only listens after he fucks up.” His thumb brushes across your cheek. “I don’t want you to play captain’s girlfriend. I want you to feel like you’re mine. You deserve to know how important you are to me. I can tell you—words don’t mean shit. I don’t want you to have to worry about making plans for us ‘cause you’re afraid I won’t.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“I’m gonna listen when it’s inconvenient. When hockey’s good. When hockey sucks. When I’m tired. When I’m stressed. When I’m bein’ an idiot…” A weak smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Which apparently is more often than I thought.”

“I love you,” you murmur.

His eyes close as he sits with those words for a second. “Jesus…” he breathes, shaking his head. “Love you so much.”

He sets you on the bed, one hand gripping the jersey on your body as the other cradles the back of your neck.

“Stay?” you ask as he tilts closer, your fingers popping open the button of his pants. “Sleep here.”

He chuckles deeply against your lips before stripping off his hoodie and tugging off his shirt. Your hands rest on his strong chest, feeling his heart bang beneath your palms.

“Yeah?” he asks, his hands finding you again, moving up your arms, over your shoulders, to the sides of your neck, cradling your face like he can’t get close enough. “If that’s what you want.”

“Is that what you want?” you chuckle.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mumbles as his breath mingles with yours. “Thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t lose me,” you whisper, tracing along the top of his jeans lightly with your nails, feeling him shiver.

You lower his zipper slowly and he tugs down his pants, the buckle landing with a thump to the floor, waiting for you to decide what you want from him.

He sucks in a breath as you cup his thick cock through his boxers, a smile spreading a moment later when you squeeze just enough to make him groan for you.

You pinch the cotton between your fingers, tugging his boxers down, teasing inch by stiff inch until you catch his tip on the waistband. His cock springs out—long and hard, blood pumping through him as you hold his length in your hand.

You stroke slowly, watching precum bead at the tip as your thumb drags through it, teasing both of you.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, his head tipping back to the ceiling, his big hands rubbing over his eyes as he laughs breathlessly.

He lifts you easily, your legs curling around his waist. He smiles against your mouth as he eases you back onto the sheets.

You reach for him, drawing him back down, kissing him harder, fingers twisting into his hair. His chest rises and falls against yours, breath ragged.

“Keep this on for me,” he whispers as he lifts the front of the jersey over your chest, dipping down to kiss higher and higher. “Please,” he mutters, voice rough against your skin when you whimper.

Your breath catches and a moan spills from your lips when his weight presses you into the mattress, voice husky as he mumbles praise into your skin, gripping your thighs, making your pussy throb.

“Been so lonely,” he whispers, mouth moving across your chest, catching your nipple between his lips. “Dreaming about this—I swear to god.”

“Yeah,” you whisper as his big hand slides up your side, squeezing your breast as he sucks your bottom lip slow enough to make you tremble.

“Yes,” he hums. You gasp as his hand slides down between you, cupping your pussy, making you moan for him. He chuckles deeply, fingers dragging up the wet fabric between your thighs.

“I need you,” you whisper, lips grazing his.

“I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” He circles his fingers over your clit—your hands squeezing around his big biceps, feeling them swell and soften with each movement. “I’d eat it through your panties if that’s all you’d give me… gladly.”

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.

“I hear you, baby,” he sighs, tugging your panties to the side, rough fingers tracing around your entrance.

Dean’s breath catches as you reach between you, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.

You stroke your hand up, gliding to his fat tip, watching precum glisten and leak out of his slit onto your body.

You grab his neck, pulling him down to your lips, bringing him in closer as he plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making you throw your head deep into the pillow.

Dean kisses your chest as he starts to fuck his fingers into you, wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking harshly, making your back arch off the mattress.

His long fingers curl deep inside you, coaxing out breathless moans with nothing but the movement of his hand. He watches you for a moment—your chest rising, lips parted, his name half-caught in your throat—and then he lowers himself between your thighs.

Dean trails slow kisses down your body, your heart racing wildly the lower he goes. When your thighs start to tense, he looks up at you, his cool chain dragging unintentionally up your slit, making your breath hitch.

He presses your thighs down, spreading you open with a firm grip as his eyes fall to your soaked pussy, lowering himself between your legs without taking his eyes off you. His tongue flicks against you with a soft, deliberate taste.

“Yes, baby,” you gasp, with a half-laugh, half-moan—right before he wraps his biceps around your legs, forcing you to his mouth with purpose.

He kisses your clit, then seals his lips around it, sucking gently as you thread your fingers through his hair, yanking him closer. One hand drops from your thigh, sliding between your legs again, and you gasp as his fingers push back into you—working in perfect rhythm with his mouth.

Your body arches off the mattress. Everything blurs except the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the relentless pace of it all.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper, already trembling.

He groans into your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the edge instantly. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyes.

He doesn’t let up—his mouth seals tighter, his fingers working you faster, deeper, until your whole body twitches with overstimulation and your eyes sting with tears.

“That was so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs against your dripping center, planting lazy kisses on your clit that make you jolt with every touch.

“Dean…” you breathe out, glancing down at him, reaching for him as your breath shakes. “I need you inside me.”

Dean’s eyes roll back at your words, your taste lingering on his tongue. His hands settle on your hips, turning you to your hands and knees, lifting your ass into the air.

He spanks you, the loud crack of his palm against your supple flesh filling the room. You arch your back, making him release a desperate groan as his eyes drop to your slick, watching your wetness leak down your inner thighs.

Dean wraps a hand around himself, slapping his dick against you, running his velvety head up your thighs, sopping up the mess.

Your breath catches as he presses his tip in, feeling him stretch you out already.

Dean pushes in, inch by inch, making your mouth fall open as your body stretches around him.

“You feel so perfect around me, baby,” he mumbles as he presses his body flush with your ass when you’ve finally taken all of him.

You circle your hips, adjusting to his size, feeling his thick dick hit all the right spots. “Feels so damn good—”

“Yeah? Takin’ me so good, babydoll?” he groans. “This body’s mine.” He pulls his hips back, drawing out nice and slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein as his hands work up your back, pushing the jersey all the way up until Di Laurentis is all that’s left, stitched between your shoulders. “All of it.”

“Yes.”

“Made for me, weren’t you?”

“Yes, fuck!” you whine as he snaps his hips forward, the two of you moaning in unison as your pussy sucks him in.

Dean moves inside you, listening to every sound that falls from your lips. He works you just like you like, until your body melts into the mattress.

“Right there, baby,” you whisper and Dean picks up the pace, hitting your sweet spot again and again.

“Yeah, sweetheart? Right there?” he asks through a smirk. “What else does my girl want, huh?”

“Harder,” you whimper.

“Shit, baby,” he laughs breathlessly as he rolls his hips.

Your fingers claw at the sheets as you feel yourself just seconds away from your climax.

“Play with your pussy for me,” he whispers, the way you squeezed around him feeling like he might fall apart himself if he doesn’t get you there fast.

Your fingers press against your clit and your thighs quake, his cock stretching you and filling you as your fingers work in tight little circles.

“Dean—” you gasp, fluttering around his dick as you fall apart.

“Fucking hell,” he moans, dragging out the words as his cock shines creamy white with your release, each push of his hips making it gather in a ring around the base of his hard skin.

Dean pulls out fast, making you gasp as he tosses you to your back, thrusting himself back in before you can even come down from your high.

“I fucking missed you,” he whispers against your lips and you gasp as his fingers press against your clit, too, rubbing messily as he strokes, your nails digging into his muscular back as he pounds your wet cunt.

“Shit,” you squeal, letting out a choked sound as he grabs your knees, pulling and pressing them up to your chest, making him stroke impossibly deep.

“One more time,” he whispers. “Want you to cum with your lips on mine.”

Your eyes roll back as you climax, Dean moaning your name, his muscles strained when he cums deep inside, swallowing each sound that leaves your lips.

Dean moves inside you slow, covering you with the warmth of his big body, his hot skin pressed flush to yours as he lowers your thighs slowly.

You trace the edge of his jaw, feeling him smile under your touch, his nose brushing against yours, and you know there’s no way he’s going to give you an ounce of room tonight—but after a week without this man, that’s the last thing you want.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you got your Dean back. Relief settles over you, heat building behind your eyes as you hold back happy tears. He sees it.

“Yeah?” he asks, seeing how much you needed this too.

You bite your cheek and nod. He can’t help but bury his face into your neck, pressing a kiss against your skin before whispering, soft and sure, “I love you, baby.”

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The apartment is quiet when you let yourself in, dropping your bag by the door. Will isn't supposed to be home for hours, his training schedule keeping him late at the rink most days. You immediately make your way to his bedroom, your mind already wandering to places it shouldn't.

Will's been living in your head all damn day. Those shoulders, wide enough to get lost in and his big hands which know exactly how to touch you. And fuck, his thighs. All thick and powerful from off-season training.

You squeeze your own legs together, but that doesn't help. The ache between them is getting worse, a deep throb that demands attention.

His pillow still smells like him. You press your face into it, inhaling deep. Your heart hammers against your ribs. You know you shouldn't do it. But you do it anyway.

You climb onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress and position the pillow right where you need it.

You lower yourself down slowly and the first contact makes you gasp. The slightly rough texture of the pillow feels good against your panties. Too good. Your hips start moving, back and forth, then in circles. It feels fucking amazing.

You close your eyes and imagine it's Will's thigh you're grinding against. You can almost feel his hands on your hips, guiding you.

The pillow soaks up your wetness, making each slide easier. Your breath comes in ragged pants and little whimpers escape your lips.

"That's what you do when I'm not home?"

The voice cuts through your haze of pleasure and you freeze, your eyes flying open to find Will leaning against the bedroom doorway. There's an unreadable expression on his face, part amusement, part something darker that sends a shiver down your spine.

"I… I can explain," you stammer, scrambling to disentangle yourself from the pillow.

Will pushes off the doorframe, moving toward the bed with predatory grace. "No need to explain, sweetheart. Seems pretty clear to me."

He stops beside the bed, looking down at you with those dark eyes that seem to see right through you. "Too needy to wait for me? Had to get yourself off on my pillow like a desperate little slut?"

Your cheeks burn with humiliation, but there's no denying the way his words make your core clench with need. "I'm sorry," you whisper.

"Oh, I don't think you are," he says, his voice dropping lower as he climbs onto the bed, caging you beneath him. "I think you like being caught. I think you like being my needy little slut who can't control herself."

His hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just holding you in place. "Is that what you are? My needy little slut?"

You nod frantically, unable to form words as his other hand slides down your body, fingers tracing the edge of your panties.

"Use your words," he commands softly. "Tell me what you are."

"Your needy little slut," you breathe out, the words feeling both shameful and right.

"Good girl," he praises, his fingers dipping beneath the fabric of your panties to find you already soaked. "Already so wet for me. Did humping my pillow get you this worked up?"

You whimper as his fingers circle your clit without quite touching it. "Please, Will."

"Please what, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice condescendingly sweet. "Use your words. You need to be more specific."

"Touch me," you beg, your words slightly slurred as your hips arch up to meet his hand.

Will chuckles, the sound vibrating through your entire body. "Such a desperate little thing. Can't even think straight, can you? Already so dumb with need."

He finally grants you what you want, his fingers sliding through your folds before plunging inside you. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, your walls clenching tightly around him.

"Such a tight little pussy," he murmurs, pumping his fingers in and out of you. "Already trying to suck me in. You want something bigger in here, don't you?"

You nod frantically, too overwhelmed to speak as he adds a third finger, stretching you even more.

"Words, sweetheart," he reminds you, his thumb brushing against your clit. "Tell me what you want."

"Your cock," you gasp out. "Please."

Will withdraws his fingers, leaving you empty and aching. "Since you asked so nicely."

He makes quick work of his clothes, his body all hard muscle and smooth skin in the dim light of the bedroom. When he finally positions himself at your entrance, you're trembling with anticipation.

"Look at you, baby," he says softly, his eyes raking over your naked form. "All spread out and ready for me. Such a perfect little plaything."

He kneels between your thighs, his hand wrapping around his thick cock. The tip is flushed dark, already leaking. He drags the head through your slick folds, gathering your wetness before circling your clit with the tip, making you whimper. The friction is maddening, just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy.

"Please," you beg, your voice already breathy.

"Please what?" he asks, his voice a low rumble.

"Please... I need you inside me."

He smirks, a slow, predatory smile. "Good girl."

He notches the head at your entrance, pausing there. He rubs the tip against you, smearing his pre-come and mixing it with your juices, coating you both. Then, with excruciating slowness, he begins to push inside. The stretch is intense, a burning pressure as your body yields to him. He's thick and your walls are straining to accommodate him.

"Fuck," you gasp, your fingers clutching at the sheets beneath you.

"Language, sweetheart," he chides, still pushing deeper, inch by agonizing inch. "Only I get to use dirty words."

He's finally fully seated, his hips pressed against yours. He stays there for a moment, letting you adjust to the overwhelming fullness. You can feel every ridge, every vein of his cock inside you, a hot, hard presence that makes your head spin.

"So dumb for my cock and I haven't even started fucking you yet," he observes, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Just a needy little pussy desperate to be filled."

You shake your head, too overwhelmed to speak, too lost in the sensation of him stretching you so completely.

"That's right," he continues, beginning to move with slow but deep strokes that make you see stars. "No thoughts in that pretty little head. Just taking what I give you."

Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through you, his cock hitting places deep inside you that make your toes curl.

His hand moves between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name. Would you like that, sweetheart? To be so dumb with pleasure you can't remember anything but my cock fucking you?"

You nod frantically, tears of pleasure streaming down your face as the pressure builds inside you, threatening to overwhelm you completely.

"Please," you beg, your voice ragged. "Please, I need..."

"Please what?" he asks, his movements becoming more erratic as his own release approaches. "Please make you come? Or please continue to fuck you stupid?"

"Please," you gasp out. "Please make me come."

You hit your orgasm with a loud moan, your fingers tangling in Will's locks. The whimpers continue to flow from your mouth as Will keeps on pounding into you, his thrusts faltering slightly as you tighten around him. He comes a few thrusts later, muffling his groan in the crook of your neck as he buries himself as deep as he can go.

When you finally come back to yourself, he's still inside you, his weight comforting as he presses soft kisses to your forehead.

"Still with me, sweetheart?" he asks softly, his voice gentle now.

The hotel room is dimly lit, the city lights casting a soft glow through the window. Macklin's body presses against yours, his weight familiar and comforting as his lips trail down your neck. You arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as his hands explore every curve of your body.

"God, I've missed you," he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with desire. "These road trips are torture without you."

You pull him closer, your mouth finding his in a hungry kiss. "Then maybe you should stop being so busy," you tease, though the words lack their usual bite. You both know this is a conversation you've had before, one that always ends with him promising to make more time and never following through.

"You know I will," he says, his fingers tracing patterns on your thigh. "Soon. Just need the right time."

You don't point out that there's never a "right time" for a conversation like this. Instead, you focus on the feeling of his hands on your body, the way he makes you feel wanted and desired, even if you're only his in stolen moments like this.

Macklin's mouth moves lower, his tongue swirling around your nipple as his hand slides between your legs. You gasp as his fingers find you already wet and ready for him.

"Always so responsive," he groans, his voice muffled against your breast. "Never anyone else like you."

It's the kind of thing he always says in moments like this, words that make your heart ache even as your body responds with enthusiasm. You know you should end this, should demand more than secret hotel meetings and coded text messages, but then he touches you just right and all your resolve dissolves.

He positions himself between your thighs, his eyes locked on yours as he pushes inside slowly. You both gasp at the sensation of his thick length stretching you.

"Fuck," he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. "You feel incredible."

He begins to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that has you seeing stars. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer with each thrust as your nails dig into his shoulders.

"Look at you," he pants, his eyes fixed on where your bodies join. "So pretty taking my cock like that."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper. Macklin's breath catches, his rhythm faltering for a moment.

"Shit," he whimpers. "Don't... don't do that if you want this to last."

You smile wickedly pulling him in even deeper. His response is a choked moan as he speeds up his pace, driving into you with renewed urgency.

"Like that?" you gasp, your hands sliding down to grip his ass.

"God, yes," he groans. "Just like that."

His thrusts become erratic, his breathing ragged as he chases his release. One hand slides up your torso to palm your breast, his thumb brushing across your nipple.

"Macklin," you cry out as the stimulation pushes you closer to the edge.

"Come with me," he begs, his voice strained. "Please, baby, come with me."

And you do, waves of pleasure coursing through your body as you clench around him. Macklin follows with a guttural moan, his release pulsing deep inside you.

"You know I love you, right?" he murmurs against your skin.

Your heart swells at the words, ones he's never said before. You open your mouth to respond, but suddenly there is a distinctive click of a door opening.

Panic floods your system as Macklin's body tenses above yours. "Shit," he mutters, scrambling to pull away. "That's not housekeeping."

"Baby?" a female voice calls out. "Are you in here?"

The bedroom door swings open, revealing a woman you've never seen before. Her eyes sweep across the room, taking in the scene before her: Macklin half-naked and still hovering above you, your bodies clearly intertwined, clothes scattered across the floor.

For a moment, she just stands there, her expression unreadable. Then her eyes meet yours and you see the hurt and betrayal reflected in their depths.

"Macklin," she says again, her voice dangerously quiet. "What the fuck is this?"

He scrambles off the bed, grabbing a pillow to cover himself. "Babe, it's not what it looks like."

"Really?" she laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. "Because it looks like my boyfriend is cheating on me with… who even are you?"

You pull the sheets up to your chin, your face burning with shame and confusion. "I… I didn't know," you whisper, your mind racing as the pieces start to fall into place.

Her attention shifts back to Macklin. "All those times you said you were tired, or had team obligations… you were with her?"

"It just happened," he pleads, his voice desperate. "It meant nothing."

The words hit you like a physical blow, even though you barely know this woman. Still, they sting.

"Meant nothing?" her voice rises with each word. "You've been lying to me for months and it meant nothing?"

"I'm ending it," Macklin says quickly. "Right now. I swear."

She shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. "Don't do me any favors." She looks from him to you, her expression hardening. "You can have him."

As she turns to leave, you call out, "Wait!"

She pauses at the door but doesn't turn around. "What?"

"I really am sorry," you say sincerely. "I swear I didn't know. I never would have… I never would have done this if I knew."

She laughs again, that same bitter sound. "You didn't hurt me. He did." She glances back over her shoulder, her eyes meeting yours. "But you're not innocent in this either now, are you? Remember that."

With those final words, she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her. The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by Macklin's ragged breathing.

"Well," he says finally, running a hand through his hair. "That could have gone better."

You stare at him, incredulous. "That's all you have to say? You have a girlfriend? A girlfriend you never told me about?"

"What do you want me to say?" he asks, defensive now. "She caught us. It's over."

"You told her it meant nothing," you accuse, your voice trembling with hurt and anger. "And you never told me you were in a relationship!"

"I had to say something!" he protests. "What was I supposed to do? Tell her the truth?"

"The truth?" you laugh, a humorless sound. "The truth would have been telling me you had a girlfriend before we ever slept together!"

You don't wait for a response, instead beginning to gather your clothes from the floor, your movements stiff and mechanical.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Leaving," you reply without looking at him. "What else would I do?"

"Wait," he reaches for your arm, but you pull away. "Don't go like this. We need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about," you say, finally meeting his gaze. "You lied to me. You lied to her. You're a liar, Macklin."

"Is that what you think?" he asks, his expression wounded. "That this was just about lying to you?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" you challenge. "You told her it meant nothing, Macklin. Right after you told me you loved me."

His shoulders slump in defeat. "I do love you. That's why this is so complicated."

"Maybe it's not that complicated," you suggest softly. "Maybe it's just wrong."

The words hang in the air between you, an unspoken truth you've both been avoiding. Macklin doesn't have a response and you're not sure you want to hear it anyway.

You finish dressing in silence, avoiding his gaze. When you're ready to leave, you pause at the door, your hand on the handle.

"Goodbye, Macklin."

"Wait," he calls out, but you don't turn around. "Please don't leave like this."

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♫: The Love Club - Lorde

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His face is hidden in the fabric of his t-shirt and when he finishes removing it, there’s a wide smile on William’s face. “Come on, you know,” he says. 

“I knew the plunging back on my dress would work for someone,” you tease, allowing one of the straps to fall off your shoulder enticingly. 

“Baby, that tramp stamp works for everyone,” William replies with a chuckle. “I was far from the only guy in the club looking at you.”

“But you’re the only one who took me home.” You bat your eyelashes at William and bring the other strap down, shimmying free from your dress. Your panties are tan lace, hugging your hips and ass in the best way. They rise enough to bracket the tattoo at the base of your spine, all smooth lines and dark curves. 

William unbuckles his pants with one hand, standing behind you and kissing the back of your neck. His other hand finds your abdomen, thumb stroking the smooth skin. “I have so many ideas,” he murmurs.

“Choose your favorite,” you reply, reaching around behind you to guide William’s wandering lips to your mouth. You whisper against his mouth: “I’ll do whatever you want me to do, William.”

He moans lowly at that, sliding his tongue into your mouth. His pants drop to the ground and he leans over you, kissing you down until you’re on all fours and he lays over your back. It’s then that William resumes his previous path, kissing over your cheek and neck to get to your delicate spine. He covers each inch with a wet kiss, stopping right over the lines of your tattoo and treating it with pure reverence.

When he fucks you, you know that he’s watching the way your ass bounces off his pelvis, how that shake affects the dainty ink above your supple skin. His hands cement on the sides of your hips, keeping you in place as he rams into you. “Feels fucking good,” William pants, laying a smack on your right cheek before grabbing the flesh and using it as leverage. 

He tells you to touch yourself, to circle your clit until you feel like you’re going to collapse beneath him. When your legs are shaking from the impact of your release and his balls are tight, William retreats from your heat and strips his cock, rapid, slick sounds filling the room. His free hand is between your waist and backbone, priming the splash zone for his seed.

You can feel the strips of cum splatter across your lower back, painting the empty space between inked lines. He marks you with his ejaculation, the hot white stripes branding you. His thumbs massage the semen into your skin, his pelvis still pressed against your quivering cunt.

“Had to do that,” William tells you before he rolls you onto your back and moseys between your legs. He kisses you slowly, sliding his hands over your body before cupping your jaw. “Since I saw your tramp stamp, I’ve needed to do that.”

“I’m glad you did,” you reply, looping a leg over his waist and pulling him closer. His cock brushes your pussy and you grind against it again. Your lips are an inch from his. “Now you just have to fill me with it. Can you go again?”

Jack learned that you were going on a date from Nico, It was an accident, At least, that was what Nico claimed when he mentioned it in the locker room while tugging the laces loose from his skates “I think Nina said she saw her at dinner last night.”

Jack kept his head lowered, pretending to be focused on removing a stubborn piece of tape from his shin pad.

“With who?” Dawson asked.

There was nothing malicious in the question. Nothing unusual about the conversation. You had been part of their lives for so long that your name still slipped into discussions as naturally as it had when you and Jack were together. Nico hesitated, that hesitation told Jack everything he needed to know “I don’t know,” Nico said carefully. “Some guy.”

Jack tore the tape too hard, it snapped against his fingers, Dawson glanced over. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Jack shoved the tape into the garbage can beside him, he could feel Nico watching him, but he refused to look up.

It had been six weeks.

Six weeks since you had stood in the middle of the apartment you had practically lived in and told him that loving him had started to feel like waiting for someone who was never fully there, six weeks since Jack had accused you of giving up on him, six weeks since you had quietly reminded him that you had spent months asking him to meet you halfway.

He had wanted to take it back almost immediately, not the anger—because at the time, he had been angry—but the way he had let that anger speak for him. The way he had watched your face collapse when he said that maybe you would be happier with someone whose life was easier.

You had stared at him for several long seconds, then you had nodded, “Maybe I would.”

Those three words had followed him everywhere, onto the ice, into hotel rooms, through airports and postgame interviews, into the empty space beside him in bed.

Now, apparently, you were testing his theory “Good for her,” Jack said.

Nico’s expression tightened, Jack stood, gathering his gear before anyone could question the sharpness in his voice “She should go out,” he added. “We’re not together.”

No one answered, they all knew that, Jack knew it too.

That was the problem.

You hadn’t considered it a date until your friend called it one “It’s just dinner,” you insisted, staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror.

“With a single man who asked for your number.”

“He’s a friend of Amanda’s.”

“A single friend.”

You adjusted the strap of your dress, wishing you had chosen something less fitted. Less intentional, It had taken three separate people to convince you to leave your apartment.

For weeks, you had rejected every invitation that came your way. Drinks after work. Dinner downtown. A birthday party in Brooklyn. Even a quiet movie night at a friend’s house had felt impossible when nearly every movie reminded you of something Jack had said or done.

Eventually, your friends stopped asking gently.

They arrived at your apartment with clothes and makeup and the kind of determined expressions that made refusal useless “You don’t have to marry him,” Amanda said. “You don’t even have to kiss him. You just have to eat somewhere that isn’t your couch.”

So you went, the man was nice, that almost made it worse, he asked questions and listened to your answers. He didn’t check his phone beneath the table. He didn’t disappear into stretches of silence because he was replaying a mistake from a game three nights earlier.

He laughed easily, he complimented your dress, when the waiter came over, he asked what you wanted before ordering for himself, there was absolutely nothing wrong with him.

You still spent most of dinner wondering what Jack was doing, the restaurant was one Jack had taken you to after your first anniversary. You had realized it only after sitting down, when you noticed the candleholders lining the wall.

You remembered Jack reaching across the table that night, tapping your wrist until you gave him your hand, you remembered him grinning as he played with your fingers, you remembered thinking that you had never felt safer with anyone “Are you okay?”

You blinked, your date was watching you with genuine concern “Yeah.” You forced a smile. “Sorry. Long week.”

He nodded sympathetically, you hated yourself a little for lying. When he walked you outside later, he asked if he could see you again, you should have said no.

Instead, you thought about the photos you had seen of Jack two nights earlier, Jack in a crowded club with several teammates, Jack smiling with his arm around a brunette you didn’t recognize, Jack looking completely untouched by the fact that you were no longer his.

“Sure,” you said, your date smiled, you felt nothing.

Jack saw the photograph the following morning, it had been posted by one of your friends, you were standing outside a restaurant beside a man Jack had never seen before, your head tipped back as you laughed at something he had said.

The picture was blurr, it didn’t matter, Jack zoomed in until the pixels distorted, you looked beautiful, you looked happy.

He stared at the man beside you, searching for reasons to dislike him. His jacket was too formal. His hair looked stupid. His hand was hovering too close to the small of your back.

Jack locked his phone, then unlocked it again.

He went to your profile even though he had promised himself he would stop checking, you hadn’t posted anything.

That somehow felt worse, it meant the night hadn’t been for him to see, it had simply happened “Jack.”

Luke stood in the kitchen doorway, holding an empty water bottle, Jack flipped his phone facedown on the counter. “What?”

Luke’s eyes dropped toward it “Nothing.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m getting water.”

“At seven in the morning?”

Luke looked at him as if he had personally offended hydration.“I live here.” Jack turned away, opening a cabinet he didn’t need anything from, Luke filled his bottle in silence “You know,” Luke said eventually, “you could just call her.”

Jack gave a humorless laugh. “She’s dating someone.”

“She went to dinner.”

“With a guy.”

“So?”

“So she’s moving on.”

Luke twisted the cap onto his bottle “Then why are you acting like this?”

“I’m not acting like anything.”

“You’ve been staring at the same picture for ten minutes.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Mind your business.” Luke should have left, instead, he leaned against the counter “She probably saw those pictures of you.”

“What pictures?”

“The ones from the club.”

Jack had known there were cameras. He had seen phones pointed in his direction throughout the night, he had also known the brunette beside him was leaning close enough to make the pictures look like something they weren’t.

At the time, he had told himself he didn’t care, maybe part of him had hoped you would see them “Good,” Jack muttered. “Now she knows I’m fine.” Luke’s expression changed, not pity, something more exhausted “You don’t look fine.”

Jack left the kitchen before his brother could say anything else, that night, when Dawson invited him out, Jack said yes before he had even finished asking.

The game developed quietly, neither of you acknowledged it, neither of you set the rules. Still, both of you seemed to understand how it worked.

Jack started appearing everywhere, at clubs with teammates after wins, at rooftop parties on off days, at a charity event with a model seated beside him, her hand resting on his forearm while photographers gathered near the entrance.

You saw the pictures before you got out of bed the next morning, you studied them until your eyes burned, then you accepted an invitation to a gallery opening you had been planning to decline.

You wore red because Jack had once told you it was his favorite color on you, you hated yourself for thinking of him while choosing it, your friends posted photographs throughout the night.

One showed you holding a champagne glass beside a man from your office, another captured his hand against your waist as he leaned down to speak over the music.

You didn’t remove his hand, you knew there were cameras nearby, you knew Jack’s teammates followed some of your friends, you knew there was a chance the photo would reach him. It did.

Jack saw it in the back of the team bus.

He stared at the man’s hand until he could barely hear the conversation around him “Who is that?” he asked, Dawson glanced at his screen “I don’t know.”

“He works with her,” Nico said from the seat across the aisle, Jack looked up sharply. “How do you know?”

“Nina knows him.”

“Are they together?”

Nico’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I’m asking.”

“And I’m wondering why.”

Jack scoffed, turning toward the window, he didn’t need Nico to answer, he already knew what the photograph meant. You had worn that dress for him once, his birthday, two years earlier.

He remembered pulling you into the bathroom at the restaurant because he couldn’t keep his hands off you. You had laughed against his mouth, whispering that someone would catch you.

Now someone else had his hand on you, Jack shut his eyes, the following night, he let a woman sit too close to him at dinner, when she asked to take a picture, he didn’t move away.

Your friends thought you were getting better, that was almost funny, “You seem like yourself again,” Amanda told you over brunch, you smiled into your coffee, yourself, you weren’t sure you remembered who that was.

Your life had become a collection of carefully constructed moments. You got dressed. You went out. You smiled when people looked at you. You posed for photographs and made sure you never checked your phone while anyone was watching.

Then you returned home, removed your makeup, and sat in the silence of your bedroom while scrolling through photographs of Jack, you learned the names of women you had never met, you read comments from strangers speculating about which one he might be dating, you watched videos of him laughing at parties and wondered whether he had ever smiled that brightly with you.

Sometimes you typed messages you never sent.

I miss you.

Was I that easy to forget?

I saw your game tonight. You played well.

Do you still have my blue sweater?

The last question haunted you more than the others, you had left things at his apartment, a sweater, a book, a toothbrush in the bathroom drawer, your favorite mug.

Small evidence that you had once belonged there, Jack had never asked you to collect any of it, you didn’t know whether that meant he couldn’t bear to see you or simply couldn’t be bothered to return it.“Have you thought about actually dating someone?” Amanda asked.

You looked up, she was watching you carefully “I’ve been going on dates.”

“No. You’ve been allowing men to buy you dinner while you stare through them.”

“That’s not true.”

“You called one of them Jack.”

Your stomach dropped “That happened once.”

“It happened twice.” you winced, Amanda reached across the table.

“I know you’re hurting.”

“I’m not.” her expression softened, you hated that more than disbelief “He’s clearly moved on,” you said, pulling your hand away. “I’m trying to do the same.”

“Is that what this is?” you looked toward the window, outside, people moved down the sidewalk with umbrellas raised against the rain “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.”

Jack still had your toothbrush, it remained in the drawer beside his, hidden beneath a washcloth as though that made keeping it less pathetic, your clothes were still in his closet, your shampoo was still in the shower, the framed photograph of the two of you at the lake house had been moved from his nightstand to the bottom drawer, but he hadn’t thrown it away.

He hadn’t thrown anything away.

He told himself it was because he was busy, because packing your belongings would take time, because you might ask for them eventually. The truth was that removing you from the apartment felt too permanent.

Jack could pretend you were simply away as long as your sweater remained draped across the back of the chair, he could imagine you returning while your mug was still beside the coffee machine.

Sometimes, after road trips, he unlocked the apartment and experienced one breathless second where he expected to find you waiting.

Then the silence settled around him, he hated the apartment without you, he hated himself inside it “You’re miserable.”

Jack looked away from the television, Quinn was sitting on the opposite end of the couch, watching him instead of the game.

“I’m watching hockey.”

“You’ve checked your phone twenty times.”

“It’s called having friends.”

Quinn held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

“No.”

“Then stop refreshing her page.”

Jack’s shoulders stiffened, Quinn had arrived that afternoon and noticed too much almost immediately. Jack sometimes resented the way his older brother could understand him without being told anything “She posted another guy,” Jack said.

Quinn waited, Jack unlocked his phone and opened the photo, you were at a friend’s birthday party, smiling beside the same man from the gallery. His arm was around your shoulders.

Quinn studied it “She looks happy.”

Jack swallowed “Yeah.” Quinn handed the phone back “You don’t believe that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you know her.”

Jack stared at the photograph, he knew the difference between your real smile and the one you used when someone held up a camera, he knew you rubbed your thumb against the side of your index finger when you were anxious.

You were doing it in the photo “She’s probably better without me,” Jack said, Quinn’s face softened “Did she tell you that?”

“She didn’t have to.”

“That isn’t an answer.” Jack leaned forward, elbows against his knees “I made her feel alone.” the admission came out quietly, Quinn said nothing “She kept telling me she needed more from me, and I kept saying things would calm down after the road trip, after playoffs, after the season.” Jack pressed his palms together. “There was always something.”

“You loved her.”

“That didn’t fix it.”

“No,” Quinn agreed. “But it means you’re allowed to tell her you understand now.”

“What if she doesn’t want to hear it?”

“Then at least she’ll know.”

Jack looked back at the photograph “What if she’s happy?” Quinn’s response was gentle “Then you’ll let her be happy.”

Jack nodded, but he didn’t call.

The possibility that you might reject him felt unbearable, so two nights later, when his teammates went out, Jack joined them, he smiled for every photograph, the missed opportunities became their own form of cruelty.

You saw Jack outside a restaurant one evening while sitting in the back of a cab, for half a second, you considered telling the driver to stop, Jack was alone, waiting near the curb with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

He looked tired.

Not the kind of tired that came from hockey, something heavier, your hand moved toward the door handle, then a blonde woman stepped out of the restaurant behind him.

She touched his shoulder, Jack turned toward her.

The cab pulled away before you saw anything else, you cried silently the entire way home. Three days later, Jack spotted you across a crowded arena concourse after a game.

You had attended with friends.

He knew because he had found you in the stands during warmups without even trying. His eyes always searched for you, no matter how many times he told himself to stop, after the game, he changed faster than usual.

He told himself he was only going to say hello.

Then he saw you speaking with a man near the elevators, the man smiled down at you, you touched his arm, Jack stopped walking, Dawson nearly collided with him “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

You looked up, for one suspended moment, your eyes met across the crowd, Jack forgot how to breathe, you looked surprised, then guarded. He considered crossing the distance, you considered doing the same.

Neither of you moved.

The elevator opened behind you, the man placed a hand at your back, guiding you inside, Jack watched the doors close, that night, you both lay awake wondering why the other hadn’t come closer.

The breaking point arrived at a teammate’s charity event.

You hadn’t wanted to attend, Nina had invited you weeks earlier, before the breakup had divided your social life into places where Jack might be and places where he definitely wouldn’t “You’re my friend too,” she had told you when you attempted to decline. “You don’t lose everyone because you lost him.”

So you went, you wore a black dress, you kept your makeup simple, you promised yourself you would stay for one hour, Jack arrived twenty minutes after you.

You felt him before you saw him.

The room shifted around his presence in a way it always had for you. Conversations seemed to blur. Your body recognized him before your mind could catch up, he stood near the entrance in a dark suit, greeting people as they approached.

He looked beautiful.

You hated him for it, you hated yourself for still thinking it, a woman stood beside him, the same one from the charity photographs weeks earlier, her hand rested lightly near his elbow.

Your stomach twisted “Breathe,” Nina murmured beside you.

“I am.”

“Not convincingly.”

You lifted your champagne glass and took a drink, across the room, Jack finally saw you, his entire expression changed, it happened so briefly that anyone else might have missed it.

You didn’t.

His smile disappeared, his eyes moved over you slowly before settling on your face, you wanted to look away, instead, you held his gaze. The woman beside him leaned closer to say something.

Jack turned toward her, you looked away first.

The next hour was agony, you remained on opposite sides of the room, each acutely aware of the other, when you laughed, Jack looked over, when someone touched Jack’s arm, your chest tightened, he watched a man bring you another drink, you watched the woman beside him adjust his tie.

Neither of you heard half the conversations directed toward you.

Eventually, the man beside you asked you to dance, you barely knew him, you said yes anyway, Jack watched you place your hand in someone else’s.

Something inside him snapped.

He excused himself from the conversation without hearing the response, you saw him walking toward you, your heart began pounding.

For one foolish second, you thought he was coming to stop you.

Instead, Jack passed beside you without a word and disappeared through the doors leading to the terrace.

The rejection burned, you murmured an apology to your dance partner and followed him, Jack stood near the railing with his back to you, shoulders tense “You could at least pretend not to be miserable at a party you volunteered to attend.”

He turned sharply, his eyes widened when he saw you “I’m not miserable.” You laughed bitterly. “Right. I forgot. You’re doing amazing.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “You seem to be doing pretty well yourself.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been on a lot of dates.”

You stared at him “So have you.”

“I haven’t been dating anyone.”

“No, you’ve just been photographed with a different woman every week.”

His eyes flashed “You’re one to talk.”

“At least I’m not pretending the people I’m with mean nothing.”

The words escaped before you could stop them, Jack went still “Do they mean something?” You opened your mouth, nothing came out, his voice dropped “Does he?”

“Which one?” the question was meant to hurt him, it succeeded, you watched his face close off “Good to know,” Jack muttered, he turned toward the door “Jack.” he stopped but didn’t face you, anger surged through you, sharpened by weeks of grief and humiliation “You don’t get to act hurt.”

Jack spun around “I don’t get to act hurt?”

“You broke my heart and then spent the next two months making sure I knew how little it mattered to you.”

His expression cracked “You think it didn’t matter?”

“What else was I supposed to think?”

“That I was trying not to fall apart!”

The words echoed across the empty terrace, you froze, Jack dragged a hand through his hair., his breathing was uneven “Every time I saw you with someone, I thought you were done,” he said. “So I went out. I let people take pictures. I acted like I didn’t care because you looked like you didn’t.”

“I was doing that because of you.”

Jack stared at you, your eyes burned “I saw those pictures after the club,” you continued. “You looked happy. There was a girl practically sitting on your lap.”

“She asked for a picture.”

“And you let her.”

“Because I knew you might see it!” the admission left both of you silent, Jack looked almost ashamed “I wanted you to think I was okay,” he said. “I wanted you to wonder if I’d moved on because I couldn’t stand wondering it about you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, you wiped it away quickly “That’s cruel.”

“I know.”

“You made me feel replaceable.”

Jack stepped closer “You were never replaceable.”

“You did a convincing job.”

“So did you.” the words weren’t accusatory this time, they were broken.

You looked down at your hands “I called one of them your name.” Jack’s lips parted, you released a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob “Twice, apparently.”

He stared at you as though he didn’t know whether he was allowed to be relieved “I haven’t kissed anyone,” he confessed, you lifted your eyes “Not since you.” the music from inside filtered faintly through the doors “I thought you had,” you whispered.

“I wanted you to think I had.”

“Why?”

“Because you were supposed to miss me.”

A sob caught in your throat “I did miss you" Jack’s face crumpled “I missed you every day.” he crossed the remaining distance before either of you could reconsider.

His hands hovered near your waist, not touching.

That hesitation hurt more than if he had grabbed you, there had been a time when Jack touched you without thinking. When his hand naturally found yours beneath tables and his body curved around you in bed, now he waited for permission “I’m sorry,” he said.

Your chin trembled “I know saying it doesn’t fix what happened. I know I made you feel like you came second to everything else.” His voice cracked. “You were asking me to show up, and I kept thinking loving you was enough even when I wasn’t showing it.”

You stared at him through tears “I didn’t want to leave.”

“I know.”

“I wanted you to ask me to stay.”

Jack shut his eyes briefly “I thought if I asked, I’d be trapping you in something that was making you unhappy.”

“I wanted you to fight for me.”

“I should have.” His hands finally settled carefully against your waist “I should’ve fought for you then,” he whispered. “I should’ve called the first night. I should’ve shown up at your apartment. I should’ve done anything except pretend I could live without you.”

You gripped the lapels of his suit “I kept waiting.”

“I’m here now.”

“That doesn’t make everything disappear.”

“I know.”

“We can’t go back to how it was.”

“I don’t want to.” you frowned, Jack’s thumbs moved lightly against your sides “I want to do it better.”

fresh tears filled your eyes “I don’t know if I trust that yet.”

“Then let me earn it.” his answer came without hesitation “No promises that everything will suddenly be easy. No telling you it’ll get better after the next game or road trip.” He swallowed. “I’ll make time. I’ll call when I say I will. I’ll listen before it gets bad enough for you to leave.”

You looked at him, searching for the boy who had stood in your apartment and let pride ruin everything.

He was still there.

But so was the man who had spent two months destroying himself because he didn’t know how to admit he was hurting.

“You really didn’t kiss anyone?”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly “No.”

“The blonde?”

“Dawson’s cousin.”

You blinked “The brunette from the club?”

“Had a boyfriend.”

“The model?”

“Engaged.”

A wet laugh escaped you, Jack’s mouth twitched “What about the guy from the gallery?”

“Gay.”

Jack stared at you “The one at the game?”

“Dating Amanda.”

His shoulders dropped “You could’ve told me.”

“You could’ve asked.”

“I was busy being mature.”

“You were busy glaring at photographs.”

“So were you.”

You lowered your forehead against his chest, for the first time in weeks, your body relaxed, Jack wrapped his arms around you immediately.

The embrace was desperate.

His face pressed into your hair as he held you tight enough to make breathing difficult. You didn’t complain. You clung to him with equal force, fingers curling into the back of his jacket “I hated this,” Jack whispered.

“Me too.”

“I hated seeing you with them.”

“I hated seeing you with anyone.”

“I wasn’t trying to replace you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him “Neither was I.” Jack brushed a tear from beneath your eye “What were you doing?”

You gave him a sad smile “Trying to survive you.” his face softened with painful understanding “Yeah,” he whispered. “Me too.”

He leaned forward slowly, you felt his breath against your lips but he stopped before touching them “Can I kiss you?” It was such a small question, it carried every apology he still owed you, every conversation you still needed to have, every boundary that would have to be rebuilt.

You nodded.

Jack kissed you gently, there was no urgency at first, only relief, his hand rose to cradle your cheek while yours tightened around his jacket. The kiss tasted faintly of champagne and tears and everything you had been too afraid to say, then Jack made a broken sound against your mouth and pulled you closer.

You kissed him harder.

For two months, you had both been trying to prove you could live without this, without his hands, without your fingers in his hair., without the quiet way he whispered your name when the rest of the world disappeared.

It had been a competition no one could win, when you finally separated, Jack rested his forehead against yours. “Come home with me.”

You tensed slightly.

He felt it “Not like that,” he said quickly. “I just—I still have your things. All of them.”

“All of them?”

“Your shampoo might be expired.” you laughed softly, Jack smiled, but his eyes remained serious “We can talk. Or you can yell at me. You can sleep in my room and I’ll take the couch.”

“You hate the couch.”

“I’ve hated everything since you left.”

Your hand slid down until your fingers found his “You can’t hide me away in your apartment because you’re scared of seeing me with someone else.”

“I know.”

“And I can’t punish you every time I feel insecure.”

“I know.”

“And this doesn’t mean we’re suddenly fixed.”

Jack brought your joined hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss against your knuckles “It means you’re giving me another chance.”

You studied him “One chance.”

“I only need one.”

“That confidence is part of the problem.” A real laugh escaped him, the sound filled something empty inside you, Jack opened the terrace door but paused before stepping inside.

The party continued beyond it. Cameras, teammates, friends, and the countless people who had watched the two of you pretend to move on.

He looked down at you “We don’t have to tell anyone yet.” you understood what he was offering, privacy, time, something that belonged only to the two of you while you rebuilt what had broken.

You squeezed his hand “Okay.”

Jack led you through the room, people noticed, of course they did, Nico’s eyebrows rose when he saw your fingers intertwined. Nina smiled into her glass. Luke, standing near the bar, looked so relieved that you almost laughed.

Jack didn’t stop to explain.

Neither did you.

For once, you weren’t interested in proving anything.

Not that you were happier.

Not that you had moved on.

Not that the breakup hadn’t nearly destroyed you both.

Outside, Jack opened the car door for you.

You slid into the passenger seat, finding the familiar phone charger still tucked into the console and an old lip balm you had forgotten beneath the cupholder.

Small pieces of you remained everywhere, Jack climbed into the driver’s seat, for a moment, neither of you moved, then he reached across the console and took your hand “I’m sorry it took me this long.”

You traced your thumb across his knuckles “I’m sorry I made it a game.”

“We both did.”

“Who do you think won?” Jack looked at you, his eyes moved over your face as though he still couldn’t believe you were there “No one.”

You nodded, he lifted your hand and kissed it again “But maybe we can stop losing now.”

This time, when he drove you home, it was to the place where your sweater still hung over the chair, your mug remained beside the coffee machine, and your toothbrush waited in the bathroom drawer, the place that had never stopped holding space for you, just like Jack had.

The textbook blurs in front of your eyes, the words swimming into an incomprehensible jumble of letters. It's 2 AM, your third consecutive all-nighter and your brain feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. Your laptop glows with three unfinished papers, your phone buzzes with unread emails from professors and the weight of your impending graduation presses down on your chest like a physical force.

You jump when the door clicks open, Will walking in, his hair still damp from the shower he just took.

"Still at it?" he asks, his voice soft as he approaches the table where you're buried under a mountain of books.

"I have to," you mumble, not looking up. "I'm so behind. If I don't finish this outline and study for my midterm, I'm going to fail."

Will's hands land on your shoulders, his thumbs working into the tight knots of muscle. You tense at his touch, then immediately relax, a small whimper escaping your lips.

"You're going to burn out," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. "When was the last time you slept? Drank something that wasn't coffee?"

"I'm fine," you lie, even as your body betrays you, leaning into his touch. "I just need to push through."

"No," he says, his voice firm but gentle. "What you need is to stop. You're running yourself into the ground, babe."

"I can't," you whisper, tears welling in your eyes. "There's too much to do."

Will circles the table, crouching down so he's at eye level with you. He takes your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Hey. Listen to me. School will still be there tomorrow. Your papers aren't going anywhere. But you? You're going to break if you keep this up."

"But..."

"No buts," he interrupts, his thumb stroking your cheek. "I'm taking care of you tonight. No more thinking. No more worrying. Just me and you."

You want to argue, to list all the reasons why you can't afford a break, but the exhaustion is too profound. All you can do is nod weakly as he helps you up from the chair, your legs unsteady beneath you.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, leading you toward the bedroom. "Time to turn that busy brain off for a while."

Once in the bedroom, he doesn't waste time. His lips are on yours, demanding and hungry, his hands roaming your body with purpose. You respond automatically, your body remembering what your mind is too tired to process.

"Too many thoughts in that pretty head of yours," he says against your mouth, his hands sliding under your shirt to find bare skin. "We're going to need to empty it out a bit."

You shiver as his thumbs brush against the underside of your breasts. "Will, I..."

"Shh," he interrupts, pulling your shirt over your head. "No talking from you unless it's to beg or moan. The only thing I want coming out of your mouth is my name or praise for how good I'm making you feel."

He guides you to the bed, positioning you on your back before hovering over you. "You think too much, you know that? Always analyzing, always planning. Tonight, you're not going to think at all. You're just going to feel."

His mouth finds your neck, sucking and biting marks into your skin that you know will be visible tomorrow. His hands work to rid you of your remaining clothes, his touch both rough and reverent.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his eyes dark with desire as he takes in your naked form. "Already so much more relaxed when you're not trying to solve all the world's problems. Just a body for me to play with. That's all you need to be right now."

His words send a jolt of arousal through you, your body responding to his dominant tone even as your mind reels. "But my papers..."

"Fuck your papers," he growls, his hand wrapping around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your breath catch. "The only thing you need to worry about is how many times I'm going to make you come before your brain is completely empty."

He shifts down your body, his mouth finding your nipples, alternating between sucking and biting until you're arching off the bed, pleasure coursing through you.

"That's it," he praises, his hand moving between your legs to find you already wet. "No more thinking about school or responsibilities. Just focus on how good this feels. Focus on me."

His fingers slide inside you, curling to find that spot that makes your toes curl. "You're already so wet for me. So desperate to be told what to do, aren't you? To have someone else make all the decisions for a while."

You can only moan in response, your hips bucking against his hand as he adds another finger, stretching you deliciously.

"Such a good girl when you're not overthinking everything," he continues, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Just a needy little thing who wants to be fucked until she can't remember her own name. Is that what you want?"

"Yes," you gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets.

A smirk plays on his lips. "That's better. See how easy it is when you don't have to think? When you just do what you're told?"

He withdraws his fingers, bringing them to your lips. "Taste yourself. See how ready you are to be fucked dumb."

You obediently open your mouth, sucking your juices from his fingers, your eyes locked with his.

"Please," you whimper when he pulls his fingers away.

"Please what?" he asks, though he knows exactly what you want.

"Please fuck me," you beg, your pride forgotten in the haze of arousal. "I need you."

"Since you asked so nicely," he says, positioning himself between your legs. He frees his cock, stroking it a few times before lining it up with your entrance. "Remember, no thinking. Just feeling. Just being my pretty little fuck toy for the night."

He enters you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. You cry out at the sudden fullness, your body arching to accommodate him.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, beginning to move. "So fucking perfect like this, all spread out and desperate for my cock."

He sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving you further into the mattress, driving all coherent thought from your mind. The only thing that exists is the feeling of him inside you, the sound of skin slapping against skin and his filthy words in your ear.

"You like that, don't you?" he asks, his hand wrapping around your throat again. "Like being used like this? No responsibilities, no decisions to make. Just taking my cock like the good little girl you are."

You can only nod, your eyes rolling back as he hits that perfect spot with every thrust.

"Use your words," he demands, his grip tightening slightly. "Tell me how much you love being fucked like this."

"I love it," you gasp.

"Fuck," he growls, his pace becoming erratic. "That's all you are tonight. My perfect little pussy to use however I want."

His free hand moves to your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. "Come for me. Show me how good it feels to be empty-headed and full of cock."

Your orgasm crashes over you, intense and overwhelming, leaving you trembling and breathless. Your mind goes completely blank, all thoughts of school and responsibilities washed away in a sea of pleasure.

Will follows soon after, his hips stuttering as he finds his release, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath.

For a long moment, you both stay like that, joined together, your bodies slick with sweat. You feel pliant and relaxed, your mind blissfully empty.

Will pulls out gently, positioning you both so you're lying face to face. He brushes a stray hair from your forehead, his expression soft.

"See?" he murmurs, his voice no longer dominant but tender. "No more thinking. Just feeling."

You snuggle closer to him, your body completely relaxed for the first time in weeks. "Thank you," you whisper, your voice hoarse.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, a familiar sound that makes a smile tug at your lips. You grab it, expecting a typical, late-night text from Macklin. It's been a few months of this, friends with benefits, no strings attached, just mind-blowing sex and surprisingly good company. The arrangement works, mostly because he's as straightforward and unbothered by labels as you are.

Mack: What you up to?

You glance at the discreet shopping bag on your kitchen counter, the contents of which had been your main adventure for the day. A mischievous impulse, one you usually indulge in when it comes to him, takes over.

You: Not much. Just went shopping

You: Bought myself a vibrator

You hit send, a small thrill running through you. You wonder how he'll react. A joke? A dirty question? You wait. And wait. Five minutes pass. Then ten. You check your phone. The message has been delivered. And read. The two little check marks stare back at you, silent and mocking.

Well, that's weird, you think to yourself, a frown forming. Macklin isn't one to get weirded out by a little dirty talk. He's usually the one initiating it. You shrug it off, figuring he got busy or distracted and go about your evening, though the strange silence nags at you.

An hour later, a sharp knock echoes through your apartment. You peer through the peephole and your stomach does a flip. It's Macklin, looking intense and focused, his hair slightly messy like he's been running his hands through it.

You pull open the door, one hand on your hip. "Leaving me on read? A little rude, don't you think?"

He doesn't answer. He just steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him and crowding you against the wall. His eyes are dark, burning with an intensity that makes your breath catch. He cages you in with his arms, his body radiating a heat that has nothing to do with the chill outside.

"You bought a toy," he says. It's not a question.

You nod, your heart starting to pound. "Yeah..."

"Show me."

His voice is low, a command wrapped in velvet. It sends a jolt straight between your legs. This is new. This is different. You swallow hard, then lead him by the hand to your bedroom, grabbing the shopping bag on the way. You sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the sleek, pink wand from its box.

Macklin stands in front of you, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the toy in your hands. "Go on," he urges softly. "Show me how you use it."

Your cheeks heat, but there's something incredibly thrilling about his unwavering attention. You lean back on your elbows, shucking off your sweatpants and panties in one go. You spread your legs, baring yourself to him. With a shaky breath, you turn the toy on, a low, steady buzzing filling the room. You press it against your clit, a familiar jolt of pleasure making you gasp. Your eyes flutter shut as you find a rhythm, your hips starting to rock gently.

"Open your eyes," he commands. "Look at me while you do it."

You force your eyes open, meeting his dark gaze. He's watching you with a look of pure, unadulterated hunger, like he's never seen anything hotter in his life. He watches for another minute, his jaw tight, before he takes a step forward.

"Let me," he says, his voice thick with desire.

You hesitate for only a second before relinquishing the toy. He kneels on the floor in front of the bed, settling between your thighs. He takes the vibrator from you, his larger hand engulfing yours. He doesn't turn it on right away, just runs the smooth head of it up and down your slick folds, teasing you.

"Mack," you whimper, your hips lifting off the bed.

"Patience, baby," he murmurs, a smirk playing on his lips. He finally clicks it on, starting on the lowest setting. He presses it against you and the feeling is electric. He watches your face intently, gauging your reaction. He experiments, moving it in small circles, then pressing it directly against your clit. He clicks it up a setting and the stronger vibrations make you cry out.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" he says, his voice a low rumble. He keeps you spread open with one hand, his thumb pressing into your inner thigh, holding you in place. "Look at you, so fucking pretty spread out like this."

It doesn't take him long to learn exactly what makes you gasp and what makes your back arch. He finds a setting and a spot that has you writhing, the pleasure building so quickly it's almost overwhelming.

"Mack, wait," you gasp, trying to squirm away. "It's too much."

"Ah, ah," he tuts, his grip on your thigh tightening, keeping you pinned. "You can take it." He holds the vibrator steady, right against that sensitive bundle of nerves and the intense, unrelenting pleasure washes over you in waves. "That's it. Look at you, clenching around nothing. You're so desperate to come, aren't you?"

You can only moan in response, your hands fisting in the sheets. The pressure is immense, a coil tightening in your stomach, ready to snap.

"Tell me what you want," he demands, his voice firm but not cruel.

"You," you gasp out. "I want to come. Please, Mack, let me come."

He smiles, a slow, predatory smile. "Good girl."

He keeps the toy exactly where it is, pushing you right to the edge. "Come for me," he commands. "Now."

The command is all you need. The pleasure explodes through you, a blinding, all-consuming force. Your body bows, a loud cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm rips through you. He doesn't stop, drawing out every last second of your pleasure until you're a whimpering, oversensitive mess.

Finally, he turns the toy off, tossing it onto the bed. He leans up, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. He pulls back, his eyes soft as he looks down at you.