cami

dean's shirtless body stretches out over the hardwood, sweat dampening his hairline as it beads on his forehead. god, what a guy. even in a criminal heatwave, he still manages to give you butterflies. or rather, evil, evil pigeons. butterflies are too poetic and undeserved for dean di laurentis.

"fuck," dean groans. "should've left while we could've."

you huff at your boyfriend's whining. "well, you're the genius who said let's stay and cuddle. cuddle, dean. in this weather."

dean turns to lie on his side, beaming at you with a smug smile that reaches his eyes. "you loved it."

"maybe, if the entire house hadn't turned into a damn furnace." your eyes fondly roll, and you turn your back to dean.

despite your coy antics, dean pulls himself tight up against you, arms coiling around your body. "you loved it."

having his skin against you like this is pure masochism. what happened to beating the heat? this guy's fanning the fucking flames. but you aren't planning on moving—not when you can feel his heart beating so earnestly, its rhythm quickening the longer you stay quiet.

in response to your stubborn—thoughtful pause, dean buries his head in the curve of your neck. if you weren't already on fire, you definitely are now—literally and figuratively. his warm breath against your neck while he waits for your response is making your throat tighten. no matter how much you got off on teasing and joking around with dean, whenever he does soft, unguarded shit like this, you can't help the urge to spoil him. even if he doesn't necessarily deserve it.

"baby," dean plants a kiss on your neck. "you know i'm right."

you might die from how that sickeningly smooth cadence of his sounds when it's muffled against your skin.

"…shut up, di laurentis." you mumble. it's taking an army's worth of rationality to not pounce on him this instant.

as if purely to defy your expectations, dean doesn't bite back. instead, he shifts just enough to look at you. and he knows what he's doing when he stares at you with those love-ridden hazy blue eyes.

taking in the effect he has on you, a look of pride clouds dean's expression.

"you love me." he hums. quiet, yet boastful—like he's won something.

and even quieter—since you can't find the energy to be sarcastic—you admit, "fuck, i love you."

over the quiet rumble of the ineffective ac, you can hear dean snicker.

"i love you more."

that's the kind of man he is, isn't it? not i love you too, but i love you more.

you can't discern whether it's an instinctive comment driven by his competitive nature, or a deliberate calculation meant to make your heart skip a beat. regardless, your heart does skip a beat.

but dean di laurentis isn't the only competitive person in this relationship.

"i love you the most." the words come out like a provocation rather than a sincere declaration. the boyish grin on dean's face proves he knows it's entirely both.

before you can process it, heated kisses pepper their way from your neck up to your face. your nape, lips, cheeks—wherever dean can reach without moving either of you. in between each loving kiss, dean breathlessly mutters, "love ya more than y'know. so much." among other sweet nothings. left with no other choice, you cup your hands around his face and guide his lips to yours.

it's a bit clumsy—loving, but clumsy. the heat has definitely gotten to the both of you. but the sheer tenderness of the kiss is something rare in comparison to the usual desperate, needy, carnal kisses you share with dean. it's nice.

your hands travel to the hair at his nape, fingers threading tightly through the blonde strands. the two of you are now face-to-face, legs tangled together and hands palming the other's body—seeking warmth even in the summer swelter. dean's visibly more relaxed now, too, his shoulders slack and body like putty against yours. one of the many, many things you love about him happens to be how much he melts and lets himself go in response to physical touch. after his home games, you always wait for dean by the doors of the stadium. and the moment you open your arms for him, he practically flies into you, warm and sappy as ever.

noticing your mind drifting elsewhere, dean nips playfully at your bottom lip. "'m over here." he murmurs between breaths.

his lips instinctively part, expecting more—craving more. but you don't give him what he wants. because dean loves you. so much that he lets his guard down the second your eyes meet his—the moment he feels your touch—even at the mere thought of you.

"you love me." you declare. maybe you're acting cocky, but dean loves that. fuck, he loves you. that isn't something either of you say often. not like this.

and maybe dean realizes that too, because instead of matching your energy, he averts his eyes and feigns obliviousness.

"dunno what you're talking about."

he isn't blushing. there's no way he's blushing. it's just really, really hot.

"di laurentis." a quiet, playful warning.

his head drops low, forehead nuzzling against your shoulder—a total display of defeat. you've won.

"yeah. i love you."

off campus debut fic & same goes for dean! buncha firsts over here man. more dean soon & reqs are open asf for him since it gives me a valid excuse to skip out on my other projects (n im dean pilled rn). much love dudes

"hey," his voice cuts through the silence, causing your head to snap up from your laptop to look at him. garrett takes the seat across from you at the table and he looks at the book that you have sitting next to you. he then grabs your coffee cup, takes a drink from it, and immediately makes a disgusted face as he puts it back down, "i always forget how disgusting your coffee is."

this causes you to laugh, but you never look up from your laptop. rather, you keep trying to read the article that you were using as research for a paper. garrett doesn't seem bothered by this, but he almost never was. the two of you operated so easily around one another that you had gotten used to moments like these. quiet, simple moments where one or both of you studied while the other just existed in the space next to you.

except there was something off about him this time. the way that he kept picking at the papers you had laid out on the table, and how he hasn't started off on some story or rant about his most recent hockey practice yet. rather there is this still, stifling silence that lay over the table between you.

garrett picks at the book again, lifting the cover and letting it drop almost instantly. "i saw you and logan leaving the same room the morning after the party," he states rather bluntly, leaving no room for a question as to why. chances were, he already knew why. garrett wasn't stupid, and he was always able to put the facts together rather quickly. plus, he likely already talked to logan about it.

you move from the article you are reading back to your word document, and type something out into the working document you had going for your paper. "yeah," you finally say with a shrug, not even moving to look up at him, "and i saw you go into one with that girl."

"hannah," he adds quickly. there is no offense in his tone, just a quick note likely due to the fact that he knew you were never good at names. however, what he didn't know is that you did remember her name. how could you not? "but, yeah, we are kinda seeing each other," he says again so nonchalantly, "are you and logan seeing each other?"

every piece of what he said seems to be used against you, like a knife stabbing multiple times into your chest. they are kinda seeing each other, and he wants to know if you are seeing logan. if the reason that you left his room was because you had some sort of feelings connected to him, and the assumption hurt. especially given all that you and garrett had shared.

how you are his best friend, but have also been in his bed. you had been in far more times then you had shared a bed with logan, but it was never assumed that you might like one another. that you might kinda see one another.

as if you were only good for two things: being his friend, and fucking him when he's lonely.

there is a forced smile on your face as you look up at him over your computer screen, "not currently," you say casually, a tone that you have to force just now. "we just slept together at a party, garrett, it doesn't have anything, right?," you add, and there is a hint of bitterness in your tone. one that you can't seem to hide.

"right," he adds then, eyes adverting down to some of the papers on the table, "he was just talking about you, so i wasn't sure."

then your eyebrows are knit together for a moment, a beat of silence falling between you for just a second. however, you are quick to fill it when you ask, "would it be a problem if we were?," you ask, but you quickly add, "seeing each other, i mean."

garrett doesn't respond immediately, and his eyes stay fixed on the table as he thinks it over. for a moment you feel as if you see something cross across his face, but he seems to push it aside and allow a neutral look to over take him. then his eyes look up at you and he says so cool and casually, "no, it wouldn't be a problem," there is a smile on his face, "i think you two would be good together."

your eyes stay fixed on him then, and you are trying so hard to see if you can find some sort of hidden meaning behind them. the task, however, seems impossible and you quickly give it up with a simple sigh. "yeah, maybe we would be," you say then as you look back down at your laptop, "as i'm sure you and hannah are."

if his face betrays him then, you don't see it. rather you are too focused on your computer and re-reading the sentences you wrote before this conversation started.

the two of you sit in silence then, but it's comfortable like normal. rather there is something charged and unsettling tension that settles between you. in honesty, it feels suffocating as if that tension was ripping the air from your lungs in hopes of using it to diffuse whatever was surrounding you.

it isn't his voice this time that breaks through, it's hers. "garrett?," she says gently, "i'm ready now, are you?" the words cause you to look up at hannah as she stands there by the table, hands clasped in front of her. her eyes shift from him to you, and then back again. it takes her a moment before she finally says, "i'm hannah," and her hand is stuck out awkwardly in front of her.

your eyes go from her to garrett and then back, before your extending your own hand and introducing yourself. hannah smiles, "garrett's best friend, right?"

"right," you say with a forced smile, and then you look back to garrett to find that his eyes are already fixed on you.

those eyes linger a moment longer before, he pushes up out of his seat and takes hannah by the hand. "talk to you later, yeah?" he asks, and you just nod before looking back down at your laptop and trying to ignore the way that his eyes still seem to burn holes into you.

"it was nice meeting you," hannah says with a smile that you don't catch, and then the two of them turn and walk down the hallway. you could have asked what they were doing, or where they were going. however, you find that the answer would plunge that knife from earlier right back into your chest.

instead, you text logan and ask him if he wants to get drinks later. it's not fair to him, not really, but you think that maybe with time you could like him the way that you love garrett.

"are you, like, a fucking vampire?," logan asks, his beer being lifted to his lips as he looks garrett up and down. the group of you had been trying to determine what exactly he was dressed up as for the better half of fifteen minutes. it was made even harder by the fact that you didn't know who was dressed up as his other half. which was, for clarification, something you were trying to not let bother you.

normally, given that garrett doesn't ever keep a girl around for anything serious, it would have been you. you were an easy option, and he knew that. the two of you went everywhere together and therefor being a dynamic duo came easily to you.

yet he had told you that he was going with someone else. garrett was also cagey about it. which was odd given that you always told each other everything. so the fact that he had been elusive about this should have been a red flag, but you trusted him. you always trusted him.

which may be why...

"not a vampire," garrett says with an eye roll and a laugh, and then he is taking a drink of his own beer. the people in the room move around the group of you, and when someone bumps into you, it's easy how your body falls into garrett's. how the heat of his side seeps through your costume for a moment. garrett doesn't move, as if having your against him was the most natural thing in the world. maybe it was.

there isn't time to straighten yourself, because suddenly he is pushing himself off the counter. then the room seems to go still for a moment, and his gaze is lost on something else. your eyes move from him to where he was staring at the staircase as a girl comes walking down it in a bunny suit.

then it clicks, not a vampire but a magician.

everyone seems to watch the way that garrett walks over to her. then how he leans in to say something before his hand laces through hers. the smile on his face is magnetic; if there wasn't a storm brewing behind your ribcage, perhaps it would make you smile as well.

the cup in your hand is lifted to your lips then, eyes squinting as you watch the two of them. the storm in your chest spreads throughout your body, tying knots up in your stomach the longer that you look at her. her smile matches his, and her hand seems to fit so perfectly in his that it makes you wonder if your hand ever had. if rather than feeling like a missing puzzle piece, it just awkwardly collided it's ragged edges against his own.

logan and tucker are sauntering over, laughing about shots and apologize to 'garrett's tutor' as they drag him away and back into the kitchen. for a moment you watc him, easy and content as he moves through the room, before your eyes flicker back to her. back to the way that she is talking to jules, convincing her of some truth that settles uneasy in the room around you.

she came with garrett.

garrett who doesn't do girlfriends. garrett who doesn't ever keep a girl around long enough for you to remember her name. garrett who made you feel as if you were the only one who mattered to him. the only girl in his life worth caring about.

"closed cans are safer," logan's voice carries over and it catches your attention as you look up at him talking to garrett. then there is some other part of the conversation that slides right over you, and he is about to walk away before your hand is landing on his arm and pulling him back to look at you.

there is a smile, forced and tight, that overtakes your face, "a magician," you say with an awkward laugh, the sound of it lodging itself back into your chest, "who is she? another puck bunny or something?"

there is a flicker of something across his face as your words settle into the space between you. "no," he says at last, "her names hannah." the he pauses, and your eyebrow raises as you look at him, "started as my tutor, but now we are dating, i guess."

dating.

the word causes a twist in your chest, because that isn't something that he does. he tells everyone that, even you.

dating wasn't something you realized was on the table. though, perhaps it wasn't for you.

"right," you say then as your hand releases from his arm, "better go save her from jules then."

he offers you that charming, magnetic smile before he is turning and heading off to hannah. your eyes watch as everything plays out in slow motion. him handing her the can, her pressing a kiss to his cheek. jules says something that you can't hear over the music, and then they are talking again.

then they are hand in hand again.

then they are heading towards the stairs, making their way up before they slide into one of the bedrooms. the door closes with a loud click that seems to echo through the entire house, and then echo's through your hollowed chest.

the cup in your hand is raised to your lips as you down the rest of it before turning towards the bottles of liquor that are laid out on the island. the sound of laughter and conversation fills the room around you again as you grab the first bottle that you see. for a moment it settles in your hand, fingers wrapped tight around it before you decide to pour it straight into your mouth.

then your turning and your hand lands on the first arm that it see's, causing john logan to turn towards you with a quizzical look. there isn't a smile on your face as you ask him, "do you want to go upstairs with me?"

there is, however, a smile on his as his hand laces through your own and he leads you to the stairs.

for a moment guilt sets in, because this isn't fair to him. logan is a good guy, and using him to forget the way that you had hooked up with garrett last weekend. to forget how you had spent the better half of two months blurring the lines between friendship and intimacy, falling into his bed every chance you got.

Her eyes filled instantly, glossy and enormous in her swollen face, and Garrett had to look at the doorframe for half a second because laughing at his girlfriend while she was freshly traumatised by dental cotton wasn’t the kind of man he was trying to be.

Mostly.

“I saw it,” he said, voice so gentle it almost covered the strain at the edges. “We’re gonna get you more.”

She made a sad, outraged sound and tipped forward into his chest, forehead bumping clumsily against his collarbone. “It escaped.”

“It did,” Garrett agreed, shifting the pharmacy bag higher on his wrist so he could press his palm more securely to her back. “Very brave escape attempt. But we have reinforcements.”

She lifted her face slowly, eyes narrowing as if this required serious thought. “You got soldiers?”

“Whole bag of them.”

Her lower lip trembled. It would have been devastating if half of it hadn’t been numb and sitting slightly crooked. “For me?”

“For you.”

That seemed to soothe her for approximately four seconds, which was long enough for Garrett to get her over the step, against the door, and into the front hallway before the second problem revealed itself: the hockey house.

The living room was occupied, Logan was standing in front of the open fridge with a carton of orange juice in one hand and no visible intention of choosing anything else. Tucker was on the couch folding laundry. Dean was sprawled diagonally across the armchair in sweatpants.

All three of them looked up when the door opened. All three of them froze.

Garrett paused in the doorway with his girlfriend tucked under his arm, her cheeks swollen, her hood slipping sideways, her eyes shining with fresh devastation and her chin tilted slightly because she hadn’t yet regained full control of her own jaw.

There was a long, fragile silence.

Logan lowered the orange juice. “Uh.”

She lifted one hand. The movement was slow and floating, like she was waving from underwater. “Hi, Johnny.”

Logan’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Dean sat up. “Is she drunk?”

Garrett kicked the door shut behind them with his heel. “Wisdom teeth day.”

“Oh shit,” Tucker said immediately, laundry forgotten in his lap. “That’s right.”

Dean’s face changed from alarm to delight so fast it was almost disrespectful. “Oh, this is incredible.”

Garrett pointed at him without letting go of her. “Do not.”

She turned her head toward Dean with the slow, wobbly focus of someone trying to locate sound through fog. Her eyes narrowed, then softened, then filled with tears again for reasons not immediately clear to anybody in the room. “Dean.”

Dean blinked. “Yeah, boss?”

She sniffed at him. She leaned slightly forward against Garrett’s hold, tipped her face in Dean’s direction, and sniffed once, small and damp and investigative, like she was trying to identify him by scent.

Garrett closed his eyes. “Okay. There we are.”

Tucker pressed his lips together so hard his cheeks moved. Logan turned toward the fridge like the mayonnaise needed his full attention.

Dean, to his credit, accepted being sniffed with the kind of dignity available only to men who had once argued that a silk robe counted as formalwear. “Do I pass?”

She considered him very seriously, eyes half-lidded and wet. “You smell like expensive laundry.”

Dean’s face lit up. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“It’s not a compliment,” Garrett said, already guiding her toward the couch with tiny, careful steps. “Alright, my love, sit down. There we go. Easy.”

“I don’t have bones,” she whispered, horrified, as her knees bent too early.

Garrett caught her before she could fold like a camping chair. “You have bones.”

“No.”

“You do. I saw them on the x-ray.”

She gasped, head tipping back against his shoulder so she could look at him in complete betrayal. “You looked at my bones?”

“I was allowed.”

“They’re private.”

Dean made a strangled sound behind his hand.

Garrett shot him a warning look over her head, but his mouth was doing a dangerous thing at one corner. “Sorry, baby. Very rude of me. I won’t look at your bones again.”

She nodded, satisfied and mournful at once, then allowed herself to be lowered onto the couch beside Tucker’s pile of laundry. 

Garrett crouched in front of her immediately, one hand braced near her knee while he set the pharmacy bag on the coffee table and started sorting through it with the concentrated seriousness he usually reserved for game tape. 

Gauze, ibuprofen, the prescription bottle, ice packs, the printed sheet covered in post-op instructions, pudding cups he’d bought on the way home because she’d mumbled something about wanting soft brown food and he’d interpreted that as chocolate.

She watched his hands move, eyes huge above her puffy cheeks, and then her face crumpled again. The tears came suddenly, with no warning and no sound at first, just her eyes shining over and her shoulders hitching once beneath his hoodie.

Garrett looked up instantly. “Hey. What happened?”

“My mouth is empty.”

“I know.” He took a fresh square of gauze from the bag, unwrapping it carefully. “We’re fixing it right now.”

“It feels illegal,” she mumbled. 

“Yeah, I bet.”

“I lost the other one.”

“You didn’t lose it. It’s in a napkin in my cup holder.”

She stared at him. “You kept it?”

“No,” he said, because there were limits. “I threw it out when you weren’t looking.”

Her expression folded into betrayal so complete Tucker looked genuinely concerned. “You killed him.”

Garrett paused with the gauze in his hand. “The gauze?”

“He was with me in my mouth.”

Dean coughed violently. Logan shut the fridge with his hip, still turned away, shoulders shaking.

Garrett inhaled once through his nose and lifted the new gauze toward her mouth with the patience of a saint and the facial control of a man actively earning heaven. “Open a little for me, wifey.”

She obeyed, sort of, lips parting around a swollen, miserable pout. Garrett placed the gauze carefully where the surgeon had shown him, his fingers gentle at her jaw, then leaned back to check that she wasn’t going to immediately eject it through sheer emotional disagreement.

“There,” he said softly, brushing his thumb over the safe curve of her cheek. “Better?”

She blinked at him. The tears stopped moving for a second. Then she nodded with grave, heartbreaking sincerity.

Garrett smiled despite himself. “Good girl.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. Tucker looked down at the laundry like he had been raised to mind his business and intended to die that way. Logan made the mistake of glancing back and immediately had to put one fist against his mouth.

She noticed none of it. She was busy reaching with both hands for Garrett’s face, though her depth perception had filed for temporary leave. One hand caught his ear. The other landed on his chin. Garrett let her hold him there, crouched between her knees, eyes warm with helpless amusement.

“You’re pretty,” she said around the gauze.

His mouth curved. “Yeah?”

“So pretty,” she whispered, devastated by the information. “Like if hockey was a person and God liked him best.”

Dean whispered, “Holy shit.”

Garrett’s ears went pink. “Okay.”

“No, listen.”

“I’m listening.”

She squeezed his face with about the strength of a sleepy kitten. “You have eyelashes.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Not sure.”

“For being handsome?”

“Probably.”

She nodded, satisfied by his honesty, then turned her head very slowly toward Dean without releasing Garrett entirely. 

Her hand slipped from Garrett’s ear into the side of his hair, keeping him within reach like he might be stolen if she stopped supervising him. “Dean.”

Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking like Christmas had come early and been heavily medicated. “Yeah?”

She crooked one finger at him.

Garrett’s brows lifted. “Baby, what are we doing?”

“Secret.”

“No secrets with Dean.”

“Rude,” Dean said.

She tried to lean toward Dean and nearly tipped sideways. Garrett caught her by the waist with one hand, settling her back against the couch cushion before she could slide into Tucker’s folded towels. She looked annoyed by this interference but accepted it because Garrett’s hand stayed warm at her side.

Dean scooted his chair closer with a grin that started wicked and then softened a little when he saw how serious her face had gone. “What’s the secret, boss?”

She lifted her hand and cupped it around her mouth in a whisper that was not even remotely quiet. “That’s my husband.”

Dean looked at Garrett, who had gone very still, gauze wrapper pinched between his fingers. Then Dean looked back at her and snorted. “Sure.”

Her eyes widened, suddenly stern. “No. One day.” She nodded with the full weight of prophecy, then pointed at Garrett like he was evidence in court. “Gonna marry him. Look. He’s so hot.”

Dean pressed his lips together. His eyes flicked to Garrett again, whose expression had turned into something complicated and dangerously fond, like he’d been hit somewhere under the ribs and was pretending he hadn’t felt it.

“He is hot,” Dean agreed solemnly.

She nodded, pleased to have found a man of reason in a difficult time. “I know.”

Garrett cleared his throat and looked down at the gauze in his hands like it had started reciting scripture. “Alright.”

“No, don’t alright me,” she said, or tried to, the gauze softening half the consonants into something messy and indignant. “You are my husband.”

“I’m your boyfriend.”

Her face twisted in pity. “That’s sad for you.”

Logan lost the fight completely. He bent forward at the waist, laughing into his hands, orange juice still clutched in one fist. Tucker made a low sound that might have been a warning or might have been the beginning of his own collapse.

Garrett gave neither of them the dignity of attention. He smoothed the edge of her hood back from her cheek with two fingers and said, “I’ll survive.”

She stared at him for a long, suspended second, her expression softening through the haze until the silliness loosened into something quieter. Her hand slid from his hair to the front of his hoodie, fingers curling clumsily in the fabric. “Don’t be sad.”

“I’m not sad, baby.”

“You looked sad.”

“I’m good.”

“Promise?”

Garrett’s smile changed shape, all the cocky edges giving way to something the boys were usually smart enough not to tease him for. “Promise.”

She studied him as best she could with swollen cheeks and anaesthetic-heavy eyes, then seemed to decide he was telling the truth. Her attention drifted immediately to the coffee table. “Is that pudding?”

“Yes.”

“Did you buy me pudding?”

“Yes.”

“Because you love me?”

“Because I love you and because the nurse said soft foods.”

Her lower lip trembled again, but this time from awe. “You listen to women.”

Dean nodded. “That’s actually huge for him.”

Garrett didn’t look away from the aftercare sheet. “I’ll kick you.”

“With what?” Dean asked. “Your respectful listening skills?”

She turned toward Dean, fascinated. “He listens so good.”

“He does?”

She nodded, then whispered with another confidential lean that Garrett had to physically counterbalance. “Except when I tell him not to be hot at work.”

Garrett’s eyebrows rose. “When have you told me that?”

“All the time.”

“No, you tell me not to be annoying at work.”

“Same thing,” she sighed. 

Logan drifted closer now that he had accepted this was the best thing that had happened in the house all semester. “Do you know where you are right now?”

She looked at him with open suspicion. “Why?”

“Just checking.”

“This is a quiz?”

“Kind of.”

She straightened slightly, or attempted to. The motion made her sway. Garrett’s hand landed instantly on her thigh, grounding her without making a production of it. 

She patted his hand like he was the nervous one. “I know things.”

“Okay,” Logan said, grinning. “Where are you?”

She looked around the living room: the patched couch, the coffee table with a permanent ring from someone’s protein shake, the sneakers near the stairs, Dean watching her like a premium subscription had just activated, Tucker’s laundry stacked in neat little piles, Garrett crouched in front of her with a pharmacy bag.

“The hockey zoo,” she said finally.

Dean slapped his knee. “Correct.”

Tucker smiled despite himself. “Honestly, yeah.”

Garrett opened the pill bottle and checked the label again, because he had already checked it twice at the pharmacy and once in the car, but the instructions had involved timing and food and no straws and enough possible complications that his brain had filed all of it under things I will personally control until she is normal again. “You need something in your stomach before pain meds.”

She made a face. “I don’t have a stomach.”

“You do.”

“You keep saying that about my body.”

“Because you keep denying anatomy.”

Dean leaned toward Tucker. “This is the most educational she’s ever been.”

She heard him. Somehow, through gauze and anaesthetic and whatever chemical fog had convinced her that her bones deserved privacy, she heard that. Her head turned slowly, and Dean sat back like an animal had looked directly into a flashlight.

“I’m very smart,” she told him.

“You are,” Tucker said immediately, loyal and warm, because Tucker had the instincts of a man who knew not to argue with a wounded woman in Garrett Graham’s hoodie.

She pointed at him, pleased. “Tucker can stay.”

Tucker’s face softened. “Thanks, boss.”

Her finger moved to Logan. “Johnny can stay because he’s… sparkly.”

Logan’s grin widened. “I’m sparkly?”

“Yup.”

“I’ll take it.”

Her gaze reached Dean and lingered. Dean lifted his brows, waiting. She narrowed her eyes, assessing him with the full suspicion of a woman who had been sniffing people six minutes earlier. “Dean is on thin ice.”

Dean’s mouth fell open. “For what?”

“You know.”

“I actually don’t.”

“You have rich boy crimes.”

Garrett coughed into his fist.

Dean pointed at him. “You’re laughing. I saw that.”

Garrett unfolded from his crouch and sat beside her on the couch, close enough that their thighs pressed together. 

She immediately leaned into him like gravity had made a personal decision, her head finding his shoulder, her fingers migrating to the hem of his hoodie. He put the pudding cup on the coffee table, peeled the foil lid back, and picked up the spoon.

She lifted her head enough to stare at it. “I’m not a baby.”

“I know.”

“Then why tiny spoon?”

“Because your mouth is full of gauze.”

She considered this, then accepted the spoon when he held it up. Half the pudding made it into her mouth. The rest touched the corner of her lip, and before she could become aware of it and cry, Garrett wiped it away with his thumb. 

His movements were so automatic, so quiet, that the boys seemed to collectively decide they hadn’t seen it. Or maybe they had seen it and understood, for once, that teasing him here would get them murdered in their sleep.

She swallowed carefully, eyes closing as if pudding had restored some essential part of her soul. “Chocolate.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re good at husband.”

Garrett’s thumb paused against the pudding cup. Dean made a tiny sound of delight and immediately covered it with a cough.

Garrett looked down at her, the spoon still held between them. “Am I?”

She nodded, cheek rubbing against his shoulder. “You got soldiers for my mouth.”

“I did.”

She blinked down at the pudding cup, still deeply moved by it. “And pudding.”

“Also did that,” he said.

Her swollen mouth shifted around the gauze as she looked up at him again. “And you didn’t let the nurse steal me.”

“I wasn’t super worried about that one.”

“She liked me,” she mumbled.

“She gave you gauze and told you not to use a straw,” he reminded her.

“Because she liked me,” she said, with the stubborn certainty of someone who had absolutely decided the nurse was emotionally invested.

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Probably.”

She accepted another spoonful, then sighed through her nose and settled heavier into his side. Her whole body had begun to soften in increments, the initial weepy panic draining into that boneless post-surgery exhaustion that made her limbs seem too heavy for the couch. 

Garrett shifted the ice pack from the pharmacy bag and wrapped it in a towel, then laid it gently against the side of her jaw. She flinched at the cold, eyes snapping open in betrayal. “Garrett.”

“I know. Sorry. Just for a little bit.”

“You froze my face!”

“Your face was already pretty frozen, wifey.”

She stared at him. Then, very slowly, her mouth curved around the gauze in something that might have been a smile if her cheeks weren’t swollen. “You called me wifey.”

“I always call you wifey.”

“Because I’m your wife.”

“Because you steal my hoodies and yell at my teammates.”

“That’s wife work.”

Dean lifted a finger. “Can confirm.”

Garrett pointed the spoon at him. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m supporting the institution of marriage.”

She reached for the ice pack and missed it completely, her hand landing on Garrett’s forearm instead. Her fingers stayed there, lightly gripping. “Where’s my camera?”

Every man in the room reacted at once.

“No,” Garrett said.

Logan said, “Absolutely not.”

Tucker said, “Maybe later.”

Dean said, “For historical record–”

Garrett turned his head. “Dean.”

Dean lifted both hands. “I’m withdrawing.”

She looked offended. “I need content.”

“You need pudding and a nap,” Garrett said.

“My followers need transparency.”

“Your followers don’t need anesthesia footage.”

“That’s censorship,” she whined, half-mumbling. 

“That’s love.”

She frowned, trying to work through that, then leaned close to him with the ice pack slipping slightly against her cheek. Garrett caught it before it fell and held it in place, his other arm wrapping around her shoulders. 

She blinked up at him, lashes heavy, eyes still glossy but no longer actively spilling over. “You love me?”

His face gentled so fast it did something strange to the room. Even Dean went quiet, grin fading into something softer and less performative. Logan looked down at the orange juice in his hand like he had suddenly realised he’d been holding it too long. Tucker resumed folding one of Garrett’s shirts with exaggerated care.

“Yeah, baby,” Garrett said, voice low enough that it almost didn’t belong to the room. “I love you.”

She breathed out, the sound shaky and sweet through her nose. “That’s good.”

“Yeah?”

“Because I love you too much.”

His mouth tipped up. “Too much?”

“Like medically.”

“Medically,” he repeated.

She nodded, solemn again. “It’s probably in my chart.”

“I’ll ask the surgeon.”

“Nope. HIPAA.”

Dean whispered, “She’s still got it.”

Garrett laughed then, quiet and helpless, pressing his mouth briefly to the top of her head. “Yeah, she does.”

She informed Logan that orange juice was fruit soup. She looked at Dean for nearly ten seconds and asked whether he had ever considered behaving, which made him press one hand to his chest and tell her he didn’t appreciate being attacked in his own home. 

She asked Garrett if his skates missed him when he wasn’t wearing them, and when he said probably, she nodded like that had been weighing on her.

Through all of it, Garrett sat beside her with the ice pack held to her jaw, spooning careful bites of pudding into her mouth whenever she remembered she was hungry, replacing the gauze when she made a tiny distressed sound and whispered that the soldiers had gone soggy.

He kept the aftercare sheet on his knee, one finger marking the medication schedule, his body curved around hers in a way that looked casual only if no one knew him well enough to read the vigilance in it. 

He didn’t crowd her. He didn’t baby her in a way that would embarrass her once she remembered herself. He just stayed close enough that every time she drifted, her hand found some part of him: his sleeve, his wrist, the drawstring of his hoodie, the hard line of his thigh against hers.

Eventually, her head tipped back against the cushion and her eyes moved across his face with slow, dreamy concentration. “Garrett.”

“Yeah?”

“You have to marry me.”

Dean’s eyes went bright again, but he wisely said nothing.

Garrett brushed a piece of hair away from her temple, careful not to jostle the ice pack. “Have to?”

She nodded. “Dean said you’re hot.”

Dean pointed at himself, delighted and silent.

“That’s a strong argument,” Garrett said.

“And I love you.”

His thumb stilled against her hairline. Outside, a car passed slow down the street, bass thudding faintly through the walls. But something in Garrett settled and unsettled at the same time, his expression caught for a breath between laughter and the kind of feeling he normally kept tucked somewhere safer.

“You do?” he asked, because he couldn’t not.

She blinked at him, almost offended by the question. “Duh.”

“Duh,” he echoed, smiling now.

“I’m gonna make you graphics.”

“For our wedding?”

“Mhm.” Her eyes fell half-shut. “Carousel post.”

“Of course.”

“Good lighting.”

“Obviously.”

“No Dean speech.”

Dean whispered, “What the fuck?”

Garrett’s grin widened. “No Dean speech.”

She relaxed, apparently comforted by this essential boundary. “Tucker can have soup.”

Tucker looked up. “At the wedding?”

“No, now.”

“Oh.” Tucker stood immediately, because Tucker was Tucker. “I can make soup.”

Garrett glanced at the aftercare sheet. “Not too hot.”

“Warm soup,” Tucker said, already heading for the kitchen. “Soft. No straws. I’m on it.”

Logan watched him go, then looked back at the couch. “Should I do something?”

Garrett considered him. “Don’t open the fridge again.”

Logan nodded. “Huge contribution from me.”

Dean leaned back in the armchair, still smiling. “This is honestly the most I’ve ever respected love.”

Garrett looked at him. “That’s concerning.”

“It’s the way she’s drugged out of her mind and still using good judgment.”

“She put you on thin ice.”

“Exactly,” Dean said. “Sharp instincts.”

She made a small noise from Garrett’s shoulder, not fully words, and Garrett’s attention snapped down. “You okay?”

“Mhm.” Her hand curled weakly in his hoodie again. “Don’t let my face fall off.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She hummed, sleepy and swollen and still faintly tragic. Garrett let his cheek rest against the top of her head for a second, just enough to breathe her in beneath the clinical smell of gauze and the sweet chocolate on her mouth and the cold pack pressed to her jaw. 

She was ridiculous. She was going to wake up later horrified by at least sixty percent of what had come out of her mouth. She was going to demand to know whether anyone filmed her, and he was going to say no, because he loved her enough to protect her personal brand from herself.

She was also, apparently, going to marry him one day. The thought moved through him slowly, without the sharp panic it might have carried with anyone else. It just sat there, warm and heavy and strangely easy, while she breathed against his shoulder and the boys pretended not to watch him soften over it.

After a while, Dean said, quieter than usual, “Hey, Graham.”

Garrett looked up.

Dean’s mouth twitched, but for once the teasing stayed gentle. “Your wife’s falling asleep.”

Garrett glanced down. Her eyes were closed now, lashes resting against cheeks puffed around the gauze, her hand still clutching his hoodie like even unconsciousness had standards. The ice pack had slipped a little, and he adjusted it carefully.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’ve got her.”

She stirred at his voice, barely opening one eye. “Husband?”

Dean’s face collapsed silently into laughter.

Garrett’s hand covered hers where it held his hoodie. “Yeah, wifey?”

“Can I have twenty dollars?”

Logan made a sound like he’d been punched. Garrett stared at her for half a second, then bowed his head, shoulders shaking as the laugh finally got loose. 

She blinked up at him, confused by the movement, and he kissed her forehead before she could decide to be upset about it.

“Yeah, baby,” he said, still smiling against her skin. “After your nap.”

She sighed, pleased and victorious, and tucked her face more securely into his shoulder.

Dean wiped under one eye. “For chocolate?”

Garrett looked at him over her head. “Do not make her answer that.”

But she did anyway, voice small and muffled and already half-dreaming against Garrett’s hoodie. “For my husband.”

Garrett stopped laughing.

Dean saw it, his grin softened into something unbearably smug, and Garrett knew with immediate certainty that he would be hearing about this until the end of time. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to threaten him properly, not with her warm and heavy against his side, not with pudding on the coffee table and gauze wrappers in his lap and her drugged-up certainty still sitting in his chest like something that had found a place to stay.

So he just pulled her a little closer, careful of her jaw, and rested his mouth against her hair. “Go to sleep, baby,” he murmured.

She made one last tiny sound, maybe agreement, maybe protest, maybe another medical opinion about her missing bones. Then she melted fully into him, the whole wild, brilliant machinery of her finally quieting beneath the weight of anaesthesia and chocolate pudding and Garrett’s hand moving slowly over her arm.

Across the room, Logan whispered, “So we’re all invited to the wedding, right?”

Garrett didn’t lift his head. “Only Tucker.”

“What?” Dean demanded, deeply wounded. “I supported your hotness.”

“You were on thin ice.”

Tucker appeared in the kitchen doorway with a saucepan in one hand and a dish towel over his shoulder, smiling at the couch like he was trying not to. “Soup’ll be ready in ten.”

Garrett looked down at the sleeping girl tucked into his side, her swollen cheek pressed to the ice pack, her fingers still curled in his hoodie, and felt the day settle around him in all its absurd, inconvenient sweetness.

“Make it fifteen,” he said quietly. “Let her sleep.”

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“Calm down.”

“I’m calm,” Dean barks down the stairs, standing on the landing as he looks down at him. “Does it look like I give a shit?”

“Greatly.” Beau’s voice breaks, his eyebrows softening as he holds back a nervous laugh. Dean rolls his eyes and pushes his sleeves higher on his forearms, his heavy feet pounding across the floorboards.

“Party’s over,” he shouts, banging his fist against Garrett’s door, knowing there isn’t a soul behind it but keeping up the act like he doesn’t know exactly where he’s going or who he’s looking for.

He grabs the handle of the shitty bathroom door, shoulder checking it rough enough to pop the little brass lock open with barely any effort at all.

Your eyes go wide in the dark as you look back at him from your place on the bathroom counter, your lips pulling away from Peyton’s as he splits your thighs.

The light from behind Dean sends his shadow across the floor, his shoulders rising and falling with every rough breath he takes.

“Get the fuck out.”

Your heart lurches as those four words leave his lips, making your stomach fall and your hands shake with adrenaline.

“Oh, sorry, buddy.” Peyton smiles, not quite gauging the temperature in the room or realizing that Dean’s restraint is hanging by a thread. He catches on fast enough, though, the smile slipping from his face as he mutters uneasily, “Is the party over? I—”

“Get… the fuck… out,” Dean repeats, slower and meaner, whatever buddy-buddy relationship they’d built from passing each other in the gym going out the window and fucking fast.

Peyton goes to help you off the counter, the confusion painted all over his face. “Don’t.” Dean’s hand shoots out, grabbing Peyton’s and shoving it away before he can reach you.

His eyes stay locked on yours as you slip off the counter by yourself, heels clicking across the floor as you scoff, but he reaches out for you.

“What the fuck, man?” Peyton calls back when he sees Dean stop you and you yank your arm away. Dean turns toward him before he can say another word, chest to chest, his eyes tight and his jaw locked.

“Get the fuck out of my house—she’s not comin’ with you.” The words come out flat and final as you blow out a frustrated breath. Peyton’s head swerves to look past him, back at you, but you wave him away with a sigh.

“Just go, Peyton. I’ll—I’ll call you later,” you mumble.

Dean grabs Peyton’s shirt, shoving him through the door before slamming it shut hard enough for the hinges to rattle on the frame. Your heart sinks, the corners of your lips trembling as you try not to smirk.

Because maybe this is exactly what you wanted to happen.

Your thumb flicks along the screen of your phone, opening the Uber app as Dean looks down at you, and he laughs cruelly, reaching out to hook one hand around your waist, the other fisting your hair before you can get another word out.

He kisses you deep and rough, pulling you closer, stealing the breath out of your chest. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers curling into the front of his shirt until you pull away first, leaving him chasing your mouth before he finds it.

Crack. Your hand slaps him so fast and sharp his head snaps to the side. Dean’s tongue presses against his cheek because he may have liked that a little more than he thought he would—and if he were in your good graces he’d probably beg you to do it again.

Dean’s hand rubs across his sharp jaw as he chuckles, red blooming on his cheek from the slap.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, tugging it out far enough to look down. He blows out a little whistle, letting a smile tug at his lips. “That was a close one—almost came.”

“Fuck you, Dean.” You try to walk past him, but he catches you, pulling you to his lips, kissing you so hard your back bends, his biceps flexing where your nails dig into his arms.

“You done yet?” he asks against your lips, his words humming against your mouth.

“Not really,” you whisper, and he huffs out a tight breath.

“Can’t believe you fuckin’ kissed him.”

“Can’t believe you wasted my fucking time,” you challenge him, his hold tightening on your hair, his grip strong on your body. “Again.”

“This is what you wanted, huh? My attention—you fuckin’ got it.”

“You think this was about getting your attention?” You smile against his lips, giggling with your soft exhale. “Baby, look at you.”

“The fuck are you hanging out with Peyton for anyways?”

“I don’t know,” you murmur, thinking it through just enough to piss him off some more. “Kinda into Briar football these days.”

He doesn’t even have a response to that, his jaw ticking as he swallows hard. You lick your lips slowly, taunting him.

“Jealousy looks good on you, Dean. Honesty would look even better.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” He steps into you, pressing you back until your back bumps the sink.

“You sure seem to care a lot for someone who doesn’t give a shit about me,” you whisper.

“Never said that,” he murmurs.

“Figured that part out on my own,” you whisper.

“Just get on your fuckin’ knees,” he mutters as he unbuckles his belt in one swift movement. Because you’re wrong—he cares way more than he wanted to, and now he’s in trouble.

“Say please,” you whisper.

He barks out a laugh, looking away from you as you stare up at him, but the only thing standing between him and the woman he wants is the word he fuckin’ hates.

“Say… please.” Your voice is so light and condescending he loses his train of thought.

“I’m not asking you again,” he warns, his head turning back toward you.

“Funny thing about that,” you whisper.

“Neither are you,” he mumbles. “Fuckin’ brat.”

“Holy shit, Di Laurentis,” you breathe, and he holds his breath for a moment, waiting for what you’ll say next. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

“Oh my god. Please.” He presses the word out fast. “Fucking please, okay?”

You hold his stare for another second, making him wait, before slowly lowering yourself in front of him.

“Mouth open. Tongue out. C’mon.” He doesn’t break eye contact, his glare searing right through you. Every inch of your skin prickles with lust. Your pulse races, and still you lean in.

Dean holds himself just out of reach at first, savoring your momentary obedience, watching the way your mouth opens without hesitation, your breath held as you wait. His cock is heavy in his fist, precum beading at the tip, and he knows you want it. That’s half the point.

He slaps it against your outstretched tongue. “You’re so easy to read, you know that?” he lies as a soft moan escapes your throat.

His cock slides along your tongue as your lips wrap around him, his hand settling in your hair again, guiding you—using you.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice low and rough as his fingers tighten in your hair, dragging your head back just enough for him to watch your lips stretch around him before bringing you forward again.

“Couldn’t just make this easy on me,” he mutters. “Losing my shit downstairs. Is that what you wanted?”

You hum around him, lashes fluttering, spit slicking your chin as he starts to thrust deeper. You sputter but you don’t stop.

His hand pushes you down until you’re throating his dick, your jaw sore, eyes stinging, but you don’t pull back.

His other hand grips the counter, knuckles white—his hips give this messy little jerk every time you take him deeper, his breath catching.

He watches you, possessiveness thick in the air between you. “Look at you,” he mutters. “Such a fuckin’ slut for me,” he hisses, breath ragged.

You can feel how close he is—the way his thighs go tight, the way his breath snags every time your tongue catches him just right.

His head tips back as he forces your mouth down one more time, burying himself so deep you gag around him, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes.

Dean drags you off with a rough hand, groaning as he strokes himself furiously, the head of his cock flushed an angry red as he gets so close to release he can barely speak. “Keep that mouth open for me,” he pants. “Wanna see it—”

And then he shudders, thick ropes spilling hot and messy across your tongue, your lips, your chin, dripping down your throat as you hold your position, eyes glassy and wide as the last of him pulses onto your waiting tongue.

“Look at this mess, baby,” he hums. “That’s mine. All of it. Just fuckin’ mine…”

He hauls you to your feet, his mouth crashing against yours in a wet, owning kiss. He spins you toward the mirror, still holding your hair, forcing you to look.

Dean’s big hand splays flat over your stomach, pinning you tight to the cool counter, your reflection hazy in the mirror—your hair tangled, mouth parted, eyes wet as he stands behind you.

“Can’t even fight that fucking smile,” he mutters as his hand slides down your stomach and under your skirt, pawing down your panties in one harsh pull.

You bite your lip as a grin tips at the corner of your mouth, but you shake your head no. His forehead falls to your shoulder as he pushes out a sharp breath through his nose, his fingers gliding up your pussy, feeling how wet you are.

“This for me?” he asks, his voice hoarse with want and frustration.

You keep the yes to yourself, letting him suffer instead, the look on your face a subtle reminder that you didn’t come in here with him to begin with—the thought of you and Peyton locked away in his house before he stormed in nothing short of a nightmare to him.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters against your skin.

His eyes catch yours in the mirror as his lips press to your neck, trailing down. Then he bites hard, teeth sinking into you, your fingers bracing the countertop as he pushes his cock into your wet pussy in one rough thrust.

He goes completely still, his forehead dropping against you as both hands find your lower back. The breath that leaves him is long and deep, a drawn-out sigh of relief as he feels you around him, your body under his hands, your skin against his lips as he breathes in your perfume.

“Feels so—so fucking good, baby,” he mumbles against you, so fucked-out and gentle you almost don’t catch it.

He pulls back his hips, drawing out of you slowly enough that you hear it, shoving himself back in so rough you gasp, his hand reaching out to catch you as your palms slap against the bathroom counter.

He dips his head in again, his gold chain tumbling out of his shirt, the pendant with your initial landing against your shoulder—the playboy, so tremendously down bad you can’t help the teasing laugh that bubbles from your lips.

He gives you a look like he’s annoyed—like he’s tired of your shit but the feeling’s mutual.

“Tell me what you want, Dean,” you sigh.

He rolls his eyes in frustration, and a laugh slips past your lips before his hand drifts up your neck, two fingers hooking into one corner of the mouth he just claimed.

The free corner of your lips curls into a smirk, and he blows out a breath, his eyes challenging yours before he breaks.

“Only you.”

As president of your sorority, you treated the position with the utmost respect, trying your best to uphold the values of your chapter and lead by example. Throughout your tenure, you built a reputation as a hard-working fashionista with a heart of gold—and anyone who underestimated you because of how you looked or dressed soon discovered you were a force to be reckoned with.

Wanting to follow in your mother’s footsteps, you aspired to become a high-powered attorney and use your influence to make the world a better place.

Determined to achieve your lofty goals, you kept your nose to the grindstone and never got too involved in the party scene on campus—you were probably the furthest thing from a puck bunny imaginable.

You didn’t do casual hook ups. Didn’t smoke or drink to excess or take any drugs. You maintained a perfect GPA, and when you weren’t busy with your studies or handling chapter business, you spent your time volunteering for worthy causes like organizing food drives or helping out at local animal shelters.

In your minimal spare time, you ran a popular online fashion account, which scored you loads of free samples and invites to exclusive events. Your thousands of dedicated followers hung on your every word, swearing by your styling tips and easy to follow makeup tutorials. Call it superficial, but in your opinion you were providing an important public service—everyone deserved a chance to look their best and feel good about themselves.

Despite your busy schedule, you kept your finger on the pulse of the latest gossip on campus, and even though you didn’t make it your business to hook up with randos at bars or parties, you also didn’t live under a rock.

As such, you’d heard plenty about Garrett Graham over the years. Tall, dark and ruggedly handsome; he was the Briar Hawks’ most celebrated player and a draft pick for the Bruins, which made him a very hot commodity amongst the single ladies on campus.

Even though you had never spoken to him directly, you’d heard enough rumors about the infamous hockey captain to fill a rather thick book—and to know that it was in your best interest to stay far away.

According to what you’d gleaned through the sorority grapevine, Garrett was pretty straightforward about not wanting any kind of relationship or commitment. Even so, many girls had assumed they could change his mind and had been disappointed when they’d found out that wasn’t the case.

He sounded exceedingly full of himself and cocky, which wasn’t much of a surprise. You knew his type, having encountered plenty of guys like him back at your posh private school. Men who’d always had everything handed to them on a silver platter and expected the world to kneel down and worship at their feet…aka definitely not your type.

Though sometimes you weren’t even sure what that was anymore.

Between keeping up with your classes, your duties as president and maintaining a social media presence, you hardly had any time left to focus on dating. Meeting a nice guy and falling madly in love was an important part of your future plans, it just didn’t fit into your current busy schedule.

It wasn’t that you were a prude or hadn't fooled around with guys before—you had it on very good authority that you were an excellent kisser.

You had needs just like anyone else, and sometimes in a moment of weakness, you would fantasize about what it would be like to hook up with someone like Garrett. To let go of your inhibitions and allow yourself one night of meaningless pleasure with a hot muscular jock who only wanted to use you for your body. To feel his strong hands exploring your skin while his weight pressed you into the mattress and his hard—well…you get the point.

As soon as your thoughts started to drift in that direction and the temptation became too much to bear, you would remind yourself that those urges were the reason you owned a cute pink bullet vibrator and possessed an imagination.

Your Prince Charming was out there waiting for you somewhere—you just had to be patient until the time was right. In the meantime, flings with the unserious men your age would only lead to problems that could potentially derail your ambitions.

Over the years you’d see too many other girls sideline their own dreams chasing after mediocre men, shedding wasted tears over fuckboys who used and discarded women like they were changing their socks.

That was never going to happen to you.

A Halloween party at a Sigma Tau frat house wasn’t your scene, but your best friend Hailey had convinced you to accompany her that evening by saying it would be a good opportunity for you to keep an eye on new pledges who might get led astray.

After being close friends for so long, she knew just what to say to get you to change your mind—and as much as it annoyed you to admit, she was right.

From your experience those types of parties could get pretty wild at times, and you figured it wouldn’t hurt for you to tag along and provide a little gentle supervision. Just imagining Garrett Graham and his fellow hockey goons dressed up in their lame ass costumes, hitting on your pledges made you grimace with disgust.

Since it was a costume party and you had no time to go shopping due to it being a last minute decision, you were forced to throw together an impromptu outfit on the fly. Thankfully you had plenty of options.

You combed through your wardrobe in a rush, finally selecting a white off the shoulder mini dress you’d bought on a whim but never had any reason to wear. Going with an angelic theme to match, you paired it with a set of feathery wings and a halo you’d bought for an ethereal-inspired photo shoot for your fashion blog the year before. You finished off the look with several layered strings of pearls and a pair of vintage white leather knee-high boots.

Stepping back to examine yourself in the mirror, you had to admit you didn’t look half bad.

Yes, maybe your outfit was a little more on the immodest end of the spectrum than you usually allowed yourself at a university-related event, but everyone knew that Halloween didn’t count.

A short while later, Hailey walked into your bedroom and stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of you in the tiny dress that skimmed the top of your thighs and revealed a scandalous amount of cleavage.

“Holy shit—you look so hot,” she blurted out in amazement before she could stop herself.

She had dressed up as a sexy cat lady, just like she did every year for Halloween, slinky and gorgeous in a black leotard with cute little plastic kitty ears.

“Gee, thanks.” You jokingly rolled your eyes then walked over to your vanity to finish putting on your makeup. “Should I be offended that you sound so surprised?”

You watched her shake her head behind you in the mirror’s reflection. “No, I just mean—you always look so put together and perfect. This is a little trashy…in a good way. I like it.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror, adjusting your halo with a frown. “You think so?”

She lifted her eyebrows up and down, giving you a teasing smile. “Girl, you’re going to have every guy in there bricked up and drooling over you.”

“Ew.” You suppressed a grin as you grabbed your gold body shimmer and sprayed a little over the exposed skin of your chest and shoulders. “That’s definitely not my intention. I’m merely going as an observer.”

Then you stood up, spinning around in a swirl of gauzy fabric and sparkly feathers to give your feline friend a stern look.

“And I’m only staying long enough to make sure the girls are okay, then I’m leaving. Got it?”

When Garrett spotted you across the crowded living room, you took his breath away.

He was pretty sure he’d never laid eyes on such a perfect creature, standing there before him with your halo aglow in the reflection of warm fairy-lights. It was like you were an apparition—an angel. His dream girl plucked straight out of the heavens above and dropped right into his lap.

No one would have ever mistaken him for a sappy or romantic type of guy when it came to matters of the heart, but when your eyes met across the makeshift dance floor, he could’ve sworn he felt something pass between you—like meeting you was his fate. His destiny.

Parting the crowd, he approached you with a confident grin. “Have we met?”

“I don’t think so.” You gave him a tight-lipped smile, still swaying to the music and trying to appear unbothered by his presence.

He looked ridiculously handsome in his white dress shirt and cape. You could already feel your traitorous heart start to beat a bit faster as his eyes swept over your costume, lingering on your glittery chest.

“Such a perfect angel,” you heard him murmur over the music in the background, and you felt a telltale warmth slowly creep up your neck to heat your cheeks.

Hailey had been gone to the washroom for what felt like hours, and you silently wished for her return.

“What are you supposed to be? A vampire?” you asked over the music thumping in the background. His costume had to be one of the laziest you’d ever seen—just a white button up shirt and a drugstore costume cape. He didn’t even have a pair of plastic fangs.

“Uh, no. A magician.” He smiled and you could feel your resolve weakening at his smoldering gaze and the way one perfect dark curl fell into his forehead, like he’d planned it that way. You could suddenly sympathize with all those other girls before you who had fallen for his charms.

It was infuriating.

“A magician without a hat or wand?” you questioned. “You mustn’t be very good at magic.”

“Well, I made you appear.” His eyes danced with mischief as he smirked, appearing pleased with himself.

Fuck. That had to be the most cringeworthy line you’d ever heard in your entire life—so why did the way he was looking at you have you clenching your thighs?

To avoid saying anything else that might encourage him, you took a sip of your vodka cranberry and scanned the room for your missing friend, cursing her for deserting you at such an inconvenient time.

Sensing he wasn’t getting anywhere with you, Garrett tried another approach.

“I swear I’ve seen you somewhere before. You look so familiar…uh…” he hesitated, snapping his fingers as if trying to recall your name. For some unknown reason, you felt compelled to help him out.

As soon as you told him, he acted like he’d known that information all along. “Right, how could I forget?”

You suppressed the urge to roll your eyes at his horrible acting. The guy was so full of shit.

Then he leaned in closer, bedroom eyes heavy and voice a low rumble against your ear. “Well, aren’t you going to ask for mine?”

When he pulled back with a smug grin, you giggled and shook your head. “Oh, I know exactly who you are.”

Before he could respond, you turned to walk away, leaving him clutching his beer and staring after you with a dumbfounded expression as you disappeared into crowd. He wasn’t exactly sure what had just happened, but he knew he wasn’t satisfied with how it ended.

And he knew he wanted more.

For the rest of the night, he watched you from afar while you danced and laughed with your friends. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, the force of your attraction so strong it drew him to you without even trying.

He left the party early due to an early morning practice, but when he got home, instead of sleeping he ended up in bed on his phone going down an internet rabbit hole to feed his curiosity—and the more he learned about you, the more enamored he became.

When he searched your name, he found an impressive number of articles about your volunteer work and academic achievements. He spent hours watching the videos and reels on your social media accounts, smiling to himself at how adorable and engaging you were. Turned out you were gorgeous, smart and funny—the whole package.

He admired your drive and determination. He loved the fact that you were passionate about fashion and following your dreams. He also spent an obscene amount of time staring at your thirst traps—he was only human, after all.

It was almost unbelievable to him that he’d somehow avoided meeting you during his time at Briar U. Where had you been hiding? Had his dream woman really been right under his nose all along?

Determined to win you over, he decided that a persistent but respectful approach would be required to impress a girl like you. You didn’t seem like the type who would respond well to a late night DM looking for a booty call.

In that spirit he showed up to your residence the next evening, dark curls neatly slicked back and a bouquet of pink carnations in hand.

He had never done the formal dating thing before and was more of a hook up kind of guy, so he felt a bit out of place and vulnerable standing on your front step, scuffing his feet and nervously adjusting the collar of his letterman jacket.

When the doorbell rang, you were in the process of trying to get some well-angled shots of your new metallic bikini for your fashion account. Startled by the jarring sound in the otherwise quiet house, you nearly dropped the ring light you’d been carefully adjusting.

Since nobody else appeared to be home or capable of answering the door, you hastily threw on a slinky silk robe over your swimsuit and stomped downstairs as the doorbell continued to ring.

“Omg…just hold on a minute,” you muttered under your breath.

The front of your robe pulled apart when you threw open the door to see none other than Garrett Graham standing on the doorstep before you.

He stared at you in silence, his greedy eyes unsure of where to look first. There was so much of you on display, skin glowing and smooth, nipples firm and standing at attention through the thin material of your top—it was like one of your sexy selfies come to life.

“Stop staring,” you snapped in embarrassment, pulling your robe closed to cover yourself. “I was just taking pictures for my blog. You interrupted me.”

“Right. Sorry.” He grinned, eyes warm and crinkling at the corners as he assessed your pouty lips. “You look good.”

“Ugh,” you huffed and rolled your eyes. “Which girl are you here for tonight? I’ll send her down.”

“Um, actually, it’s…you?” he admitted, voice a bit tight as he stumbled over the words. “I was wondering if maybe you’d want to go grab a burger or something?”

“A burger? With you?” You raised a disbelieving eyebrow as he awkwardly shifted from foot to foot. “Are you serious?”

He smirked, eyeing your robe. “Yeah. I mean, unless you have a better idea.”

You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the way his deep voice caused an unwelcome tingle between your thighs. Treating him to the iciest glare you could manage, your words dripped with disdain.

“Just so we’re clear, I wouldn’t go on a date with you if you were the last man on earth.”

Garrett’s eyes widened in surprise and he held up his hands in surrender. “No wait—hold on. I was just kidding around.”

“Well, it wasn’t funny.” You crossed your arms in front of your chest and frowned. “Does that kind of thing really work on girls?”

He chuckled to himself then shrugged. “I mean, yeah. Most of the time.”

“I see.” You sniffed, turning up your nose. “Well, I have no intention of being one of your little puck bunnies.”

And in that moment, Garrett knew he had it bad—so fucking bad.

The haughty flutter of your lashes. The glossy pout of your lips. The sweet scent of your perfume that filled his lungs while you tapped your foot with impatience. You weren’t like any other girl he’d ever met, and his breath caught in a heady rush at the way your pretty eyes narrowed in on him with distaste.

You were impossible. You despised him.

And it was irresistible.

Garrett knew he should give up while he was already down for the count, but he couldn’t resist the urge to tease you even further and get the final word. See that fire in your eyes flare one last time.

“See, I don’t think you really mean that,” he quipped, watching your mouth part in indignation. “I think you want to be one more than you’ll admit.”

He immediately regretted his decision as he watched the heavy front door of your residence slam shut in his face.

Garrett had never experienced that kind of rejection before, and he huffed a laugh as he stood there still holding onto your flowers, undeterred. He had no intention of giving up, in fact, your reaction only strengthened his resolve to win you over. Apparently he had a thing for girls who played hard to get.

And he was going to get you.

Later, when you filled your sorority sisters in on what had happened, you were surprised when they urged you to stop being so uptight and give “poor” Garrett a chance.

“He doesn’t date or do girlfriends,” Ana breathlessly informed you. “Everyone at Briar knows that. Do you realize how crazy it is that he came here to ask you out? With flowers?”

“He wants you bad,” Hailey agreed, vigorously nodding her head. “Come on, you’d make such a hot couple.”

Treating your friends to a scrunched-nose look of disgust, you had to wonder what it was about Garrett Graham that made women lose their collective minds.

You just didn’t get it.

Yeah sure, you could admit he was good looking and had the potential to be mildly charming. And you supposed being a team captain demonstrated leadership and determination—which were traits you could admire and something you had in common.

But his cocky personality was just so off-putting.

You figured once Garrett finally got the hint that you weren’t going to sleep with him, he’d move on and leave you alone. There were plenty of other girls at Briar who would do anything for the chance to temporarily decorate his arm.

Just then you saw a new follower notification pop up on your phone, immediately followed by a DM from none other than the man himself.

>> Hey, just wanted to say I’m sorry about before. Would you believe me if I said I was nervous?

The show of remorse from Garrett was refreshingly unexpected, though you found it hard to imagine him being overcome by nerves in any situation.

>> Apology dinner Friday night?

You had to hand it to him, the guy was persistent.

“Why are you looking at your phone like that? Is it him?” Hailey asked, hope lighting up her face. When you reluctantly nodded, she squealed in delight. “Well? Come on…what did he say?”

“He asked me out again.” You rolled your eyes then looked at your friends for advice. “Should I even bother answering?”

“Yes! Tell him you’ll go!” Ana cried, clapping her hands together with barely contained excitement.

Letting out a sigh, you hesitated a moment before writing back.

>> Give me one good reason I shouldn’t block you

You could tell Garrett was writing back from the ellipsis that appeared on the screen.

Wanting some privacy, you stood up and excused yourself, telling the girls that you were going to try and get some reading done before bed. Of course, they protested, but you didn’t budge.

“Promise you’ll tell us everything,” Ana called out at your retreating back, and you smiled at her over your shoulder, swearing you’d fill them in on any new developments in the morning.

Garrett’s next message popped up on the screen as soon as you shut your bedroom door.

>> You tell me. What’s it going to take?

You sat down on your bed, chewing on your bottom lip. For some reason you couldn’t bring yourself to ignore his message, even though you knew you should.

You decided to buy yourself some time.

>> Let me think about it.

He was quick to respond.

>> About blocking me? Or dinner?

Smiling to yourself, you set your phone down on your nightstand so you could go change into your pjs and grab your history textbook. While you were getting dressed, you hummed a cheery little tune. Even though you found Garrett annoying and obnoxious, you had to admit it still felt pretty good to have a guy like him beg for your attention.

For the next half hour you tried to focus on your studies, but after reading the same line three times in a row, you finally gave up and set down your textbook with a sigh. Even with a big history test looming on the horizon, you couldn’t seem to settle down and concentrate.

Hoping all you needed was a good night’s sleep to help clear your mind, you shut off your lamp and got under the sheets.

But as soon as you closed your eyes, you were tormented with visions of a familiar chiseled jaw and wavy dark hair. Six pack abs, bulging biceps and thick thighs the size of small tree trunks consumed your fevered thoughts. Tossing and turning in your tangled sheets, it was like you couldn’t stop thinking about Garrett, no matter how hard you tried.

In your desperation, you knew there was only one solution that would truly end your strife. Reaching for your nightstand drawer, you felt around inside until your fingers located the smooth silicone of your vibrator.

Turning it on, you slipped it under the band of your pj shorts and sighed with relief when you felt its gentle pulsing vibration teasing over your sensitive clit.

At that exact moment, you heard your phone buzz on your night stand. With a frustrated sigh, you shut off the vibrator and grabbed your phone, paranoid it might be something urgent at that late hour.

>> Well? Did you think it over yet?

Looking up at your ceiling while trying to catch your breath, you had a sudden realization—if Garrett was really that desperate to take you out, maybe you should have a little fun with it.

He didn’t do girlfriends or relationships, so it wasn’t like a date with him would have to mean anything. And you definitely didn’t like him as a person, so there was no danger of you developing a crush.

Maybe it could be your chance to finally have that night of meaningless hot sex you’d been craving with no risk of emotions getting involved. Your schedule was too busy for the complications of a real relationship, but Garrett was the opposite of boyfriend material.

Fooling around with him might be the very thing you needed to clear your mind and help you focus on your studies.

Best of all, you wouldn’t have to feel guilty because Garrett deserved to be used. From what you’d heard, he had been doing the same thing to girls for years and it was high time he got a taste of his own medicine.

Pursing your lips, you typed a quick message.

>> Fine. But just so you know, I prefer roses.

Then you sent him your number, smiling to yourself as you settled back against your pillows, the soft buzz of your vibrator once again filling the air.

Garrett didn’t know it yet, but he had finally met his match.

to be continued? 🤍

a/n: i got this idea while on vacation and decided to write it down. if you like it and want more lmk!! tag list is open (18+ only) 🫶

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1.

Early on in your relationship with Dean you made a few things clear. The most important of those being that you both had to communicate in a way that the other would understand.

That includes your love languages.

You learned very quickly that physical touch was what Dean liked and needed. If the going gets tough, you leaned on words of affirmation a bit, too.

On the other hand, you have always been partial to acts of service.

Dean didn't ask you what that meant, so you assumed he understood.

But, away from you, Dean asked many questions.

At the Hockey House, the guys snorted when they heard the question.

It's not everyday that the resident fuckboy asks what acts of service are and if thats an innuendo he failed to read.

Logan snorted and rolled his eyes, deciding to let the scene play out without his interference.

Tucker let out a tired sigh, way too akin to that of a teacher whose heard one too many stupid questions for their patience to not run thin.

Garrett was the only one who provided anything of use. After laughing his ass off, of course.

"Okay. Acts or service isn't a sex thing, Dean. It just means she likes small gestures. Like opening the door for her or making her coffee the way she likes it, bro", Garrett earnestly answers.

Dean lets out a sigh of relief. "That's easy. I just have to pay attention", he sounds way too confident for everyone liking.

"Easier said than done", Tucker mutters under his breath.

Logan had already left the room and Garrett wasn't too far behind. Something about texting Hannah that Dean's suddenly become a romance guru.

Despite his not-so-great track record and his teammates' lack of belief in him, acts of service came easily to Dean.

He wasn't sure if it was because he was trying his hardest to love you the right way or if it was that loving you came so easily that the rest just followed.

For instance, during date nights.

You and Dean have a system where he picks where date night will be one week and you pick the time after.

Your turn has become predictable.

Nine out of ten times you're going to choose the local Mexican spot. It's small and not at all fancy. Exactly how you like it.

You always either get al pastor tacos or quesabirrias. Both of which require (atleast in your books) some lime to be squeezed on top.

With your nails being freshly done, you hesitated to get them all dirtied up. Once, that is.

Dean saw you take a longing look at the limes for a second too long.

Immediately, he asked, "Can I?"

You nodded, suprised he noticed your lime-related troubles.

He squeezed the lime juice all over the tacos like it was nothing.

And, sure, it wasn't a big deal.

But, often the smallest gestures mean the most.

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2.

Ever since studying at Briar, your favorite dessert has changed for the better. Before college, you lived and died for raspberry cheesecake.

Now, Della's cherry pie reigns supreme.

You don't get to eat it often, though.

With your closing shifts at Malone's, late-night study sessions, and weekly date nights, you don't find yourself at Della's as often as you used to.

Today's different.

The entire group's meeting up at the 50's-themed diner to celebrate the team's success at the Frozen Four.

When you arrive, everyone's already sitting.

Logan whistles at your entrance and Tucker jokes that he can't believe they've all been graced with your presence after all.

You roll your eyes and jokingly flip them off.

In no time, the conversations pick up and laughter becomes the background music of the hour.

You realize Dean has his hand on a fork that's barely touching a slice of cherry pie. You raise an eyebrow and your eyes signal towards the pie.

"Oh. This?", he asks.

You nod. "You don't like anything cherry", you remind him. As if he doesn't know himself, you realize a second too late.

"I know. I saved it for you", he explains.

"Oh", your mouth is left slightly gaping.

"The guy ordering at the counter was gonna grab it. I asked him if I could take it instead. I think if he hadn't seen the jacket he would have left with it", he says, referring to his Hawks Letterman jacket.

"Big-time star saved me a slice? What did I do to deserve this?", you joke. You don't think your sarcasm does a good enough job to hide the blush on your cheeks, though.

He smirks, but thinks better than saying what he wanted to.

Instead, he scooches you closer to him.

Your thighs are pressed against Dean's and your left hand is wrapped up in his.

Your right hand and 70% of your attention is wrapped up in the last slice of cherry pie.

The other 30% is all Dean.

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3.

The last time Dean had the dorm all to himself was last Labor Day. For whatever reason, none of the guys were home and no parties called his name.

Before today.

Tucker's staying at Sigma Tau, Logan's spending the night with Grace since Ramona's out of town, and Garrett is in Boston on some Bruins media run.

This means you're definitely coming over for date night.

You were surprised when he told you the location of date night (his turn and all), but even more surprised when he mentioned dressing nicely.

When you arrive at the famous Hockey House in a red mini dress and platforms, Dean looks the part. He also looks suspiciously sheepish.

The countertop is decorated nicely, three fake candles and rose petals adorning the space.

Once you've sat, he clears his throat.

"You're probably wondering why you're dressed formally at the dorm", he begins. You nod, willing him to get on with it. "I had a plan. It was a good one. An ambitious one. But, uhm, not a very successful one", he rambles on.

"Dean", you say sternly.

Instead of responding he turns around and grabs two plates.

Before setting them down he says, "Don't laugh."

It was impossible not to when you realized what was right in front of you.

It was a sad excuse for chicken parmesan. Or, atleast you believe it was supposed to be.

The chicken was missing half it's breading and burnt to a crisp.

The pasta looked both raw and undercooked.

And the sauce...was closer to a tomato water than a marinara.

"Oh, baby", you managed once you stopped laughing.

The tips of Dean's ears were bright red (redder than the tomato sauce in front of you) and his eyes refused to look at his creation.

"This is so sweet", you say earnestly.

"It's inedible", Dean objects.

"Well, yes. But! You made it. For us", you argue.

"It was supposed to be big romantic gesture", he laments.

"It was! Nobody said romantic gestures have to be edible", you tease.

He grunts, but lets out a smile.

"Plus", you theorize. "Isn't it just as romantic to order from Tao's?"

Dean dramatically gasps. "Wooow. My efforts mean nothing to you, do they?"

You dissolve into a puddle of laughter. "I love you. So much. Your cooking "skills" on the other hand..."

Dean tickles you until you're begging for mercy.

Not every romantic gesture is successful. But, they are all appreciated in your book.

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4.

Sometimes you stare at Dean's hair with pure jealousy in your heart.

It's straight and thin, the exact opposite of yours.

Your hair has been unruly all your life. It's curly in most places and wavy in others. It's layered and thick.

Don't get me wrong, it's beautiful. But, the upkeep is...tiring.

Washing your hair is a weekly event. It takes so long you could probably watch a mini-doc in the time it takes you to get your hair in shape.

Dean knows you hate wash days. To make it even a little more manageable, he usually tries to brighten your mood.

He'll bring you a matcha or sit around with you while your hair mask does its wonders.

He's watched you wash your hair almost as many times as you've watched him play hockey.

Today, he's decided to lend a helping hand.

When he offered his hairwashing services, you figured he was joking.

"Ha ha, D. I know it's a mess, but it's a one person job", you insist.

"Yeah. I'll be the one person", he doubles down.

After twenty minutes of you insisting it wasn't necessary and Dean insisting otherwise, you were sat at the kitchen sink.

He's using the cowash. Correctly, you may add.

He's not too soft, but he's also not ripping your coils off your head.

You almost let out a moan at how well he's washing your scalp.

You didn't see it, but his smile widened when he realized how much you're enjoying this.

"Okay, now for conditioner", he mumbles.

You open one eye. "Be gentle when you're detangling, baby. My curls and your locks aren't the same", you softly remind him.

Again, he surprises you. He starts at your ends and works his way up to your roots. He doesn't yank or pull, he works at the strands until they're all untangled and soft.

Lastly, he washes out the conditioner. His rough hands do their best to treat your tender head nicely.

After an hour of the best hair wash of your life, Dean smiles. "All done."

You open your eyes to a very proud Dean...whose clothes are sticking to his defined chest.

You weren't gonna mention how he looked like he's been on a lazy river. He won that today.

"Thank you, baby", you start. "You really didn't have to."

"I wanted to", he informs you as his hands tangle with yours.

You kiss his jaw softly once. Then, twice. He groans and you stop there.

A kiss on his cheek is all you give him before you're up. "I still have to scrunch my hair. I'll be back", you wink at him.

When you came back out, you were dressed in his favorite lingerie set. Your wet hair was heavy on your back, but your heart felt light.

To have someone love you enough to make the things you dislike easier is a gift. You're not sure how you got so lucky.

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5.

Driving is not fun to you. At all.

When everyone was obsessed with getting their licenses in high school, you were too.

A freak car accident that left you with a concussion and a broken arm your senior year changed that forever.

But, still you had to drive out of necessity.

You don't live on campus and you like to visit your parents when you can. Only a car allows you to do these things.

Or, as it turns out, Dean does, too.

He learned quickly that driving was one of those unavoidable fears you faced everyday.

Maybe it was how tightly your knuckles gripped the steering wheel. Or how you checked your mirrors six times before you even turned on the car. It could have been the way you could barely speak when you're driving, too laser-focused on staring at every car and pedestrian outside your control that could change the course of your life forever.

Slowly, Dean made it so he would become the default driver no matter what.

To the grocery store? Oh, cool, he'll join in because he needs to buy ingredients Tucker's asked for.

You need to stop home to grab clothes? Perfect, he's been wanting to stop at the convenience store a block away.

Often his excuses were ridiculous. But, your phobia was so great that you couldn't find it in you to call his crap.

The weirdest thing, though, is that Dean hates driving, too.

Not that you know anything about it. But, most everyone else does.

It's a combination of things. Dean hates traffic. He hates not being on his feet, the car feeling like a cage he can't escape. He's also technically a New Yorker. What New Yorker drives?!

But, none of his sorry excuses compare to the watery eyes you looked at him with when you recounted the car accident. When you told him that you were trapped in the car for thirty minutes, praying to someone somewhere that you'd survive.

He'd rather feel annoyed and a bit of road rage every once in a while than ever put you in the position you dread being in again.

Love is inconveniencing yourself to make your loved one's life just a little easier.

Dean would put the world on his shoulders to take the burden off yours.

What's a drive in comparison?

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6.

The only reason you can attend BriarU is your academics. You were valedictorian of your school and wrote a killer Common App essay to cement your spot.

While the massive Dean's scholarship should give you some peace of mind, it honestly does the opposite. You feel like you have to work twice as hard as everyone to make sure you can be at the place the scholarship demands you stay in.

Due to this, you stay at the campus library until closing at least twice a week.

Dean tries to act like he doesn't, but he hates this habit of yours.

He worries. Worries you won't get home safe. Worries you won't get enough sleep. Worries you've got too much pressure on your shoulders at such a young age.

So, instead of texting you every five minutes (which has gotten him told off once...or twice), he's decided on a better alternative.

At eight, when the real studying begins, he shows up with a slice of cherry pie, an iced americano, and a club sandwich.

You're not sure how he got the delicious smelling food through Mrs. Dilano who once scolded you for bringing in a pack of saltines. But, that's a worry for another day. One when you're not starving and extremely grateful your boyfriend saved your night.

"Hey", you greet him with a warm smile.

"Hey, yourself", he responds.

He doesn't explain himself. He doesn't have to.

He simply sets the sandwich out of its aluminum wrapper, puts a napkin under your drink, and grabs a fork from his...back pocket (?!) to place next to the pie.

"I love you", he says once he's done. "Eat it all. Send me a picture when you're done so I can actually sleep well tonight."

Your insides melt into a puddle of goo.

"You didn't have to, Mama bear. But, I love you two", you tease.

He kisses your nose and lets his forhead settle on yours. "I know. We've established that, haven't we? I do things like this because I love you and I want you to know that in your language, too."

He was getting ready to walk right out the library when you pull him onto the seat next to you.

He stays. Not just until you're done eating your sandwich or nibbling through the pie.

He stays until you're ready to go. He doesn't speak much, but his presence is enough.

You don't think anyone sees Dean like this. Soft, comfortably quiet, and observant are not three adjectives anyone but you would use to describe him.

There are parts of this you’d never admit out loud. Not because they’re bad, but because people wouldn’t understand. The swollen feet, the aching joints, the way your nose changed just enough to throw you off when you caught your reflection. The acne that showed up like clockwork. All the things people complain about. And still, you’d do it again. You would take all of it again without hesitation. Even if, some nights, you wish you could set your belly down somewhere safe and pick it back up in the morning.

A face mask dries slowly against your skin as you lift your glass, taking a sip of cucumber water. Your hair is wrapped, your muscles are loose, and the soft hum of classical music fills the room. For once, your mind isn’t racing. You’re not thinking about schedules or plans or what comes next. You’re just… here.

Then the music cuts out.

The sudden ringtone feels louder than it should, sharp against the quiet. You open your eyes, lifting your head from the rolled towel behind your neck, already annoyed. You reach for your phone, expecting Becca or one of the pogues.

Instead, you freeze for a second. Rafe. FaceTiming you.

You frown slightly. He doesn’t usually FaceTime. It’s always a text, or a quick call if it’s about something specific since the two of you split. Never this. You prop the phone on the stool beside the tub and swipe to answer, not bothering to fix the angle. The camera points straight up at your ceiling.

“Hey, Rafe,” you say, voice easy as you lift one leg from the water, watching the soap slide down your skin.

“Hey… where are you?”

You glance over the edge of the tub, catching a partial view of his face on the screen. He’s leaning in, squinting slightly like he’s trying to figure out what he’s looking at.

“The tub,” you answer.

“Oh.” He pulls back, and the camera shifts enough for you to see more of him. He’s in his kitchen, one hand braced against the counter as he opens the fridge with the other. “Cool.”

You raise a brow, reaching for your loofah and dragging it lazily across your stomach. “What’s up?”

There’s a slight pause while he stares into the fridge like the answer might be in there. “You remember that pasta you made,” he says, “when you told me you were pregnant?”

You blink, thinking for a second. “The Cajun shrimp pasta?”

“Yeah. That one.”

You hum softly, rinsing the loofah and setting it aside. “I remember. What about it?”

“I’ve been craving it like hell,” he admits, closing the fridge with a soft thud. “Can you send me the ingredients or something?”

You tilt your head back against the tub, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re calling me… from your kitchen… to ask for a grocery list?”

“I’m resourceful,” he says dryly.

“You’re lazy,” you correct.

He huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a hand over his hair. “Same difference.”

You shift slightly in the water, grabbing your phone and angling it just enough so you can see him better. “You don’t even cook like that.”

“I’m trying,” he says, and there’s that word again. Trying. “Figured I’d start with something I actually want to eat.”

You study him for a second. He looks normal. Relaxed. Not forcing anything.

“You’re not gonna make it right,” you tell him.

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

He narrows his eyes slightly. “Wow. No faith.”

“None,” you say, taking another sip of your water. “You’re gonna call me halfway through asking what Cajun seasoning is.”

“I know what Cajun seasoning is,” he says, mildly offended.

“Do you?”

“…Yeah.”

You wait.

He exhales. “Okay, I’ll Google it.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Rafe.”

“What?”

You hesitate for half a second, then sigh, already knowing you’re about to make this more complicated than it needs to be. “Just come over tomorrow,” you say. “I’ll show you.”

There’s a brief pause on his end, like he wasn’t expecting that. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “It’s easier than explaining it over the phone.”

He nods slowly, something softer settling into his expression. “Alright. Tomorrow.”

You set your phone back down, letting your head rest against the towel again. “Don’t show up empty-handed.”

He smirks. “I literally just asked you for the ingredients.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Start there.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, and for a second neither of you says anything. It’s not awkward. Just… easy.

“I’ll text you,” he says after a moment.

“Okay.”

He lingers like he’s about to say something else, then doesn’t. “Bye,” he adds instead.

“Bye.” The call ends, and the bathroom falls quiet again.

The music doesn’t come back on right away. You stare at the ceiling for a second, your hand drifting back to your stomach, thumb brushing slow circles over your skin. Tomorrow. You sink a little deeper into the water, exhaling softly.

It’s just cooking. Nothing more.

-

You wake slowly, the kind of slow that comes from a full night’s sleep and nowhere urgent to be. Sunlight filters through your curtains, softer than the day before, warming the room just enough to make it hard to move. For a moment, you stay where you are, one hand resting over your stomach, letting yourself exist without thinking too far ahead.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it, squinting at the screen as you unlock it.

Rafe: What time were you thinking?

Your brows lift slightly as you read it, your thumb hovering for a second before it clicks. Cooking. You push yourself up against the headboard, adjusting the pillow behind you as you type back.

You: Later. Like 7?

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Rafe: Yeah that works. I’ll grab everything.

You stare at the message for a second, then type back.

You: Don’t forget anything lol

Rafe: I won’t.

You huff a quiet laugh and let your phone fall back onto your chest for a moment. Your hand drifts down to your stomach, thumb tracing slow circles.

“Seven,” you murmur under your breath. There’s time. Your phone buzzes again before you can move. You glance down, expecting another message from him, but instead you see JJ’s name lighting up the screen. You frown and answer, bringing the phone to your ear as you swing your legs over the side of the bed. “What?” you say, your voice still thick with sleep.

“Get dressed,” JJ says immediately.

You blink. “Good morning to you too.”

“Yeah, yeah, morning,” he says quickly. “Get dressed and come to Poguelandia.”

You rub your face with your free hand, already tired. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It is when I’m the one saying it,” he shoots back.

You push yourself to your feet and start toward the bathroom. “I’m not coming over there just because you’re bored.”

“I’m not bored,” he says, sounding offended. “We’re busy.”

“With what?”

There’s a pause. “Stuff.”

You stop in the doorway, narrowing your eyes slightly. “JJ.”

“Just come,” he says, a little more serious now. “Bring yourself. That’s all you need.”

You hesitate, glancing back toward your bed where your alarm clock still rests, Rafe’s messages fresh in your mind. Seven. You have time.

“What time?” you ask.

“Now.”

You let out a short laugh. “You’re insane.”

“And you love me,” he says easily.

You shake your head, stepping into the bathroom and turning on the sink. “I’ll think about it.”

“No, don’t think about it. Just get in your car.”

“JJ—”

“Thirty minutes,” he cuts in. “If you’re not here, I’m coming to get you.”

“You’re not coming to get me.”

“Watch me.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t quite stop the smile tugging at your mouth. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “See you soon.”

The call ends before you can argue again. You lower your phone slowly, staring at the screen for a moment before setting it down on the counter. Then you sigh and reach for your toothbrush. “Thirty minutes,” you mutter. Your hand drifts back to your stomach as you turn toward the mirror, rubbing lightly over the curve. “This better not be stupid.”

Even as you say it, you’re already shifting your day around in your head, already deciding what to wear, already planning how long you’ll stay. Seven. You’ve got time.

After showering and settling on a simple powder blue maxi dress with white flip-flops, you head downstairs with your phone and purse in hand. The weather is already warm, the kind of heat that settles in early and doesn’t let up, so you don’t bother overthinking your outfit. You make yourself a quick piece of toast even though you know it won’t do much for you or the baby, but it’s enough to hold you over for now. You grab your keys, lock the door behind you, and step outside, holding the toast between your teeth as you walk to your car.

On the drive over, you find yourself wishing, not for the first time, that you had a boat. It would have been the perfect day to take the water instead of driving through the Cut. Moments like this make you consider getting a bigger place altogether, somewhere with enough room for everyone, somewhere the Pogues could just stay without thinking twice. Not that they would. You know they’re happy where they are. Still, the thought lingers longer than you expect.

When you pull into the usual spot, you flip down the mirror and run your fingers through your hair, debating for a second before deciding it’s too hot to leave it down. You reach into the dash, digging around until you find a hair tie, and twist your hair into a loose, low bun. It’s quick, a little messy, but it works.

You step out of the car, lock it, and adjust your purse on your shoulder as you walk toward Poguelandia.

“Hello? JJ?” you call out as you step inside, moving cautiously.

“Surprise!”

All six of them jump out at once from different corners, and you nearly drop everything in your hands. Your heart jumps into your throat as you instinctively grab your chest, eyes wide. It takes a second for your brain to catch up, for the shock to settle into recognition, and then you see it. Pink balloons. Decorations strung across the space. A handmade sign that reads “Baby Y/L/N”.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, leaning back against the nearest counter as you try to steady yourself. “Jesus. You guys.”

You glare toward the boys, but there’s no real bite behind it.

Sarah is the first to reach you, pulling you into a hug. “How many months are you now?” she asks as she pulls back, her hands immediately finding your belly.

“Seven months yesterday,” you say with a small smile.

“Baby is gonna be stunning,” Cleo adds as she wraps you in a hug next.

“Not as stunning as you,” you shoot back, winking, which earns a laugh.

Kie hugs you after that, a little tighter, a little longer. “She’s gonna be so loved.”

That one hits you harder than the others. Your throat tightens before you can stop it, and for a second you just nod, blinking it away because she’s right. With people like this around, there’s no question about it.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “She is.” You turn toward the boys, crossing your arms loosely. “And by the way… thank you guys. This is really sweet. But just so you know… she’s going to be a Cameron.”

“I don’t know,” JJ says immediately. “I like Y/L/N better.”

“Agreed,” Pope adds. You roll your eyes, smiling as John B pulls you into a side hug.

You ease out of John B’s side hug, still smiling as you take everything in again, this time slower. The decorations are a little crooked, the balloons not perfectly spaced, the sign slightly uneven, but it feels warm in a way that’s hard to explain. Lived in. Thoughtful. You can tell they did this themselves.

“You guys really did all this?” you ask, glancing around.

“Yeah,” Kie says, brushing her hands together like she’s proud of it. “Don’t look too closely at anything. It’s all a little… improvised.”

“It looks good,” you say honestly, reaching out to adjust one of the ribbons that’s barely hanging on. “Better than good.”

JJ claps his hands once, already moving past the sentimental part. “Alright, enough emotions. We’ve got food, we’ve got games, and Pope made a schedule.”

Pope lifts a finger immediately. “It’s not a schedule. It’s just a general structure so things don’t fall apart.”

“They’re going to fall apart,” JJ says.

“They are not,” Pope argues.

“They already are,” John B adds, grabbing a chip from the table and eating it mid-conversation.

You laugh under your breath, moving toward the table to see what they’ve set up. There’s a mix of things that clearly didn’t come from the same place. A couple store-bought trays, some homemade dishes that actually look really good, and a pile of snacks that feel very on-brand for them. “You guys really went all out,” you say, picking up a strawberry and taking a bite.

“We had to,” Sarah says. “We missed the first one.”

You glance at her briefly, catching the way she says it lightly, but you can tell there’s a small part of her that means it. You swallow and nod.

“Well, this one counts more,” you say, and you mean it.

JJ points at you. “Exactly. That one was fancy. This one has personality.”

“And slightly expired chips,” Pope mutters under his breath.

“They’re not expired,” JJ snaps back. “They’re just… seasoned by time.”

You laugh again, shaking your head as you move around the space. Someone’s set up a few chairs in a loose circle, and there’s a small table off to the side with what looks like game materials thrown together at the last minute.

“What kind of games are we talking about?” you ask cautiously.

“The best kind,” JJ says.

“The worst kind,” Kie corrects.

Pope steps forward, holding up a piece of paper. “We have a few options. Baby trivia, guessing the due date, and-”

“Absolutely not,” you cut in immediately, already backing up.

“You didn’t even hear the last one,” he says.

“I don’t need to,” you reply.

Cleo laughs, leaning against the table. “We’re doing at least one. You don’t get to escape everything.”

You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Fine. One. And then I’m eating everything in sight.”

“Deal,” John B says, already reaching for more food.

You end up pulling you into a game anyway, something simple that quickly turns into chaos. JJ keeps changing answers just to mess with Pope, who’s trying to keep track of everything and failing. Sarah and Kie are actually trying, Cleo is half-participating, half-commenting, and John B is more interested in the snacks than anything else. You sit there in the middle of it, laughing harder than you have in a while, one hand resting over your stomach without even thinking about it. The noise, the arguing, the constant talking over each other- it should feel overwhelming, but it doesn’t. It feels familiar.

Easy.

At some point, you step back from it, just for a second, leaning against the edge of the table as you watch them. JJ is mid-argument, Pope is correcting him for the third time, and Sarah is laughing so hard she can barely breathe. It’s messy. It’s loud. Nothing about it is perfect. And still, your chest feels full in a way the other shower didn’t quite reach. Not because that one wasn’t good. It was. Thoughtful. Put together. Careful. This one just feels like you.

Kie nudges your arm lightly. “You okay?”

You blink, realizing you’ve been staring. “Yeah,” you say, smiling as you look back at her. “I’m good.”

She studies you for a second, then nods like she believes you. “Good,” she says. “Because we’re about to eat again.”

You laugh, pushing yourself off the table and moving back toward them. “Thank God,” you say.

-

After a while, someone -Pope, of course- decides it’s time to move on to gifts before everything gets too out of hand. They clear a space on the table, pushing plates and cups to the side, and you’re guided into a chair like this is something official.

“Alright,” Pope says, clapping his hands together once. “Let’s stay organized.”

“No one’s staying organized,” JJ mutters, dropping onto the arm of the couch.

“You can at least try,” Pope shoots back.

You laugh quietly as Sarah hands you the first bag. It’s a little wrinkled, the tissue paper already halfway falling out, but when you reach inside and pull out a tiny onesie, your chest tightens. It’s soft, pale pink, with a small embroidered sun stitched near the collar.

“Oh my God,” you say, smiling as you hold it up. “This is so cute.”

“Cleo picked that one,” Sarah says.

You glance over at her. “You have good taste.”

“I know,” she replies easily, but there’s a small smile there.

The next gift is from Kie, something more practical- baby blankets, neatly folded, in soft neutral colors. Then Pope gives you a set of baby books, already labeled in a way that makes you shake your head.

“You’ve been planning this,” you say.

“I like to be prepared,” he answers.

JJ’s gift comes last, and he hands it to you with a look that already makes you suspicious. “If this is a joke-”

“It’s not a joke,” he says, though he’s already smiling. You open it carefully, peeling back the paper to reveal a tiny pair of sneakers. You pause. They’re small, barely the size of your palm, laces already tied.

“They’re for when she learns how to run away from you,” JJ says.

You let out a soft laugh, your fingers brushing over them. “She’s not running anywhere.”

“Everyone runs eventually,” he shrugs.

You look down at the shoes for a second longer before setting them carefully with the rest of the gifts. “Thank you,” you say, quieter this time.

They brush it off like it’s nothing, like it wasn’t a big deal to them, but you can feel it anyway. Time slips by without you noticing. There’s more food, more talking, more laughter layered over everything, and before you realize it, the light outside has shifted. The air feels heavier, warmer in a different way.

“Wait,” you say suddenly, glancing toward the window. “What time is it?”

John B checks his phone. “Like… eight.”

Your stomach drops. Eight.

“Shit,” you breathe, already pushing yourself up from the chair.

“What?” Kie asks, watching you.

“I-” you stop, pressing a hand briefly to your stomach as you try to catch up with your own thoughts. “I forgot I had plans with someone.”

“With who?” JJ asks.

You’re already moving, grabbing your purse from the table. “Rafe.” That gets their attention. “He was supposed to come over,” you add quickly, already heading toward the door. “We were going to cook and I- I completely forgot.”

“Wow,” JJ says. “That’s cold.”

“Shut up,” you throw over your shoulder, but there’s no heat in it, just urgency. You turn back for half a second, looking at all of them, the decorations, the half-cleaned mess of plates and wrapping paper.

“Thank you,” you say again, more serious now. “All of you. This was… really, really nice.”

“You don’t have to rush,” Sarah says gently.

“I do,” you shake your head, already stepping backward toward the door. “I’ll see you guys later, okay?”

“Drive safe,” Pope calls after you.

“And text us,” Kie adds.

“Yeah, yeah,” JJ says. “Don’t forget about us now that you’ve got dinner dates.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you push the door open. “Goodbye,” you call out, already halfway out.

The air outside hits you immediately, warmer now, heavier with the start of night. You hurry to your car, keys already in your hand, your mind racing. Eight. You slide into the driver’s seat, your hand instinctively dropping to your stomach as you start the engine.

“Okay,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything. Then you pull out, heading home faster than you planned.

-

When you pull into the driveway, you ease the car over to the right side, your headlights briefly washing over the familiar shape of Rafe’s car parked on the left. It’s off, sitting there quietly like it’s been waiting.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath.

You grab your keys and step out quickly, the evening air cooler now, brushing against your bare arms as you circle around to the driver’s side of his car. You lean down just enough to see inside. He’s asleep.

The seat is reclined slightly, not all the way, just enough to make it comfortable. His head is tipped back, brows faintly drawn together the way they always are when he’s in a deep sleep. His arms are crossed over his chest, black t-shirt stretched slightly across his shoulders, beige shorts low on his hips. The passenger seat is crowded with grocery bags, one of them tipped just enough for you to see a carton of something and a bundle of produce.

You pause for a second longer than you mean to. He looks… peaceful. Comfortable in a way you’re not used to seeing. You almost don’t want to wake him. But you lift your hand anyway and tap lightly against the window. His eyes open slowly. He blinks a few times, disoriented for a second, like he’s trying to place himself. You bite your lip, shifting your weight as the wind picks up again, instinctively rubbing your arms.

He notices immediately. He pushes himself upright and cracks the door open, and you step back to give him space as he swings it fully open and steps out.

“God, I’m so sorry, Rafe,” you start, the words coming out fast. “I didn’t think I’d be out all day, and then it just -before I knew it, it was eight and I-”

He cuts you off with a small shake of his head, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “No, no, it’s okay,” he says, voice still a little rough from sleep. “I haven’t been here that long.”

He stretches as he steps away from the car, rolling his shoulders back, arms lifting briefly before dropping again. Your eyes betray you for half a second, tracking the movement before you force them back up.

You clear your throat.

“If you want, we can just reschedule,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward your house. “Tomorrow or something.”

He glances down at his watch, squinting slightly. “It’s only eight twenty-three,” he says, looking back at you. “I’m still down to cook if you are.”

He steps a little closer, hands slipping into his pockets, and you immediately look past him toward your front door, suddenly very aware of how close he is.

You nod anyway. “Yeah. Okay.”

You turn toward the house, already moving, needing the distraction.

“You’re not gonna help me with the groceries?” he calls after you, and you can hear the smirk in his voice without even looking back.

You unlock the door, pushing it open as you shake your head. “I’m technically disabled,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at him.

He huffs a quiet laugh as he reaches back into the car, grabbing as many bags as he can in one go.

“Right,” he mutters. “Convenient.”

You step inside, holding the door open for him as he follows, the familiar sound of plastic bags rustling filling the space as he walks past you into the kitchen. The house feels different with him in it again.

Not loud. Not chaotic. But full. You close the door behind you, leaning against it for half a second before pushing yourself off and heading after him.

“Okay,” you say, clapping your hands once like you’re resetting the moment. “Chef. What’s the plan?”

He sets the bags down on the counter, glancing at you with a small, easy smile. “You’re teaching me, remember?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already moving closer, peeking into the bags. “God help me,” you mumble.

He hears it. “Hey,” he says, nudging your hip lightly as he passes you to wash his hands. “Have a little faith.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling anyway as you start pulling things out of the bags, lining them up on the counter. “Don’t ruin my kitchen,” you say.

He glances over his shoulder at you, turning the water on. “Your kitchen?” he echoes.

You don’t miss a beat. “My kitchen.”

He smiles to himself, shaking his head as he dries his hands. “Alright,” he says. “Show me what to do.”

You lean your hip against the counter and start pulling things out of the bags one by one, lining them up like you’re about to run a class instead of cook dinner. Shrimp, pasta, heavy cream, peppers, garlic, a block of parmesan, Cajun seasoning you recognize immediately. He actually paid attention.

“Okay,” you say, glancing over at him. “First of all, I’m impressed. You got everything.”

He shrugs, drying his hands on a towel before tossing it over his shoulder. “I listen sometimes.”

“Rarely,” you correct, reaching for the shrimp.

He steps in beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours when he reaches for the cutting board. It’s subtle, but it makes you pause for half a second before you keep moving.

“Did you already clean these?” you ask, holding up the shrimp.

“Yeah,” he says. “Mostly.”

You give him a look. “Mostly?”

“They’re clean,” he amends.

“Rafe,” you say flatly.

He sighs and takes them from you. “Fine. I’ll rinse them again.”

“Thank you,” you mutter, grabbing a knife and sliding the peppers toward you.

The kitchen settles into something easy after that. You talk him through everything step by step, showing him how to slice the peppers, how to mince the garlic without crushing it into paste, how to season the shrimp properly instead of dumping half the container on it.

“Not that much,” you say, catching his wrist as he tilts the seasoning too far.

He pauses, glancing down at where your fingers are wrapped lightly around his hand. For a second neither of you move. Then you let go, clearing your throat as you turn back to the stove.

“Just… a little,” you add, like nothing happened.

“Right,” he says quietly.

He adjusts, this time actually listening, and you nod once in approval before moving on. “You’re learning,” you tell him.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he replies.

“I am surprised,” you shoot back, but there’s a smile there. You fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, turning the heat up. He watches you for a second before stepping in to grab the pasta box, opening it without asking.

“Look at you,” you say. “Being proactive.”

“I’m evolving,” he says dryly.

You laugh, shaking your head as you move around him to grab a pan. You don’t bump into each other, not really. It’s more like you keep almost doing it, adjusting at the last second like your bodies still remember how to move around each other.

The oil hits the pan and starts to warm, and you nod toward it. “Go ahead. Put the shrimp in.”

He hesitates for half a second. “All of it?”

“All of it,” you confirm.

He does, a little too fast, and the pan hisses loudly. He flinches.

You laugh immediately. “Relax. It’s just oil.”

“Yeah, okay,” he mutters, stepping back slightly. “That sounded aggressive.”

“You’ll live,” you say, reaching past him to adjust the heat. He watches you again, quieter this time. Not in a way that feels heavy, just… attentive.

“You’ve been cooking a lot?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, flipping the shrimp. “I have to eat real food. She won’t let me survive off snacks anymore.”

He glances down at your stomach instinctively, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “Good.”

You feel it, the way his attention shifts there, softer, and you keep your focus on the pan. “You say that like you weren’t living off cereal a week ago,” you remind him.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I’ve upgraded.”

“Right,” you say, but there’s no edge to it. The pasta water starts to boil, and he moves before you can say anything, pouring it in carefully this time. You nod once, approving.

“See? You’re not completely useless.”

“High praise,” he says.

You smile to yourself as you start on the sauce, adding butter, then garlic, the smell immediately filling the kitchen. He leans slightly against the counter, watching you again, but this time he’s closer.

“Smells good,” he says.

“It will be if you don’t mess it up,” you reply.

“I’m not touching anything else,” he says, holding his hands up briefly.

“Good.” There’s a small stretch of quiet after that, but it’s not uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that comes with doing something together, not needing to fill every second.

You stir the sauce, adding the cream, watching it thicken, and you can feel him still there beside you. “You had fun today?” he asks after a moment.

You glance at him. “Yeah.”

“With them?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “They threw me a whole baby shower.”

His brows lift slightly. “They did?”

“Mm-hm,” you hum, turning back to the pan. “Very chaotic. Very on brand.”

He smiles faintly at that, looking down at the counter for a second before back at you.

“You deserve that,” he says.

The words are simple, but they land heavier than you expect. You don’t respond right away, just stirring the sauce slowly before adding the cheese. “It was nice,” you say finally.

He nods once, like that’s enough. You finish the sauce, draining the pasta while he grabs two plates without being asked this time. You notice, but you don’t point it out.

“Put the pasta in the pan,” you tell him. “Then mix it.”

He does, carefully, not rushing it, and you step in beside him to guide his hand slightly.

“Like that,” you say. “Slow.” He follows your lead, and for a second it feels almost… familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten. You step back first.

“Okay,” you say, clearing your throat. “You didn’t mess it up.”

He looks at you, a small, satisfied smile forming. “I told you.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you warn, but you’re already reaching for a fork.

He plates the food, handing one to you before grabbing his own, and you both move toward the table without really thinking about it. You sit across from each other, the same way you did at his place, but this time it’s your house, your kitchen, your space. You take a bite first. It’s good. Really good.

You look up at him. “Okay… it’s actually good.”

He leans back slightly, clearly pleased. “Of course it is.”

“Don’t push it,” you say, but you’re smiling as you take another bite. And just like that, it feels easy again. Not perfect, not defined, but steady enough that neither of you rush to break it.

“Second time having dinner together in what… three weeks?” he asks, taking another bite, his tone light but not meaningless.

You nod, glancing down at your plate. “Yeah…” You don’t quite know what to do with that. It sounds casual, but there’s something under it, like he’s testing the weight of it.

He doesn’t push, just nods once before his eyes drift down to your stomach.

“We should probably be picking out names for real now,” he says. “You’re getting close.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, pushing your fork through the pasta more than actually eating it. “Seven months yesterday.”

He exhales quietly through his nose, like that number means something bigger to him than he expected.

“That’s… soon,” he says. Then, after a second, “Another reason I need to get better at cooking. For her.”

You glance up at him, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Yeah, well… if you don’t, you can come over and have dinner with us every once in a while.”

The words come out easier than you expect. Us. He catches it. You can tell by the way his mouth lifts slightly, something softer than his usual smirk. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says.

You roll your eyes lightly, but you don’t take it back. He leans back a little in his chair, studying you for a second. “So you still like Quinn for a girl?” he asks, that familiar playful edge creeping in.

You glance toward the bookshelf in the corner of your living room, something clicking. “I have an idea,” you say, already pushing yourself up from the chair with a small groan. Rafe moves immediately, instinctively, like he’s about to help you, but he stops himself halfway. You notice it, the restraint, and something in your chest softens.

“I’m good,” you mutter, already making your way over.

You pad across the room, eyes scanning the shelf until you find it- the baby name book Noel bought months ago and you have barely touched since. You pull it out and head toward the couch, lowering yourself down carefully, settling into the cushions.

Rafe lingers by the table for a second, like he’s unsure where he fits in this version of the moment.

You glance up at him and nod toward the space beside you. “Come on.” That’s all it takes.

He walks over and sits, leaving a respectful gap between you at first, like he’s trying to do everything right this time. It lasts about two seconds before you shift closer, angling the book between you so you can both see. Your thighs brush. Neither of you moves away.

You flip the book open, scanning the pages. “Okay… no weird names,” you say. “I’m not setting her up to get bullied.”

He huffs a quiet laugh beside you. “Good. That rules out like half the book.”

You smile, turning a page. “And nothing too basic either.”

“Quinn isn’t basic,” he argues.

“It’s trending,” you counter.

“Trending is not the same as basic.”

You glance at him. “You’ve definitely never picked a baby name before.”

“Neither have you,” he shoots back.

“Yeah, but I’ve at least thought about it.”

He leans in slightly, closer now, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he looks down at the page. “Alright, what else you got?”

You skim for a second before tapping a name lightly. “Blythe.”

He repeats it under his breath, testing it. “Blythe…”

“I like it,” you say. “It’s different, but not in an annoying way.”

He nods slowly. “It’s… calm.”

You glance at him, a little surprised. “Calm?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Feels soft. Like… steady.”

You don’t say anything to that, but you feel it settle somewhere in your chest. You turn to another page. “Esme?”

He smiles a little. “You just want her to sound expensive.”

You laugh. “I do not.”

“You do,” he insists. “Esme Cameron sounds like she owns property.”

You nudge him lightly with your shoulder. “Shut up.”

He laughs quietly, and the sound is softer than you’re used to. Less guarded. You both fall into it after that, flipping through pages, tossing out names, rejecting most of them immediately. It’s easy in a way that feels dangerous if you think about it too hard, so you don’t.

At some point, you stop on a page without saying anything.

He notices. “What?”

You hesitate, then tap the name lightly. “I kind of like this one too.”

He leans in to read it, closer than before, his arm nearly brushing yours. “Hmm,” he hums, considering it.

You wait, watching his face instead of the page.

“It’s good,” he says finally. “But I still like Quinn.”

You smile, shaking your head. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”

“Nope,” he says simply.

You roll your eyes again, but there’s no real fight in it. “Fine,” you say. “We’ll keep it on the list.”

He glances at you then, something quiet passing through his expression. “On the list,” he repeats.

And for a second, it doesn’t feel like just a name anymore.

Somewhere along the way, everything shifts without either of you noticing. At first it’s just proximity. Then it’s more than that. You’re closer now, pressed lightly into his side, the space between you gone. One of his arms is stretched along the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching but close enough that you feel it. You lean into him without thinking, your shoulder resting against his chest.

For a moment -just a moment- it feels like nothing ever broke between you.

“Okay, okay… what about Renee?” he says, pointing lazily at the page.

“I think Solène is prettier,” you counter, your voice softer now as you tilt your head, letting it rest against his shoulder.

He stills slightly. “It’s perfect,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Something in the way he says it makes your chest tighten.

You lift your head slowly, looking at him for a second before your eyes drift away, landing on the analog clock above the TV. The steady ticking feels louder than it should.

“It’s late,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he agrees, though there’s a faint disappointment in his voice.

He shifts, already starting to sit forward. “Let me help you clean up and then I’ll head out.” He’s halfway to standing when your hand moves without thinking, settling against his thigh to stop him.

He pauses immediately. The contact lingers for half a second too long before you realize where your hand is. Your breath catches slightly and you pull it back quickly, heat creeping up your neck.

“Sorry,” you say, a little flustered. “Um… it’s late. You don’t have to go. You can stay here if you want. You shouldn’t really be on the roads this late anyway.” The words come out a little rushed, but you mean them.

He studies you for a second, something soft behind his eyes.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, a small smile pulling at his mouth.

“I know,” you reply, quieter now. “Consider it repayment for… everything today. The groceries. Waiting.”

There’s a brief pause where neither of you moves. Then he nods once. “Alright,” he says.

And just like that, the night shifts again. They don’t say much at first. The shift settles between you quietly, not awkward, just different. You close the baby name book and set it aside, pushing yourself up from the couch a little slower this time.

“I’ll get the plates,” you say.

Rafe is already standing. “No, I’ve got it.”

“You always say that and then I end up doing half of it anyway,” you reply, heading toward the kitchen.

He follows you in anyway, grabbing the plates before you can reach for them. “Not tonight.”

You give him a look but let it go, moving to the sink to run the water. The kitchen fills with the soft sound of it as he sets everything down beside you. For a minute, it’s just the two of you moving around each other again, passing things back and forth, rinsing, drying, putting things away. It’s easy. Too easy.

“You missed a spot,” you say, nodding toward a streak on one of the plates.

He glances down, then back at you. “You’re micromanaging.”

“I’m supervising,” you correct.

He huffs a quiet laugh and fixes it anyway. You bump his arm lightly when you reach past him for the dish towel, and neither of you pulls away right away. It lingers just long enough to notice before you both shift again like it didn’t.

“You’re doing better,” you admit after a minute.

“Yeah?” he says, drying his hands.

“Yeah. I might let you cook unsupervised one day.”

“Let me?” he repeats, raising a brow.

You shrug. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He smiles to himself, shaking his head as he sets the last dish in place. When everything’s cleaned up, the house feels quieter again. Not empty, just settled.

You glance around, then back at him. “I’ll grab you some blankets.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I know,” you cut in lightly, already turning toward the hallway. “But I’m going to.”

He watches you go but doesn’t argue this time. You move through your room, pulling a couple of extra blankets from the closet along with a pillow that isn’t too worn in. It takes a second to decide which one to bring, which one feels… right, before you stop yourself from overthinking it and just grab one. When you come back out, he’s standing near the couch, hands in his pockets, looking like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself in your space.

“Here,” you say, handing him the pillow first.

He takes it carefully, like it’s something more than it is. “Thanks.”

You set the blankets down on the couch, unfolding one of them before stepping back. “It’s not the most comfortable, but it’s better than your car.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Yeah, I figured.”

You hesitate for a second, then gesture vaguely. “Bathroom’s down the hall if you need it. There’s an extra toothbrush under the sink. I think.”

“You think?” he repeats.

“I don’t usually have guests,” you say.

He glances at you for a second at that, something unreadable passing through his expression before he nods. “Got it.”

You shift your weight, suddenly aware of the quiet again. “Okay,” you say softly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he answers.

You turn and head back toward your room, closing the door behind you a little slower than usual. For a second, you just stand there, listening. The house is quiet. He’s here. It settles differently than you expect.

You climb into bed, adjusting your pillow, one hand resting over your stomach like it always does now. You stare at the ceiling for a while, your mind running a little faster than you want it to.

Eventually, you turn onto your side, trying to get comfortable. But sleep doesn’t come as easily as it should. Ever since you’d admitted it out loud to Becca -that part of you wanted to try again with Rafe- it felt like your memories had started betraying you.

You could still remember the bad moments if you forced yourself to. The arguments. The ultimatums. The jealousy. The emotional whiplash of loving someone who never seemed entirely sure how to love you back. You remembered crying in bathrooms so nobody would see. You remembered staring at your phone waiting for texts that never came. You remembered all the times he made you feel like you were standing on unstable ground.

But lately, those memories felt quieter. Not gone. Just quieter.

What kept surfacing instead were the good things. The way he’d pull you against his chest while watching movies. The way he always knew when you were overwhelmed before you said a word. The nights spent talking until sunrise. The way he looked at you when he forgot to guard himself. Part of you hated that.

You had worked so hard to let him go. You had spent months convincing yourself that missing someone wasn’t enough reason to keep them in your life. You’d forced yourself to accept that loving somebody didn’t automatically make them good for you.

And yet, here you were. Lying awake in bed and thinking about him anyway. Maybe it was the pregnancy. Maybe it was the hormones. Maybe it was watching him show up over and over again without asking for anything in return. Maybe it was seeing genuine change instead of empty promises.

Or maybe you were simply tired of carrying old hurt around with you. Forgiveness wasn’t the same thing as forgetting. You knew that. You hadn’t forgotten anything. You still remembered every painful conversation. Every disappointment. Every moment he made you question yourself. But people could grow. You believed that. You had grown. The woman you were now wasn’t the same woman who had fallen in love with him over a year ago. She was stronger. More confident. Less willing to accept things she didn’t deserve.

And maybe Rafe wasn’t the same person either. The thought settled heavily in your chest. Not uncomfortable. Just honest. You didn’t need him. That had never been the issue. You knew how to take care of yourself. You knew how to survive heartbreak. You knew how to build a life without a man standing beside you.

But wanting someone was different than needing them. And if you were being completely truthful with yourself, you wanted him. Not the version of him that had hurt you. This version. The one who showed up. The one who listened. The one who seemed determined to become somebody better. It felt strangely like a final opportunity. Not fate. Not destiny. Just life presenting a choice and asking what you wanted to do with it.

Eventually, your thoughts slowed enough for you to notice the time. You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling. Then your stomach growled. Immediately. Loudly. You groaned. “Of course.”

The snacks in your nightstand suddenly sounded completely unappealing. With a sigh, you pushed the duvet aside and carefully climbed out of bed. The house was dark and quiet as you made your way downstairs. By the time you reached the last step, your eyes drifted automatically toward the couch.

Rafe was still asleep. One arm was folded across his chest while the other rested beside him. His brows were furrowed slightly, just like they always were when he slept deeply. The blanket you’d given him had twisted around his legs at some point during the night. Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

For one dangerous second, you wanted to walk over there. You wanted to brush your fingers through his hair. Kiss his forehead. Maybe his cheek. Maybe-

You immediately shook the thought away. Absolutely not. You turned and headed straight for the kitchen before your hormones could come up with any more terrible ideas. A few minutes later, the freezer door was open and you were standing in front of it eating vanilla ice cream directly from the tub. The first few spoonfuls were perfect. The fifth one wasn’t. You frowned. Apparently ice cream wasn’t what you wanted. Pregnancy was ridiculous. After returning the carton to the freezer, you wandered over to the pantry and immediately spotted what actually sounded good. Hawaiian rolls. Applesauce. Perfect.

You grabbed one roll. Then paused. Who were you kidding? You were absolutely coming back downstairs in twenty minutes. With a sigh, you grabbed the entire package of rolls and a fresh six-pack of applesauce cups before closing the pantry door. Arms full of snacks, you started toward the staircase. You had barely made it to the third step when a sleepy voice floated across the room.

“So is this a nightly thing, or are you just using it as an excuse to watch me sleep?” You stopped and turned around.

Rafe was sitting up now, rubbing at his eyes. A sleepy grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. You rolled your eyes immediately. Unfortunately, your own smile appeared anyway. Walking back toward the bottom of the stairs, you lifted the package of rolls slightly.

“No. This is not a nightly thing. Sometimes I get pretzels and applesauce instead.”

His laugh was low and rough from sleep. “Good to know.” Then his expression softened. “Everything okay?”

The question caught you off guard. You knew he was asking because you were awake at nearly 2 AM, not because he suspected the hour-long spiral you’d just had about your relationship. Still. It made your chest warm.

“Yeah,” you said. “I just couldn’t sleep. And apparently she decided she’s hungry again.”

You rubbed your stomach. Rafe glanced down automatically. “Oh, so she’s already exactly like her mom.”

You pointed at him. “Your genes tried.” His eyebrows lifted. “The winner takes all,” you sang in an awful imitation of ABBA.

Rafe laughed hard enough that his shoulders shook. You smiled to yourself and started turning back toward the stairs. Then stopped. Something tugged at you. Maybe it was the loneliness that sometimes came with living by yourself. Maybe it was the fact that your house suddenly felt a little emptier than usual. Maybe it was simply that you didn’t want to be alone.

Whatever it was, the words slipped out before you could stop them. “Rafe.” He looked up immediately. You shifted your weight. “You wanna come upstairs and watch The Nanny with me?”

The second the question left your mouth, you felt ridiculous. Rafe propped himself up on one elbow.

A smirk appeared instantly. “Only if you don’t force-feed me your pregnancy cravings.”

You quickly hid the rolls behind your back. “I can’t make any promises.”

His grin widened. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” A moment later he stood, grabbing the pillow and blanket from the couch.

Together, you headed upstairs. You pushed your bedroom door open and held it while he walked inside.

“Sorry it’s messy,” you said automatically. “I haven’t had time to clean.” Using your foot, you nudged a pile of clothes closer to the wall. Rafe glanced around once. Then he looked at you. “We used to live together.” You froze. A smile appeared on his face. “I know how messy you are.”

Your mouth dropped open. “I am not messy.”

“You left three coffee cups on your nightstand once.”

“That was one time.”

“It was from three different days.”

“It still counts as one time.”

Rafe laughed as he tossed the pillow onto the bed and stretched out comfortably on what had somehow always been his side.

You stared at him.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re messy.”

You grabbed a throw pillow and tossed it directly at his face. His laughter filled the room before the pillow even landed. You sit down on the bed facing away from him and immediately dig into the pack of Hawaiian rolls. After pulling one apart, you peel the foil lid off an applesauce cup and dip the bread into it before taking a bite. Honestly, it was incredible. You close your eyes for a second, savoring it. The baby clearly agreed.

The mattress shifts behind you. “What are you doing?”

You can hear the amusement in Rafe’s voice. Heat immediately creeps up your neck. Which is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. This man had seen you throw up. He’d seen you cry. He’d seen you with food poisoning once. He was the father of your child. And yet somehow, him catching you dipping Hawaiian rolls into applesauce had you feeling like a twelve-year-old girl getting caught writing hearts around her crush’s name.

You swallow quickly, wipe your mouth, and shift the bite to the side of your cheek before glancing over your shoulder. “I’m eating,” you say, suddenly feeling defensive.

Rafe is already looking at you. A slow smile sits on his face. Not a teasing one. Just… soft. His eyes drift briefly to the food in your hand before returning to your face. “I can see that.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then why’d you ask?”

His smile widens. “I was trying to figure out what exactly I was looking at.”

You roll your eyes and turn back toward the television. The familiar opening notes of The Nanny begin playing through the room. Almost immediately, your mood improves.

You hum along to the theme song, tapping your fingers lightly against the applesauce cup and swaying your shoulders to the music. By the second verse you’re quietly singing under your breath. By the chorus you’re fully committed. Not loudly. Just enough. The kind of singing people do when they’re completely comfortable. When the theme song ends, you take another bite and glance beside you. Rafe is staring again. The same strange smile on his face.

Your stomach flips. “What?”

His eyes flick away for a second. “Nothing.”

“You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “I’m literally just sitting here.”

“You’re literally staring.”

His grin grows. You point your roll at him.

“See? There it is again.”

He shakes his head, dropping his gaze toward the television as if the conversation is over. It isn’t. Not for you. You continue watching him suspiciously. A few seconds pass. Then he glances back. The smile returns.

You groan dramatically. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You think I’m weird.”

“I definitely think you’re weird.”

You gasp. Rafe laughs. “You are eating bread dipped in applesauce.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“Exactly.”

He holds up both hands in surrender.

“Exactly.”

You study him for a second before lifting the applesauce cup. “I think you want some.”

Rafe blinks. His eyes immediately drop toward your hands before lifting back to your face. “Want some what?”

The tips of your ears warm instantly. You roll your eyes. “The food, Cameron.”

His grin becomes downright unbearable. “Oh.”

You hold up the Hawaiian rolls and applesauce. “This.”

“Right.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Maybe.”

You tear off another piece of bread and dip it into the cup. Rafe watches with genuine concern. “I don’t think that’s a real pregnancy craving.”

“It is now.”

“I think that’s a crime.”

You laugh despite yourself. Then, after a moment, you hold out the applesauce. “Try it.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “No.”

“Try it.”

“No chance.”

“Rafe.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being reasonable.” You hold up the small piece to him anyway. He stares at it. Then at you. Then at the bread.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I was starting to think inviting me upstairs was sweet.”

“It was.”

“But really this was all a setup.”

You smile innocently. “It absolutely was.”

Rafe groans but leans forward anyway. And for the first time all night, neither of you notices the television anymore. You hold the applesauce-dipped bread out toward his mouth.

“You said you wouldn’t make me eat this,” he says, eyeing it suspiciously.

“I said I wouldn’t make any promises. Open up.” He looks at you for another second like he’s considering his options. Then, to your surprise, he opens his mouth almost immediately. You laugh softly and place the piece of bread into it.

The moment feels strangely intimate. Far more intimate than it should. You’re literally feeding him applesauce-covered Hawaiian rolls in your bed while watching sitcom reruns, but somehow it feels more vulnerable than half the serious conversations you’ve had recently. Maybe because it’s easy. Maybe because it feels familiar. You watch him chew, waiting for his reaction. His eyebrows pinch together at first. Confusion. Then curiosity. Then something that looks suspiciously like enjoyment.

Your smile appears instantly. “You like it?”

Rafe swallows. “It’s not bad,” he says with a shrug.

“You like it.”

“It’s tolerable.”

You give him a look. He tries to maintain a straight face. It lasts all of three seconds before his hand reaches for another roll. Without even thinking about it, he tears off a piece, grabs the applesauce from your lap, and dips it himself. You immediately point at him. “Oh, you so like it.”

He takes another bite. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You went back for seconds.”

“I was verifying.”

“Verifying what?”

“That the first bite wasn’t a fluke.”

You laugh. He’s impossible.

“You like it,” you repeat.

Rafe chews slowly before finally nodding. “Yeah.” The admission comes easier than you expected.

A small smile tugs at your lips. You tear off another piece for yourself and dip it into the applesauce.

“I knew it.”

“You should probably keep this hidden from society.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“No, I’m serious. If people find out I’m eating bread dipped in applesauce, I’ll never recover.”

You laugh again, shaking your head. The sound seems to make him smile. For a moment neither of you says anything. You both continue eating from the same package of rolls and the same applesauce cup without even acknowledging it. Without thinking about it. The way people do when they’ve spent enough time together that certain habits become automatic. Eventually you glance toward the television.

“We’re missing the show.”

You point at the screen before anything else can happen. Before you start paying too much attention to how close he’s sitting. Before you start paying attention to the warmth of him beside you. Before your mind starts wandering somewhere dangerous.

Rafe follows your gaze toward the television. “Right.”

You settle back against the headboard and focus on the episode. Or at least you pretend to. Because even while you’re watching, you’re aware of him. Aware of his shoulder brushing yours every now and then. Aware of the way he’s stretched out comfortably beside you. Aware of how natural this all feels. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him looking at you once. Then again. The second time, he quickly looks back at the television. You decide not to call him out on it. The show continues playing. A few minutes pass. The room grows quieter. Comfortable. Then Rafe speaks.

“I missed this.” His voice is softer now. Less playful.

You glance toward him. “What?”

He keeps his eyes on the television. Not looking at you. Just speaking honestly. “This.” His hand lifts vaguely between the two of you. “Just being around each other.” Something in your chest tightens.

“I missed talking to you. Eating dinner together. Watching dumb shows.” He lets out a quiet laugh. “Just existing in the same room without everything being so hard all the time.”

You don’t answer right away. Because you know exactly what he means. You missed it too. The ordinary parts. The little things nobody talks about when relationships end. Not the dates. Not the big moments. The everyday stuff. The random conversations in the kitchen. Falling asleep on opposite sides of the couch. Arguing over what to watch. Sharing snacks. Being each other’s person. Your eyes stay on the television for another second.

Then, instead of answering, you shift closer. Slowly. Carefully. You rest your head against his shoulder. The words leave him immediately. His entire body stills for half a second before relaxing again.

Neither of you says anything after that. The episode continues playing. The applesauce sits forgotten on your lap. And for the first time in a very long time, being beside him doesn’t feel complicated. It just feels right.

-

You wake to the distant sound of gulls outside and the steady crash of waves against the shore. For a moment, you’re disoriented, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Then your eyes slowly open and land on the television across the room. The screen glows faintly with the familiar “Are you still watching?” message that appears after too many episodes have played unattended.

As you begin to sit up, you realize that sometime during the night, you and Rafe had ended up tangled together beneath the blankets. One of his arms is wrapped securely around your waist, his hand resting against your side. Your stomach rolls suddenly and you press a palm against your belly, breathing through the wave of nausea that greets you most mornings these days. It isn’t as bad as it used to be, but it still catches you off guard sometimes.

You close your eyes and focus on taking slow breaths until the feeling eases enough for you to ignore it.

Beside you, Rafe remains completely asleep. His breathing is deep and even. The morning light filtering through the curtains catches the stubble along his jaw, making it look darker than usual. Before you can think too much about it, you lift your hand and brush your index finger lightly across it.

The movement makes him stir. Not enough to wake up, but enough that you immediately pull your hand back like you’ve been caught doing something embarrassing. You shake your head at yourself before reaching over and patting his chest gently.

“Rafe,” you whisper. Nothing. He remains asleep. You try again, this time giving his shoulder a small shake. “Rafe.”

His eyes fly open immediately. “What? What’s wrong?” he asks, already trying to push himself upright.

You quickly place a hand against his chest.

“Nothing. Relax.”

He pauses but doesn’t completely settle back down, his eyes immediately dropping to your stomach. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “I just woke up and realized we fell asleep.”

He glances toward the television and then toward the window. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven.”

His eyebrows lift. “Damn.”

He drags a hand down his face before propping himself up on one elbow. Short hair is a mess from sleep and there are faint pillow marks along one side of his cheek. For some reason, the sight makes you smile.

Rafe rubs the heel of his palm into his eyes and yawns. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to stay this long.”

“You were asleep.”

“Still.” He shifts like he’s about to get out of bed. “Let me get out of your hair.”

Before you can respond, he leans forward and presses a casual kiss against your stomach. The gesture is so natural that it completely catches you off guard. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t make a big deal of it. It’s almost absentminded, like something he’s been doing forever. Then he starts to climb out of bed.

Your hand immediately closes around his wrist. The motion surprises both of you. Rafe looks down at your hand before looking back at you. You tug lightly. “Get back here.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Really?”

You pull him back toward the mattress. He goes willingly. Far too willingly. The second his head hits the pillow again, he looks entirely pleased with himself. “I’m not kicking you out yet,” you say.

“Yet?” he repeats, one eyebrow lifting.

You settle back onto your side, facing him.

“Only because I don’t feel like making breakfast.”

His smile grows. “Oh, that’s why.”

“Obviously.”

“So I’m being used.”

“Correct.”

“I knew it.”

You laugh softly. “You’re being dramatic.”

He folds one arm behind his head.

“What do you want me to make?”

You think for a moment. “Something with potatoes.”

“Anything else?”

“Fruit.”

“Anything else?”

You place a hand on your stomach. “Whatever your daughter wants.”

His eyes immediately drop to your belly. “My daughter?”

“Mm-hmm.”

A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Our daughter,” he corrects.

You pretend to think about it. “Debatable.”

Rafe lets out a laugh and reaches over, placing his hand lightly against your stomach. The baby shifts almost immediately beneath his palm. His entire expression changes. The teasing disappears. Not dramatically. Just enough that you notice it.

“There she is,” he says quietly.

You smile despite yourself. “She’s probably hungry.”

“Just like her mom.” 

You point at him. “Go make breakfast.”

He groans dramatically but finally pushes himself out of bed. As he heads toward the door, he glances back once.“You realize I’m never letting you forget that you invited me to stay.”

You pull the blanket higher over yourself. “You slept on my couch.”

“And then your bed.”

You roll your eyes. Rafe laughs and disappears down the hallway toward the kitchen, leaving you smiling into your pillow before you can stop yourself.

———————

2:34am

The clock on your nightstand shines a bright red, glow bouncing off the shiny oak surface it rests on.

You sigh, reaching out and flipping the clock around. You figure that being aware of the time is only going to make things worse.

Flipping onto your back, staring at the ceiling, the body next to you shuffles a little, then settles.

You press your lips together into a straight line as your hands meet your face. You pinch the bridge of your nose with your thumb and index finger, then move your palm up to your forehead. It rests there for a moment before you move it behind your head, closing your eyes.

Your mind is racing.

Ruminating.

Work has been a huge stressor, it feels like you’re on all the time. It’s been extremely difficult for you to find time for yourself lately, to find the time to decompress. You take a breath in, hold it for a few seconds, then breathe back out.

Your arm drops from your forehead, letting it rest over your stomach.

No matter what you do, you cannot get comfortable. Your legs feel tense, your stomach feels weird, and you have a soft but persistent ache behind your eyes.

Sitting up, you gently remove the comforter off your body and swing your feet over the edge of the bed. A shiver travels up your legs as your feet come into contact with your hard wood floor. After resting your hands on your knees for a moment, you push yourself up and walk over to your bathroom.

You shut the door, flip the light on and lean over the counter slightly, looking at yourself in the mirror.

Sometimes getting out of bed for a little bit helps.

You twist the knobs to turn on the faucet, cold water shooting down the drain. You grab a glass that sits on the counter next to the sink and fill it with tap water, taking a few sips before placing it back down.

Rafe would not be pleased with you drinking tap water. You’ve always been filtered water people; however, it was go all the way downstairs to the fridge, or have a few sips from the tap.

You chose the latter.

You turn the doorknob and flip the light back off, stepping back into Rafe’s bedroom. You gently lift the covers and crawl back into bed, laying on your side facing away from the nightstand.

You lock eyes with Rafe, laying on his stomach. His face is pressed up against his pillow, his eyelids.

“Oh shit,” you whisper, “I woke you up. I’m sorry.”

You pull the comforter up to your chin, feeling guilty.

“Nah, I’ve been awake,” he mumbles, voice gravelly, shoving his hands underneath the pillow to prop his head up a little bit.

Rafe was sleeping, but lightly, as the reality is you’ve been tossing and turning all night long.

“Fuck—what’s your problem?” He grumbles, closing his eyes ever so slightly as you stare at him.

Your chest tightens, “nothing. It’s fine, go back to sleep.”

You flip over to face the nightstand once more, taking a deep breath, you close your eyes and try to focus on anything other than falling asleep.

He sighs behind you, the bed rocking slightly as he shuffles next to you.

Rafe reaches out, scooting himself so he’s up against your back. One of his arms reaches around you, curling around the small of your waist where your tank top rides up a little bit. You reach your arm down to place your hand on top of his.

He lifts his head, then lets it rest in the crook of your neck and begins drawing little circles on your stomach with his thumb. It makes you shiver.

“What’s the matter,” he grumbles, softer this time.

He tries to be sweet, but it’s pitch black on a week night. You don’t blame him.

“Just go to back to sleep, I don’t want to keep you up”

“Christ—I’m already up.”

You sigh, giving in. Rafe many things. Stubborn is one of them.

“Everything is just really busy. No matter what I do, I can’t get my mind to turn off. I can’t get comfortable… and now I’m just getting bitchy.”

He hums in response, his hand gravitating towards your bottoms, his palm is flat, tucking his fingers underneath your waistband. He stops, letting it rest. Heat finds your core, forming a knot in your abdomen.

His breath is hot, causing your neck to feel damp. Kissing you gently, Rafe applies the slightest bit of pressure with his fingers.

“I could make you feel better, clear your head a little bit.”

His words send a pulse down to your heat. You hate the effect he has on you, even in the late hours of the night.

You breathe out through your nose, almost a laugh, trying to shrug it off.

“It’s late, Rafe.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

His hand drops down lower, his index finger finding a place in between your folds with a low hum.

“You can tell me to stop,” his finger slowly slides up and down, spreading your slick.

Aa soft breath leaves your freshly parted lips as you push into him.

“S’what I thought,” he mumbles against your shoulder, pulling his fingers out from under your pants.

“Rafe,” you whine at the loss of his fingers.

He pulls away completely now, his bare chest leaving your back. Goosebumps form at the sudden loss of body heat, chill in the air.

The heat slowly returns to your body as you roll over. Your eyes rake over his shirtless form, his bicep flexes slightly as he lifts his arm up to rest his head on his hand.

The loss of his touch combined with the lack of sleep, irritated is one of many words you could pull from the bank of feelings you have swimming in your mind right now.

You flip to your back to stare at the ceiling, sighing out in frustration as his hand makes his way back to your tummy.

“What do you want hm?”

You sigh, now is not the time to play games.

“Rafe please,” you whine, twisting your head to look at him. A smug smirk plants itself on his face.

“Please what?” His hand moves back down to the waist band of your underwear, looping his finger around it.

Rafe’s fingers gently tug at your lacy panties, your eyes following the movement. He knew what you wanted, but liked hearing you say it.

“Touch me…” you whisper, flitting your eyes up to his.

“Good girl.” His smirk widens, satisfaction written on his face. The friction of his thumb against your skin makes your pulse spike before he finally strips them away, off your ankles.

He shifts until he’s positioned between your knees, looking down to see his hands sliding up to grip the insides of your thighs to hold you in place.

The first touch of his mouth is agonizingly gentle—a warm press against your sensitive skin that pulls a sharp gasp from your chest. He doesn’t rush, his tongue setting a steady rhythm.

Rafe hums lowly, the vibration earning a quiet whine from you as he gently sucks on your clit, his fingers digging deep into your flesh to hold you still.

His tongue swirls around you with a steady pressure, slipping his fingers inside you.

“Rafe— fuck, please—“ you whine, your head tossing back against the pillow as your heels dig into the mattress. You feel like you’re about to snap.

Rafe responds with nothing but a groan, vibrations coursing through you again. His smugness is gone, replaced by the need to see you completely undone.

His focus remains on your swollen clit, targeting the sensitive peak while his fingers pump inside you. You can barely breathe. You can’t think.

Your fingers twist in the sheets as the first wave of your orgasm crashes over you, clamping around his fingers.

Rafe doesn't pull away; he laps up every drop of your release, riding out the contractions with long, strokes that send electricity shooting down your legs. He keeps his fingers buried deep, feeling every pulse of your muscles until your hips finally settle and you collapse back onto the bed.

Slowly, he drags himself up your body, leaving a trail of warm kisses along your stomach and ribcage before hovering over your face.

“Still thinking?" he asks, his voice gravelly, a faint, dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You shake your head weakly against the pillow, your chest still heaving. Your mind, which had been racing in circles just twenty minutes ago, is completely blank.

"Good." Rafe shifts his weight, pulling the discarded blanket up over both of you before tugging you hard against his side. He pulls you in until your back is flush against his chest, his arm wrapping around your waist, hand resting heavy over your stomach.

He buries his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. You can feel the rapid, unsteady thrum of his heartbeat against your shoulder blades.

"Go to sleep," he mutters against your skin.

The first clue should have been the water damage on the ceiling in the lobby. The second was likely when the agent texted that she was running late to the showing. A nonnegotiable of “easily accessible via stairs” was mentioned once or twice early on but clearly had been ignored based on the luxury complex’s penthouse, which would have counted as strike number three if you and Garrett weren’t so damn excited to start your own life in Boston together.

Garrett looks down at his phone for guidance. “We can take…” His brows furrow. “...thirty-three flights of stairs.”

You look down at his calves, which you know are still fatigued from the Bruins’ conditioning sessions based on the miniscule limp he’s been sporting for the past few days. You also know he won’t ever admit it.

Garrett catches where you’re staring and scowls. “I feel like you’re going to say something deeply offensive about my manhood.”

“Let’s just take the elevator,” you offer coolly.

“I’m not asking my claustrophobic fiancé to get into a metal deathtrap for a lease we’re not going to sign,” he deadpans.

You roll your eyes, but your hand finds his forearm where he’s warm and safe; nothing bad ever happens to you there. “You take elevators every day.”

He softens underneath your touch. “Have you ever asked me to go home for Thanksgiving?”

“No.”

“Same thing.”

A resident takes that moment to brush past you two in the hallway, headed towards the elevator that undoubtedly only accepts one of those keycards that cost $150 to replace.

You purse your lips and try to sound confident. “What if the rooftop is really pretty? It’s better than waiting in the car at the next stop. Two elevator rides won’t kill me.”

Garrett’s eyes have slanted over to the rapidly retreating back. You start steering his arm in that direction.

“Come on,” you coax gently. “I know you want to see it.”

A small smile plays at his lips, and you know you’ve won him over like you always do. “Two rides,” he repeats. “Rooftop. We make out. We leave this place forever.”

“Who said anything about making out?”

“Are you in or not?”

You’re laughing by the time Garrett’s long strides catch the sliding doors. He slots his hand into the opening and greets the disgruntled occupant who smells stronger than cigarettes and fixes his sunken eyes onto you immediately.

“Rooftop, please,” you beam, although the first bead of sweat has started forming at your temple.

The man bares his yellowing teeth at you. Without looking away, he pushes the floor button with one long fingernail.

“Jesus,” Garrett huffs underneath his breath. He quietly fixes himself to your back and locks a protective arm around your waist. He stays that way - chin above your head, hand flexed at your hip, glare trained on the other man - until the doors open a few stops above the ground floor.

When it’s just you two again, you murmur, “See, this isn’t so bad,” while Garrett starts grumbling about firing the agent as soon as you're back in his Jeep.

The fourth red flag should have been the grating sound the doors made when they closed after an indefinite pause. The fifth would have been the way the lights flickered at the tenth and eleventh floor, but you’re too busy nervously picking underneath your fingernails while Garrett watches for any signs of distress on your face.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises gently, now facing you with his hands on either side of the railing behind you. The statement would flip your tummy for a very different reason if nausea wasn’t commandeering most of the space already.

His finger just grazes the band of your engagement ring when the elevator gives its first jerk. Before he even stills, the box rattles dramatically, quiets down in that deafening sort of way that makes you hyperaware of life itself, jerks once more, and then freezes completely, leaving you two suspended twenty plus floors midair while encased in metal.

Everything goes dark.

For a moment, all you hear is Garret’s sharp intake of breath - or maybe it’s yours. You can only feel the wetness gathering at the back of your neck. You think you might open your mouth to say something real and concealed by dark humor, but your tongue dries up. You can barely recognize the shapes in front of you when Garrett pulls back to search for the emergency button in the pitch black.

When nothing happens on the first press, he considers pushing it down six more times in frantic succession; instead, his ears perk up at your little whimper, and suddenly he’s the professional athlete who grounds himself through his body and box breathes through his nose.

“Hey.” Strong hands cup your face, so infinitely gentle where they hold you. “Hey, baby. You with me?”

Your chest starts to puff restlessly. You can barely see your own fingers where they grip Garret’s shoulders, let alone his longer ones when they come up to your hair and start pushing clammy tendrils back from your eyes.

“Hey,” he tries again, sounding both patient and panicked as he softens his tone. “Talk to me. I’m right here.”

“Bad,” you gasp out. “This is bad.”

Garrett is shaking his head before you’ve finished that sentence. “This happens,” he lies easily, finger fishing for the button once more when he blocks your view from seeing his silhouette move.

Your voice sounds far away. “Can I… can I sit down?”

Garrett’s heart drops to his stomach. “Yeah, baby, ‘course you can. C’mere.”

Carefully and without moving the elevator more, Garrett curls his hands over your shoulders and slowly eases you down. The floor is cool beneath you, a stark contrast to the temperature of your skin. You unsteadily curl your knees to your chest and plop your face into them. Garrett continues standing above you, unsure if he should punch open the electrical box or comfort you, and for a small, silly second, he reverts back to his younger self, helpless and frozen.

Fix it.

Fix it.

Fix it.

Before the fear gets the chance to embed itself in him too, he shakes his head and blinks it all away. He crouches down in front of you, so painstakingly aware of scaring you and the elevator into lurching.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs, mouth somewhere close to where the first bead of sweat was before it fell. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Your body tightens. Garrett makes a soft sound, finding your arms where they wrap too tightly around your legs. He rubs his hands along them, trying to loosen you. You don’t budge.

He switches tactics. “Through your nose and out your mouth, baby, come on. That’s it. Deep breaths.”

They wash over your legs in uneven spurts. Garrett grinds his molars but doesn’t squeeze you where he holds you. He clicks the button one more time, grimaces when the elevator rattles again, and uses the distraction to bring himself fully down to your level before he pulls you into his lap.

He tucks his legs on either side of you, cocooning you against his chest. His fingers return to your shoulders, kneading whatever tension lies there. You press your mouth into his throat, inhaling his woodsy scent that always seems to mix in with the fresh laundry of his soft shirt and remnants of this morning’s black coffee and protein shake.

Garrett hopes his breathing pattern convinces yours to do the same. He doesn’t mention the procedure again, now opting for the type of quiet comfort that comes only from being around the person who goes to sleep next to you and wakes up happily with your hair in their mouth.

When the air becomes stale and scary again, he starts to hum.

It’s a melody that’s muted but familiar, something his mom used to sing all the time. It used to annoy him when she didn’t realize she was singing it everywhere; he used to roll his eyes. Looking back on it now, with you tucked closely underneath his chin and your fingers clutching his shirt, it might be his favorite song ever.

Your next breath unfurls quietly into his throat. He breaks from the song momentarily for an encouraging noise, tightening his hand at the back of your neck.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good job, baby.”

When he hums the next verse, each vibration settles against your ear and moves deep into your chest. You try to press even closer to him and frown when you cannot in your current position. He notices, because he always notices, and curls one arm beneath your legs before you’re sideways in his lap, draped over his muscular thighs.

The power flickers above you; neither of you notice.

The song dies down quietly. Garrett repositions you against his shoulder and kisses your forehead, letting his mouth linger there.

“Guess what I learned recently?” he murmurs against the top of your head.

You barely register his new strategy to relax you - you just do so anyway against him like it’s basic nature. You wet your lips and try, “What?”

Garrett smiles into your hair at the first sign of your voice. “Hey, baby,” he says gently. “Good to have you back. I’m going to tell you facts until you tell me to shut up.”

You almost laugh, taken aback. “What?” you ask again, a little stronger this time.

“Yup. Octopuses have three hearts.”

You sit up against his shoulder, sniffling. “Okay…”

“Cows have best friends.”

Your next small laugh is full of water. “Have you been watching National Geographic again?”

He ignores that but rewards you with another kiss to your forehead. “Goats have really weird pupils.”

“That’s nice, honey.”

“Penguins propose with rocks.”

You press your nose into his neck. “You proposed with a rock.”

Garrett lightly taps your knee and then skims his fingers up and down the full length of your leg in a slow, tantalizing rhythm that calms you completely. “Exactly.”

“But you’re a Bruin.”

Garrett mock gasps. “Does Sidney know that?”

You groan into his skin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You are fully folded up into me right now,” he teases quietly, but he wouldn’t have you any other way.

You tighten for a moment before you relax once more. You turn to weave both of your arms around his neck, pulling him fully into you because the contact has become not enough again.

“You’re okay,” he repeats softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Both of you settle into silence at that, knowing he means it. He nuzzles his nose into your hair, moving his head back and forth with it every time he breathes. Your pattern matches his this time.

A few minutes later, the first crackle of the speaker in the elevator comes. “Is anyone in there?”

Garrett tightens his hold on you and tucks your face back into his neck. “Yes!” he calls back impatiently. “I think one of your residents hexed us.”

You giggle while the unknown presence pauses. “Sorry, repeat that?” it muffles through the box.

Garrett mumbles a “Nevermind,” and pats your hair down. “Any day now would be nice.”

You’re sweet even in stressful situations, so he presses his lips together when you shoot him a pointed look.

“So,” you whisper a few minutes later when the lights have come on and the firefighters are somewhere in the building. “Not this one, huh?”