— el xx

She makes it halfway across the patch of grass before the smell reaches her. Warm bread, roasted chicken, something garlicky. Her stomach pulls painfully beneath her ribs, reminding her that breakfast had been half a piece of toast eaten while standing over the kitchen sink because she’d misplaced her other shoe. “What did you bring?”

Garrett’s grin starts. “Hi to you too.”

“Hi.” She stops between his knees, and he catches her automatically by the hips, pressing his mouth to the centre of her stomach through her cardigan before tipping his head back to look at her. “What did you bring?”

“Lunch.”

“That’s not specific.”

He tilts his head to the side. “That’s because you’ll start negotiating before I show you.”

“I don’t negotiate.”

“You told me yesterday you only wanted something small.” His hands remain at her waist while he looks up at her, dark curls disturbed by the wind and one faint crease still pressed beside his cheek from whatever lecture he’d spent resting his face against his fist. “You’ve been here since seven.”

“Eight.”

“You left the house at seven.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s worse.”

She tries to look stern, but Garrett pulls her closer until her knees touch the bench and kisses the little strip of skin beneath her scrub top where it has ridden up. It’s difficult to maintain authority while Briar’s hockey captain is kissing her stomach beside a sign asking patients not to smoke within five metres of the building.

“Sit down,” he says. “I brought chicken wraps, those potatoes you like and actual fruit because Tucker said grapes don’t count as a side dish.”

“Tucker’s becoming controlling,” she grins.

“Tucker packed the grapes.”

“Oh.” She sits beside him at once. “Tucker’s an angel.”

Garrett hands her the container with a look of deep personal betrayal. “I drove it here.”

“You’re useful too.”

“Thank you.”

She’s halfway through her first bite when the side door opens again. Janelle, the practice nurse supervising her placement, steps outside with a mug in one hand and a lanyard tangled around the other. She’s in her forties, quick-moving and kind in the specific way of nurses who can reassure an anxious parent while opening six packets with their teeth.

“There you are,” Janelle says, then notices Garrett and smiles like she has been expecting to eventually find the source of the lunches arriving in increasingly respectable containers. “You must be Garrett.”

Garrett stands immediately, because beneath the hockey-house manners and constant obscenity there’s something in him that responds to older women with professional authority like a student unexpectedly called on in class. “Yeah. Hi.”

“I’ve heard about the food.”

She closes her eyes briefly. “Oh my God.”

Janelle laughs, then looks back at her. “You did really well this morning, by the way. Especially with the twins. Vaccinating one four-year-old is hard enough without the other one providing live commentary.”

Heat moves quickly from beneath her collar to her face. The fork in her hand pauses over the potatoes. “Oh. Um. Thank you.”

“You kept both of them calm, and you explained everything to Mom without drowning her in information. That’s good.” Janelle takes a sip from her mug, already turning back toward the door. “Enjoy your lunch. Don’t let us steal you before one.”

The door closes behind her. For a few seconds, Garrett says nothing. That’s worse than if he had immediately started being annoying. She looks down and spears one potato with more concentration than it deserves, aware of his face angled toward her, his knee pressing warmly against hers.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“My girlfriend vaccinated twins this morning.”

She rolls her eyes. “I assisted with vaccinations.”

“Four-year-old twins.”

“Under supervision.”

“And one of them was heckling you?”

“She kept telling her brother the needle was going to be enormous.” Her mouth twitches despite herself. “Then she screamed before anyone touched her and scared him so badly he started crying.”

Garrett’s grin breaks wide and bright. “And you handled it.”

She shoots him a look. “I gave her a sticker.”

“Medical genius.”

“She liked stickers,” she mutters.

He nudges his shoulder into hers. “You were good.”

The praise catches in the same difficult place Janelle’s had, somewhere high beneath her breastbone, warm enough to feel almost uncomfortable. She looks down at the container. “I didn’t do much.”

Garrett doesn’t argue immediately. He reaches over instead, takes the fork from her hand and uses it to gather a piece of chicken she had pushed toward the edge. “You’ve gotta stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Turning every nice thing someone says about you into something else.” He holds the fork near her mouth. “That nurse was there. She probably knows if you did well.”

“She does.”

“And she said you did.”

She looks at the chicken, then at him. Garrett’s expression is easy, but there’s something steady underneath it, no teasing escape built into the moment. She opens her mouth and lets him feed her mostly because refusing would make this into a larger emotional event beside the staff car park.

After she swallows, she says, “I did do pretty well.”

Garrett leans in and kisses her temple.

Wednesday

By Wednesday, Garrett has been recognised by reception. He discovers this when the woman behind the front desk sees him through the glass doors carrying two containers and presses the release button without making him use the intercom.

He gives her a small wave as he crosses the foyer, and she points toward the side exit with the expression of someone directing a regular delivery.

His girlfriend emerges four minutes later with her stethoscope still around her neck and a smear of something pale across one sleeve. Garrett eyes it as she drops onto the bench beside him. “What’s that?”

She follows his gaze. “Dressing adhesive, probably.”

“Probably?”

“Nothing infectious.”

His nose scrunches. “That’s not as reassuring as you think.”

She lets her head tip onto his shoulder while he opens the first container. Today it’s soup in a sealed thermos, two toasted sandwiches wrapped in foil and a yoghurt Garrett has selected because the label contains the word protein in lettering large enough to appeal to him.

“I only have twenty minutes,” she murmurs.

“You said thirty.”

“Mrs. Patterson’s wound review ran over.”

Garrett unwraps the sandwich and places it into her hand before she can decide she isn’t hungry enough. “Bad?”

“No. It’s actually healing really nicely.” Her voice changes on the last part, tiredness thinning out beneath interest. “She had a skin tear on her shin that got infected, but the redness has come down and there’s way less exudate. I got to clean it and redress it today.”

He’s learned enough nursing vocabulary through forced exposure not to make a face at exudate. “That good?”

“Very.”

“So you fixed her leg.”

She snorts softly. “I didn’t fix her leg.”

“You helped.”

“I helped,” she nods.

The side door swings open before he can improve the claim. Dr. Shah steps out with his phone in one hand and a set of car keys in the other, a slim man with silver beginning at his temples and the permanently hurried posture of someone who’s been running fifteen minutes behind since medical school.

He sees her and slows. “Good work with Mrs. Patterson.”

Her shoulders pull in by less than an inch. Garrett feels it because they’re pressed together from hip to knee, because he’s become embarrassingly fluent in the small movements she thinks nobody notices.

“Thank you,” she says, a little too quickly.

“You were gentle, but you didn’t hesitate. Patients notice when you’re nervous, particularly with painful dressings.” Dr. Shah nods once, like the matter is settled. “She asked whether you’ll be here for her next appointment.”

Her fingers tighten around the foil. “She did?”

“She likes you.” His phone begins ringing. He glances at it and sighs with his whole body. “Enjoy lunch.”

Garrett waits until Dr. Shah has crossed the car park before turning his head.

She’s staring down at her sandwich. The tip of one ear has gone pink. “Don’t,” she warns.

Garrett takes a drink from his coffee and tries, unsuccessfully, to flatten his mouth. “Mrs. Patterson requested my girlfriend specifically.”

“She asked if I’d be there,” she grumbles.

“Requested.”

“She probably just doesn’t want to explain the whole wound history again.”

“Or she likes you.”

“She barely knows me.”

“She knows you don’t rip bandages off her leg like you’re waxing a car.”

“That’s not how anyone removes dressings,” she replies.

“You said one of the nurses at the hospital did.”

She holds up a finger. “One nurse, one time.”

He looks down at her, taking in the tired little shadows under her eyes, the escaping strands of hair around her face, the stethoscope bumping lightly against her chest each time she moves. “You know you’re good at this, right?”

Her chewing slows. Garrett lets the question stay where it lands. He doesn’t push it toward a joke or ask her to say something she cannot yet make fit comfortably in her mouth.

Eventually, she swallows and wipes her thumb over the corner of the foil. “I’m getting better.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You are.”

Her gaze lifts to his, cautious at first, then warmer when she realises he means the answer exactly as she gave it. She’s getting better. At dressings. At talking to patients. At hearing something kind without immediately dismantling it for parts.

Garrett bends and kisses her once, slow and ordinary, tasting faintly of coffee when she kisses him back. Her phone alarm goes off between them.

She groans into his mouth. “I hate employment.”

“You don’t work here.”

“I hate unpaid employment more.”

He gathers the containers while she stands, then catches the back of her scrub top before she can escape and pulls her in for one more kiss. “Text me when you’re done.”

“I finish at five.”

“Text me anyway.”

“You’ll be at practice.”

“My girlfriend always says phones work in locker rooms.”

She narrows her eyes. “I’ve never said that.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Garrett shrugs.

“That sounds nothing like me.”

Garrett kisses her forehead and lets her go. “My girlfriend’s also very argumentative.”

The side door closes on the sight of her giving him the finger.

Friday

On Friday, the bench is wet from morning rain, so Garrett brings a towel. This is apparently the final stage of whatever has happened to him. He arrives with lunch in one hand, a folded beach towel in the other and Dean’s voice still ringing in his ears from the kitchen that morning.

“Do you hear yourself?” Dean had asked while Garrett packed pasta into a container. “My girlfriend likes the pesto. My girlfriend hates raw tomato. My girlfriend says I need more fibre. You’ve become a doll with one phrase.”

“She does hate raw tomato.”

“We know,” Logan had said from the table. “We all know everything about your girlfriend. Against our will.”

Tucker, slicing strawberries at the counter, had quietly pushed a second container toward Garrett. “She’ll need more than pasta if she’s there until six.”

Garrett had looked at Dean. Dean had pointed the knife he was using to spread peanut butter. “Don’t.”

“My girlfriend–”

“I’ll kill you.”

Now she sits on the towel beside him, one knee tucked toward her chest, eating pesto pasta while the medical centre moves through its afternoon behind them. Cars roll in and out of the lot. Someone’s toddler is crying near the pharmacy entrance. Garrett has practice in forty minutes, but his gear is already in the back of the car and the rink is seven minutes away.

She looks exhausted. It’s in the small things: the way she keeps rubbing her thumb over the side of her index finger, the slow blinks, the faint crease between her brows even while chewing. 

Garrett puts the strawberries closer to her without mentioning it. “Eat those too.”

She glances at the container. “You sound like Tucker.”

“Tucker packed them.”

“Of course he did.”

A nurse comes out carrying an empty mug, sees them and smiles. She’s younger than Janelle, maybe late twenties, with bright blue glasses and a name badge that says MELANIE, RN.

“There’s our lunch visitor.”

Garrett lifts his hand. “Hey.”

Melanie looks at her. “I meant to tell you before you disappeared– you were excellent with Noah this morning.”

She straightens slightly. “The asthma review?”

“Mhm. His mom said nobody’s ever explained the spacer properly without making her feel stupid.” Melanie shifts the mug between her hands. “You gave her time to ask questions. That’s harder to teach than people think.”

Her fingers curl lightly around the plastic fork.

“Thank you,” she says.

No apology attached. No immediate reason it didn’t count. Just thank you, quiet and a little pink around the cheeks.

Melanie grins. “You’re welcome. See you inside.”

When the door shuts, Garrett looks down at his own lunch because he knows better now than to turn every moment into an audience. Beside him, she takes another bite, chews, then says, almost carefully, “I was good with them.”

His whole chest seems to shift forward. He keeps his eyes on the container for another second so he doesn’t frighten her by looking as pleased as he feels. “Yeah?”

She nods. “The little boy wasn’t using the spacer right, and his mom thought she’d been doing something wrong, but nobody had actually shown her. So I demonstrated it, and then I got him to teach it back to me with his teddy first.” Her hands start moving as she talks, fork drawing small shapes through the air. “He kept putting the mask over the teddy’s whole face, which was, like, completely ineffective, but he got it eventually.”

Garrett watches her now. He cannot help it. The tiredness is still there, but something brighter has pushed through it, colour high in her cheeks and the words coming faster because she knows this, because she had been useful in the middle of somebody’s confusing morning and knows exactly how.

“You taught a teddy bear how to use an inhaler,” he says.

She gives him a look, but her mouth has already betrayed her. “Technically.”

“That’s huge.”

“It’s a bear.”

He shrugs. “Could’ve died.”

“It was stuffed.”

“Still. Brave work.”

She laughs, leaning sideways until her head rests against his shoulder. Garrett puts his container down and slides an arm around her, his hand settling over the soft cotton at her waist. She smells like hand sanitiser, rain caught in her hair and the faint medicinal sweetness of whatever soap sits beside the clinic sinks.

For a minute, neither of them speaks. She eats one strawberry from the container in his lap, then another. Garrett watches a leaf drag along the wet pavement near his shoe and thinks, with an intensity that would make Dean genuinely ill, that there may be nothing better than this. 

Her weight against him. Food packed by Tucker. Practice waiting. A plastic fork balanced crookedly across her container. The knowledge that people inside that building see what Garrett sees when she talks about work with her whole face.

She nudges her nose into the shoulder of his jacket. “What?”

“What?”

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

She smiles up at him. “Looking pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not pleased with myself.”

“No?”

Garrett turns his head and presses his mouth to her hair. “I’m pleased with my girlfriend.”

She groans, but her body folds closer, one hand slipping into the pocket of his jacket like it belongs there. “The boys must hate you.”

“They’re jealous.”

“They’re exhausted,” she sighs.

“Tucker supports me.”

“Tucker feeds you so the rest of the house survives.”

He takes a moment to consider this. “That’s still support.”

Her break alarm sounds from inside her cardigan pocket. She doesn’t move immediately. Neither does Garrett. They sit through the first three beeps with her cheek against his shoulder and his thumb moving slowly over her side.

Then she sighs and lifts her head. Garrett catches her chin before she can stand and kisses her, gentle at first, then a little firmer when her fingers curl into his jacket and pull him closer.

When they separate, she keeps her forehead against his. “Thank you for coming all week.”

“Course.”

She presses her forehead against his harder. “You don’t have to come every day.”

“I know.”

“You have classes and practice.”

“I know.”

“And Dean said you missed lunch with them yesterday,” she murmurs.

“Dean was offended because nobody wanted to hear his story about a girl from his economics class.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I was having lunch with my girlfriend.”

She closes her eyes. “There it is.”

Garrett grins and kisses the corner of her mouth. “Go be good at your job.”

“Placement.”

“Mm. Go be good at that.”

She gets up, gathers her stethoscope and starts toward the side door. Halfway there, she turns. Garrett’s still sitting on the towel with the empty containers stacked beside him, watching her like he plans to keep doing it until the building physically removes her from view.

She lifts one hand. “Bye, baby.”

“Bye.” He waits until her fingers touch the door handle. “Hey.”

She looks back. 

Garrett’s grin spreads slowly, helplessly, all bright teeth and curls and entirely too much feeling for a staff car park at one-thirty on a Friday afternoon. “Proud of you.”

She rolls her eyes so hard it should hurt, but she’s smiling when the door closes behind her.

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Up until that point his attention has been totally focused on you, so he’s still fully dressed. Wanting to feel him closer, you help him out of his t-shirt between fevered kisses, running your manicured nails over the rippled muscles of his back.

Every time he grinds his hips against the heat of your barely covered pussy, you can feel him getting harder under his sweats. The firm outline feels impressive in size, but you’re not really sure what to expect because it’s your first time together and you haven’t seen him naked yet.

When he turns onto his side so that the two of you are facing each other, you let a curious hand run down his well-defined stomach, fingers tracing the fuzzy trail of hair below his navel and then over the sizable bulge that’s stretching the front of his pants.

The sound that he makes against your lips when you cup his cock through the cotton is so addictive, the thick outline pleasantly warm as it overflows your palm.

“Can I see you?” you murmur sweetly. And without another word he’s pushing down his sweats and boxer briefs in one smooth motion, flipping onto his back so that his cock can spring up semi-hard to slap against his stomach, the tip already leaking drops of shiny precum onto his treasure trail.

Lips parted in wonder, you let out an audible gasp at his size. Amused by your reaction, he runs a hand through his tousled hair and chuckles softly, his almost shy expression still underlined with its usual bold cockiness.

In your opinion, he’s deservedly proud—thick and long, slightly curving to the left and lined with delicious veins and ridges that you can’t help but imagine tracing with your tongue. Nestled against a dark thatch of neatly trimmed hair, he’s bigger than anyone you’ve ever seen before and with a sinking sensation you realize he’s not even fully erect.

“Garrett…I don’t know…” you trail off, eyes widening as you try to imagine how you could possibly manage to take something so big, knowing from experience that you’re pretty tight. Thinking back to earlier in the day, you curse yourself for skipping out on your morning yoga class—you probably could have used some stretching exercises.

Garrett is patient with you, rubbing a soothing hand along the curve of your hip. “It’s ok, we can take our time,” he promises, nuzzling his full lips against the sensitive spot just below your ear. “We have all night. There’s no need to rush.”

“But, I don’t know if I can do it,” you whimper, voice nearly trembling with disappointment. Finally a chance to hook up with the hot guy you’ve been crushing on for months and now he’s going to think you’re terrible in bed.

“It’s just—everyone always tells me that I’m really tight,” you pout in a sulky voice, watching his eyes grow noticeably darker with the knowledge.

“I’ll make sure you’re ready,” he promises with a determined patient smile.

And he does his very best, down on his stomach between your soft thighs, skilled tongue delving through your dripping folds, luxuriating in your taste. As he suckles on your clit and scissors his fingers inside you to stretch you open, you run your hands through his curls calling out his name as you cum for the first, and then second, time.

“Oh god, Garrett—fuck.”

Lips still shiny with your release, he crawls back up your body once he’s had his fill. As he hovers overtop of you, your eyes catch on the golden chain around his neck, glimmering in the warm lamp light. His heavy-lidded eyes are gazing deep into yours, almost pleading for more.

“Need you so bad.” His voice is raspier than usual, thick with want, and you can feel the firm heat of his cock against your thigh. “Do you think you’re ready for me?”

When you nod, still glassy-eyed in your post orgasm glow, he grasps himself and runs the head of his cock back and forth through your folds, coating himself in your arousal so he’ll be nice and slippery for you.

Each time his fat tip bumps against your sensitive clit, it makes you moan in the sweetest way. Unable to hold himself back any longer, he slowly pushes inside, keeping his eyes on yours as they widen along with the increasing burning stretch.

His gaze never leaves yours, in tune to every subtle change in your expression.

“Ooh—you’re so…big,” you exclaim, sweaty fists gripping onto the bedsheets beneath you.

“Shh, it’s okay.” His lips brush over yours as he soothes you. “You’re doing so well. Just relax and breathe.”

The whole time, the strong muscles of his ass are clenching with the effort of holding himself back because you’re so warm and tight around him that it’s making it hard for him to go slow. All he wants in the moment is to slam his hips into yours and bury himself deeper inside you than anyone has ever been before. Fuck you so good that you’ll be screaming out his name for everyone to hear.

But instead, he’s going to be patient. Work you up to it.

He’s been into you for a while and now that he has you where he wants you, he doesn’t want to rush things and scare you away.

“Ohhh…” you gasp as he slowly inches his way inside your warm, waiting cunt. You’ve never felt such a conflicting sensation—the stretch slightly painful but somehow exceedingly pleasant at the same time.

Your nails dig into the flesh of his shoulders as he continues to whisper soft praise in a low, rumbling voice against your ear.

“You’re so fucking good,” he murmurs as his hips slowly buck into yours. “So good for me.”

He only starts to move once he’s fully seated. You grasp onto him tight, letting out sweet little gasps with each slow thrust. Soon it’s like your body is opening itself up to his rhythm, relaxing into the overwhelming sensation of fullness that’s making your head feel a bit fuzzy and warm.

The way his cock is hitting you so deep has you seeing stars and sighing his name like it’s the only word you remember.

Garrett can barely hold on, stamina failing as his hunger for a release builds with each smooth roll of his hips. You feel too good for him to last much longer, not with the way your cunt is hugging so tight around his cock like you were made just for him.

“Oh fuck—” he groans right before he cums, pressing his forehead to yours and panting as his hips jerk against you, filling you up with everything he has to give.

Afterwards you share a tender kiss that lingers while your sweaty bodies are still entwined in a tangle of limbs, then he pulls out, watching your pretty cunt clench around nothing as his cum drips down your puffy folds and onto his sheets.

“D-did I do good?” you ask in a quiet voice that tugs at his heart with its earnestness.

He smiles as he strokes your cheek with his thumb. “You did so good, baby. So good.”

The relief on your face in response causes an unfamiliar warmth to spread through his chest. You’re so perfectly sweet and now that you’re his, he’s going to take his time with you, teach you how to take him in so many different ways.

Garrett might not have ever been interested in relationships or girlfriends in the past, but with you it’s going to be different.

You’re exactly what’s he’s been waiting for—the perfect fit.

Grabbing ahold of your thighs, Garrett spread them a bit wider over his own to hold you in place. The steady warmth of his breath against the back of your neck made you shiver as he smoothed one hand along the curve of your hip, fingers digging into the flesh in desperation to ground himself.

“Baby—you’ve got to stop moving. If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”

Garrett was starting to sweat, a thin sheen of perspiration already shimmering on his brow.

Leaning his head against the back of the couch, he ran a hand through the disarray of dark curls sticking up off the top of his head in all directions, too far gone in the moment to care how he looked.

He was so close. Too fucking close.

You were just so warm and wet. So tight—so much tighter than he’d ever imagined you would be. It was like your walls were clamping down around him, squeezing his cock to within an inch of its life.

“I’m not doing anything,” you pouted, exposed skin glowing with a hint of perspiration. “I just don’t like this movie. Can you switch it to something else, pretty please?”

You turned to glance back at him over your shoulder, fluttering your lashes and flashing your most angelic smile—the kind of thing that usually worked like a charm on your adoring best friend.

But this time he was trapped.

“The remote’s on the other end of the couch—I can’t reach it,” he gritted through clenched teeth, shutting his eyes for a moment to try to center his train of thought on something other than your long lashes and pouty lips.

Counting backwards from ten, he tried to force himself to think only the unsexiest of thoughts. To focus on anything other than the graceful curve of your hips or shapely swell of your ass—currently sitting astride him so pretty while he split you open on his cock.

When he felt himself twitch inside you, he knew it wouldn’t be long before he succumbed to the overwhelming sensation of being buried deep in your pussy—and that wasn’t an option.

He needed to regain some control.

It had started with a question—well first, it started with an injury.

Garrett had been forced to sit out the Hawks’ away game that weekend due to a mild ankle sprain and was being a huge baby about the whole situation. Stuck at home alone while the rest of his teammates were out of town having fun, he bombarded you with endless text messages, complaining that he was lonely and dying of boredom.

As his best friend, you offered to play nurse for the weekend and you faithfully doted on your patient—bringing him snacks, changing his ice packs and even volunteering to massage his sore muscles.

“Nobody has hands like you,” he gushed with an adorable a grin that made your cheeks heat up and sent your heart soaring.

As much as you teased him about being so needy, you secretly loved that you had him all to yourself for a change. Garrett had so many available options for company, it felt good to know you were the girl he wanted more than anyone else in his time of need.

You liked taking care of him.

Since Garrett was supposed to stay off his ankle, it limited your choice of activities for the evening, so you suggested staying in and watching a movie at home. He had been in the mood for something scary, so you didn’t protest when he picked his favorite slasher even though you weren’t much of a horror fan—you usually preferred something a little more fluffy and romantic.

With the lights in the living room turned down low, you snuggled into Garrett’s side as the opening credits played, taking note of his pleasant woodsy cologne and the softness of his sweatpants as your hand brushed against the material. And maybe it was just a trick of the light, but when you glanced down at his lap, you swore you could make out a thick outline under the cotton that caused your heart rate to pick up a little bit.

Clenching your thighs together, you thought of the question you had been meaning to ask Garrett all night but just hadn’t found the right time. You were a little nervous about how he might react, but the silence while waiting for the movie to start seemed like the perfect opportunity.

So you took it.

“Remember how you told me if I ever had questions about sex or dating, I could come to you?” you asked him sweetly, noting the dark cloud that immediately passed over his face when he turned his head to look at you.

“Why? Do you have a date?” His words came out too rushed to sound casual, so he cleared his throat to mask his surprise.

You hadn’t mentioned being interested in anyone in a while, and the prospect of you going out with another guy had completely caught him off guard.

Garrett had been harboring a secret crush on you ever since you’d met during your sophomore year of college, but you had kept him in the friend zone for so long that he’d nearly lost all hope. Being something of a big man on campus and very popular with the ladies, he wasn’t used to dealing with rejection and it had been a hard pill for him to swallow. Even worse, you obviously had a thing for his roommate Dean, always giggling and flirting shamelessly when he was around—which was understandable, but it still stung.

As a way to distract from his unrequited yearning, Garrett spent his time pursuing one night stands and brief flings with girls who didn’t mean anything to him. He claimed he had no interest in love or relationships, but that was only a lie to protect his heart—he wanted you to be his. And he wanted you bad.

“No, not a date.” You giggled, enjoying the hint of jealousy in his voice. Your best friend was always so overprotective when it came to you and other guys. “Do you remember the new girl who started working at the store with me a few months ago?”

He nodded noncommittally, relief relaxing his features. “I think so, sure.”

“Well, she was telling me about this thing she tried with the guy she’s been seeing. Have you ever heard of cockwarming?” you asked with a curious tilt of your head.

Ever since your co-worker had confided in you about her experience one day on your lunch break, you hadn’t been able to get what she’d said off your mind. It sounded so hot—the control and restraint. The closeness and heightened sensations. Just imagining being dominated in that way by someone made your head feel a little fuzzy.

“No, can’t say that I have.” Confusion wrinkled Garrett’s brow. “What is it?”

You could hardly believe that for the first time in your life there was something you knew about sex that the Garrett Graham didn’t know. Having been well explored by the eligible ladies of Briar over the years, he was quite a bit more experienced than you and a bit cocky in that regard. It felt good to finally stump him.

“Well, it’s kind of like sex except she said once the guy is inside, you both try to stay still and not move. I guess it can get pretty intense after a while?” You raised your eyebrows suggestively.

“Really?” Garrett asked with a chuckle, not sounding convinced. “But moving is the best part? I don’t know…doesn’t sound that fun to me.”

When you huffed at his quick dismissal of the idea, a mischievous smile brightened his face.

“Why? Do you want to try it with someone? You would never be able to sit still—you’re too wiggly,” he teased, reaching out to tickle your side as you crossly swatted his hands away.

“Am not,” you shot back in a huff, narrowing your eyes in playful indignation. “I could do just fine.”

When he tried to snuggle up with you again to resume watching the movie, you sniffed as if offended and pulled away.

“I only mentioned it because I thought it would be perfect for someone in your condition,” you pouted, gesturing at his ankle brace. “You could sit there without moving or worrying about hurting yourself—I was just trying to take care of you.”

An awkward silence hung heavy in the living room as Garrett stared at you with a bemused expression, perplexed by what was happening. He couldn’t be sure, but it almost seemed like you were suggesting that you wanted to try it out. With him. Right there.

But that couldn’t be, could it?

Appearing to consider for a moment, he eventually tipped his head and gave you a sly grin. “Taking care of me, huh? You actually think you could make it to the end of the movie without moving?”

When you gave a determined nod and bit down on your lip, Garrett’s eyes seemed to grow darker in an instant.

“Yeah? Fine, then. Show me.”

The haunting score of the slasher movie suddenly soared in volume during a gruesome scene, causing you to shudder.

“If we can’t watch something different, can I at least turn around? It’ll only take a second,” you implored, looking over your shoulder at Garrett with wide pleading eyes.

You had insisted on starting out facing away from him in reverse cowgirl so you both could see the television, but you weren’t enjoying the movie and he imagined you must be getting uncomfortable with your legs draped over his thighs to hold yourself in place.

In his current precarious state, he knew a maneuver like switching positions would create a dangerous amount of friction, but at the same time, you were asking him so sweetly. Who was he to argue?

“Fine,” Garrett offered in a halting voice, secretly desperate for the small bit of motion the switch would provide despite knowing it was likely a bad idea. “Just warn me before you move.”

“Mmhm.” You nodded. “I’m ready now—are you?”

“Yeah, go for it.” Sucking in a deep breath, he released his grip on your waist. When you lifted yourself up and out of his lap in a smooth motion, the resulting slow drag of his cock against your walls was so pleasurable, he had to bite back a moan.

“There, that’s better,” you cooed, turning around to straddle his lap. Feeling warm and slick between your thighs, you wrapped your hand around his rigid cock, humming with satisfaction when you felt its angry pulse against your palm. Impressively long and thick, his shaft was coated in your arousal, slippery and shiny as it throbbed your hand.

You couldn’t resist using the pad of your thumb to swipe the beads of precum from his leaking tip, causing him to buck his hips as he hissed at the sensation.

“Shit—you can’t just do that,” he gasped, grabbing a nearby throw pillow off the couch and clenching it in his fist.

“Sorry.” You stifled a giggle before giving him your most convincing puppy dog eyes. “Are you ready for me now?”

Nodding with his gaze locked on yours, you heard his breath hitch as you lined him up with your entrance then sank down on him slowly, watching his eyes widen as you took each thick inch.

“Fuck—” He let out a shaky breath as you bottomed out, filled with him to the hilt. “Baby—you feel so fucking good.”

Your pussy was already dripping, so the stretch of his cock wasn’t quite as noticeable as before, but Garrett was so big that it still took a few moments for you to adjust to his size and the sensation of fullness. Without him inside, you had felt so empty.

Grasping at you like he was holding on for dear life, Garrett’s fingers pressed hard into the soft flesh of your ass and hips. Your best friend was always so put together and confident that you couldn’t help but feel a bit smug while looking down at his wrecked expression, eyes blown wide with desire.

Letting out a contented sigh, you ran your hands over his bare chest and strong shoulders—your new view much more agreeable than the silly old horror movie you’d been forced to watch against your will. Garrett’s body was a work of art, and even as his best friend, you weren’t oblivious to how attractive he was. You had always admired him from afar, but having him right there with his fat cock throbbing inside you was so much better.

Still, you found yourself wanting more.

“It’s hot in here…how come you’re the only one who gets to be topless?” You gave him a coy smile, toying with the gold chain around his neck—just one more thing about him that was so effortlessly sexy.

Saying nothing, Garrett swallowed hard as you grabbed the hem of your top and started to pull it off over your head, his grasp on you growing even tighter as you wiggled in his lap.

When you tossed your shirt to join his on the couch, he tried his best not stare at your tits, sitting so pretty in the sheer lace cups right in front of his face—a dangerous sight in his current state.

You weren’t playing fair.

He closed his eyes, breathing in your soft perfume, a sweet scent that was so distinctively you that he could have recognized it anywhere. He wanted to inhale it—drink it and bathe himself in your fragrance so it would never fade away.

As every quiet second passed between you, he became more and more aware of each tiny movement of your body; the rise and fall of your chest, the slight tickle of your breath on his skin and the rhythmic pulse of your warm cunt around his cock—steady and unrelenting.

It was taking every ounce of his strength not to throw caution to the wind, roll his hips up off the couch and thrust up into you deeper, feel himself glide in and out of your dripping pussy as your perfect tits bounced in front of his face.

As if you could read his mind, you let out a soft whine, grinding against him ever so slightly in desperation.

“Garrett, please. Just need a little—” you whined, rocking your hips in an attempt to create some friction against your aching clit. “It’s too much.”

And he wanted to give you what you wanted, but he also wanted to regain some control. Take the upper hand.

He tightened his grasp on your waist, looking up at you with heavy half-lidded eyes.

“Come on, baby. Need you to be good for me and sit still,” he coaxed with a condescending smirk. “Thought you said you could make it to the end of the movie?”

The soft command in his words spurred an involuntary clench of your walls around him and made your pussy gush, arousal dripping down between your thighs to soak his heavy balls. You had never thought you’d like to be dominated by anyone in bed, but the way your body was responding to Garrett couldn’t lie.

Reaching to play with his chain once more, you pouted. “You’re being so mean.”

He chuckled softly, removing one hand from your waist and letting it trail down to the wet warmth where your bodies met. “No, baby. If I was mean, I’d do something like this.”

With that, he started to draw slow circles over your swollen clit with the pads of his fingers, lips hovering just over yours, smiling as you let out a breathless gasp.

“Don’t move,” he whispered in warning. “Keep your eyes on me or I’ll stop.”

“Garrett—oh god,” you whimpered, electric sparks coursing through you with each touch of his fingertips. “F-feels too good.”

Dizzy with pleasure and no longer worried about staying still, you grabbed ahold of his chain and pulled him closer, crashing your lips into his with a reckless urgency. Eager to taste you, his tongue swirled, exploring yours as he groaned into the kiss.

Garrett could be mean. But he could also be nice.

“Want you so bad,” he whispered, pulling back to look up at you through his lashes. “Tell me you want it too.”

“I want it,” you whimpered. “Want you to fuck me, Garrett.”

Bracing your hands on his shoulders, you gave a tentative rock in his lap and he answered with a slow roll of his hips, the deep thrust of his cock hitting a spot inside that caused an unexpected shockwave of pleasure to surge through you, making you cry out.

Reaching behind your back, he unfastened your bra, watching with dark eyes as the lace cups fell away to reveal your perfect breasts. As you started to slowly grind on him, he pressed wet kisses over the soft skin, expertly swirling and flicking his tongue over your pert nipples while you sighed, arching your back as you ran your fingers through his messy curls.

When he released your breast with a slick pop, you sat up straighter and started to ride him faster, tits brushing the tip of his nose with each fluid roll of your hips. He guided your movements with a firm grip on your waist, the delicious glide of his cock against your walls almost overwhelming.

“Fuck yeah, that's it,” he praised, leaned back in his seat to watch you move astride him, smiling as you let out the sweetest little sighs and gasps with each bounce in his lap. “Ride it. Take what you want.”

“Mhm,” you whined, glassy eyes fixed on his. “Need more.”

He smirked, dark curls falling into forehead with the effort of lifting his hips up off the couch to meet your thrusts, breath growing ragged.

“Yeah? You want more?”

Standing up carefully due to his sprain, he lifted you with him, wrapping your legs around his waist. Then he laid you down on your back on the couch, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he took in the sight of you spread out beneath him. His toned body was heavy over yours, chest squishing your breasts as he pinned your wrists over your head and parted your soft thighs with his hips.

Buried in your warmth, he gave a powerful snap of his pelvis against you and then another, slightly swirling his hips.

“This deep enough for you?” he rasped with a cocky grin, the muscles in thighs and ass flexing with the effort of each stroke as he began to set a punishing pace.

The only answer you could manage was a breathless whimper of his name as each thrust punched the air from your lungs. Letting go of your wrists, he reached down between your bodies to rub two thick fingers over your clit in time with each stroke.

Since you’d both been edging yourselves for what felt like an eternity, it didn’t take long before you could feel your climax approaching, the pleasure rapidly building in waves.

“That’s it baby, cum for me.” His words in combination with the rhythmic movements of his fingers and his cock soon brought you hurtling to the edge.

“Oh god—” you cried out, grasping onto his shoulders, nails biting into the flesh as the white hot pleasure hit you, washing over you in wave after wave.

Looking down with a breathless smile, he watched each and every change of your expression as you rode out your high.

The way your cunt was squeezing and pulsing around his cock was too much for him to withstand, and he couldn’t hold himself back any longer.

“I’m so fucking close, baby,” he warned, breath hot against your neck. “Where do you want me?”

“Inside,” you whimpered. “Need to feel you.”

And your best friend always gave you what you wanted.

His hips soon stuttered, finally losing their rhythm as he approached his high. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he let out a throaty growl as his pelvis jerked against you, filling you with hot ropes of his cum.

After a few more slow thrusts, he finally collapsed his weight on top of yours, wrapping you in his arms with a contented sigh. You could feel his heart beating against your chest as his warm cum dripped out of your cunt and down your thighs.

He didn’t move to pull out right away, so accustomed to the feeling of being inside you that the absence would have seemed unnatural.

“Well…that was unexpected.” You giggled, breaking the silence.

“Uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat, furrowing his brow. “Listen, I know you like someone else, but I really—”

“What?” you cut him off in confusion. “Who do you think I like, Garrett?

“Well, Dean. Right?” he asked, soft eyes filled with restrained emotion. “You’re always smiling when he’s around and looking at him all dreamy. It’s ok. I get it.”

Surprised, you let a little laugh escape at the idea that Garrett thought you had a crush on his roommate and friend. Dean was definitely cute and had a way with words, but you’d never had any interest in him.

“I don’t like Dean,” you whispered, voice breaking with emotion as you stared deep into his eyes. “It’s always been you.”

Garrett couldn’t hold back the sheepish grin that broke over his face. “Yeah?”

Just as you were about to confess all of the pent up feelings you’d been hiding from him over the years, you were rudely interrupted when the final credit music of the forgotten horror movie started blaring from the television’s speakers.

Garrett looked down at you, eyes twinkling with amusement. “See, I told you that you’d never make it to the end of the movie.”

And you rolled your eyes with a playful groan, reaching up to stroke his cheek as you giggled at his teasing smile.

Some things would never change.

thank you for reading!! 🧡

The open window has let enough cool air into the room that her bare shoulder should be cold, but Garrett’s palm keeps moving over it in long, lazy passes, warming the skin each time.

She traces one finger through the faint line of hair below his navel, then up again, over the ridges of his stomach and the centre of his chest. His skin moves beneath her fingertip with each breath. 

There are little things here she knows now without having deliberately learned them: the pale scar near his ribs, the place beneath his left pec that makes the muscle jump when she drags her nail over it, the tiny freckle near his sternum she once spent an entire morning insisting looked like a malignant melanoma until he threatened to ban her from examining him unsupervised.

Her fingertip circles it now. Garrett’s arm tightens faintly around her. “That still cancer?”

“Mm.” She gives it the grave attention of a specialist delivering devastating news. “Terminal.”

“Shit.”

“You’ve got hours.”

“Better make ’em count.”

His hand slips lower beneath the duvet, palm flattening shamelessly over her ass. She laughs into his chest, the sound still a little loose and breathless, and gives his side a weak pinch that does absolutely nothing except make Garrett’s mouth curve against her hair.

“Greedy,” she murmurs.

“You climbed on top of me.”

“You were being annoying.”

“Yeah, and you handled that very professionally.”

She lifts her head enough to look at him. His curls are completely wrecked, flattened at one side and damp at the roots where her hands have spent most of the last half hour. His lips are pink, his cheeks faintly flushed, the arrogant little satisfaction on his face softened by sleepiness and the fact that he’s currently looking at her like she’s done something much more impressive than have sex with him in a dorm bed.

She nuzzles her nose gently into the roughness along his jaw. Garrett’s fingers still at her waist. “You good?”

The question comes automatically now. Before, after and sometimes during, when her breathing changes or her face does something he cannot immediately translate. He still asks it with the same quiet attention, though. Like no number of previous yeses can answer for the current one.

She nods, nose brushing his skin again. “Very.”

“Good.” His hand resumes its slow pass along her back. “Was worried.”

“You frequently are.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose, but it doesn’t fully settle into the room. Something in his face stays elsewhere, his gaze drifting briefly past her shoulder toward the rain-dark window before returning.

She watches him for a moment. Garrett has several different kinds of quiet. There’s tired quiet, which usually means he’s three minutes from falling asleep with his full weight on some part of her body. There’s pissed-off quiet, all tight jaw and nostril breathing and shoulders that look like they have been raised two inches closer to his ears. There’s the rare studying quiet, distinguished mostly by an open textbook and Garrett staring through the same paragraph while pretending he’s not become distracted by her existing nearby.

This is none of those. She pushes herself a little higher against him, then smooths his curls back from his forehead with the flat of her hand. They immediately fall forward again at the edges, soft and impossible. “What’re you thinking?”

Garrett’s eyes return properly to her face. “Nothing.”

She pinches his side again.

“Jesus.” His stomach tightens beneath her. “Violent.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a great liar,” he huffs.

She brushes the curls back again. This time she keeps her fingers there, threaded gently into the hair at his temple. “What’re you thinking, Graham?”

His mouth presses together for a second. He breathes out slowly through his nose, the exhale moving warm over the top of her head. “Just thinking.”

“Compelling.” She settles her chin on his chest. “About what?”

“A lot.”

“Okay.” Her thumb moves once over his hairline. “Fill me in.”

Garrett’s gaze drops to her shoulder. His fingers trace the curve of it without seeming to notice what they’re doing, following the same path again and again until the touch begins to feel less lazy and more like counting.

“About Nathan, mostly.”

The name lands in the room without doing much to her. Only recognition and a very mild irritation, like someone has mentioned an assignment she thought she had already submitted.

She studies Garrett’s face instead. “What about him?”

His jaw moves once beneath the stubble. “He knows we’re together?”

“I don’t know.” She thinks about it, then shrugs as much as she can while half lying on him. “Probably. People talk. Especially people who have nothing interesting happening in their own lives.”

“Is he gonna be pissed?”

She lets out a quiet breath. “Maybe.”

Garrett’s hand stops moving.

She looks at him. “I don’t know, baby. Probably, yeah. Nathan was pissed when I got a haircut without asking whether he liked bangs. His emotional range was not… especially selective.”

“That’s not funny.”

She lifts her shoulder. “It’s a little funny.”

“It’s fucked.”

“It can be both.”

Garrett doesn’t answer. The tendon in his neck has gone tight beneath her hand, a small, visible line disappearing toward his collarbone.

She smooths her thumb over it. “I’m not worried.”

“No?”

“No.” She rests her cheek against his chest again, listening to the slow beat underneath. “He doesn’t get to me anymore. Not like that. He hasn’t for a long time.”

Garrett’s fingers flex against her back. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” His answer is immediate enough to sound defensive. He looks toward the ceiling, then back at her. “Yeah, baby. I know you don’t want him. That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I didn’t think it was.”

His eyes narrow faintly. “You were about to reassure me.”

“I was about, like, to provide context.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “You were using your calm nurse voice.”

She blinks. “I don’t have a calm nurse voice.”

“You do,” he murmurs. “It’s the one you use right before telling someone something’s gonna sting.”

“That’s because it’s going to sting.”

“Exactly.”

She presses her lips together around a smile. Garrett catches it, because Garrett catches everything her mouth tries to hide from him, but his expression only softens for a second before returning to the place it has been.

“I worry about you,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “You worry when I take the stairs too fast.”

“You fall up them.”

“I’ve done that once.”

Garrett’s mouth twitches. His hand slides to the back of her neck, thumb resting beneath her ear. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” She turns her face and kisses his wrist. “But you don’t have to worry about me. I’m okay. Nathan and I are so over it’s, like, actually embarrassing he still comes up in conversation.”

Garrett shakes his head. “Not worried like that.”

The smile leaves her face, because of the way he says them. Quiet and frustrated, like the thought has been grinding against him for a while and he cannot find an angle that makes it less sharp.

“What, then?”

He looks at her for a second. “I don’t want him to hurt you.”

Her hand stills on his chest.

“Because of me,” Garrett adds, and the last part comes out rougher. “Or because he finds out you have a boyfriend and decides to prove he can still get to you, or because I hit him and now he wants to even the score, or whatever the fuck goes through his head.”

“Garrett.”

“He’s already shown up here and run his mouth about you to people. He knows where you live. He knows where you have placement. He knows your friends. I don’t–” His fingers tighten gently at the back of her neck. “I don’t like it.”

She watches the anxiety work through him in visible little movements. His thumb tapping once against her skin. The muscle shifting in his jaw. His other hand resting flat over her lower back as if he can keep her safe from a man who’s not in the building by making sure there’s nowhere between them for air to pass.

“Baby,” she says softly, “he can’t hurt me more than he already did.”

Garrett’s face changes. His eyes sharpen, his brows pulling together while his mouth goes flat. Still, she feels the words strike him in the exact place she probably should have anticipated.

“That’s not…” He swallows. “That’s a really fucked-up way to reassure me.”

“It was accurate,” she murmurs.

“I hate when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say something horrible… like– like it’s a weather update.”

She considers the criticism. “Cloudy with a high chance of unresolved male entitlement.”

Garrett gives her a flat look. She fights the smile for three seconds, loses and lets her forehead drop against his chest. His hand comes up automatically to cradle the back of her head, fingers sinking into her hair even while he mutters, “You’re impossible.”

“I’m making a point.”

“You’re making jokes,” he sighs.

“Both can occur simultaneously. That’s actually a key feature of my personality.”

“I’ve noticed.”

She lifts her head again. “What I mean is, Nathan already took what he was going to take from me. Time. Confidence. A deeply unreasonable fear of being asked where I am when I’m literally at work. He doesn’t have access to any of that now.”

“He can still say shit.”

“Let him.”

Garrett’s eyes flash. “You say that because you don’t hear half of it.”

“No, I say that because I know exactly what he sounds like.” Her voice stays easy, because the truth is easy now. It has edges, but they don’t cut her when she picks it up. “Nathan runs his mouth because he needs people looking at him. He needs me upset. He needs you angry. It’s the only way he can still stand in a room with me and feel like he has something.”

“He called you–”

“I know what he called me.”

The words come out firmer than she intends. Garrett goes quiet immediately, watching her.

She smooths her palm over the centre of his chest, once, then again. “I know what he says. I know what he thinks. I spent a lot of time thinking his opinion was– was everything. It isn’t. It’s just noise from a deeply unimpressive man in a button-down.”

Garrett’s mouth shifts faintly. “Hate that shirt.”

“I know you do.”

“Looks like he asks professors whether the homework’s due.”

“He did that once,” she smiles.

“Of course he fucking did.”

She laughs, and the tension in his body gives by a fraction beneath her. She takes advantage of it, sliding her hand upward to his jaw, smoothing her palm over the rough line of it before cupping his cheek.

“He can run his mouth,” she says. “Who cares?”

“I care.”

“You care too much,” she whispers.

“He hurt you.”

“Yeah.” She says it plainly, without making the room bow around it. “He did.”

Garrett’s eyes search her face like he expects to find evidence she has hidden from him. A twitch. A crack. Something that says she’s performing wellness for his benefit. She lets him look.

There was a time the memory of Nathan’s voice could make her body rearrange itself before she had understood what was happening. Shoulders lifting. Stomach tight. Words becoming harder to reach because some old part of her believed silence might make the moment pass faster. There was a time hearing his name could stain an entire night.

Now there’s only Garrett beneath her, warm and worried and entirely too naked to be conducting threat assessments. “You didn’t rescue me from him,” she says.

His brows pinch together. “I know.”

“No, listen.” She strokes her thumb over his cheek. “You met me after I’d already left. I’d already decided he wasn’t allowed to keep doing that to me. I was already putting myself back together.”

Garrett holds her gaze.

“You made things better,” she continues. “You make a lot of things better. Food. Sex. My understanding of how many grown men can share a bathroom before it becomes a public health issue.”

“Four’s apparently too many.”

“Correct. But you didn’t save me from Nathan. I did that.”

“I know,” Garrett says again, quieter now. “I know you did.”

“Good.”

“I’m still allowed to worry.”

She makes a face. “Within reason.”

“What’s within reason?” Garrett asks, his thumb moving once over the curve of her shoulder.

“Not committing another felony in your living room.”

His brows pull together immediately. “It wasn’t a felony.”

“Multiple people had to physically remove you from his body,” she reminds him, watching the corner of his mouth twitch like he’s already preparing an appeal.

“Allegedly.”

“I was there.”

Garrett’s expression turns thoughtful in the deeply unconvincing way it does whenever he’s about to misuse information. “You were concussed recently. Memory’s unreliable.”

She stares at him.

Garrett lasts perhaps half a second before his mouth twitches. “Too soon?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry.”

Her fingers move from his cheek to the shell of his ear, tracing it absently. “If Nathan says something, I’ll ignore him.”

“And if he does something?”

“Then I’ll deal with it.”

His jaw tightens again.

She sighs softly. “With my friends. Campus security. The police, if it actually gets that far. Not by personally challenging him to, like, single combat.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ll tell you.”

Garrett’s eyes narrow. “Immediately?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

“Promise?”

“Garrett.”

“Promise.”

Her hand softens against his face. “I promise I won’t hide it if Nathan does something that actually worries me.”

“Thank you.”

She raises her eyebrow. “But you don’t get to put him through a wall.”

Garrett exhales through his nose. “What if it’s a weak wall?”

“No.”

“Drywall?”

“Garrett.”

“I’m asking about limits.”

She tilts her chin and kisses him before he can continue negotiating materials. Garrett takes the kiss immediately, one hand sliding up into her hair while the other captures the wrist resting on his chest. His fingers wrap around hers and hold her there, palm pressed over his heartbeat.

The kiss is softer than the ones before. No hunger left to chase, only warmth and the slow drag of his mouth over hers. She kisses the corner of his lips when he starts pulling back, then his cheek, then the line of his jaw.

Garrett’s thumb moves over the back of her hand. For a few seconds, the conversation seems to have settled. The rain continues its faint tapping against the glass. Somebody down the hall shuts a drawer, followed by the muffled sound of a girl saying, “That’s not mine,” with such personal outrage that it must be about underwear.

Garrett turns her hand over and kisses the inside of her wrist. Then his gaze moves up to her face. He lifts one hand slowly, his thumb passing over the bridge of her nose with such little pressure she barely feels it. The touch is careful out of habit now, even though the swelling has disappeared and the bruising beneath her eyes has faded into the last thin yellow shadow near one cheek.

“Nearly gone,” he murmurs.

She knows what he means. “Mhm.”

His thumb moves once more, tracing the place that had been purple and tender. “Does it still hurt?”

“No.” She scrunches her nose experimentally. “Feels good.”

Garrett’s face changes at once, tension cracking enough for amusement to come through. “Do that again.”

She looks at him. “What?”

“The nose thing.”

She scrunches it again, more dramatically this time.

Garrett laughs. It bursts out warm and surprised, his whole chest moving beneath her. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“That’s so fucking cute.”

Her face warms. “Shut up.”

“No, do it again.”

She giggles, cheeks red. “I’m not performing.”

“Baby.”

“No.”

He catches her around the waist when she tries to hide her face in his neck, rolling them just enough that she ends up half beneath him, half pinned by the solid heat of his body. The dorm mattress gives a warning squeak.

She starts laughing before he even touches her nose, because Garrett is grinning now, properly, curls falling over his forehead and every trace of the worried crease between his brows temporarily gone.

“Come on,” he says. “One more.”

“You’re making it weird.”

“You made the cutest fucking face I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve seen you try to use chopsticks,” she giggles. “My face isn’t winning that competition.”

“That was one time.”

“You stabbed the dumpling.”

Garrett kisses her before she can continue, mouth smiling over hers. She makes the mistake of scrunching her nose when his own bumps it, and he pulls back laughing again.

“There,” he says, delighted. “That.”

“You’re deeply embarrassing.”

“You love it.”

She doesn’t answer. Garrett’s grin goes softer anyway, like maybe he heard something in the silence she doesn’t intend to say yet. He kisses the tip of her nose, then the bridge of it, then the fading bruise beneath her eye.

The last kiss changes the air. It settles more heavily, his mouth lingering against her skin while the hand holding hers goes still between them. She studies his face when he lifts his head.

The question has been sitting somewhere inside her since the hospital. Since the doorway of the hockey house and the way all the colour left him when he saw her. Since he stayed awake beside her, staring at her breathing as if he didn’t trust the room to keep doing it without supervision. 

Since the lockdown, when she stepped out after an excellent shift and found Garrett looking like the two hours outside had taken years off his life.

She hasn’t asked because he’s told her enough already. Because there’s a difference between making room and digging. Because Garrett’s history isn’t a locked medication cabinet she gets to open simply because she knows where he keeps the key.

Still, his thumb is resting beside the place her bruise used to be. She clears her throat. “Were you…”

Garrett waits.

“I don’t want to pry.” She looks down briefly at their joined hands, then back at him. “And you can absolutely tell me to fuck off.”

“Promising start.”

“I’m serious.”

“Okay.” His mouth softens. “Ask.”

She slides her hand free of his only so she can touch his face, fingertips tracing the edge of his jaw. “Seeing me like that. After the hospital.”

Garrett goes very still.

“And then the lockdown,” she continues more quietly. “That brought up stuff with your mom, right?”

His gaze moves over her face with an attention that feels different from before, no longer looking for injuries but trying to decide whether this is a place he can put something. The lamp catches the dark brown in his eyes. His chest rises beneath her hand, then lowers slowly. Finally, he nods.

“Yeah,” he says.

She doesn’t fill the silence. She only lets her thumb stroke once over his cheek.

Garrett looks past her toward the window. “Seeing you at the door was…” His throat works. He stops, presses his lips together, tries again. “I knew it was you,” he says. “That sounds stupid, but I knew. I wasn’t confused or anything. I knew you’d been at work and something happened with a patient. Maria was standing there. Logan was talking. I heard all of it.”

She nods faintly.

“But you had blood on your face.” His eyes return to hers, and there is something raw beneath the steadiness now. “Your shirt was fucked up. You were holding your shoulder weird. You looked at me and tried to smile like you were worried I’d be uncomfortable if you didn’t make it less bad.”

Her fingers pause against his cheek.

“I just…” He breathes out, but the exhale catches near the end. “I couldn’t breathe. For a second. I could see you standing there, but I was somewhere else too.”

She feels his pulse beneath the heel of her hand, faster now than it was minutes ago.

“It wasn’t one memory,” Garrett says. “That would almost be easier. It was… all of it. Every time I heard something from another room. Every time she told me she was fine before I even asked. Every time I knew she was hurt and couldn’t–”

His voice cuts off. She moves closer beneath him, her knee fits along his hip and his body has somewhere to settle if he needs it.

“I couldn’t do anything then,” he says, quieter. “And with you, I got there after. Again. You were already hurt. You’d already been scared. Everyone else had already helped you, and I was just standing in the fucking doorway.”

“Baby.”

“I know.” His eyes close for a second. “I know it wasn’t my job to stop it. I know I wasn’t there. I know you work in an emergency department and things happen and I can’t–” His mouth twists. “I can’t stand beside you every second in case somebody loses it.”

“That would violate several hospital policies.”

“Yeah.”

She strokes her thumb beneath his eye. “But knowing it and feeling it aren’t lining up yet.”

Garrett opens his eyes. He gives her a tired, crooked look. “There’s the nurse voice.”

“That wasn’t the nurse voice.”

He huffs. “That was absolutely the nurse voice.”

“It was the extremely hot girlfriend voice.”

“Right.” His hand moves to her waist, holding her a little more securely. “That one’s new.”

“Still developing.”

His mouth almost smiles, but the heaviness remains in his face. “The lockdown was worse in a different way,” he says after a moment. “Because I couldn’t… see you.”

She goes quiet.

“I had hospital, lockdown, your phone not working and nobody telling me what part of the building it was in.” His fingertips press into her waist, not hard, only enough that she feels the shape of each one. “The last time you got hurt at that hospital, you showed up at the house looking like…” His gaze moves over her nose. “Like that. So my brain decided there were about a hundred things happening to you at once.”

“I was editing an assignment.”

Garrett shakes his head, but his mouth has softened again. “I kept thinking there was a door between us and something bad was happening on the other side.”

She doesn’t need him to explain which door. There had probably been dozens. Bedroom doors. Kitchen doors. A bathroom door pulled nearly shut while Garrett stood in a hallway and listened for his mother because listening was the only action a child had left.

Her hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck. She draws him down slowly until his forehead rests against hers. “You were a kid then,” she says.

“I know.”

“And you’re my boyfriend now.”

Garrett’s breath warms her mouth. “Yeah.”

“Those are different jobs.”

His eyes close.

“You don’t have to protect me from every single thing that might ever happen,” she continues. “That’s not a boyfriend job. That’s Batman, and he has funding you don’t.”

Garrett lets out a quiet, unwilling laugh. “I have a scholarship.”

She shakes her head. “Not enough for surveillance equipment.”

“Dean probably knows a guy.”

She lets the small laugh fade between them before she speaks again. “I don’t want you thinking being with me means you– you failed every time I get hurt.”

His fingers tighten at her waist.

“Because I’m going to get hurt sometimes,” she says. “I work in a hospital. I’m clumsy. I regularly walk into the open corner of my own desk.”

“You really do.”

“It moves.”

Garrett opens his eyes.

She holds his gaze. “I don’t need you to stop everything before it happens.”

“What do you need?”

The question comes out so direct that her chest tightens around it.

“You,” she says, then makes a face because the word feels dangerously simple for the size of it. “Afterward. Sometimes during, if you’re available and the hospital has not enacted an armed perimeter.”

“It was security tape.”

She narrows her eyes. “Very threatening security tape.”

“I almost crossed it.”

“I know. Dean told me you asked about the roof.”

“I was… exploring options.”

She smiles, her fingers moving through the curls at the back of his neck. “I need you to show up. Turn the lights down. Read the discharge instructions because my brain is leaking out of my ears. Stop Dean from yelling.”

“I cannot do that last one.”

“No. Nobody can.”

“Glad we agree.”

“And I need you to believe me when I say I’m okay,” she murmurs. “Not automatically,” she adds. “You’re allowed to ask. You’re allowed to worry. You’re allowed to tell me when you think I’m being stupid.”

“That’s often.”

“Careful.”

“Sorry.”

“But once I answer you – really answer you – I need you to believe I know what’s happening inside my own body.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“And I’ll try not to say I’m fine when I’m, like, actively bleeding on my shoes.”

“That would be huge for us.”

She strokes the hair at his nape. “You did everything right that night.”

Garrett’s mouth tightens. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You made the house quiet.”

“Tucker did.”

“You stayed,” she whispers

“Obviously.”

“You woke me up. You tracked my symptoms. You helped me change without making it weird.”

“I made it a little weird.”

She smiles. “You didn’t have to save me. You just had to be there.”

Garrett looks at her for a long moment. His eyes have gone bright at the edges, though he doesn’t look away or joke over it. “I can do that,” he says.

“I know.”

“I’ll always do that.”

The words come out before he can make them smaller. They settle between their mouths, unpolished and certain. Her fingers tighten gently in his curls. “I know that too.”

Garrett kisses her. His mouth closes over hers with careful pressure, one hand sliding from her waist to the centre of her back and pulling her flush against him. She lets him. Her arms go around his neck, bare bodies fitting together again without urgency, only skin and warmth and the steady proof of him breathing against her.

When he pulls away, he stays close enough that their noses touch. “So,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the base of her spine beneath the duvet. “You’re really not worried about Nathan?”

She gives the question proper consideration. “I’m worried he might continue dressing like a regional bank manager.”

“Serious.”

“No,” she says again, quieter. “I’m not. Not anymore.”

His shoulders lower with a small, reluctant breath.

“And if he tells people I’m insane,” she adds, “I’ll tell them he cried during sex once because he thought he pulled a hamstring.”

Garrett’s eyes widen. “He what?”

She bites the inside of her cheek.

“Oh my God.” Garrett lifts himself higher over her, suddenly awake in every meaningful way. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not giving you details.”

“You cannot say that and then refuse details.”

“I absolutely can,” she giggles.

“Was it actually a hamstring?”

“No.”

“What was it?”

“Probably a cramp,” she shrugs.

Garrett drops his forehead into the pillow beside her and starts laughing. His whole body shakes against hers, warm and heavy and delighted in a way that makes her laugh too, even while she presses one hand over his mouth to contain it before the neighbouring room files a second kind of noise complaint.

He catches her wrist and kisses her palm. “That’s the best thing you’ve ever told me,” he says into her skin.

“That’s incredibly insulting.”

“Did he stop?”

“Garrett.”

“Did he stretch?”

She laughs. “I hate you.”

“Did you do an assessment?”

She shoves at his shoulder, which accomplishes nothing. He rolls them anyway, catching her around the waist until she’s sprawled over his chest again, both of them still laughing quietly into the warm, messy room.

Eventually, the laughter eases. She settles her cheek above his heart. His hand returns to the back of her head, fingers moving gently through her hair.

“Hey,” Garrett says after a moment.

“Mhm?”

“If he ever does anything…”

“I’ll tell you,” she nods.

“And I won’t put him through a wall.”

She lifts her head.

Garrett grimaces. “I’ll try very hard not to put him through a wall.”

She considers this. “Better.”

“What if he trips?”

“No.”

“Near a wall?”

“Go to sleep.”

He smiles and presses his mouth to the top of her head. She nuzzles closer beneath his jaw, her nose brushing the warm skin there. Garrett’s arm tightens around her.

She scrunches her nose against his neck. His laugh moves through her cheek.

“So fucking cute,” he murmurs.

She smiles against his skin, traces one final slow line over his chest and lets her hand come to rest over his heart.

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He spends Wednesday night in the hockey-house kitchen complaining that she’s been suspiciously affectionate since the weekend, as though her sitting sideways across his lap is evidence of organised crime. He pulls her closer each time she tries to stand, mouth finding the side of her neck while Dean watches from across the island with the hollow expression of a man being punished for sins committed in a previous life.

“What’re you hiding?” Garrett murmurs against her skin.

“Nothing.”

“You said that too fast.”

“You ask stupid questions.”

His hand slides under the back of her sweatshirt, warm palm settling over the curve of her waist less than an inch above the tattoo. She goes still for one sharp second, then catches his wrist and drags his hand around to her stomach before his fingers can wander lower.

Garrett narrows his eyes. She kisses him before the investigation can advance.

By Friday, the secret has begun to feel hot, because it’s his. A tiny private mark resting beneath her clothes while Garrett walks beside her across campus with one hand hooked through the strap of her bag, completely unaware that forty-four is inked into her skin. 

He complains about practice. She complains about an exam question that used the phrase most appropriate intervention despite three answers being clinically reasonable. His thumb finds the bare strip of her wrist where her sleeve has ridden up. All the while, his number is sitting just above the waistband of her jeans.

The thought stays with her when he arrives at her dorm that night.

Her roommate has gone to visit her parents for the weekend, and Garrett appears just after nine in grey sweats and a black hoodie and cheeks pink from the cold. He has a backpack over one shoulder, though she doubts it contains a single item remotely connected to studying. The last time he brought a textbook to her room, it remained unopened beneath her desk for three days while Garrett insisted proximity counted as academic effort.

“Hi, baby,” he says when she opens the door.

She barely gets the lock turned before his hands are on her. It begins with one kiss, which is how most of their poor decisions begin now. Garrett catches her waist and pulls her into him with the deep, satisfied exhale of someone who’s spent the whole walk across campus anticipating exactly this. 

His mouth is cold from outside and warm beneath it, lips moving over hers slowly while she hooks both hands into the front of his hoodie and walks him backward toward the bed.

“You missed me,” he murmurs.

“I saw you this morning.”

“Exactly.”

“You slept in my bed.”

He shakes his head. “Not long enough.”

The backs of his knees hit the mattress. Garrett sits and draws her down with him before she can pretend she intended anything else, her legs opening around his hips as she settles over his lap.

The first press of him beneath her is enough to strip whatever remained of the evening’s patience. He’s already half hard through the soft fabric of his sweats, heat and shape caught between them when she rolls her hips forward. 

Garrett’s head tips back slightly. The smile that moves across his mouth is slow and knowing, his hands spreading over her hips beneath the oversized hoodie she’s stolen from him so many times it’s practically transferred ownership.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

She catches his curls at the back of his head and brings his mouth to hers before he can become any more pleased with himself. The kiss turns wet and deep almost immediately, Garrett’s tongue sliding over hers while she grinds down again, a little harder, friction catching warm between her thighs through the thin cotton of her sleep shorts and underwear.

He groans against her mouth. His fingers tighten. “Fuck, baby.”

Her hoodie is too warm suddenly. The dorm room is too small, too dim, the little lamp beside her bed throwing everything into soft amber while rain ticks faintly against the window. Garrett’s shoulders fill the space beneath her hands. His thighs flex under hers every time she moves, and she can feel him becoming fully hard beneath her, thick and insistent and still separated from her by several deeply unnecessary layers of clothing.

He kisses across the corner of her mouth, along her jaw, down the side of her neck with the greedy familiarity of someone returning to a favourite argument. His teeth scrape lightly beneath her ear. 

She inhales and tightens her fingers in his hair. “Garrett.”

“Mm?”

“That feels good,” she breathes.

“I know.” His mouth drags lower. “You’re humping me like you’re trying to start a fire.”

She rolls her hips again because Garrett’s smugness has always been more effective encouragement than he understands. His hands guide the movement, pulling her forward over the hard line of him and then back, slower on the return so the pressure catches exactly where her body has already become embarrassingly sensitive.

Her next breath breaks against his cheek. Garrett smiles into her throat. “Yeah?”

“Don’t.”

“Wasn’t saying anything.”

She tugs hard enough on his curls to lift his mouth back to hers. Garrett laughs into the kiss, low and rough, then grips her beneath the thighs and stands. The movement steals a startled sound from her. Her legs tighten around his waist on instinct, arms locking behind his neck while Garrett takes one step, turns and lowers her onto the mattress. The bed gives beneath their combined weight, springs creaking a small complaint that neither of them acknowledges.

He comes down over her immediately. Their mouths meet badly at first, teeth knocking, her laugh caught between them while Garrett braces one hand beside her head and uses the other to drag her higher beneath him. Then the angle settles and everything goes hot again. His body fits heavily between her thighs, hips pressing down until she can feel the full hard length of him through his sweats.

She arches into it. Garrett’s breath catches. “Jesus.”

His hoodie becomes an obstacle. He sits back just long enough to grab the hem and strip it over his head, hair coming up with it in a dark, disordered mess. The shirt underneath follows, both pieces dropped somewhere near the foot of the bed while she pushes herself onto her elbows to watch.

Garrett catches her looking. His grin flashes. “See something you like?”

“Not especially,” she grins.

“Liar.”

He climbs back over her before she can improve the insult, one hand sliding beneath her hoodie and over her stomach. His palm is hot against her skin, callused fingers spreading over her ribs while he kisses her again and starts working the fabric upward.

She lifts her arms. The hoodie catches briefly around one wrist. Garrett frees it with a sharp tug and tosses it toward the chair, where it lands halfway over a clean pile of scrubs.

The air moves cool over her bare stomach and the little green lace bra she chose that morning with absolutely no ulterior motive. Garrett stills above her. His gaze drops. His eyes travel slowly over the lace, the soft rise of her breasts above the cups, the way her nipples have tightened beneath the fabric from cold air and attention.

“Fuck,” he says.

Her face warms. “You’ve seen this bra.”

“Don’t remember.”

She tilts her head. “You took it off with your teeth.”

“Must’ve been distracted.”

He bends before she can answer, mouth closing over one breast through the lace. Her head drops back. The thin fabric turns damp and warm under his tongue as he mouths her through it, one hand slipping beneath the other breast to lift it while his thumb presses over the sensitive peak. He sucks harder. Pleasure catches bright and immediate low in her stomach, dragging a helpless sound from her throat.

Garrett hums against her, he likes this part too much. Seeing the change in her breathing. Feeling her thighs shift more restlessly around his hips. Learning which pressure makes her voice climb and then repeating it with the focused persistence he brings to anything he has decided matters.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, mouth moving across the centre of her chest. “Know what you looked like all week?”

She swallows. “What?”

“Like you were thinking about me.”

“I was doing other things.”

“Mm.” He slips one finger beneath the edge of the bra and drags it slowly along the skin there. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

His mouth finds the other breast. One hand reaches behind her, and the clasp opens with the efficient little flick he’s far too proud of having mastered. Garrett pulls the straps down her arms, drops the bra beside them and immediately puts his mouth back on her.

His lips closing around one nipple while his hand covers the other, squeezing and rolling it between two fingers until her whole body pulls tight beneath him. She grabs at his curls. “Oh, fuck.”

Garrett looks up at her without lifting his mouth, dark eyes warm and wicked beneath the hair falling over his forehead. He gives one slow suck, then releases her with a wet little sound. “Sensitive tonight.”

“It’s been days,” she whines.

“Four.”

“That’s days.”

“My poor baby.” His voice drops into false sympathy while his thumb circles the damp nipple he has left behind. “Been walking around all needy because her boyfriend had practice?”

“I’ve had exams.”

“Those are over.”

“Exactly.”

His grin presses against the skin beneath her breast. “So now you’re mine.”

The words send a hot, liquid pull through the centre of her body.

Garrett feels the way she shifts against him. His hand slides down her stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of her shorts. “These off?”

She lifts her hips. He drags the shorts and underwear down together, impatient once they catch around her thighs, his mouth following the movement over her stomach and hip. The clothing disappears over one ankle and lands somewhere beyond the bed.

Garrett spreads her knees. The air touches her first. Then his eyes, and his face changes.

There’s something shamelessly gratifying about Garrett looking at her like this, the same boy who can stand beneath arena lights in front of thousands of people without blinking now visibly losing the thread of his own breathing because she is naked on a dorm bed. He presses one palm against the inside of her thigh and opens her wider. “Baby.”

She covers her face with one arm. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Make what weird?” His thumb skims along the crease where her thigh meets her body, close enough that her hips lift toward it. “How wet you are?”

Her entire face heats behind her arm.

Garrett laughs softly, then kisses the inside of her knee. “That’s not weird. That’s hot.”

“Garrett.”

“Been like this since I got here?”

She lowers her arm just enough to glare at him.

His mouth curves. “Longer?”

“Come here,” she groans.

“I am here.”

“Higher.”

“No.” He presses another kiss farther up her thigh, then another, slow enough to make every inch between his mouth and where she needs it feel deliberate. “Like it down here.”

She knows that. Everyone in a three-mile radius may know that.

Garrett Graham treats getting his mouth between her thighs less like foreplay and more like a personal calling. He’s arrived late to parties because he refused to stop. He’s missed the beginning of a movie, let Tucker’s dinner go cold and once remained there long enough that she had to pull him up by the hair and remind him she possessed other body parts.

Now he settles onto his stomach like this is where he intended to spend the evening, one arm hooking firmly around her thigh while the other hand spreads her open.

His first lick is slow. It moves from low to high with the flat of his tongue, collecting the wetness already gathered there before pressing deliberately over her clit. Her hips lift from the mattress. Garrett keeps her there with his forearm and does it again.

“Fuck,” she breathes.

His mouth closes over her. There’s nothing tentative about the way Garrett eats her out. He licks like he’s hungry and has never been embarrassed by appetite, tongue circling and flattening and flicking until her legs are tense around his shoulders and the fitted sheet has begun to twist beneath her hands. He kisses her between strokes, wet open-mouthed presses that feel obscene in the quiet room, then drags his tongue lower and pushes it inside her.

Her breath punches out. Garrett groans into her. The sound vibrates through her body, low and rough, while he fucks his tongue into her with one hand still holding her open. She reaches down blindly, finds his curls and pulls, to keep him exactly there.

He understands. His fingers tighten around her thigh. “Missed this,” he murmurs against her, the words broken by another slow lick.

“You saw me yesterday.”

“Didn’t do this yesterday.”

His mouth closes over her clit again before she can argue, sucking with enough pressure to make her legs jump. She gasps his name. Garrett answers by pressing two fingers against her entrance.

He pushes one in first, slow only because her body is already clenching around the intrusion. The second follows quickly, stretching her with the familiar pressure that makes her thighs fall wider even as the rest of her pulls tight.

His fingers curl. Pleasure strikes deep and sharp, the angle exact enough that her back arches from the mattress.

“There,” Garrett murmurs.

She makes a sound that has no language left in it. His fingers begin moving properly, pumping into her while his mouth stays fixed on her clit, the rhythm deliberately uneven at first as he listens to her breathing and watches the twitch of her stomach. Then he finds it. The pace that makes her hips start chasing him, makes her fingers clench in his hair and her other hand grab uselessly at the pillow beside her head.

The room has narrowed to wet heat, the sound of Garrett’s mouth and the steady drag of his fingers and rain brushing softly at the window like the whole campus has agreed to look away.

“Oh my God,” she whimpers. “Baby, I’m–”

Garrett moans against her, his fingers curling harder. He knows. The fact that he knows makes it worse. She comes with her thighs clamping around his head and his name breaking high out of her throat. Pleasure rolls through her in hard, pulsing waves, stomach tightening beneath the drag of his forearm while Garrett keeps licking her through it, slower only when her body begins jerking away from the sensitivity.

By the time he lifts his mouth, she’s breathing like she’s run somewhere.

Garrett wipes the lower half of his face against the inside of her thigh with no dignity whatsoever and starts kissing his way back up her body. Her skin feels loose and over-warm beneath him, every place his mouth touches sparking faintly in the aftermath.

He kisses her stomach, between her breasts, the base of her throat. Then he comes over her and catches her mouth.

She tastes herself immediately. Garrett doesn’t ease her into it, tongue sliding between her lips while one hand wraps around the side of her neck, thumb resting beneath her jaw and fingers spread gently along her pulse.

The hold is firm without pressure. Familiar. Enough to keep her face angled exactly where he wants it while he kisses her slow and filthy, swallowing the little post-orgasm sound she makes when his hips settle between her thighs again.

He pulls back by half an inch. “Hi,” he murmurs.

Her mouth curves before she can stop it. Her body is still humming, muscles heavy against the mattress. “Hi.”

Garrett kisses her once more, quick this time, then brushes his nose over hers. “Roll over.”

His eyes are dark, cheeks flushed and mouth still wet from her. Whatever version of Garrett arrived smiling at her door has disappeared beneath something rougher and hungrier, the easy confidence sharpened now that he has her naked and loose beneath him.

She turns. The movement exposes the tattoo before she remembers it exists.

For the last twenty minutes, she’s been too occupied by Garrett’s mouth to think about anything except Garrett’s mouth. Now she settles onto her stomach, forearms folding near the headboard while the cool air brushes over her back.

Behind her, the mattress shifts. Garrett stands long enough to shove his sweats and boxers down, fabric dragging over his thighs before landing somewhere near the edge of the bed. 

Then his hand slides over the back of her thigh. He lifts one knee onto the mattress, catches the pillow near her head and says, “Up a little, baby.”

She raises her hips obediently. Garrett tucks the pillow beneath them, adjusts her with both hands and goes completely still. Every muscle in her body remembers at once.

Her eyes widen into the pillow. “Baby–”

Garrett’s hands close over her hips before she can turn. Firm enough that the message is immediate. Stay.

She swallows. The room is silent behind her.

Garrett’s thumbs rest on either side of her lower back, just beneath the small square of skin where the tattoo sits. She can feel him looking at it. The attention is almost physical, a line of heat dragging across the freshly settled numbers.

“Fuuuck,” he says eventually.

The word leaves him slowly, low enough to move through the mattress. She tries to glance back over one shoulder. His grip stops her from twisting too far.

“Is that real?”

The disbelief in his voice makes her want to laugh, though her stomach has gone tight beneath the pillow. “Mhm.”

“Is that…” He trails off. His thumb moves closer, hovering beside the tattoo without touching the healing skin. “That’s forty-four.”

She presses her face into her forearm. “Yeah.”

“When?”

“The other night.”

“What other night?”

“The girls’ night.” She bites her lip. “When we went out to the bar.”

Garrett says nothing. The silence stretches long enough that the heat in her body begins rearranging itself around nerves. She had imagined Garrett shocked. She had imagined him smug, turned on, maybe insufferable enough that she would have to threaten to remove his number with a vegetable peeler.

She hadn’t imagined silence.

She pushes herself onto one elbow. “Baby, are you… are you mad?”

“Mad?” His hands tighten and release against her hips. “I mean– shit. It’s…” He breathes out hard through his nose. “Baby, that’s a tattoo.”

“Yes.”

“That shit’s permanent.”

“I know how tattoos work,” she breathes.

“I’m just saying.” He sounds dazed. “You put my number on you.”

She turns her face enough that she can see part of him over her shoulder: broad chest, flushed skin, curls fallen over his forehead, eyes fixed helplessly on the tiny forty-four as though it's altered the known structure of the universe.

“Well,” she says, and the laugh caught in her voice makes it softer than she intended. “I love you.”

Garrett’s gaze lifts to her face.

She shrugs carefully beneath his hands. “And I think it’s hot.”

His mouth opens. Closes. Then his hand slides over her ass. The touch is slow, almost absent at first, his palm following the curve of one cheek while he continues staring at the tattoo. His thumb presses into the soft flesh. His fingers spread wider.

“Hot,” he repeats.

“Mhm.”

“You think this is hot.”

“I did when I got it,” she nods.

Garrett bends. His mouth lands on the curve of her ass, one open kiss followed by another. She gasps softly when his teeth catch the lower edge of one cheek, biting just enough to sting before his tongue smooths over the mark.

“Garrett.”

He kisses higher, across the small of her back, careful when he reaches the tattoo. His mouth stops just beneath it, breath warm over the healing skin without touching.

“No liquids on this yet, right?” he asks, voice rough.

A giggle slips out of her before she can stop it. “Not yet.”

Garrett closes his eyes. She feels the exhale against her lower back. “Fuck.”

His hands move suddenly. One catches beneath her hip and pulls her higher over the pillow. The other spreads firmly between her shoulder blades, pressing her chest down as Garrett shifts closer behind her.

She feels the blunt heat of him at her entrance. “Baby–”

He pushes in. The first thrust is controlled only in the technical sense that Garrett doesn’t injure either of them. He fills her in one hard, steady drive, stretching her around him so quickly that her mouth falls open and the sound tears out before she can soften it.

“Oh, fuck, Garrett.” His fingers dig into her hip. “Holy shit.”

He withdraws nearly to the tip and drives back into her. The force sends her forward against the pillow, breasts dragging over the sheets while pleasure catches deep and hot through her body. She reaches blindly for the headboard. Garrett catches her other hip and sets a rhythm before she has finished taking the second breath.

Hard. Fast. No adjustment period because her body is already wet and open from his mouth, already clenching around him with every rough stroke. The bed knocks softly against the wall. Her dorm mattress squeaks beneath them with increasing distress.

Garrett’s breathing turns ragged behind her. “This is…” Another thrust drives the sentence out of him. “Shit. This is the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

She whimpers into the pillow. His palm comes down against the side of her ass – a sharp, hot smack that makes her body jerk and tighten around him.

Garrett groans. “Fuck, baby.”

Her hands lose their grip on the headboard. One slips back toward him, finding nothing but his thigh for half a second before Garrett catches her wrist and pins it against the centre of her back. The position lifts her shoulder slightly and arches her deeper over the pillow. Garrett looks down at the curve of her ass. His cock disappearing into her. His number sitting neat and dark above all of it.

Something in him breaks. He fucks her harder. There’s no uncertainty left in the movement now. Garrett’s hips slam against her with enough force that the bed shifts beneath them, one hand holding her wrist while the other grips her hip and drags her back to meet every thrust. 

The room fills with the wet slap of their bodies, her broken moans and the low, filthy things Garrett keeps saying every time the sight of the tattoo seems to hit him again.

“My fucking number.” She nods into the pillow, though he cannot see it. “On this ass.” His hand tightens around her hip. “Jesus Christ. You’re insane.”

The laugh that tries to leave her turns into a cry when he changes the angle, lifting her slightly higher and driving in deeper. “Oh God!”

“That it?” Garrett’s voice is rough and breathless now, all the usual smug control fraying at the edges. “Right there?”

“Yes.” She twists her pinned hand beneath his palm. “Baby, yes.”

He gives it to her again. Same angle, harder. Her whole body pulls tight. The pleasure is building too quickly, dragged out of the soft aftershocks of the first orgasm and sharpened by every deep stroke. Her thighs have begun to shake against the mattress, knees slipping wider while Garrett keeps her exactly where he wants her.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Pretty girl can’t even hold herself up.”

She presses her forehead harder into the pillow, voice breaking. “You’re fucking me too hard.”

“You want me to stop?”

She shakes her head so fast her cheek drags against the pillowcase. 

Garrett’s hand leaves her wrist only so he can reach around and catch her jaw, turning her face enough that he can see it over her shoulder. “Use your words.”

“Don’t stop.” Her eyes meet his badly from the angle, vision already blurred at the edges. “Please, baby. Fuck me.”

His expression goes wrecked. “Good girl.”

He pushes her hand back to the mattress and drives into her hard enough that the next sound comes out of her as a sob. The orgasm hits before she has time to announce it. Her body clamps around him, hard pulsing contractions that make Garrett swear and lose the rhythm for one brutal second. Then he keeps going, fucking her through it while her legs tremble and her fingers claw at the sheets.

“Garrett,” she cries.

“I know.” His hand spreads over the side of her ass, holding her open. “I know, baby. Give it to me.”

She comes apart around him, hips jerking beneath his grip. Pleasure rolls through her so hard that her ears ring faintly, body suspended in the bright, breathless place where everything hurts in exactly the right way.

Garrett doesn’t stop. He slows for perhaps two strokes, just enough to let her breathe, then pulls her hips higher again.

“Baby,” she gasps, oversensitive and loose beneath him.

His palm slides gently along her spine, avoiding the tattoo, while his hips continue moving. “You good?”

“Yes.”

“Still want me?”

“Yes,” she breathes, the answer comes without hesitation.

Garrett bends and kisses between her shoulder blades. “Then take it.”

His pace builds again. The third climb is different. Messier. Her body is already shaken open, every nerve sparking too close to the surface while Garrett keeps driving into her with the relentless focus of somebody who has discovered a new reason to lose his mind and intends to study it thoroughly.

He reaches beneath her, a two fingers find her clit. She squeals.

Garrett laughs once, breathless and filthy against her shoulder. “There she is.”

“I can’t,” she whines.

“Yeah, you can.”

His fingers circle faster while his hips maintain the same punishing rhythm. She tries to close her legs, but Garrett’s knees are between hers, keeping her open. The pressure builds with nowhere to go, every thrust feeding it higher while his number burns invisibly at the base of her spine under his fixed attention.

“My girl,” Garrett says. “Look so fucking good with my number on you.”

She nods helplessly.

“Whose good girl, huh?”

Her mouth opens. Nothing useful comes out. Garrett’s fingers slow. The loss is immediate. She whines and pushes back against him.

He catches her hip. “Asked you something.”

“I am,” she gasps.

“Yeah?”

“I’m your good girl.”

The words hit him like contact. Garrett groans and drives into her, his fingers returning to the exact pressure she needs. “That’s right.”

Her third orgasm catches at the edge for one impossible second, body stretched between too much and not enough. Then Garrett’s thumb presses harder.

She comes with a sharp little cry that turns into a squeal halfway through, legs shaking so violently the mattress trembles beneath her. Her arms give out completely. Garrett catches her by the waist before she collapses awkwardly, holding her up while he keeps moving through the contractions with short, desperate strokes.

“Fuck.” His forehead drops between her shoulder blades. “Fuck, baby.”

She’s barely inside her own body now. Everything feels warm, loose and distant, Garrett’s hands the only clear edges left. He slows. His breathing is rough against her skin. His cock is still hard inside her, every small movement enough to make her twitch.

She swallows, trying to rebuild language. “Lemme…”

Garrett stills. “What?”

She turns her head toward him, cheek against the sheet. “Want you to finish… in my mouth.”

The words come soft and dazed. She tries to roll. Her body responds in pieces, thighs trembling beneath her and arms gone soft enough that Garrett takes over almost immediately, pulling out with a low, wrecked groan before catching her hip and turning her carefully onto her back. 

He snatches the pillow away before it can drag across the tender skin at her lower spine, tosses it somewhere toward the wall and hooks both hands beneath her arms to draw her upright.

For a second, she only sits there between his knees, naked and thoroughly ruined, hair tangled around her flushed face and lips parted around breaths that still haven’t found a sensible rhythm. 

Her thighs keep giving tiny, involuntary tremors against his, the room blurred pleasantly at the edges while Garrett kneels in front of her with his chest heaving and his cock hard, wet and flushed between them.

He looks at her like she’s done something genuinely dangerous. The tattoo. His number sitting permanently above her ass, still hidden from this angle and branded into the centre of his brain now that he knows it exists.

His hand comes to her face, thumb dragging slowly over her swollen bottom lip. “Look at you.”

She turns her mouth into his palm and kisses it, then reaches for him. Garrett’s breath catches when her fingers wrap around his cock. He’s slick from her and from himself, hot and heavy against her palm, and the first slow stroke makes the muscle jump visibly beneath his stomach.

“Baby,” he groans.

She looks up at him through lashes still damp from everything he has already done to her. Her body feels boneless, loose and warm enough that even lifting her chin requires concentration, but wanting him is simple. Wanting to give something back after he has spent the last hour pulling pleasure out of her until she could barely remember her own name feels simpler still.

She loves him. Stupidly. Completely. Enough to put his number into her skin and kneel there afterward with her legs shaking, wanting to watch his face when she makes him lose whatever control he has left.

Garrett cups the back of her head. His fingers sink into the tangled hair there, holding without directing her, his thumb moving once near the base of her skull. “You don’t have to, baby.”

“I want to.” The answer comes quiet and a little hoarse.

Something in his face shifts. His jaw tightens, eyes dropping briefly to her mouth before finding hers again. “Yeah?”

She nods and leans forward. The first drag of her tongue along the underside of him tears a rough sound from Garrett’s chest. She feels it more than hears it, low and helpless above her while she kisses the tip, lips closing softly around him before taking him into her mouth.

Garrett’s head falls back. “Fuck.”

His hand tightens in her hair as she works him deeper, tongue flattened beneath the hot weight of him while her fingers curl around the base. She’s sloppy from exhaustion and want, mouth already wet, movements slower than they usually are because her whole body is still recovering from him. 

Garrett seems to like that more. The soft mess of it. The way she has to pause for breath with her lips still brushing him. The way she looks up at him like there’s nowhere else in the world she has any interest in being.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Fuck, you’re so good to me.”

The praise moves warmly through her, settling somewhere lower than the soreness and higher than her ribs. She takes him again, deeper this time, cheeks hollowing as her hand follows the rhythm her mouth sets. Garrett looks down, and his expression breaks open.

She can see the tattoo still living behind his eyes, the disbelief of it layered into every filthy, affected look he gives her. His girlfriend kneeling between his thighs with his cock in her mouth and his number newly inked above her ass. The thought appears to have stripped away the final useful part of his brain.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, voice catching when she swirls her tongue around the head. “You put my number on your fucking body and now you’re looking at me like that.”

She hums around him. Garrett’s stomach jerks. His hips push forward on instinct, not enough to take over, only enough to slide him deeper across her tongue. Her eyes water faintly. She keeps looking up at him through the blur, one hand braced against his thigh and the other stroking what she cannot fit.

His thumb brushes gently beneath one of her eyes, catching the dampness there. “So fucking pretty.”

Her thighs tighten beneath her. She takes him again, eager despite how tired she is, mouth moving wetly over him while Garrett praises every little thing she does as though he cannot stop the words now that they have started.

“Good girl. Just like that.” She sucks harder. “Fuck, baby, your mouth.” Her nails catch lightly against his thigh. “Love when you look at me.”

She does. She watches every part of it: the tension sharpening his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his curls cling slightly at his temples, the hard flex of his stomach each time she takes him deep enough to make his breathing fail.

Garrett’s fingers spread more securely over the back of her head. “You know how fucking crazy you make me?”

She pulls back just far enough to breathe, her hand continuing its slow movement over him. A thin line of saliva connects her bottom lip to the flushed head before breaking, and Garrett watches it disappear with an expression bordering on pain.

She kisses him there once. “How crazy?”

He gives a breathless laugh that contains no real humour. “You tattooed forty-four above your ass.”

“Mhm.”

“Then let me fuck you until your legs stopped working.”

She smiles, dazed and soft. “They still work.”

“Barely.”

His thumb passes over her cheek. She turns and kisses it, then takes him into her mouth again before he can say anything else. Garrett groans her name.

The sound makes her try harder, because she loves hearing him come apart for her. Loves that Garrett, who carries entire games on his shoulders and makes confidence look effortless, cannot hide a single thing when her mouth is on him. Every rough breath belongs to her. Every flex of his hand in her hair. Every broken piece of praise dragged out of him while she strokes and sucks and watches him lose control.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Fuck, baby. Don’t stop.”

She doesn’t. Her hand slides lower, fingers tightening around the base as she takes him deeply enough that her throat works around him. Garrett’s hips jerk once. His free hand braces hard against the wall beside her bed, forearm flexing while he tries to hold himself still.

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice wrecked.

She looks up at him and keeps moving. Garrett says her name again, rougher this time, but she only tightens her lips around him and strokes faster, wanting it. Wanting all of him. Wanting the moment his face finally loses every trace of control because of her.

His eyes drop to hers. That does it.

Garrett comes with a deep, broken groan, hips pushing forward once as his hand tightens helplessly in her hair. She takes him, swallowing around the first hot pulse while his whole body shudders above her.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Fuck– such a good fucking girl.”

The praise turns even rougher as she keeps her mouth around him through every pulse, swallowing everything he gives her while his fingers stroke shakily through her hair. She doesn’t pull away until he has gone sensitive, easing him gently from between her lips before pressing one last kiss to the tip.

For several seconds, neither of them speaks. Garrett stands over her panting, one hand still cradling the back of her head while she kneels between his thighs with flushed cheeks, wet lips and the loose, pleased smile of someone who has been fucked far too thoroughly to experience shame.

His eyes move over her face. Then past her shoulder, toward the lower half of her body as though he can somehow see through her.

“Fuck,” he says again, apparently the only word left available to him. “Roll over. I need to see it again.”

She starts laughing. “Garrett.”

“Please.”

“You’ve seen it.”

“Not enough.”

Her legs are not especially reliable, so Garrett handles most of the repositioning. He lowers her carefully onto her stomach, makes sure the sheet beneath her is smooth and then shifts down the bed until his face is level with her lower back.

He doesn’t touch the tattoo itself. He only rests one hand across the top of her ass and stares at the little forty-four with the solemn concentration of somebody studying an artefact behind museum glass.

She folds her arms beneath her head. “You’re being weird,” she mumbles.

“I’m having a moment.”

“You’ve been having a moment for, like, an hour.”

“Yeah, because my girlfriend got my number tattooed above her ass.”

“Lower back.”

Garrett looks up. “Baby.”

She presses her smile into her forearm.

His thumb strokes the skin beside the tattoo. “You really did this.”

“I really did.”

“For me,” he murmurs.

He kisses one cheek, then the other, his mouth soft now, all the feral heat of ten minutes ago settling into something heavier. His chin rests briefly near her hip.

“You won’t regret it?” he asks.

The question is quiet enough that she turns her face toward him. Garrett’s still looking at the tattoo, but the thought behind his expression has moved farther than the bed. Farther than tonight. Permanent isn’t an easy word for him, no matter how hot the evidence looks above her underwear. Permanent has always carried too many promises made by people who didn’t know how to keep them.

“I might regret letting Paige choose the bar,” she says. “I might regret wearing jeans to get it done. I’m almost definitely going to regret whatever you tell Dean tomorrow.”

Garrett’s mouth twitches.

“But not the tattoo.” Her fingertips move gently along her own forearms. “Even if something changed one day– and I’m not saying it will– I’d remember how I felt when I got it. I was happy. I love you. You’re my favourite thing in my life right now.”

“Right now?” he asks, because he’s still Garrett.

She groans. “Don’t ruin it.”

His laugh presses warm against the side of her hip. Then he kisses the skin just below the tattoo again, careful, lingering there without touching the ink. “My girl,” he murmurs.

She closes her eyes. Garrett stays behind her for another minute, one hand moving lazily over her ass while he continues looking at the number like he expects it to disappear if he blinks incorrectly.

Then he says, “Can I take a picture?”

Her eyes open. “Absolutely not.”

“For me.”

“No.”

“Baby,” he argues.

“You’ll show the boys.”

Garrett starts laughing, forehead dropping against her lower back. She can feel the effort he makes to avoid the tattoo.

“Fine,” he says. “No picture.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m memorising it.”

“You’ve been staring for ten minutes,” she giggles.

“Need another ten.”

She sighs into the pillow, but her body goes softer beneath his hand. Garrett kisses her hip once more, then crawls back up the bed and folds himself around her without asking her to move again. His chest settles against her back, one arm sliding beneath the pillow and the other wrapping around her waist.

His mouth finds the back of her neck. “You’re the sexiest person alive,” he says.

“Mm.”

“Objectively.”

“Garrett.”

“And fucking insane.”

She smiles into the pillow. “Yeah, well, you match my freak.”

His arm tightens around her. “Yeah,” he murmurs, laughter warm against her skin. “Definitely.”

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