miya

As he walks up to you from behind, his arm is already reaching toward you before he’s even close enough to touch. His gentle and familiar hand on your shoulder has you turning to him with a dazzling smile, and he momentarily forgets his worries when a face that beautiful is grinning at him so lovingly.

“Hiya, handsome,” you greet, pouting your lips for a kiss. He’s quick to give you what you want, always is, and presses his lips to yours. Something you normally rarely allow him to do when you’re both in the Pitt.

“Baby, what’re you doing here?” he cuts straight to the chase. He looks and sees his son and daughter talking animatedly to a kneeling Mateo behind the counter.

“We just wanted to come say ‘hi’ to everyone and take you to breakfast,”

“It’s so early, you should be in bed,” he frets. It’s past 7:00, the scheduled end of his shift. If he had to guess he’d say it’s closer to 8:00, a few last minute traumas delaying shift change. You roll your eyes—not without fondness—and let out a huff.

“Jack, I’m fine,” you insist, a hand on his chest that he immediately covers with his own, “I wanted to get out of the house. I was going stir crazy,” you whisper the last part.

He opens his mouth to argue, to say you still don’t need to come into your place of work when you’re supposed to be relaxing, but Lena’s voice cuts him off.

“How dare you try and hide this cuteness from us, Abbot,” she’s glaring at him over his child in her arms.

It’s Jack’s turn to roll his eyes, “Kid was just in the hospital 2 months ago, figured he didn’t need to be back anytime soon,” he grumbled.

But he can’t deny the soaring in his chest as he takes in his growing family. You are so amazing, and he’s grateful everyday and tells you plenty, but seeing you here and all his kids happy and healthy with this new addition, it’s hard not to feel an overwhelming appreciation.

“Woah, it’s raining Abbots!” Robby’s voice joins the crowd. Your daughter turns and runs toward him and he squats down to scoop her into his arms before standing again.

“Uncle Robby!” She cheers. He grins at her, walking up to where you and Jack lean against the countertop with her on his hip.

“Hi sweetie,” he coos, “have you been good for your mommy?” he winks at you and you huff a dry laugh.

“Don’t start with me, Robby.” you chastise.

“Yeah, don’t.” Jack glares at him and Robby just raises his free hand in surrender.

Lena passes the baby back to you, all the surrounding nurses cooing at him as he fusses at the movement.

“Looks like Abbot’s got another mini me,” Lena smiles.

Jack’s chest swells with pride, glancing at his eldest son who’s a spitting image of a young him; auburn curls and a goofy smile. He thinks it’s too soon to tell who the baby looks more like—you or him—but he has to admit his genes are strong, a twinge of red even showing in your daughter's hair when it catches the sun.

“He is pretty handsome, isn’t he?” He says with a smug smile.

“That’s the last thing we all need; more Jack’s.” Robby teases.

“‘m making the world a better place,” he says gallantly.

He leans down and picks up the carrier, placing it on the counter for you. You give him a grateful smile, transferring your youngest smoothly and buckling him in.

“Mommy, I’m hungry,” your oldest son says softly, looking up at you.

“Okay, my baby,” You coo and brush his hair back, hand coming around to cup his cheek gently, thumb caressing freckled skin, “We’ll go as soon as daddy’s finished,”

“Oh, daddy’s finished,” Robby says, passing your daughter into Jack’s arms, who goes happily.

Jack takes her without a second thought, but his brow pinches, “Robby we still gotta finish handoffs.”

The taller man just shrugs, “I think we got it covered. Go have breakfast with your family.” He claps Jack on the back once.

You gasp in exaggerated excitement, “Say ‘thank you Uncle Robby,’” you tickle your daughter’s tummy who giggles in her father’s arms.

“Thank you, Uncle Robby!” your son, daughter, and Jack chant in unison. Robby offers your son his fist, who bumps it with his own tiny one, and then grabs a tablet from the counter.

He’s already walking towards the first patient room as he calls over his shoulder to you, “Now get out of here, you’re supposed to be anywhere but here.”

Jack gives you a look that says told you so and you narrow your eyes at him.

Your son lifts his arms up to you and Jack doesn’t even give you a second to think about bending down to pick him up—doctor’ orders (him)—before he’s scooping him into his free arm. Your daughter giggles at the jostling, Jack settling a kid on either hip. They’re both still small enough to carry at once, but he knows it’s only a matter of time until his son is too big to be carried. He’ll savor it as long as he can—and start lifting heavier weights to prolong that time, which he’s sure you’ll enjoy. Two for one special, he thinks.

“Got him, baby?” Jack asks. You nod as you pick up the carrier, waving goodbye to all your coworkers who have already scattered around the busy ED back to work.

“Who’s ready for breakfast?” He looks between his two oldest as you all make your way towards the car, the kids shouting in agreement, “Me too, I’m starving. What took you guys so long to come rescue me?” he teases.

The sound of his kids' laughter ringing in his ears fills him with an indescribable warmth. As you all walk through the parking lot, the early morning sun shining bright on your glowing face that’s flashing him your stunning smile, Jack can’t help but fall deeper in love with you.

He thinks for a moment it’s a secret mercy his kids take after him and not you because there’s no way he’d ever deny them a thing if it was your eyes pouting at him. He shakes the thought away—cause who is he kidding? he can’t deny them now; it wouldn’t make a difference.

Still, he can’t help wondering if maybe the next one will be your mini me, and he can’t wait to find out.

You look back at him and squint your eyes at him in suspicion, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” He asks suavely, lower lip drawn between his teeth and you straight up laugh at him. It’s a ridiculous question—he knows that—because he only tells you nearly every waking moment.

“Wipe that look off your face, Abbot. Maybe wait till this kid can lift his head on his own before you start thinking that,” you scold, but he sees right through you.

He only scoffs in exaggerated indignation.

That’s not to say that Garrett hasn’t always been thoughtful or kind or hadn’t gone out of his way to do something for someone else before dating you. It’s just that now, with that rose-colored lens of being exclusive, everything he does just tips you closer and closer into falling in love with him. 

As if you weren’t standing on that precipice already. 

—

You’re not sure whose grand idea it was to have a party in the woods, yet here you are. You suppose it’s aesthetically sort of pleasing, given that it’s October and the spooky vibes are slipping into everything your friend group wants to do. Don’t get it wrong—you love this time of year, you love Halloween and pumpkin carving and hay rides and decorating and dressing up. Woods, however? is kinda where you draw the line. 

Garrett’s arm slips around your waist as you sit in front of a small bonfire, tucking you back into his chest. You breathe out, turning your head to offer him a small smile. He smiles back, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You know he can feel how stiff you are, shifting every so often, your gaze caught to the woods just beyond where everyone is…

“You know the likelihood of us getting killed by a forest witch is like…low, right?” 

You huff at the teasing in his voice, “But never zero.” You mumble.

Garrett smirks, squeezing around your waist. “I think you need to lay off the horror movies for a while, babe.” 

“I think you should do more research,” You squirm, an uncomfortable feeling settling in your lower belly. “Literally these movies are available so people don’t make stupid decisions in the woods.” Your nose crinkles, “The minute Dean disappears, we’re leaving. Don’t even think about going to look for him either. Big fucking trap.” 

A laugh rumbles in Garrett’s chest and you know he’s looking around the bonfire for his friend because, yeah, if anyone disappears in a horror movie first you’re pretty sure it’d be Dean. 

“I think we all should probably leave the woods if Dean is our canary in the coal mine.” Garrett comments, taking a sip of his beer. 

You shift again, suddenly uncomfortable. Though after a moment of taking account that it’s not the woods giving you the creeps (it is, but this is something else), you hone in on that sharp ache that’s touching on your lower belly. It blooms suddenly across your abdomen and—

Oh no. 

It’s cramps. It’s cramps but—you tug your phone out of your pocket, checking your period tracking app and…three days early. You’re usually never early. If anything, you’re a one to two days late kind of girl. Shit. 

“I’ll be right back.” You say suddenly, getting up so fast you nearly elbow Garrett in the shoulder. 

His eyebrows draw together, his hand gliding down from your waist to rest on your outer thigh, “I’m pretty sure you told me that’s a death sentence in some of these movies.” 

A laugh strangles up your throat. Jesus Christ, he does listen to your horror genre rambles, “I’m just using the bathroom. If I’m not back in five minutes, send a search party,” You lean down and kiss his cheek, “Just kidding, but avenge my death.” 

“That’s not funny.” He calls after you as you begin walking towards the bathrooms but you can hear a twinge of humored warmth in his voice. 

You quickly make your way towards this stone-like structure in the woods which, at the very least, isn’t porta-potties. It reminds you of a park bathroom that doesn’t have a closing door but an open entryway that leads to three stalls and sinks. Running water, at least, which feels like a win. You shiver against the cold as you slip into one of the stalls, missing the warmth of Garrett’s body and the bonfire. It’s always so damp in these sorts of things. 

Tugging your jeans down, you groan as your suspicions are confirmed. You got your period early and there’s blood in your underwear and…staining the back of your jeans. Jesus. You pinch the bridge of your nose before rifling through your purse and—

“Seriously?” You mutter to yourself, realizing you brought a smaller bag tonight and not your usual purse which has all your period supplies. 

You bite down on your lower lip, frustration and annoyance pinpricking the back of your eyelids. You are not about to do something stupid like cry in the middle of the woods in a shady bathroom. You’ll just text one of your friends—odds are, they’ll have something for you to use. 

You use a wad of toilet paper in the meantime, tugging your jeans back up. Heading back out to the sink, you wash your hands and—

There’s the sound of someone coming. Large footsteps, shuffling leaves, branches breaking and—

You hear Garrett call your name just outside the doorway to the bathroom. You sigh out of your nose, your hand coming to rest on your hammering heart. Jesus. 

Moving around the corner, you see him standing near the entrance, “Hey, consider this the search party you wanted.” There’s a small smile at the corners of his lips until he gets a good look at your face, “What’s wrong?” 

God. This is so embarrassing. Look, you fully believe that if a man can’t talk about periods and blood and whatever comes with it shouldn’t be anywhere near fooling around with you on good days. But…you still feel heat kiss the back of your neck all the same. 

“I uh, I got my period.” 

Garrett shifts on his feet, his gaze brushing over you in what feels like a gentle caress. He opens his mouth to say something but you start rambling, 

“I’m early and I brought a stupid tiny bag tonight so I don’t have anything. And my jeans are ruined and uhm,” Emotion clogs the back of your throat, “And here I was worried about a vindictive forest witch when I should have been worried about my own body turning against me.” A strangled laugh escapes, “Like—how dumb is that?” 

He takes a step closer to you, brushing a hand over your cheek. It’s not until he pulls away that you realize a tear escaped from your eye. Fuck. 

Garrett slides his leather jacket off, handing it to you to hold for a moment as he tugs that purple hoodie he likes to wear over his head. Your eyebrows draw together in confusion, watching as he trades the sweatshirt into your hands to put the leather jacket back on. And then he’s…

He’s tying the purple hoodie around your waist, hiding the back of your jeans. The sentiment is so easy and so gentle that more tears slip down your cheeks. This is so—

You quickly wipe them away, sniffling. “Thank you.” 

He gives you a small smile, his hand resting on your shoulder. His thumb traces back and forth over your neck, “Okay, two options. One—we go back to the Jeep and I have some stuff in the trunk. I don’t actually…know if it’s what you need, but—” 

You blink, tipping your head back to look at him, “You have period supplies in your trunk?” 

Garrett rubs the back of his neck now, seeming uncertain, “Yeah. It’s just the pads, I think. I thought maybe you might need them at some point, like an emergency stash—” 

You press yourself up on your toes to kiss him. You can feel him smiling against your lips, wrapping your arms around your waist to press you in close. His hand trails up and down your spine before settling on the back of your neck, squeezing the tense muscles there. 

When the kiss ends, Garrett rests his forehead against yours, “Or option two, we can go home. You can get a shower and I’ll set up the couch with your favorites.” Meaning lots of blankets, a heating pad, a bowl of ice cream and salty snacks. “We can even watch something that’s going to give me nightmares.” 

You can’t help but smile at the reluctance in his voice, cupping his cheek to stroke your thumb over the bone, “My hero.” You tease.

He rolls his eyes but his smile is fond as his hand slips into yours, guiding your way back towards his Jeep. 

—

You’ve been dealing with migraines for as long as you can remember. They’re usually brought on by stress, which, it’s like you want to tell your body that there’s no other version of yourself that you can be at college. Regardless, this one lecture never fails to cause tension to pinch the back of your eyes. Usually you’re able to stave it off, take your meds, drink a lot of water and deal with a regular headache. 

Today though? It knocks into you like a cinderblock to the temple. 

A grateful noise leaves your lips as you make it back to your dorm room, toeing your shoes off and making a b-line for your bedroom. Your hip bumps into your desk and you curse whoever decided that was a good place for it to go. You can’t see out of your right eye and your head is pulsing along with the beat of your heart. You don’t even bother changing your clothes or reaching for the blinds because if you don’t sit soon gravity is going to take over and you’re going to fall. 

Lying face down on your bed, you bury your face under your pillows, hoping the cacophony of sounds and light and pounding stops soon. 

—

You’re not sure what time it is. You think you hear a door open and close and low voices in the living area of your dorm. Your roommate and…someone else. Maybe her boyfriend? Regardless, you don’t move. There’s an aching soreness to your temples and behind your eyes, a grating sort of pain that’ll get worse if your body shifts at all. It’s not…it’s not as bad as when you first got back to your room, but it’s teasing the edge of tipping into something that’s worse or getting better. There’s no way to tell other than just waiting it out. 

A soft sigh leaves your lips and more sounds gently fill the space. Your door opens, you think—blinds are being pulled down? Someone takes off your shoes and then slowly crawls into bed beside you. You draw in a breath, the smell of cologne mixing with laundry detergent and something purely Garrett. 

It’s like your entire body relaxes when you feel his hand gently trail up your back. 

You move just a fraction, your face peeking out from underneath the pillow. He offers you a small smile, “Hey,” He whispers, brushing some of your hair out of your face, “How you doing, champ?” 

“Bad,” You whisper back, the word crackly and tired. Your eyebrows draw together because you’re not sure how he figured out you were here—

“You missed your shift at Malone’s,” He fills in, his hand sneaking up and under your shirt to smooth his fingers against your skin. It feels really nice. 

“Fuck,” You clear your throat, shifting just enough to get yourself above the pillows. Garrett moves closer, his arm tucked around your waist, “I completely forgot—” 

“I told Della that the only reason you’d miss is because you were sick,” He assures, “She knows about your migraines, right?” 

You nod, your hand coming up to rest against your face. It’s quiet for a few moments, just the sounds of the dorm settling around you and your shared breathing. Garrett pulls a blanket free to drape over you, pressing a kiss to your forehead, 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” He mumbles a moment later. 

You shake your head, “You didn’t.” You pull your hand from your face, your arm resting along Garrett’s side, tucking it underneath his hoodie. “I was kinda in and out.” 

Garrett is quiet for a few moments, his big hand rubbing along your shoulders, squeezing every so often. Despite sometimes feeling far too overstimulated and emotional, it feels good having him here, that unwavering silent support alongside you. 

“Do you need anything?” He asks. He doesn’t try to force you to eat or nag you about pills, he doesn’t try to assume he understands the inner workings of what your migraine might be doing to your emotions or your body. He’s just offering whatever might make you feel like you’re more in control. 

And he has no idea how much that means to you. 

Eventually shaking your head, you inch closer to him until your face is tucked against his chest, your leg sliding between both of his own. He breathes out, his lips and nose burying themselves in your hair. 

“I just need you.” Your soft reply comes a moment later and Garrett squeezes your body to his before relaxing against the mattress. 

—

One of the many things you love about Garrett is how willing he is to be completely ridiculous with you. He’s silly, which you don’t think many people realize. He’s very dedicated and determined and hyperfocused sometimes on his future, on hockey, on things that really matter. But when he allows himself to unwind, when he smiles freely, when he laughs hard and jokes with you just to get you to smile—it’s one of your favorite things. 

It’s late and the bar is packed. You’re a bit more tipsy than you usually allow yourself to get, but it’s your friend’s birthday and the shots have been steadily flowing since you got here. Garrett came late because he was finishing practice, so he’s a few drinks behind you, but that doesn’t stop him from dancing when you ask. 

His moves are wildly dorky, but in this charming kind of way that makes you bend a bit in full bellied laughter. Garrett is somehow awkward and boxy with some of his movements and yet it doesn’t stop him from being attractive, either. It’s not something a lot of people can pull off. You grin when he grabs your hand to twirl you and when the song gets to the chorus, you can’t stop yourself from bouncing along to the lyrics. Garrett doesn’t jump but he does hold onto your hand, a laugh slipping free every time you use his arm to push yourself up further. 

When you stumble over Garrett’s shoe after another spin, he wraps an arm around your waist and gently holds you to his chest, “Alright,” He chuckles, “C’mon, how about some water?” 

“How about a kiss?” You pout, your hand moving to touch his cheek. 

Garrett smirks, turning his head to press a kiss to your fingers before he leans down and captures your lips. It’s slow and easy and the way his tongue sneaks into your mouth makes your toes curl. You want to whine that it’s far too short but he peppers a few against your face when he pulls back and you suppose that’s good enough for now. 

Leaning against the bar once you get there, Garrett grabs a water from the bartender and sits it down in front of you. “Also paying for her tab.” He says over the music, motioning to you. 

You take a long sip of water, about to protest because you can pay for it, or at the very least half but two girls that you definitely recognize from other Briar U parties and hockey games come right up beside Garrett. Puck bunnies. 

They’re pretty, if not carbon copies of one another—blonde and tall and giggly when they talk to him. One of them is offering shots while the other is asking Garrett if he wants to dance and while he fixes both of them with a polite smile, he declines. You scoff softly as they nod, looking disappointed and pouty before disappearing. 

You chew on your straw as Garrett turns his attention back to you, raising his eyebrows, “You’re pouting.” 

You sip on your water, definitely sounding like a little gremlin when you voice, “I am not.” 

Garrett lets out a sudden laugh, “Okay.” Then, “You know there’s no reason for you to be jealous.” 

Oh my god. The back of your neck heats from the audacity of this man (and because he’s so right). And yet, “I am…I’m not jealous.” 

Your boyfriend hums like he doesn’t believe you and…you suppose he shouldn’t. You’re still looking at girls who approached him further down the bar. Before you can say anything else, Garrett hooks your chin between his fingers and kisses you again. 

Heat curls all the way down your body and you swear you can feel yourself melt directly into the floor. Your fingers curl into his shirt, holding onto him, and all other thoughts fade away. Especially the ones that don’t matter. 

—

In the morning, when you wake up in Garrett’s bed, tucked against pillows and too many blankets—there’s a bag of fast food on the nightstand along with some aspirin and water. The bag has a note written on it; 

—practice, see you later :) 

A small smile presses itself onto your face despite your hangover. 

—

Garrett is a boyfriend to keep, and as it turns out, you’re pretty good as a girlfriend too. 

—

It’s not often that Garrett gets into fights on the ice, but it does happen. You’re not sure what’s up with this player on the other team, but 32 won’t keep his mouth shut. You may not be close enough to hear what’s being said, but you have eyes. You tend to follow your boyfriend as he plays and 32 won’t let up. You can tell that Garrett is getting increasingly pissed off the longer the game goes on. You’re not sure whether the other player is trying to just…throw Garrett off his game so that he fucks up? Or get him in the penalty box? You can’t be sure. 

But the entire thing makes you nervous. 

The game is so close to being over—in fact, Briar U scores the last goal and the crowd goes wild, music playing and horns going off. 

You feel like there’s a moment in which you can exhale; both teams are lining up to congratulate one another on a good game played. Which would be fine, business as usual, except 32 opens his mouth for one last chirp. Whatever he says has Garrett seeing red, he launches himself across the line, gloves off, throwing a punch. Logan and Dean are quick to draw him back so it’s not as bad as it could have been? But fuck. 

You can’t sit in the stands anymore. You turn on your heel and rush through the crowds of people, trying to pass and get through. Your fingers play with the keys to Garrett’s Jeep, the cool weather a refreshing kiss to your flushed face once you get outside. You linger near the exit where the players come out and as time passes, a lot of them head out for the night. All but Garrett. 

When Logan opens the door next, he connects eyes with you, his gaze soft, “He’s still in the locker room.” 

You swallow, “Is he okay?” 

“I think he’s just trying to calm down.” 

Your legs move you forward and past Logan as he holds the door open. You don’t even realize he’s behind you, making sure you get past any lingering security so that they don’t escort you out. He disappears once you push the locker room door open, seeing Garrett sitting in front of his stall. His body is bowed, still in some of his gear, his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging loosely between his legs. 

The door gently closes behind you and you walk forward, “Garrett.” Your voice is loud in such a quiet room. 

He glances up at you, swallowing over emotion thick in his throat. He straightens his shoulders, centering himself, “How did you get in here?” 

Chewing on your lower lip, you stand in front of him, not touching him. Not yet, “Logan.” A moment passes, “Actually, I ran past him when the door was open. He just made sure I wasn’t tackled by campus police.” 

A ghost of a smile pulls the corners of his mouth, gone as soon as it appears. Close up now, you can see how upset he is. Like a livewire, barely contained, his hands shaking and breathing slightly shallow. You don’t want to ask him what happened because you don’t want to wind him up more than he already is—and honestly? It doesn’t matter what set him off. The point is that he’s having a hard time coming down from it now. 

That’s your priority. 

You breathe out and step closer, nearly bumping his one knee. You drag your fingers through his damp curls, getting them out of the way of his face. His head tips back and the stark emotion in his expression, the slight mistiness to his eyes—it’s like a punch in the gut. 

“Are you hurt?” You ask softly. 

Garrett looks down at his hands, which are still trembling, but he shakes his head, “No, I just—can’t get out of my head.” 

You nod softly, knowing how much violence is a trigger for him. How he struggles with it. You really wish you could speak your peace to Phil Graham, because you have so much to fucking say. But Garrett has never had you meet him, has never allowed him within two feet of you, even when he’s here at his son’s games. And you know why, you can respect that. But it doesn’t take away the anger and frustration you feel on your boyfriend’s behalf.

Especially when he’s like this. 

32 must have said something to create this headspace, Garrett wouldn’t have allowed himself to dip this low otherwise. 

You shift, standing between Garrett’s legs, gently untying his shoulder pads and sliding them off and onto the floor. Once you have access to his body, your hands fall, massaging the stiff muscles above his collarbones. You work your thumbs into his upper neck and trail your fingers to his back and then all over again—in a calming circle that eventually has his body relaxing, his shoulders unhooking from his ears, his jaw unclenching. 

“I don’t know what 32 said,” You say after a moment, “And I don’t need to know. But whatever it was? He’s not worth it.” 

Garrett swallows, “I’m sorry.” 

“No,” Your voice is firm, reaching for his chin so that he’s looking at you when you add, “Don’t be sorry—I’m not upset. I was just worried about you. I care about you, so much. You know that, right?” 

Garrett lets out a slow breath, his face pinching a little. His hands suddenly grip your sides, pulling you closer, his face pressing into your abdomen. You can feel that soft hitching of him trying to control himself, maybe trying not to cry. Your heart aches in your chest as you step closer, allowing him to clutch onto you, your hand soothing through his hair and down his back in slow, even circles. 

After a few minutes, Garrett finally seems like he’s calmed down, or at the very least he’s not shaking anymore. When he pulls back, you run a hand through his curls, offering him a small smile. You lean down to kiss him but before your lips can map over his, 

“I love you,” He says, “You know that, right?” He mirrors what you said, making your heart flip-flop in your chest. 

You smile fully, nodding, before kissing him. It’s gentle and quick, but seemingly enough. 

“I love you too,” You add, taking a step back. “C’mon, grab a shower before we head out. You stink.” 

A laugh rumbles in his chest before he shakes his head, standing to his full height. “Yeah, yeah,” He mumbles, tugging off his long-sleeved thermal. He turns to make eye contact with you, pausing, as if—

“I’ll be here,” You promise, sitting down in front of his stall, “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Garrett nods, leaning down to kiss you again, leaving you with a warm sensation that feels a lot like home as he heads off to the showers. 

—

“Are they supposed to be like that?” 

You purse your lips, turning your head as you take a long look at the muffins you made, cooling on the stovetop at Garrett’s place. You wouldn’t consider yourself a baker or…even a cook, at any rate, but literally how hard is it to follow directions and like, put something in the oven for a specific amount of time? 

Apparently difficult. 

“Uhm,” You poke one of them with a fork and…as suspected, they are rock solid. “Maybe?” Garrett chews on his lower lip and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh. You smack him in the chest. “Shut up.” 

“I’m sorry,” A laugh escapes, “I’m pretty sure you could injure someone with one of these.” 

You groan, your head tipping back as you set the fork down, “I don’t understand, I followed the recipe. Maybe they…taste better than they look?” 

“Do you wanna chip a tooth?” 

“Garrett.” 

He laughs again, “Fuck, sorry. I’m just saying—think it might be a lost cause, babe. I say we toss them and let Tucker bake something when he gets home.” 

There’s a pout on your lips, even as you untie your apron, “Maybe I could try one, just to see…” You slip the apron over your head, setting it aside. But the moment you reach for one of the muffins, Garrett crouches down and scoops you up into his arms, tossing you over his shoulder. 

“Put me down!” You squawk, reaching down his back in an attempt to smack his ass, “Caveman.” 

He carries you over to the couch, “Sorry,” He does not sound sorry at all. In one easy motion, he plops you onto the cushions. You land in a flourish, a soft oof leaving your lips. Garrett maps his body on top of yours, smiling against your lips, “Boyfriend code says I have to protect you from eating inedible muffins. Those are just the rules.” 

A soft laugh rumbles in your chest, mixed with fluttering butterflies and your heart flip-flopping—all at the sound of boyfriend. Yeah, that never gets old. 

“Oh,” You smile, “Well if those are the rules.” You wrap your fingers in his shirt, tugging him down into a kiss. 

The first thing you became aware of was warmth. The second was that someone was holding you. The third was the sound of shouting. You frowned, still half asleep. “That's not how eggs work!” A pause, then Tucker's voice: “How would you know?” “I have eyes!” You buried your face deeper into the pillow. Normal. Completely normal. The hockey house was apparently incapable of functioning without at least one argument before nine in the morning.

Behind you, Dean made a sleepy noise. His arm tightened around your waist. You smiled immediately, the kind of smile that came without thinking, the kind that had become increasingly common over the last few months. Slowly, you rolled over. Dean was still asleep or at least mostly asleep. His hair was sticking up in every direction. One cheek pressed into the pillow. Looking far too peaceful for someone who voluntarily spent most of his time with Garrett and Tucker.

Dean's eyes cracked open. Immediately finding you. The second they did, he smiled. Not fully awake, not even close. But smiling anyway. “Morning, darling.” Your heart melted. Again. At this point it happened so often you were surprised it still existed. “Morning.” Dean shifted closer. Which should not have been physically possible considering you were already practically attached to each other. Apparently Dean disagreed. His forehead bumped lightly against yours. A lazy smile tugged at his mouth. “Too early.” You laughed softly. “It's almost ten.” His eyes immediately closed again. “No.” “Dean.” “No.”

The bedroom door suddenly burst open. Neither of you even flinched. Mostly because privacy didn't really exist in the hockey house. Garrett appeared in the doorway, took one look at the two of you. Then sighed dramatically. “Oh good. You're both alive.” Dean didn't move. “Leave.” “Breakfast.” “No.” “Breakfast.” Dean opened one eye. “Garrett.” “Dean.” “Go away.” Garrett pointed at you. “See? This is what dating has done to him." You laughed. Dean groaned into his pillow. Garrett looked deeply offended. “Do you know what he used to do on Sunday mornings?” “No” you said honestly. “He used to work out.” Dean made a noise of disagreement. “He used to run.” Another noise. “He used to be productive.” This time Dean actually lifted his head. “Fuck off.” Garrett gasped. “You see?” He pointed triumphantly. “He's become soft.” “Leave.” “Breakfast in ten.” Then he disappeared. As abruptly as he'd arrived.

Silence settled over the room again. Dean immediately dropped his head back onto the pillow. “You staying today?” The question was casual, simple. But something about it made your chest warm. Not because he was asking. Because it was assumed. Spending Sundays together had become normal. Just another part of your life. “Yeah.”

A few minutes later you finally escaped the bed. Dean protested the entire time. Which was honestly impressive considering he was barely conscious. You stole one of his hoodies from the back of his desk chair. The navy one that smelled like him. And by the time you made it downstairs, the kitchen was already chaos. Garrett stood at the stove. Tucker was attempting to help. Which appeared to be making everything worse. Logan sat at the counter looking exhausted.  The kitchen looked like a crime scene. “What happened?” Logan looked up. “You know how people say cooking is easy?” You nodded. “Tucker took that personally.” Tucker pointed with a spatula. “I am making pancakes.” “Those are charcoal.” “They're pancakes.” Garrett immediately joined in. “They're not pancakes.” “They were.” The argument continued, you laughed. The familiar sound filling the room and suddenly everyone's attention shifted toward you. You froze. “Oh no.” Tucker pointed. “Dean's girlfriend is laughing at us.” “Everybody laughs at you.” “That's fair.”

The door opened and Dean wandered in. Still looking half asleep, grey sweatpants, black t-shirt, messy hair. Your stupid heart immediately did a little flip. Which was embarrassing because you'd literally woken up next to him. Dean looked around the room. Then his eyes landed on you. And just like always, his whole face softened. It happened so naturally now. Like breathing. Like instinct. Like you were his favourite thing to come home to or wake up to or look at. The realization never got old. A smile appeared on his face. “Morning.” “You already said that.” “I know.” Dean crossed the kitchen ignoring literally everyone else and stopped beside your chair. Before leaning down and pressing a quick kiss against the top of your head. “Oh my God.” Garrett looked physically ill. Tucker made gagging noises. Logan dropped his head against the counter. Dean ignored all of them, completely. Instead he slid into the empty chair beside yours. One arm settling comfortably across the back of your chair, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. The contact seemed automatic. Neither of you even thought about it anymore.

Garrett pointed aggressively. “This is what I'm talking about.” “What?” “You two.” Dean looked confused. “We're eating breakfast.” “Exactly.” You laughed, Dean smiled and the boys groaned. And as pancakes burned, Garrett complained, Tucker defended himself, and Logan threatened violence for the third time that morning, you found yourself looking around the kitchen. At the people who had somehow become yours. A year ago you couldn't have imagined this. Couldn't have imagined feeling so comfortable. So loved. So safe. Dean's hand found yours beneath the table. A small squeeze. Like he'd somehow sensed exactly where your thoughts had gone. You squeezed back. Yeah, this was home.

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The mall was a terrible idea. You knew it, Dean knew it, every person currently fighting for their life in the parking lot knew it. Yet somehow you'd ended up here anyway. “It's December fifteenth.” Dean looked around at the sea of people. “I can see that.” “Why did we wait this long?” “You waited this long.” You pointed at him. “You have bought exactly one Christmas gift.” Dean looked entirely unashamed. “I bought yours.” Your stomach immediately flipped, annoying, very annoying. Especially because Dean knew exactly what he was doing, the smug smile on his face confirmed it. “You can't use that as an excuse.” “I think I just did.” You rolled your eyes and Dean laughed. Then reached for your hand automatically as the two of you crossed through the crowded shopping centre. The motion was so natural neither of you really thought about it anymore. His fingers slipped between yours. Your thumb brushed over his knuckles. Simple. Easy.

“Who are we shopping for first?” Dean asked. “Grace.” He nodded immediately. “Okay.” “And Hannah.” “Okay.” “And Garrett.” Dean groaned. “You care about Garrett too much.” “I do not.” “You absolutely do.” Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong. You'd already bought Tucker's present, Logan's too. Both wrapped and hidden in your dorm room. Grace and Hannah were proving harder. Especially Grace. The girl somehow managed to be both incredibly easy and impossibly difficult to shop for. Dean followed you into three different stores before finally stopping outside a small gift shop. “What about that?” You looked through the window, then smiled. “Actually...” Dean immediately knew he'd found something. The proud look on his face was ridiculous. “You like it.” “I do.” “You're welcome.” “You haven't done anything.” “I found the store.”

A few minutes later you walked back out carrying a bag. One gift down. Several more to go. As you continued through the mall, you found yourself talking about Christmas traditions. Mostly because Dean kept asking questions, not the painful ones, not the ones people usually asked when they found out about Sienna. Just normal questions. Favourite Christmas movies, best gifts, worst gifts. Whether candy canes were actually good or whether people just pretended they were. The important stuff. Dean looked horrified when you admitted you liked peppermint bark. “That's insane.” “It's chocolate.” “It's mint.” “It's both.” “That's worse.” You laughed so hard you nearly walked into a display. Dean caught your elbow instantly, steadying you. His hand lingering for a second longer than necessary. You looked up. Dean was already smiling. There it was again. That look. The one that still made your heart race. Like he couldn't quite believe he got to stand here holding your hand. Like he was happy just because you existed. The thought warmed your chest. “You know” you said, “you're staring.” “I know.” Dean didn't even try to deny it. You rolled your eyes. “You're impossible.” “So I've been told.”

By lunchtime, you'd acquired four shopping bags. Dean had acquired none. Which felt suspicious. “Have you bought anything?” He shrugged. “Maybe.” “Dean.” “Maybe.” You narrowed your eyes. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. The man was definitely hiding something. A fact confirmed when he practically dragged you away from a jewellery store before you could look through the window. Your eyebrows shot up. “Dean.” “You are not allowed near that store.” “Why?” “Christmas.” “That's not an answer.” “It's the only one you're getting.” You laughed. Dean immediately relaxed like he'd been worried you'd actually push. Which only made you more curious. Interesting. Very interesting.

Eventually the two of you escaped the crowds and settled into a small café with hot chocolates.

You kicked your feet up against the empty chair opposite.

Dean sat across from you. Looking annoyingly handsome for someone who had spent four hours carrying shopping bags. Your shopping bags. Not that he seemed to mind. In fact, he looked downright pleased about it. You watched him take a sip of his drink. Comfortable silence settling between you. One of your favourite things about Dean, nothing ever felt forced. You never had to fill every quiet moment, never had to perform. You could simply exist and somehow that was enough. Dean caught you looking at him. A smile appeared immediately. “What?” You shook your head. “Nothing.” “That's a lie.” “I'm excited for Christmas.” Dean's expression softened. Because he knew. Knew that wasn't always true. Knew there had been years where Christmas felt impossible. Years where it hurt more than it helped. Years where all you could think about was who was missing. But this year felt different, not perfect, not easy. Just different. Dean reached across the table. Taking your hand. Squeezing gently. “I'm glad, darling.” The warmth in his voice settled somewhere deep in your chest. You smiled. Dean smiled back.

Neither of you noticed the older woman sitting at the next table watching the exchange with a fond expression. Not until she stood up to leave. “Oh, you're adorable.” Both of you blinked. The woman smiled. “First Christmas married?” You immediately choked on your hot chocolate. Dean nearly dropped his cup. The woman looked delighted. “Oh, definitely newlyweds.” “No!” “Absolutely not.” You and Dean spoke at the exact same time. The woman laughed, then waved a hand. “Well, whatever you are, it's obvious you adore each other.” And just like that, she left. Leaving complete silence behind.

You stared at your drink. Dean stared at the table. Neither of you spoke. A full ten seconds passed. Then twenty. “Newlyweds?” Dean's voice was suspiciously amused. You groaned. “Oh my God.” His laugh followed you all the way out of the café. And somehow, despite yourself, you couldn't stop smiling.

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By the end of finals week, the entire campus felt different. Lighter. Louder. Everybody seemed to be operating on a combination of relief, caffeine, and the knowledge that freedom was less than forty-eight hours away. The hockey house was no exception. Which was how you found yourself standing in the living room on a Friday night, watching Garrett attempt to hang mistletoe from the ceiling fan. “That feels unsafe.” “It is unsafe” Logan agreed from the couch. Garrett ignored both of you. “The key to success is confidence.” “The key to success is a ladder.” “The ladder is outside.” Tucker nodded seriously. “Then we're using confidence.”

You looked over at Dean. He was already watching you. Of course he was. “You okay?” You nodded. “Yeah.” The answer wasn't entirely a lie. You were okay. Happy, actually. The happiest you'd been in a long time. The semester was over. You were in love. Your friends were all together. The house was filled with laughter and Christmas music and the smell of pizza. Everything should have felt perfect. Yet somewhere underneath it all sat a quiet little knot in your stomach. A countdown. Because tomorrow people would start leaving. The boys. Hannah. Grace. Dean. Everyone heading home for Christmas. The thought made your chest feel strangely heavy. Not because you wouldn't see them. Just because you'd gotten used to this, to having them nearby. Especially him. You hadn't realized how much of your life Dean occupied until you started thinking about not seeing him every day. The realization was slightly terrifying and deeply inconvenient.

“You did that thing again.” You blinked. Dean was still watching you, one eyebrow raised. “The thinking thing.” You laughed softly. “Maybe.” He took a step closer, not enough for anyone else to notice, enough for you. “What are we thinking about?” You glanced around the room. At Tucker and Garrett still arguing. At Hannah laughing with Grace. At Logan pretending not to listen to anyone. At all of it. Then you shrugged. “I think I'm going to miss everybody.” Dean's expression softened immediately. The teasing vanished. Replaced by understanding. Because he knew you weren't really talking about everybody. Not entirely. A smile tugged at his mouth. “Everybody?” You rolled your eyes. “Don't start.” “I'm just asking.” “You know exactly what I'm saying.” “I do.” The smugness was unbearable. You nudged his shoulder. Dean looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Before he could make things worse, the front door flew open. A blast of cold air swept through the room. Everyone turned. Tucker immediately groaned. “Oh no.” “What?” Garrett followed Tucker's gaze and made the exact same face. You frowned. Then looked toward the doorway and immediately understood. A group of hockey players from another team had arrived. Friends of the boys. Loud. Confident. Already halfway through a case of beer. Within seconds the volume inside the house doubled. Logan stood up. “I'm leaving.” “You live here.” “Not anymore.” The room erupted into laughter. The atmosphere shifted instantly. More people. More noise. More chaos. You found yourself getting pulled into conversations, introducing yourself to people you'd met once and promptly forgotten, answering questions about classes and Christmas plans and whether Dean was really as obsessed with you as everyone claimed. The answer, apparently, was yes. A fact multiple people were delighted to inform you of.

An hour later, you were standing in the kitchen pouring yourself another drink when you felt familiar hands settle on your waist. You smiled before you even turned around. Dean. “Hi.” “Hi.” He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your temple. You tilted your head back to look at him. “Having fun?” “Yeah.” His smile softened. “Good.”

The look in his eyes made your chest ache. It happened more often lately. Those moments where you'd catch him looking at you and suddenly remember just how much he loved you. Not because he said it. Because it was written all over his face. You rested a hand against his chest. Comfortable. Content. For a few seconds neither of you spoke. The noise of the party faded into the background. Then Dean glanced down, noticing your expression. “What?” You smiled. “Nothing.” “Liar.” You laughed. “Maybe.” His arm tightened slightly around your waist. “Tell me.”

You looked at him for a moment, really looked at him. At the boy who had become such a huge part of your life. At the boy you somehow managed to miss even when he was standing right beside you. The realization was embarrassing. “I'm going to miss you.” The words came out quieter than you'd intended. More vulnerable. More honest. Dean's expression changed instantly. The teasing disappeared, his eyes softened. For a second he simply looked at you. Like the confession meant more than it should. Then his thumb brushed gently across your side. “Darling. I'm gonna miss you too.” The simple honesty of it hit harder than expected. Because there was no joke. Just truth. You looked away first. Unable not to smile. Dean laughed softly then pulled you against him. Resting his chin on top of your head.

Around you, the party continued. People talking. Music playing. Garrett almost certainly doing something stupid. But for a moment, none of it mattered. Because standing there in the middle of the chaos, wrapped up in Dean's arms, you realized something. For the first time in years, leaving people hurt because you loved them. Not because you'd lost them. And somehow that felt like progress. Even if it did make your chest ache a little. A lot. Especially when Christmas break was only a day away.

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The next morning felt wrong. Not bad. Just wrong. Like somebody had turned the volume down on the entire world. By noon, most of campus was empty. Cars loaded. Suitcases packed. Students heading home for the holidays. The usual buzz of conversation had been replaced by silence. Even the dorm building felt different. You stood by your window watching a family load boxes into the back of an SUV. The sight made your stomach twist. Christmas break. You'd spent weeks pretending it wasn't coming. Now it was here.

A knock sounded against your door. You didn't even need to look up. “Come in.” The door opened and Dean stepped inside. One look at your face and his expression softened immediately. Uh oh. That look. The one that meant he'd noticed something. You should've known better. Nothing ever escaped him for long. He closed the door behind him. “Grace said you've been staring out that window for twenty minutes.” Traitor. “Maybe I like the view.” “You live on the third floor.” “Exactly.” Dean laughed. The sound warm and familiar. Then he crossed the room and sat beside you on the bed. Close enough that your shoulders touched, neither of you spoke for a moment. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It never was. You watched another car pull away from the parking lot. Dean watched you, eventually he nudged your shoulder gently. “You okay?”

You smiled automatically. The practiced version. The one you'd spent years perfecting. Dean wasn't fooled. Not even a little. “Try again.” You sighed of course he noticed. Dean waited patiently. No pressure, no pushing, just there. The way he always was. You stared down at your hands picking absentmindedly at a loose thread on your sleeve. “I don't know.” Dean immediately called your bluff. “Yes you do.” Unfortunately, he was right. You did know. You just didn't particularly want to say it out loud. Because saying it made it real. Made it harder to ignore.

Outside, another car disappeared from the parking lot. Your chest tightened. “I hate that I'm nervous.” The words slipped out quietly Dean didn't interrupt. Didn't immediately ask why. Just listened. Encouraging you to keep going. You swallowed. “It's stupid.” “Nope.” You laughed softly and Dean smiled. “Very convincing argument.” “I know.” His shoulder bumped yours. Gentle. Comforting. The knot in your stomach tightened further. Because if anyone could get the truth out of you, it was Dean. You'd learned that months ago. The annoying thing was that he never forced it. He just stayed. Until eventually you wanted to tell him. You looked out the window again at the increasingly empty campus at people going home, looking excited, happy. The way they were supposed to. And quietly admitted, “I don't really want to go.” The words hung between you but Dean didn't seem surprised, not really. Almost like he'd been expecting it. You looked over, his expression was calm. “I mean, I do.” You immediately corrected yourself. “Obviously.” Dean nodded. Still silent. You sighed. Frustrated with yourself. Frustrated with the situation. Frustrated that after all this time it still affected you. “They aren't bad people.” The sentence came quickly, defensive, instinctive. Dean's face softened. Because he recognized it. The need to protect them, even now, even after everything. “I know.” You looked down. Twisting the sleeve of your hoodie between your fingers. “They weren't always like this.” Dean stayed quiet, giving you space. You appreciated that. More than he probably knew.

You swallowed hard. Thinking about home, about Christmas, about walking back into that house, about all the things nobody said and all the things they did. “It's like...” The words caught briefly but you forced yourself to continue. “It's like they're stuck.” Dean's hand found yours. Not interrupting. Just there. Grounding. You squeezed back instinctively. “They still love me.” Your voice cracked slightly. “They do.” Dean nodded immediately. No hesitation. Because he believed that and honestly, so did you. That wasn't the problem. The problem was everything else. You stared at your joined hands. “They just don't really see me anymore.” The room fell silent. Dean's grip tightened. Barely. But enough. Enough to tell you he'd heard every word. Enough to tell you he understood. The admission felt strangely freeing and painful. All at once. You laughed softly. Though there wasn't much humor in it. “I sound awful.” Dean looked horrified. “Genuinely, what part of that sounds awful to you?” You shrugged. “They're grieving too.” The answer came automatically, the same way it always did, the same defense you'd built years ago. Dean looked at you for a long moment. Then quietly asked, “And who grieved you?” The question stole the air from your lungs. You froze. Dean's expression softened immediately. Like he'd realized how hard the words had landed. But he didn't take them back. Because they were true, painfully true.

Your eyes stung. You looked away. Unable to answer. Because the truth was... Nobody. Not really. Everyone had lost Sienna. But somewhere in the middle of all that loss, you'd lost your parents too. Not entirely. Not permanently. Just enough. Enough that coming home never felt like coming home anymore. Dean shifted closer his shoulder pressing fully against yours now, his hand still wrapped around yours. “You shouldn't have to carry that by yourself.” The words were quiet but they nearly broke you. Because he meant them. You could hear it. Feel it. Dean wasn't trying to fix anything. Wasn't trying to solve it. He just hated the idea of you being alone with it. A lump formed in your throat, you blinked rapidly. Embarrassed by how emotional you suddenly felt. Without thinking, he reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch impossibly gentle. The gesture somehow making everything worse or better. You weren't sure. Maybe both. A tiny smile appeared on his face. “There she is.” You laughed through the threatening tears. “Shut up.” “No.” “Dean.” His grin widened. Success. Mission accomplished. Your chest felt lighter, not fixed. Just lighter. Like he'd helped carry a little of the weight. The way he always seemed to.

Outside, another car disappeared from campus. Another student heading home. The sight still made your stomach twist but this time, Dean's hand was wrapped around yours and somehow that made it easier.

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The airport was chaos. Christmas travelers rushed in every direction, dragging suitcases behind them, juggling coffees, children, boarding passes and stress. You hated airports at the best of times. Today wasn't helping. Mostly because everyone seemed to be leaving. Grace had left that morning. Hannah's flight had been an hour ago. Tucker and Garrett were currently arguing over baggage restrictions. Logan looked like he regretted every life choice that had brought him here. And Dean was standing beside you with one hand wrapped around the handle of your suitcase. Like he wasn't planning on giving it back. “You know my flight leaves first.” “I know.” “Which means I need my bag.” Dean looked down at it. Then back at you. “That's unfortunate.” You laughed despite yourself.

The last twenty-four hours had been strange, not bad. Just emotional. The closer Christmas break got, the more anxious you'd become. And unfortunately for you, Dean had noticed every second of it. Which meant he hadn't let you out of his sight much. Not that you were complaining, not really. The loudspeaker overhead announced another boarding call. Garrett groaned dramatically. “This place is depressing.” “It's an airport.” “Exactly.” Tucker nodded. “People are always leaving.” For once, nobody argued with him. You shifted your weight slightly, looking around at your friends. Your people. A year ago, the idea that you'd be sad to leave college for Christmas would've sounded ridiculous. Now? Now your chest felt heavy. Because somehow these idiots had become part of your life. A very important part.

Grace had cried when she hugged you goodbye. Hannah had promised to text every day. Garrett had threatened to replace you if you didn't come back. Which was oddly sweet. In a Garrett sort of way. A notification buzzed on your phone, boarding. Your stomach immediately dropped. Beside you, Dean saw the screen. His expression softened, there it was, that look. The one reserved entirely for you. The one that always made your heart ache. “Hey.” You looked up Dean smiled. “It's two weeks.” You laughed softly. “You're saying that like it's nothing.” “It is nothing.” “You say that now.” “I do.” A pause then, “You're gonna miss me.” Dean's grin appeared immediately. “There she is.” You rolled your eyes. The man was impossible.

You were going to miss him. Terribly. Embarrassingly. Way more than was probably healthy. The realization had been slowly dawning on you all week. Dean reached over, taking your hand. His thumb brushed across your knuckles. The simple gesture settled some of the nerves bouncing around your chest. “You'll call me?” The question escaped before you could stop it. Dean looked almost offended. “Darling.” You laughed, right, stupid question. Of course he'd call. The man practically called you every day when you lived on the same campus. A few feet away, Garrett made a disgusted noise. Nobody acknowledged him. The loudspeaker announced boarding again, this time your boarding group, the reality hit immediately. You had to go. The knot in your stomach tightened. Dean must have noticed. Because his grip on your hand tightened slightly. Not enough to stop you. Just enough to remind you he was there.

You swallowed, then smiled, trying, really trying. “Okay.” Dean nodded. “Okay.” Neither of you moved. Logan sighed heavily. “For the love of God.” You burst out laughing. Dean groaned. Tucker pointed. “He's right.” Garrett nodded. “Just kiss her goodbye.” “Oh my God.” “Please.” “We're suffering.” You buried your face in your hands. Dean looked ready to throw someone through a window. Unfortunately, the boys were absolutely right. The realization seemed to hit both of you at the same time. Dean laughed first, shaking his head. Then gently pulled you closer. One hand settling against your waist. Your stomach immediately betrayed you. As usual. “Have a good flight.” His voice was quieter now. Just for you. You nodded, trying very hard not to get emotional in the middle of a crowded airport, a losing battle. Dean smiled softly. Then leaned down and pressed a kiss against your forehead. The gesture was so familiar. So Dean. Yet somehow it nearly made you cry, again. His lips lingered for a second then he pulled back slightly looking at you like he was memorizing something. The thought made your chest ache. “You'll be okay.” The words were gentle. Certain. Like a promise. Not because he believed Christmas would magically be easy. But because he believed in you. The difference mattered. You nodded, slowly. Dean smiled. “Good.”

The final boarding call echoed overhead. Definitely time. You took a shaky breath. Then wrapped your arms around him. Without thinking. Dean hugged you back just as quickly. Holding you For a moment you simply stood there. Ignoring the airport, ignoring the boys, ignoring everything else. Just holding on. Eventually you pulled away. Before you could change your mind and refuse to leave. Dean squeezed your hand one last time, then let go. You hated how much that hurt. The realization was deeply inconvenient. As you started toward security, you glanced back. Dean was still standing there, watching. One hand shoved into his pocket. The other lifting slightly in a small wave. You smiled. He smiled back. And for a second, the knot in your chest eased. Because Dean had promised to call. And Dean always kept his promises.

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The house looked exactly the same. That was the strange thing. After all this time, after all the years that had passed, nothing ever seemed to change. The white shutters, the flower beds your mother used to spend hours taking care of, the porch swing that creaked every time someone sat on it. It looked like home. It looked like childhood. It looked like safety. And somehow it didn't feel like any of those things anymore. You stood in the driveway for a moment, suitcase beside you, trying to gather yourself, trying to ignore the nervous feeling twisting in your stomach, trying not to think about the fact that you'd already checked your phone three times since landing. The latest message from Dean still sat at the top of your screen. Dean: Text me when you get inside, darling. A smile tugged at your mouth despite everything. You typed back quickly. You: I'm outside. The reply came almost instantly. Dean: Proud of you. Your eyes stung, annoying. Very annoying. Because somehow three words from Dean could make you emotional. You slipped your phone into your pocket before you could embarrass yourself further. Then grabbed your suitcase and walked toward the front door.

Before you could knock, it swung open. Your mother stood there. For a second, her face lit up, a genuine smile, that made your chest ache. Because this was the woman who used to braid your hair before school. The woman who used to sing Christmas songs while baking cookies. The woman who used to know everything about you. “Oh, sweetheart.” She wrapped her arms around you immediately, you hugged her back. Breathing in the familiar scent of vanilla and laundry detergent. For a moment, everything felt normal. For a moment, you could almost pretend. “I missed you.” “I missed you too.” And you meant it, you really did. Your mother pulled back, smiling. Looking you over. “You're so thin.” You laughed softly. “I'm not.” “You are.” “I'm not.” The familiar exchange made something warm flicker inside your chest. “You know, Sienna always lost weight at college too.” There it was, not cruel, not intentional. Just immediate. The warmth flickered slightly. Your smile stayed in place. Years of practice. “Hi, Mom.” She blinked, then laughed. “Oh.” Like she'd only just realized what she'd done. “Right. Come inside.”

The house smelled like cinnamon. Christmas candles. Home. You stepped inside. Your father appeared from the living room almost immediately, his face breaking into a smile. “There's my girl.” Relief washed through you. You crossed the room, let him pull you into a hug. For a second, you let yourself enjoy it. Just enjoy it. No overthinking. No waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just your dad. Then he stepped back, smiling. “You know what I found yesterday?” You already knew. Instinctively. You just knew. “What?” “A video from Sienna's eighth birthday.” Of course. Your smile faltered for half a second. Only half. Your father didn't notice or maybe he did, you weren't sure anymore. The line had become harder to see. Because nobody meant to hurt you. That was the problem. Nobody ever meant to.

The rest of the afternoon passed similarly. Small things, tiny things. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious. Just enough to leave a bruise. You helped your mom decorate the tree. Halfway through she laughed. “You remember how Sienna always put every ornament on one branch?” You smiled. “Yeah.” The memory was actually funny. You'd barely finished speaking before your mom drifted away again. Talking about Sienna. Laughing about Sienna. Remembering Sienna. And somehow forgetting you were standing right there.

At dinner your father asked about college. Relief immediately filled your chest, finally. Something normal. Something about you. “So how's school?” You brightened. “It's good, actually. I got an A on…” “Elementary education, right?” Your mother interrupted. You nodded. “That's what Sienna wanted to do before she switched.” The conversation disappeared immediately. Gone. Just like that. Your father launched into a story about Sienna changing majors. Your mother laughed. The subject never returned to you. You sat there. Smiling, nodding, participating where you could. Trying not to notice. Trying not to care. The thing was you knew they loved you. That was what made it so difficult. If they were cruel, it would be easier. If they were malicious, it would make sense. Instead they were grieving. And grief had become the centre of everything. Even Christmas. Especially Christmas.

That evening, you escaped to your childhood bedroom, the one room that still felt vaguely yours. Though even here things had changed. A framed photograph of Sienna sat on your dresser. Three more on the bookshelf. One on the nightstand. You stared at them for a moment. Then sat heavily on the bed. The exhaustion hit all at once. Not physical. Emotional. The kind that came from constantly trying, constantly making yourself smaller, constantly pretending things didn't hurt. Your phone buzzed and you looked down. Dean: How's Florida? The tears arrived so quickly it startled you, not because of the question because of who was asking because somehow, after less than a day apart, Dean already felt impossibly far away. You stared at the message. Then typed back. You: It's okay. Three dots appeared instantly. Disappeared. Reappeared. Dean: Liar.

A laugh escaped through your tears of course of course he knew. The man was infuriating. You wiped your eyes, smiling despite yourself. You: Miss you. This time his response took less than five seconds. Dean: Miss you more, darling. And for the first time since landing, your chest loosened slightly. Not fixed. Not healed. Just lighter. Because somewhere between Florida and New York, between grief and healing, between all the things that still hurt There was Dean. And somehow, that made everything a little easier.

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The next morning started at 6:43 a.m. You knew the exact time because the sound of Christmas music blasting through the house had dragged you awake. You stared at your ceiling. Confused. Disoriented. Then groaned. Christmas. Right. For a few seconds, you considered burying yourself back under the blankets and pretending you didn't exist. A tempting option. Unfortunately, your mother was apparently on a mission. By the time you made it downstairs, dressed and mostly awake, she'd already been baking for at least an hour. The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and sugar. The countertops were covered in flour. Cookie trays lined nearly every available surface. Your father sat at the island drinking coffee. Christmas music drifted through the speakers. It should have felt cozy. Comforting. Instead, something inside you immediately tightened. Not because of anything anyone had done. Because of anticipation. Because you'd spent enough years here to know how these days tended to go. Your mother looked up. “Oh good, you're awake.” You smiled. “Morning.” She smiled back.

For a second everything felt normal. “I was just making Sienna's favourite cookies.” The smile remained on your face. Years of practice. “Oh.” Your mother brightened. “You remember them, right?” Of course you remembered them. You'd made them together every Christmas since you were six years old. You and Sienna standing on stools in matching aprons. Making a mess. Stealing chocolate chips. Fighting over who got to lick the spoon. You remembered all of it. But before you could answer, your mother was already talking again. Launching into a story. One you'd heard before. You listened anyway because that's what you did. You listened, you nodded, you smiled. And somehow made yourself smaller. The story lasted through breakfast, then coffee, then half the morning. By lunchtime, your cheeks hurt from smiling. Not because you were unhappy. Just tired. Tired in a way that felt difficult to explain. At one point your father asked, “So how's your apartment?” You blinked momentarily caught off guard. “My dorm?” “Yeah.” Finally, a question, a real one. You smiled. “It's good. Grace and I…” “Oh, Grace.” Your mother looked up. “That's your roommate?” You nodded. “Yeah.” “That's nice.” A pause. Then. “Sienna would've loved having a roommate.”

The conversation disappeared. Again. Just like that. Your father nodded. Your mother continued. And somehow the topic drifted away from you entirely. You stared down at your plate. The familiar ache settling into your chest like background noise. You wondered if they even noticed anymore. The way conversations never quite reached you, the way they always curved around and back toward the same person. The same loss. The same grief. You wondered if they realized how invisible you felt or if they were hurting too much to see it. Probably the second one, that was always the second one. And because it was the second one, you never knew how to be angry.

That afternoon, your father pulled out old photo albums. The sight alone made your stomach sink. Not because you disliked the memories. You loved the memories. That was the problem. The first album opened. Sienna at age four. Sienna at age six. Sienna at age nine. Sienna at twelve. Sienna at fourteen. Sienna. Sienna. Sienna. You appeared occasionally, a blurry figure beside her, a supporting character in your own childhood. Your mother smiled at one photograph. “Oh, I loved this day.” You looked down. It was from a family beach trip. You remembered it, you remembered building sandcastles, you remembered your dad teaching you how to skim stones, you remembered Sienna burying your legs in sand. A good memory. A happy one. Then your mother laughed softly. “She was so happy.” Not you both. Just her.

Something inside your chest cracked a little, tiny. Barely noticeable. But enough. Enough that you suddenly couldn't look at the album anymore. You excused yourself shortly afterward. Nobody stopped you. Nobody noticed. That somehow hurt most of all. You ended up outside. The Florida air warm despite it being December, the backyard looked smaller than you remembered or maybe you'd just grown up. You sat on the porch swing, staring out at nothing. Trying to breathe. Trying not to cry over something that felt so stupid. Because it wasn't one thing. That was the frustrating part. There wasn't a moment you could point to. No argument. No cruelty. No dramatic confrontation. Just hundreds of tiny reminders. Tiny cuts. Tiny losses. Tiny moments where you felt forgotten. The screen door creaked behind you. Your heart immediately jumped. Hope rising before you could stop it. Dean. Then common sense arrived. Of course it wasn't Dean. Dean was in New York. Probably eating Christmas cookies with his family, probably having a normal holiday.

You looked over your shoulder. Your father stepped onto the porch. Relief and disappointment tangled together inside your chest. He smiled. The familiar smile you'd spent years missing. “Mind if I sit?” You nodded. He lowered himself onto the swing beside you and for a moment neither of you spoke. The silence felt strangely comfortable, like it used to. Back before everything became complicated. Back before grief lived in every room. Your father looked out at the yard, then quietly said, “You know... your sister loved this swing.” There it was, again. Not even five minutes, your throat tightened. You looked down. The fight suddenly leaving your body. Not anger. Not frustration. Just exhaustion. Because for one second, just one, you'd thought maybe he came outside to talk to you. And somehow you felt guilty for wanting that.

Your father kept talking, completely unaware and you sat there beside him. Smiling when appropriate. Nodding when necessary. Wondering why it still hurt this much. Wondering if it always would. Wondering how Dean had somehow become the one person who made you feel seen. The thought alone nearly brought tears to your eyes because right now, more than anything else in the world you wanted him here.

By nine o'clock that night, you were exhausted, not physically, emotionally. The kind of tired that settled into your bones. The kind that made everything feel heavier than it should. Dinner had somehow been worse, not because anyone had argued, not because anyone had been cruel because they'd been happy. Happy in a way that made your chest hurt. Your father had found an old home video. One from Christmas years ago. Before. Back when there had been four people around the tree. Back when Sienna was alive. Back when grief wasn't a permanent guest in the house. The three of you had sat in the living room watching it, you'd actually enjoyed it at first. You loved those memories. You always would. Tiny Sienna in oversized pajamas. Your mother laughing from behind the camera. Your father trying and failing to assemble a toy. For a few minutes, it had almost felt nice. Then the video ended. Silence settled over the room and your mother started crying. Your father reached for her hand immediately. Neither of them seemed to remember you were sitting there. “We were so lucky.” Your mother's voice cracked. Your father nodded “She was perfect.” Your chest tightened. You understood, God, you understood, you missed her too. Every day. Every single day.

But then your father smiled sadly and said, “Christmas hasn't felt the same since we lost her.” And something inside you broke not because the words were wrong. They weren't, not completely but because you were sitting right there. Still here. Still alive. Still their daughter. And somehow, once again, it felt like nobody remembered. You'd excused yourself almost immediately. Nobody stopped you. Nobody asked if you were okay. Nobody followed.

Now you sat on your bedroom floor with your back against the bed, the room dark except for the lamp beside you. Your phone resting in your hands. Your eyes burned. You hadn't cried yet, which honestly felt impressive. You stared at your lock screen. At Dean's picture, one Grace had taken without either of you noticing. You sitting on the hockey house couch Dean looking at you like you hung the moon, the sight alone nearly undid you. Because suddenly you missed him so much it physically hurt. You missed being seen. You missed somebody asking how your day was and actually listening to the answer. You missed somebody noticing when you were sad. You missed Dean.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you hit call. The phone rang once. Twice. Then, “Hey, darling.” Your eyes immediately filled with tears. Damn it. Damn him. Damn the way his voice could do that. For a second you couldn't speak. You just sat there, listening. Trying to get yourself together Dean noticed instantly. Of course he did. The line went quiet. Then, “What happened?” Your throat closed, you laughed weakly a pathetic attempt. “You always know.” “Yeah.” His voice was gentle, careful. “Tell me.” That was it. That was all it took. Not pressure. Not questions. Just tell me. Like he genuinely wanted to know. Like he cared. Like your feelings mattered. The first tear slipped free, then another, you covered your mouth. Trying to stop the sound that escaped. Failed. “Oh, sweetheart.” The tenderness in his voice shattered whatever control you had left.

Suddenly you were crying, actually crying. Not graceful tears, not silent tears. The ugly kind. The ones that came from months and years of holding things together. “I'm sorry.” The apology escaped automatically. Dean immediately groaned. “Nope.” A watery laugh left you. “I'm serious.” “So am I.” His voice softened. “You don't get to apologize for crying.” You wiped at your eyes, pointlessly. More tears replaced them immediately, the room blurred. For a few moments neither of you spoke. Dean just let you cry, let you breathe, let you exist. The way he always did. Eventually you managed, “I just miss her.” The confession came out broken. Raw. Honest. “I know.” “I miss her so much.” “I know.” You squeezed your eyes shut, the tears refused to stop. “And I know they do too.” Your voice cracked. “I know they do.” Dean stayed quiet, listening, always listening. “But it's like...” You swallowed hard, trying to find words, trying to explain something you'd never really said aloud. “It's like they lost her and forgot they still had me.” The silence on the other end was immediate, heavy. Not because Dean disagreed because he didn't. Not even a little. And somehow that hurt more. Because somebody finally understood. Your shoulders shook. Years of hurt pouring out all at once. “They don't mean to.” “I know.” “They love me.” “I know.” “But every time I come home I feel invisible.” The last word broke completely, you pressed a hand over your eyes. Mortified, heartbroken, exhausted. Dean exhaled slowly. You could practically hear his heart breaking through the phone. “Hey.” You tried to answer, couldn't. His voice softened even further, a miracle considering it was already impossibly gentle. “You are not invisible.” The tears started again, immediately. Because Dean said it like a fact. Not comfort. Not reassurance. Truth. “You hear me?” You nodded automatically, then remembered he couldn't see you. “Yeah.” “No.” The word came firm, certain. “Say it back.” You laughed through your tears, the sound shaky. Broken. “Dean.” “Say it.” You shook your head. Even though he still couldn't see. The stubbornness would've been funny under different circumstances. Eventually, though, he won. He always did. “I'm not invisible.” “Good.” Silence settled between you again, comfortable this time. Healing. You closed your eyes. Listening to him breathe. Listening to the familiar sound of his voice whenever he occasionally said your name. Like he was making sure you were still there. The realization made your chest ache. Because somehow Dean had become your person. The first person you wanted when things got hard. The first person you called. The first person who truly understood.

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The next morning felt strange. Not better. But different. The phone call with Dean had helped, more than you wanted to admit. You'd fallen asleep eventually, curled up beneath your blankets with your phone still in your hand. His last words playing over and over in your head. “Get some sleep, darling.” “I'll talk to you tomorrow.” The promise had settled something inside you. A small piece of the hurt. Not fixed. Just soothed. Enough to let you rest. Now, sunlight streamed through your bedroom window. The Florida air already warm despite it being barely nine in the morning. You stared at the ceiling for a few moments before forcing yourself out of bed. Another day. You could do another day, probably, hopefully, maybe.

Downstairs, Christmas music was already playing, again. You briefly considered turning around and climbing back into bed. A very appealing option. Instead you made your way to the kitchen. Your mother stood at the counter wrapping presents. Your father sat at the table reading something on his tablet. Both looked up when you entered. “Morning, sweetheart.” “Morning.” You poured yourself coffee. Sat down. Tried, you really did. For a little while things were okay normal, even. Your father asked about the weather in Boston. Your mother showed you a new recipe she'd found. For almost twenty minutes, nobody mentioned Sienna. You hated yourself for noticing. Then hated yourself even more for feeling relieved. The guilt sat heavy in your stomach. Because you missed her too but sometimes it felt like there wasn't room for anybody else's grief in this house. Including your own.

By lunchtime, the familiar pattern had returned. Stories. Memories. Photographs. Sienna. Always Sienna. You smiled when appropriate. Nodded when expected. Played your role. The good daughter, the understanding daughter, the daughter who never complained. Around two o'clock, your mother sent you outside to bring in a package she'd forgotten about. You welcomed the excuse. Glad for the fresh air. Glad for the temporary escape. The package sat near the front steps. You bent down, picked it up. Turned toward the house. Then froze. A car was parked at the curb, a black SUV. One you didn't recognize, you frowned. Maybe a delivery driver, maybe a neighbour, maybe…

The driver's door opened and your heart stopped. No. No way. Absolutely not. The figure stepping out of the vehicle was tall. Broad-shouldered, wearing a dark hoodie, messy blonde hair catching in the sunlight. For a second your brain genuinely refused to process what you were seeing. Because it wasn't possible. Because he was supposed to be in New York. Because… Dean looked up and smiled.

Your package hit the ground neither of you noticed. For one heartbeat neither of you moved. Just stared Dean looked exhausted, like he hadn't slept much, like he'd travelled, like he'd crossed several states just to stand on your street. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets and gave you a small shrug. The kind that said: Yeah, I know. The tears arrived instantly. “Oh my God.” Dean's smile widened You were moving before you even realized it, crossing the yard, running, actually running. The distance between you disappeared in seconds. Dean barely had time to open his arms, then you crashed into him. Hard, the impact nearly knocked him backward. His arms wrapped around you immediately, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. Not that you cared. Not even slightly. Because he was here. He was actually here. “Hi.” The word came out muffled against his shoulder. Dean laughed softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Hi, darling.” Your eyes filled again. You hated how emotional you were being. You hated it. And yet Dean just held you. Like he understood completely. Like he'd expected this. His hand slid into your hair, resting against the back of your head. You pulled back just enough to look at him, still making sure he was real, still half convinced you were hallucinating. “What are you doing here?” Dean looked genuinely confused. “As far as questions go, that feels pretty obvious.” A watery laugh escaped you. He smiled. God. You'd missed him. Far too much. “Dean.” His expression softened immediately, the teasing disappearing replaced by something warmer, something deeper. “I told you I’d do anything for you” Your throat tightened because he had. He absolutely had. You'd just never believed he'd actually do it.

Dean reached up brushing away the tears still clinging to your cheeks. His touch impossibly gentle, the way it always was with you. “You called me crying.” The words landed softly, simply. Like they explained everything. Maybe they did. You stared at him. At the boy who had flown halfway across the country because you were hurting. At the boy who never made you ask twice. At the boy who somehow loved you in every way that mattered. The realization hit all over again. You loved him, so much it was almost terrifying. Dean smiled slightly. “Besides.” You blinked. “What?” His grin appeared, slowly, dangerously “I missed you.” You laughed through your tears. The sound shaky, happy, relieved. Dean's eyes softened. Then he pulled you back into his arms. Holding you close, the way he'd done at the airport, the way he'd done a hundred times before. Only this time you didn't have to say goodbye. Not yet. Not for a while. And standing there in the Florida sunshine, wrapped safely in Dean's embrace, you realized something. For the first time since arriving home you could breathe because Dean was here and somehow, everything felt a little less impossible.

Your mother was the first person to see him. Unfortunately, that happened when you and Dean finally walked through the front door still standing far too close together. His hand was resting against the small of your back. Your eyes were red from crying. Neither of you had really thought this through. The kitchen conversation stopped immediately. Your mother blinked. Your father lowered his coffee mug. Silence. Dean smiled politely. “Hi.” More silence, you suddenly felt like you were sixteen years old again. “Um.” Your mother looked between the two of you. Then back again, then finally landed on Dean. “Who is this?” Dean immediately looked at you, then at your parents, then back at you. The poor man looked genuinely alarmed. You stared. He stared back. Your father frowned slightly and your mother looked confused. And then realization hit, slowly, horribly. “Oh my God.” Dean immediately started laughing. You wanted the floor to open and swallow you whole. “Oh my God.” Your mother blinked. “What?” “You don't know who Dean is.” The room went quiet again. Your father exchanged a glance with your mother. Neither spoke, which told you absolutely everything. Dean pressed his lips together failing spectacularly at hiding his amusement. You pointed at your parents. “I have mentioned Dean.” “We know a Dean.” “You know this Dean.” Your mother looked uncertain. “Do we?” You made a noise of disbelief. An actual noise. Because surely not, surely. “I literally talk about him all the time.” The second the words left your mouth you realized your mistake because suddenly all three of them were looking at you. Dean included, your face immediately heated. Dean's grin became unbearable. “Oh?” You shot him a look, he looked delighted. Your father frowned thoughtfully. “The hockey player.” You pointed. “Yes.” His face brightened. “Oh.” Your mother snapped her fingers. “The one from New York.” “Yes.” “The one who helped when...” Her voice softened slightly. “When things were difficult last year.”

You nodded relief finally arriving. Thank God. Your mother smiled. “Oh.” She looked at Dean again, this time properly. Taking him in, the height, the hockey-player build, the fact that he was standing suspiciously close to her daughter. The realization seemed to hit her all at once. Her eyes widened. “Oh.” Dean actually choked trying not to laugh. You buried your face in your hands. Your father sat up straighter looking between the two of you, then at your intertwined hands. Then back again. Another pause. “Oh.” “Please stop saying oh.” Nobody listened. Dean's shoulders were shaking, the absolute menace. Your mother pointed. “You're Dean.” “That's me.” The smile he gave her was warm, polite, charming. You immediately knew your parents were doomed Dean could turn on the charm when he wanted to and unfortunately he was very good at it. Your father stood crossing the kitchen, extending his hand. Dean shook it immediately. “Nice to finally meet you.” Finally, the word stuck in your chest because Dean wasn't wrong. It should've happened months ago. Your parents should've known who he was. Should've known how important he'd become. Instead this felt like a surprise introduction. Like you'd never spent the last year talking about him. Your father smiled. “We've heard a lot about you.” You nearly laughed. The lie was so obvious even Dean noticed. You saw it happen. The tiny pause. The flicker in his eyes. Gone almost immediately but not before you caught it. Dean smiled anyway because he was Dean. Kind, patient far kinder than most people would've been. “Hopefully all good things.” Your mother laughed. “Oh, definitely.”

The guilt hit unexpectedly because they weren't lying, not exactly. They had heard about him bits and pieces. The problem was that they never really listened long enough to remember. Your stomach twisted. Dean's hand found your back again, a tiny touch. Barely noticeable, yet somehow grounding. The conversation moved on, your mother offering drinks. Your father asking about hockey, the flight, New York, college. Normal things. And for a little while, everything seemed okay. Maybe even good. Then your father asked, “So how did you two meet?” Your heart immediately lifted, finally. A question about something current. Something happy. Something that belonged to you. You glanced at Dean, his smile was already waiting. “We met through mutual friends” you said. “The hockey team” Dean added. Your father nodded. “And then?” You laughed. “And then I spent months annoying him.” “I was being perfectly reasonable.” “You were hiding in your room.” “I was grieving.” “You were grumpy.” Dean looked offended. You smiled. For a moment the conversation felt easy, normal. The kind of family conversation you'd always wanted. Then your mother's face softened. “Oh, Sienna would've loved this story.” The smile slipped slightly from your face.

Your mother didn't notice, she was already smiling sadly. “She always loved hearing about crushes.” Your father laughed. “Remember when she used to interrogate every boy you talked to?” Your mother immediately brightened. “Oh my goodness, yes.” And just like that the conversation shifted. Not sharply. Not intentionally. Just enough. Enough that suddenly they were talking about Sienna at fourteen. Sienna at sixteen, Sienna teasing boys, Sienna making lists of celebrity crushes. You sat quietly. The story of how you and Dean fell in love abandoned halfway through. Nobody seemed to notice. Except Dean. You felt it when his hand settled over yours beneath the table, felt the slight tightening of his fingers. The silent understanding because this was what you'd been trying to explain. Not that your parents didn't love you. Not that they were cruel. Just that every conversation somehow became a memory. And every memory somehow belonged to Sienna. Dean smiled politely as your parents talked. Joined in when appropriate, asked questions, listened. But every now and then his eyes flicked toward you and with every glance, his heart broke a little more. Because for the first time, he wasn't hearing about it. He was watching it happen.

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Dean lasted exactly four hours before he started getting angry, not visibly ,not in a way your parents would notice. Dean was too polite for that, too well raised, too good at hiding things. But you knew him. And by dinner, you could tell. It was the little signs, the way his jaw tightened, the way he got quieter, the way his hand found yours more often, the way he kept looking at you when your parents weren't paying attention. Like he was checking on you. Like he was making sure you were still okay. You weren't. But that wasn't new. The problem was that now Dean could see it.

The evening had followed the same pattern as the rest of the visit. Stories. Memories. Photographs. Christmas traditions. Almost all of them somehow circling back to Sienna and every single time, Dean watched you disappear a little. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice, just enough. Enough that it made his chest hurt.

Now dinner was over, your parents had gone to bed. The house was finally quiet. You sat cross-legged on your bedroom floor wrapping Christmas presents. Dean sat opposite you, a roll of wrapping paper balanced across his knees. The silence between you felt comfortable, safe. The first truly comfortable silence you'd had all day. You finished taping a gift shut. Then glanced up. Dean was already looking at you of course he was. A small smile tugged at your mouth. “There he is.” His eyebrows lifted. “There who is?” “The staring.” Dean looked completely unashamed. “I like looking at you.” You laughed softly. The response automatic. Expected. Normal. And yet something about his expression didn't quite match the words, the smile was there. But it didn't fully reach his eyes. You tilted your head. Immediately suspicious. “Dean.” “Yes?” “What's wrong?” “Nothing.” Liar a terrible liar. One of the worst you'd ever met. You narrowed your eyes and Dean narrowed his right back. The standoff lasted approximately three seconds, then he sighed. You smiled triumphantly. Dean rolled his eyes. “You are unbelievably annoying.” “Thank you.” “That wasn't a compliment.” “It sounded like one.” His laugh escaped despite himself, then faded, the room growing quieter again, you watched him carefully. The concern in your chest slowly growing. Because Dean wasn't usually like this, not with you.

Eventually he looked down at the present in his hands. Turning the tape dispenser over between his fingers. Then quietly asked, “Has it always been like this?” The question stole the air from your lungs. You immediately knew what he meant, the smile slipped from your face. “Oh.” Dean's eyes lifted. You looked away first. Because suddenly the wrapping paper in your lap seemed very interesting. The silence stretched. Neither of you rushing to fill it. Finally, you shrugged, a small movement, barely there. “Kind of.” Dean's jaw tightened. You noticed. “It got worse after she died.” Your voice sounded distant. Like you were talking about someone else's life, someone else's family, someone else's grief. Dean listened, carefully. You swallowed, searching for words. “They weren't always like this.” “I know.” The answer came immediately, certain. Without hesitation. You looked up. Dean's expression softened. “They love you.” “They do.” Your voice cracked slightly. “They really do.” Dean nodded, not arguing, not correcting you. Because he believed it too.

The room fell quiet again. Then Dean leaned back against the bed, looking up at the ceiling. His jaw clenched. Once. Twice. Like he was trying very hard not to say something. You immediately recognized that look. “Oh no.” Dean glanced at you. “What?” “You have a thought.” “I always have thoughts.” “You have an angry thought.” His mouth twitched which was all the confirmation you needed. You laughed softly, the sound tired, affectionate. “Dean.” He rubbed a hand across his face. Still looking annoyed, still looking far too protective. Then finally admitted, “I don't understand how they don't see it.” The words landed gently but they hit hard because he wasn't talking about today or dinner or one specific moment. He was talking about all of it, every interruption, every forgotten question, every story that somehow stopped being yours. You looked down at the present in your lap, picking at a corner of tape. “They don't mean to.” Dean made a noise, not quite agreement, not quite disagreement. Something in between. “They still don't see it.” The fierce certainty in his voice made your chest ache. You looked up and Dean was watching you again. That look on his face, the one that always made you feel important. Like you mattered. Like you were worth paying attention to, worth listening to, worth loving. The realization warmed something deep inside your chest. “You know”, you said softly. “What?” A smile appeared despite yourself. “I think you're more upset about this than I am.” Dean stared, actually stared, then laughed once. A short, disbelieving sound. “Darling.” You smiled, his expression softened immediately, all the frustration melting away. Replaced by something infinitely gentler, something that made your heart squeeze. “You have spent two days being treated like a ghost.” Your throat tightened but Dean's eyes never left yours. “And somehow you're worried about me.” The tears returned instantly because that was the thing about Dean. The thing that made loving him so easy. He never let things slide when it came to you. Never let you minimize your own pain. Never let you make yourself smaller, not anymore. You blinked rapidly. Trying to fight the emotion. Dean noticed. Without thinking, he shifted across the floor, closing the space between you. Then gently pulled you into his arms. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was. You went willingly. Immediately. Resting your head against his chest. Listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Dean pressed a kiss into your hair, then another. His arms tightening around you. Just slightly. Like he never wanted to let go, for a while neither of you spoke. You simply sat there together on the bedroom floor. Wrapped presents forgotten. Christmas forgotten. The rest of the world forgotten.

Eventually, Dean's voice broke the silence. Quiet. Certain. The words spoken directly into your hair. “You know what I see?” You smiled slightly. “What?” His answer came without hesitation. “The strongest person I've ever met.” Your eyes burned. Immediately. Dean squeezed you closer and for the first time since coming home, you let yourself believe him. Just a little.

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The next morning, for the first time since arriving in Florida, you slept in. Really slept. No waking up every hour, no lying awake staring at the ceiling, no knot of anxiety sitting permanently in your chest. Just sleep. The kind that came from emotional exhaustion and feeling safe. The kind that came from falling asleep curled into Dean's side while watching Christmas movies the night before. Dean woke first, slowly, carefully. The room was still dark. The early morning sunlight only just beginning to creep through the curtains. For a moment he simply lay there looking at you. Because apparently he never got tired of doing that. Your face was half buried in the pillow. One arm stretched across the mattress. Hair completely everywhere. You looked peaceful. For once. The last few days hadn't been easy. Dean knew that. He'd watched it happen. Watched the way your smile faded a little more each day. Watched the way conversations drifted away from you. Watched the way you tried to make excuses for your parents even while they unintentionally hurt you. And somehow you still kept showing up, still kept trying, still kept loving them. The thought made his chest ache. You deserved so much better than this.

A sleepy sigh escaped you and Dean's expression immediately softened. There she was. His girl. The strongest person he'd ever met. Carefully, he brushed a strand of hair away from your face. You didn't wake. Instead, you unconsciously moved closer, seeking warmth, seeking him. Dean nearly melted on the spot. Jesus Christ. He was so gone. Embarrassingly in love with you. A fact his friends would never let him hear the end of. You made another sleepy noise and Dean smiled, then leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead. You barely reacted. Still asleep. Still trusting him enough to stay. The sight alone made something tighten painfully inside his chest. Because despite everything happening in this house, despite the sadness and the grief and the hurt, you still somehow found ways to smile, to care, to love. He didn't know how you did it. What he did know was that you deserved one good morning. Just one. Without tears, without memories, without grief hanging over your head. Which was how Dean found himself quietly climbing out of bed. Determined. On a mission. Breakfast. Breakfast would help. Breakfast always helped. At least according to Garrett. Though Garrett also believed chicken wings were an acceptable breakfast food, so perhaps his judgment wasn't perfect.

Dean pulled on a hoodie, ran a hand through his hair. Then slipped downstairs, the house was quiet. Almost peaceful. Christmas music wasn't playing yet which felt like a small miracle. Dean headed toward the kitchen. Already mentally planning what he could make. Pancakes maybe, french toast, something that would make you smile, something that would get that little laugh out of you he loved so much. The kitchen lights were already on. Your mother stood at the counter with a mug of coffee in her hands. She looked up as he entered. Surprised, then smiled. “You're up early.” Dean returned the smile. “Couldn't sleep.” That wasn't entirely true. But it sounded better than your daughter finally got a decent night's sleep so I wanted to let her rest. Your mother laughed softly. “Neither can I.” Dean moved toward the cabinets, searching for plates. It took approximately three seconds for your mother to realize what he was doing. “Oh.” Her smile widened. “You're making breakfast?” Dean nodded. “Trying to.” “That's sweet.” The compliment embarrassed him slightly, he shrugged. “It's not a big deal.” Your mother watched him for a moment. Something thoughtful crossing her face. Then she smiled again, a genuine smile. The kind that reminded Dean of you. “You take good care of her.” The words caught him off guard and for a second, he simply stared. Then his expression softened. “She takes pretty good care of me too.” Your mother laughed. “I can believe that.”

Dean smiled because it was true. You did. You always had. Even before you'd started dating, even when he hadn't made it easy. The memory made him shake his head slightly. Your mother watched him and whatever she saw seemed to confirm something. Her smile became warmer, almost fond. “You know...” Dean looked up. “Hm?” She stirred her coffee absentmindedly, still watching him. “You've been wonderful for her.” The words made something in his chest tighten because all he'd done was love you and somehow that felt like the easiest thing in the world. “She's pretty wonderful herself.”

Dean didn't notice the shift immediately. Why would he? Up until now, this had actually been one of the nicest conversations he'd had since arriving. Your mother had been warm, kind, interested. For a moment, he'd allowed himself to think maybe things were getting better. Maybe this morning would be different. Maybe the last few days had simply been unfortunate. Then your mother smiled into her coffee. A distant sort of smile. The kind Dean had become familiar with, the kind that usually meant a memory was coming. “You remind me of her sometimes.” Dean paused, the carton of eggs halfway out of the fridge. For a second, he wasn't entirely sure who she meant. Then he knew. Of course he knew. His chest tightened slightly. Your mother smiled softly lost somewhere years away. “Sienna.” There it was. Dean carefully set the eggs on the counter listening. Trying very hard not to read into it because maybe she meant his sense of humour maybe she meant his energy. “She always had such a big heart.” Your mother laughed quietly. “Always taking care of people.” Dean smiled politely. Because what else was he supposed to do? Your mother looked at him, really looked at him and for a second, something almost hopeful crossed her face. “You know...”

Dean's stomach dropped. Something about the tone, something about the look, some instinct deep in his chest suddenly screaming at him. “You would've gotten along.” The smile on his face became harder to hold. Your mother didn't notice. Still caught in the memory, still talking, still completely unaware. “Sienna would've loved you.” Dean went still. The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet, very small. Your mother laughed softly. “Honestly.” She shook her head. “You are exactly the kind of boy she would've brought home.” Dean's grip tightened around the edge of the counter. Not enough for her to notice, just enough. His heart sinking lower with every word because he knew. He knew she didn't mean anything by it. That was the problem. She wasn't trying to be cruel, wasn't trying to hurt anyone. She genuinely didn't realize what she was saying. Your mother smiled, fond, nostalgic. “You would've been perfect for her.” Something snapped, not loudly, not dramatically, just enough. Enough that Dean physically felt it. Enough that suddenly all he could think about was you. You upstairs. You crying on the phone. You sitting silently through conversation after conversation. You defending your parents. You making excuses for them. You trying so desperately to understand. And somehow even your boyfriend had become a memory about Sienna.

Dean opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. Because he genuinely didn't know what to say. Your mother was still smiling. Still lost in the past, still unaware of the damage she'd just done. Then her expression changed, slightly. Confusion replacing nostalgia. Dean followed her gaze, toward the doorway. His heart immediately dropped. You were standing there, barefoot. Still wearing one of his hoodies hair messy from sleep and absolutely frozen. For a second nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The silence swallowed the room whole. Dean's stomach twisted violently because the look on your face, Jesus Christ. You'd heard it, not part of it, all of it. Every word. Every single word. Your mother slowly turned, still confused, still not understanding. “Sweetheart?” The word barely registered Dean couldn't take his eyes off you, couldn't look away. Because your face had gone completely blank. Not angry. Not even sad. Just tired so unbelievably tired. The kind of tired that came from being hurt in the same place over and over again.

Your mother looked between the two of you finally sensing something was wrong. “What?” Your throat bobbed. Once. Twice. Dean took a step forward instinctively. Immediately. Wanting to reach you, wanting to fix it, wanting to somehow take back the last thirty seconds. You laughed a tiny sound one completely devoid of humour. And somehow that hurt more than tears would've. Your mother's confusion deepened. “Sweetheart?” This time your smile cracked. Just slightly. Enough for Dean to see it, enough for him to know exactly what was about to happen. And suddenly he wasn't angry anymore he was heartbroken. Because all he could think was not again, not her, not this girl, not the girl who loved everyone so fiercely it hurt, not the girl who had spent years carrying everybody else's grief, not the girl he loved. Your eyes finally lifted to your mother and Dean watched the exact moment years of hurt rose to the surface. The exact moment keeping it all buried became impossible. The exact moment everything changed and for the first time since arriving in Florida, your parents looked at you, really looked at you. Just in time to see your heart breaking.

The kitchen sat frozen around you, morning sunlight streamed through the windows, coffee cooled in forgotten mugs, the smell of pancake batter lingered in the air. Everything looked so normal. Which somehow made it worse. Your mother was staring at you. Confused. Concerned. Still not understanding. Your father appeared in the doorway from the living room, clearly drawn by the sudden silence. His eyes moved between everyone. Then settled on you immediately worried. “What's wrong?” The question nearly made you laugh, nearly. Instead your eyes filled with tears, again. You were so tired of crying, so unbelievably tired. For years you'd swallowed it down, made excuses, accepted it. Because they were grieving. Because you loved them. Because you missed Sienna too. But suddenly, standing there watching your mother look at Dean and see your sister, watching her turn the one thing that belonged entirely to you into another memory, you couldn't do it anymore.

“Sweetheart?” your mother said again. Your voice came out smaller than you intended. “When does it stop?” The confusion on her face deepened. “What?” A tear slipped down your cheek. You didn't wipe it away, didn't even notice it. “When does it stop?” Your father frowned. Your mother looked completely lost. Dean remained silent, standing beside the counter. Watching, waiting, there if you needed him. The sight alone nearly broke you because of course he was. Your laugh shook slightly, painfully. “You don't even realize you're doing it.” The room went still your mother's face changed just slightly, the first flicker of understanding. Not enough. Not yet. But something. You swallowed hard trying to push through the lump in your throat. “I bring home my boyfriend.” Your voice cracked on the word. Boyfriend. The first time you'd ever really said it in front of your parents. The first time you'd ever had someone like Dean, someone who loved you this completely, this openly, this fearlessly. You looked at your mother tears blurring your vision. “And somehow he becomes about Sienna too.” Silence. Absolute silence. Your father's expression fell and your mother's face went pale. Like the reality of what she'd said was finally catching up to her. “Sweetheart, I didn't mean to..” “I know.” The answer came immediately, too quickly. Because that was the thing that was always the thing. “I know you didn't.” Your voice broke completely. The tears coming faster now. Years of them. “I know you don't mean it.” Your mother looked devastated. Your father looked horrified. Dean looked heartbroken. You couldn't bear any of it. Couldn't stop now that you'd started, the words just kept coming. “I know you love me.” You laughed shakily, the sound painful. “I know that.” Your mother was crying now too, quietly. Your father looked like someone had punched him. But you couldn't stop, not anymore. “I know you miss her.” Your hand pressed against your chest like you could physically hold yourself together. “I miss her too.” The sentence echoed through the kitchen. Raw. Broken. Honest.

The room fell completely silent because somehow, nobody ever talked about that part, nobody ever seemed to remember. You weren't outside this grief. You were inside it too. You'd lost her too. Your voice trembled. “She was my sister.” Another tear escaped, then another. “I loved her.” Your mother covered her mouth, your father looked away. The pain on their faces almost made you stop. Almost. Then you remembered every conversation. Every forgotten story. Every interruption. Every moment you'd sat quietly while your life disappeared beneath memories and the hurt surged back. Hot and sharp. “I just...” You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to breathe, trying not to completely fall apart. When you opened them again, your parents were staring at you, really staring. Maybe for the first time in years. “I just wanted one thing.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, one thing, one simple thing. Your gaze drifted toward Dean, standing there looking like he wanted to cross the room and hold you together with his bare hands. You smiled sadly. Then looked back at your parents. “I wanted this to be mine.” The words landed like a punch. Your mother made a broken sound. Your father looked devastated. And still you weren't angry. That was the heartbreaking part. You weren't screaming, you weren't accusing, you weren't telling them they were bad parents. You were just tired so impossibly tired. “He's my boyfriend.” A tear slid down your cheek. You didn't bother wiping it away. “He flew across the country because I was sad.” Your voice shook. “He stayed up with me when I couldn't sleep.” Another breath, another crack in your heart. “He knows how I take my coffee.” A tiny laugh escaped. Broken, watery. “He knows when I'm lying.” Dean's eyes immediately dropped. Like hearing those things hurt him too. Like he couldn't stand seeing you cry. Your gaze found your mother again and finally the question slipped out. The one that had been living inside you for years. The one you'd never been brave enough to say. “Why can't you just be happy for me?” The words shattered the room. Your mother started crying outright. Your father closed his eyes. And for the first time since Sienna died, neither of them had an answer. Because standing there in the kitchen, looking at their daughter sobbing in front of them, they finally saw what grief had cost them. Not just one daughter. Both.

Nobody spoke. Not immediately. The question hung in the air. Heavy. Impossible. Why can't you just be happy for me? You wished you could take it back almost instantly, not because it wasn't true. Because of their faces. Your mother's shoulders were shaking. Your father looked completely shattered and despite everything, despite years of hurt, despite the tears still running down your face you loved them. God, you loved them. That was the problem. It had always been the problem. You loved them enough that hurting them hurt you too. Your mother sat down heavily at the kitchen table like her legs had given out. One hand covering her mouth, the other pressed against her chest. “Oh my God.” The words came out as a whisper. Your father looked at her. Then at you. Then away again. Like he couldn't bear what he was seeing. Dean still hadn't moved. Not because he didn't want to. Because he knew this wasn't his moment. This belonged to you, to your family, so he stayed exactly where he was. Ready if you needed him. Silent if you didn't. Your mother looked up. Eyes red. Face wet with tears and for the first time since Dean had arrived, she wasn't looking through you. “I am happy for you.” The words broke apart halfway through. Your laugh came out immediately. Not cruel. Just heartbroken. “Mom.” The single word said everything. Because if she was happy for you, when had she ever shown it? When had she asked about Dean? When had she asked about your life? When had she listened long enough to know anything about the man standing ten feet away? The realization seemed to hit her all at once. You watched it happen. Watched years of moments rearrange themselves behind her eyes Her hand covered her mouth again. “Oh.” Your father sat down beside her, slowly. Like someone much older than he actually was. Your mother looked devastated. Your father looked worse. Because unlike your mother, he wasn't crying. Not yet. He just looked broken and somehow that hurt more.

Your father rubbed a hand over his face. Then quietly asked, “How long?” The question confused you. You frowned. “What?” His eyes lifted to yours, red-rimmed. “When did you start feeling like this?” The answer arrived immediately. Years ago. But saying that felt cruel. Because they already looked destroyed. You swallowed hard, looking down at the floor. Then quietly admitted, “A while.” The silence that followed was deafening. Your mother's eyes squeezed shut. Your father physically flinched. Like the words had landed somewhere painful because they had. Your mother shook her head again and again. “No.” The word sounded desperate. “No.” Fresh tears slid down her cheeks. “We never meant...” Her voice broke completely. Your chest ached. Because you knew. You knew they hadn't. That was what made this so awful. You wiped at your eyes, trying to breathe, trying to calm down. The adrenaline was beginning to fade now. Leaving behind exhaustion.

Your mother looked at you. “We were trying so hard not to lose her.” The room went still. Your father bowed his head. Your mother's voice shook. “We kept talking about her because we were scared.” The confession sounded almost childlike. “We thought if we stopped...” She couldn't finish, couldn't force the words out. Didn't need to, you understood. Of course you understood. Your father reached for her hand. Holding it tightly. Like he'd done a thousand times before.

Then he looked at you. At you. His daughter. The one standing right in front of him and suddenly his face crumpled. The tears finally arrived your father almost never cried. You could count the times on one hand. Seeing it now felt like someone squeezing your heart. “We were so scared of losing her...” His voice cracked, then completely broke. “...that we stopped seeing you.” The room fell silent. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Your mother started crying harder, your father looked absolutely devastated.

A warm hand settled against your lower back. You didn't need to look. Dean, steady, solid, there. The simple touch grounded you immediately. Your eyes closed briefly. Just for a second. And when you opened them again, your father was already looking at him, really looking at him. The way he should have days ago. The way he should have months ago. The way a father looks at the man his daughter loves. His gaze moved from Dean to you, to your joined hands. Then back again. And fresh guilt crossed his face because suddenly he understood that he hadn't just missed his daughter's pain. He'd missed her happiness too. And somehow, that realization seemed to hurt most of all.

Eventually your father cleared his throat, the sound rough, broken. Then he looked at Dean, really looked at him. Not as a guest. Not as a visitor. As the man standing beside his daughter. The man who had flown across the country because she was hurting. The man who hadn't left her side once since arriving. “How long?” Dean blinked. Your father gestured between the two of you. “How long have you been together?” You and Dean exchanged a glance. The timing almost made you laugh. Of all the things happening right now. Of all the revelations. Your parents were only just finding out basic information. “Three months” you answered quietly. Your father closed his eyes, the guilt on his face deepening. Three months. Three whole months. Your mother looked stricken. “Three months?” You nodded. Dean squeezed your hand, the gesture wasn't missed, your father's eyes followed it, then slowly lifted to Dean's face. “Do you love her?” The question landed so suddenly the entire room froze. Including you. Your head snapped toward him. “Dad.” Your voice came out horrified. Dean looked equally caught off guard. Your father immediately looked embarrassed. Like he hadn't meant to say it out loud but the question was already there. Hanging in the room impossible to take back. Dean was silent for a moment. Just a moment. Then he looked at you and everything else disappeared. Dean's expression softened, then he smiled. A small one, private. “Yeah.” The answer was simple. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just truth. Your eyes immediately burned. Your mother covered her mouth again. Your father looked completely wrecked. And Dean? Dean never looked away from you. Not once, not until your own smile finally appeared through the tears. Only then did he glance back toward your parents. His hand finding yours completely, interlocking your fingers. Like he'd done it a thousand times because he had.

Your father swallowed hard, then quietly asked, “What is she like?” You blinked. “What?” His gaze stayed on Dean, not you. Dean looked confused too. “What do you mean?” Your father's voice cracked, the sound nearly broke your heart. “I mean...” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, struggling, trying. For perhaps the first time in years. “What is my daughter like?” Silence. Complete silence. You stopped breathing. Your mother did too. Because suddenly everyone understood what he was asking. Not hobbies, not classes, not favourite foods. Who are you? The question your parents should have known the answer to, the question they'd accidentally stopped asking. Dean stared at him and for a second you thought he might refuse. Not out of cruelty, out of anger. Because he'd watched you get hurt all week. Because he loved you. Because he knew exactly how much this moment cost. Instead he looked at you, then smiled. God. That smile. Your favourite one. The soft one. The one that only really appeared when he was talking about you. “She's stubborn.” A laugh escaped you despite everything, Dean grinned. “There it is.” You rolled your eyes through fresh tears the sight seemed to relax him slightly. Then he looked back at your parents and started talking. “She's the kindest person I've ever met.” Your chest tightened immediately, Dean continued. “She remembers everything.” Your mother listened, completely still. Dean smiled softly. “If one of my teammates mentions an exam three weeks before it happens, she'll text them good luck the morning of.” Your eyes widened. How did he even know that? Dean ignored you. Still speaking. “She checks on everybody.” Your father stared. Listening like his life depended on it. “She pretends she's fine when she's not because she doesn't want anyone worrying.” You looked away. Feeling exposed. Seen. Loved. Dean's voice softened further. “She carries everybody else's problems around.” A pause. Then “And she never asks for anything back.”

The kitchen had gone completely silent. Your mother was crying again. Your father looked like he could barely breathe. Dean wasn't finished, not even close. “She's funny.” That earned a small smile from you. “Way funnier than she thinks she is.” “I am not.” “You absolutely are.” The automatic argument made him grin, then his gaze softened again. “She makes every room she's in better. People feel safer around her.” His voice grew quieter, more serious. “People feel loved around her.” Your father physically looked away. Unable to hide his tears anymore. Dean watched him for a moment. Then gently added, “And she's the strongest person I've ever met.”

Your mother's shoulders shook. Your father's eyes remained fixed on the table. And suddenly you realized something. Dean wasn't just telling them who you were. He was showing them what they'd missed. Not to punish them. Not to hurt them. To give them a chance to see you again, finally. Not Sienna's sister. Not the surviving child. You. The silence stretched. Then your father stood abruptly. You jumped. Dean did too. For one terrifying second you thought he was leaving. Instead he crossed the kitchen in three quick steps and pulled you into his arms. The hug was awkward, unexpected, desperate. Like he was afraid you might disappear. You immediately started crying again. Because it had been years. Years since your father had hugged you like this. Like he couldn't bear the thought of letting go. “I'm sorry.” The words broke against your hair. Raw. Honest. “I am so sorry.” And for the first time since Sienna died your father held both of his daughters in his heart at the same time. One in memory. One in his arms. Across the kitchen, Dean watched. And as emotional as the moment was... A different realization had already started forming in his mind. Christmas morning was a few days away. And suddenly he knew, with complete certainty, this house wasn't where you needed to spend it.

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The house was finally quiet, not peaceful. Just quiet in the way houses became after something huge happened. After too many tears, too many truths, too many years of feelings finally being said out loud. You were asleep upstairs. Dean had checked on you more times than he was willing to admit. Probably too many but he couldn't help it. After everything, after watching you finally break, after hearing the pain you'd carried for years spill out in the middle of that kitchen, leaving you alone felt impossible. You'd fallen asleep curled against him. One hand still gripping the fabric of his hoodie like even unconscious, you needed the reassurance that he was still there and Dean had stayed. He'd sat there for almost an hour, just holding you, running his fingers gently through your hair, pressing the occasional kiss to your forehead, watching the girl he loved finally get a moment of rest.

Eventually, when he was sure you were sleeping deeply, he carefully slipped away. Now he sat on the back porch. The Florida air was warm, the Christmas lights from the neighbours' houses flickered in the distance. Everything looked so peaceful. Which felt strange. Because Dean still felt like his chest was tight. His phone rested against his ear, the call connected after one ring. “Dean?” His shoulders immediately relaxed. “Mom” His mother's voice was enough to make him feel grounded. Like he was home, even thousands of miles away. There was a pause. A mother's instinct. The kind that somehow knew something was wrong before you even said anything. “What happened?” Dean looked back toward the house. Toward the upstairs window, toward you. His expression softened. For a second, he didn't answer. Not because he didn't want to. Because he didn't know where to begin. Eventually he sighed. “It's been rough.” Lori didn't interrupt, she never did when it mattered. “Tell me.” So he did. Not every detail. Not the things that belonged only to you. But enough. Enough for her to understand. He told her about the trip, about the comments. About the way every conversation somehow ended up being about Sienna. About the way you kept defending your parents even while you were hurting. About the moment you finally broke and asked why they couldn't just be happy for you. By the time he finished, the line was completely silent. Dean knew that silence. It was the silence right before Lori decided someone needed taking care of. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Dean's mouth twitched slightly because he knew exactly who she meant. Not him. You. “Yeah.” A pause. Then, immediately, “When are you bringing her here?” Dean blinked. “What?” “You heard me.” A tired laugh escaped him. “Mom.” “No.” There was that tone. The one that meant Lori Di Laurentis had already decided something. The same tone she used whenever her children needed her. “When are you bringing her here?” Dean looked back toward the house again. Toward the person sleeping upstairs. The person who deserved a Christmas where she wasn't just surviving. The person who deserved to feel wanted. Loved. Chosen. “Christmas Eve.” The answer came before he even really thought about it. Like he'd already known. Lori hummed, satisfied. “Good.” Dean laughed quietly. “Good?” “Very good.” He shook his head. “You already had a plan if I said no, didn't you?” “Absolutely.” That made him smile. Of course she did.

A second voice suddenly appeared in the background, Summer. “What happened?” Dean immediately groaned. No. Absolutely not. Lori, naturally, ignored him. “Dean is bringing y/n home for Christmas.” There was a pause. Then: “Oh my God.” Dean covered his face. “Summer.” “What?” “You sound way too excited.” “Because we can’t wait to meet this girl. Dean you talk about her all the time.” Dean froze. “I do not.” The silence on the other end was immediate. Then laughter. Both of them. “Oh my God.” “Stop.” “Dean.” “I don't want to hear it.” Summer was enjoying this way too much. “You told Dad about her favourite coffee order.” Dean stared into the darkness. “No.” “You told Grandma about the book she recommended.” “No.” “You showed us a picture.” “Okay, that's enough.”

The laughter continued and despite himself, Dean smiled. Because it was true. He talked about you. A lot. Maybe more than he realized. Maybe more than he wanted to admit. Then Lori's voice softened. “Dean.” The teasing disappeared. “Yeah?” “Does she know?” He went quiet. The question hit differently. Because he knew exactly what she meant. Does she know how loved she is? Does she know how much she matters? Does she know how much she changed his life? Dean looked toward the house again. His expression softened. “Yeah.” A pause, then quieter: “I think she does.” Summer made a small noise. “That's disgusting.” Dean laughed. “You're annoying.” “And you're in love.” The words should have embarrassed him. A few months ago, maybe they would have. But now? Now they just felt true. “Yeah.” The answer came easily. No hesitation. No fear. “Yeah, I am.” Silence. Then Lori sighed, the emotional kind. The kind that made Dean immediately suspicious. “Oh my God.” “I'm not crying.” “You are.” “I'm not.” “You definitely are.” Dean smiled. His family was ridiculous but they were his and soon, hopefully, they would be yours too. Then Lori spoke again. “Bring her home.” The words were simple. But they meant everything. Dean looked up at the sky. Thinking about you. Thinking about the way you'd looked in that kitchen. Thinking about how badly you needed someone to choose you. “I will.” His voice was quiet, certain. “I think she deserves a better Christmas.” And upstairs, unaware of the plans being made around you, you slept peacefully. While Dean Di Laurentis quietly started building a place for you in his world.

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The next morning you woke up slowly. The first thing you noticed was warmth. The second thing you noticed was that Dean wasn't there. Which immediately made your sleepy brain panic for approximately three seconds before you remembered where you were. Florida. Your parents' house. Christmas. The conversation yesterday. Everything came rushing back. The kitchen. The tears. Your dad hugging you. Your mum crying. The way, for the first time in years, they had actually looked at you.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, your chest still felt heavy but different. Lighter, somehow. Like a weight you'd been carrying for so long had finally been acknowledged. You turned your head toward the empty space beside you. The bed was still warm where Dean had been. A small smile tugged at your lips. Of course he had let you sleep. Of course he had. Dean always seemed to know what you needed before you did. You pushed yourself upright, pulling on one of his hoodies that had ended up on the chair beside the bed. It was ridiculous how much comfort you got from wearing his clothes. But then again, everything about Dean had become comfort. You made your way downstairs. The house was quiet. Almost too quiet.

You expected to find Dean in the kitchen and you did. Just not in the way you expected. He was standing at the counter with his phone in his hand. Looking suspiciously pleased with himself. Very suspiciously, you leaned against the doorway. “What did you do?” Dean looked up, the second he saw you, his entire expression softened. “Good morning, darling.” You narrowed your eyes. “Dean.” A smile appeared. “What?” “You have a face.” He looked offended. “I have a face every day.” “No.” You walked further into the kitchen. “You have a 'I did something and I'm waiting for you to find out' face.” Dean tried to look innocent. It was terrible, truly terrible. You stared. He lasted about five seconds. Then sighed. “Okay.” Your stomach dropped. “Okay?” He set his phone down then walked toward you, slowly. Like he was approaching a nervous animal which, honestly, wasn't entirely wrong. “Before you say no” Immediately suspicious. “Dean.” “just hear me out.” You folded your arms. “That is never a good start.” He smiled slightly because even after everything, you were still you. Still teasing him. Still fighting. Still making him smile. Then his expression softened. “I talked to Lori last night.” You blinked. His mom, the Di Laurentis family, your chest tightened slightly. “Oh.” Dean nodded. “And I may have made a decision.” You already knew you weren't going to like that wording. “Dean.” “Pack a bag, darling.”

Silence. You stared at him. He stared back. For a moment, you genuinely thought you'd misheard. “What?” Dean's expression stayed completely serious. “Pack a bag.” You let out a small laugh. Because surely he was joking. “You are insane.” "Probably." “No, Dean.” He stepped closer. “Listen.” And there it was. That voice, the one he used when he needed you to actually hear him. Not argue. Not overthink. Hear him. “You don't have to spend Christmas here.” Your expression changed immediately because there it was. The thing you hadn't wanted to admit. The thing you'd been trying not to think about. “I can't just leave.” Dean's face softened. “Why?” The answer was immediate. “Because things are finally getting better.” His expression broke slightly, not because he disagreed. Because he understood. “I know.” You looked down your fingers picking nervously at the sleeve of his hoodie. “I just...” Your voice got quieter. “I finally got them back.” Dean's heart hurt. Because that was the whole thing. You weren't running away from your parents. You weren't trying to punish them. You were just scared. Scared that if you left now, the moment would disappear. That everything would go back to the way it was. Dean stepped closer taking your hands in his. “You didn't get them back because you stayed.” You looked up and he squeezed your fingers. “You got them back because you finally let them see you.” Your eyes immediately burned. Dean continued. “And darling...” A tear slipped free. He wiped it away without hesitation. “They're still going to be here when you come back.” You swallowed. The truth of it hurting more than you expected because you weren't used to people staying. Dean smiled softly. “Besides.” A small grin appeared. “My family is already expecting you.” You let out a laugh through the tears. “Dean.” “What?” “You told them?” He looked offended. “Obviously.” “Dean.” “They like you.” “You haven't even brought me there.” “Exactly.” You laughed again, a real one. The first one in days and Dean looked so relieved hearing it. Like that laugh was the whole reason he'd done any of this.

Then the sound of footsteps interrupted. You both looked toward the kitchen doorway. Your mum stood there and from the look on her face... She'd heard enough. Your stomach dropped. “Mom.” She gave you a small smile. A sad one. But a genuine one. “I think you should go.” Your heart twisted. “What?” She stepped further into the room. Your dad appeared behind her. Both of them looking at you, really looking. “You've spent so much time worrying about us.” Your mum's voice shook. “You spent years trying to make sure we were okay.” Your dad nodded. “And we forgot to make sure you were okay.” The words hit hard. You looked between them, they both looked emotional but neither looked angry. Neither looked abandoned. They looked like parents, Your mum reached for your hand. “You should go have Christmas.” A tear slipped down your cheek. “Mom...” She smiled sadly. “Not a Christmas where you're trying to make everyone else feel better.” Your dad swallowed. “A real one.” The room went quiet. And suddenly the decision wasn't about leaving. It wasn't about choosing Dean over them. It was about letting yourself be chosen. For once.

Dean's thumb brushed gently over your hand. A silent reminder. You didn't have to do this alone. Your mum smiled. “Go pack a bag.” A watery laugh escaped you Because apparently that was the phrase of the morning. You looked at Dean. He was smiling, soft, hopeful. Like he already knew. You shook your head. “You planned this.” He shrugged “Maybe.” “Dean.” “Okay, definitely.” And despite everything. Despite the tears. Despite the emotions. You laughed. And for the first time in what felt like forever... You were excited for Christmas.

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You weren't prepared for how loud it was. Not loud in a bad way. Just alive. The second you stepped through the front door of the Di Laurentis house, you were hit with everything at once. Christmas music playing somewhere in the background, someone laughing from the kitchen, the smell of food, the sound of multiple people talking over each other, a Christmas movie playing on the television, lights everywhere, decorations covering every available surface. It was the complete opposite of the quiet, heavy Christmases you were used to. You stood there for a second, suitcase still in your hand, completely overwhelmed. Dean noticed immediately. His hand found yours. A gentle squeeze, a silent reminder. You're okay. You're here. You're with me. You looked at him and he was smiling. Not because he was amused but because he was happy, so unbelievably happy because you were here, because his family was about to meet the person he couldn't stop talking about, because after everything you'd been through, you were finally somewhere that felt warm.

Before you could say anything, the sound of footsteps came rushing toward you. “You're here!” And then Lori was hugging you, actually hugging you. Not a polite Christmas hug. A full arms around you, pulling you inside, you are family now hug. Your eyes widened, you weren't expecting it. You barely knew her. “Lori-“ “Oh, sweetheart.” Her voice softened immediately. “You must be freezing.” You blinked. “I'm okay.” “I know you are.” The answer came so naturally it made your throat tighten. “But that doesn't mean someone shouldn't look after you.” And just like that, something inside you cracked. Because you weren't used to people wanting to. Wanting to take care of you. Wanting you there. Not because they needed something. Just because they cared.

Behind Lori, Dean was watching and the expression on his face nearly made you cry all over again because he looked proud. Like bringing you here was the best decision he'd ever made. A voice suddenly appeared from behind Lori. “Okay, I need to see her.” You barely had time to process that before another girl appeared. Summer. She looked exactly like someone Dean would be related to. Bright, confident and a little chaotic. She immediately smiled at you. “Hi.” You smiled back. “Hi.” “I'm Summer.” “I know.” She looked at Dean, then back at you. “You know my name?” You looked confused. “Dean talks about you.” The silence lasted approximately two seconds. Then everyone looked at Dean. Dean immediately looked horrified. “No.” Summer's grin widened. “Oh my God.” “Don't.” “You talk about us?” “No.” “You absolutely do. Don’t worry Y/N I know everything about you too” You looked between them, trying not to laugh.  Dean pointed at his sister. “She exaggerates.” “Do I?” “Yes.” “Well you did tell me she was the first person who made you laugh after Beau?”

Silence. The teasing disappeared. Your heart softened. Dean looked at Summer a little surprised she'd said that. Summer's expression changed too, softer now because she wasn't trying to embarrass him. She was reminding you. He talked about you because you mattered. Your fingers squeezed his. And Dean looked back at you. That familiar softness returning. The one that always made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

Peter appeared next. “Okay, everyone stop emotionally traumatising the poor girl within five minutes of arriving.” You laughed a real laugh and immediately everyone relaxed. “There she is.” Dean smiled. You looked at him. “What?” He shrugged. “I missed that.” The words were quiet, simple. But they meant everything because he had seen what this week had done to you and hearing you laugh again felt like getting a piece of you back.

Nick came over after that, quieter than everyone else. He gave you a small smile. “Welcome.” It was simple but genuine. And somehow that was what got you. Not the big gestures. Not the dramatic moments. Just everyone making space for you. Like you belonged. Like they had been waiting for you.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Lori insisted you eat, Peter made jokes, Summer asked you a million questions, Nick listened. Dean stayed close, always close. His hand finding yours when things got overwhelming. His shoulder brushing yours when he walked past. His fingers tracing little circles against your hand under the table. Nobody commented on it. Nobody made it weird. It was just normal. Like you had always been there.

At one point, you looked around the room. Really looked. At the Christmas lights, at the people laughing, at Dean sitting beside you like he couldn't believe his luck. And something strange happened. You didn't feel like you were visiting. You didn't feel like a guest. For the first time in a very long time you felt like you had arrived somewhere.

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You hadn't expected Summer to become your person so quickly. Not because you didn't like her. You did, immediately. She was funny and warm and had the exact kind of chaotic energy that somehow made you feel comfortable. But you weren't used to people letting you in that easily. You were used to earning your place, proving you were worth keeping around. Summer didn't seem interested in any of that. She just decided. You were hers now. Apparently that was how Di Laurentis’ worked.

You found that out about an hour after arriving when Summer walked into the room where you were unpacking your things and said, “Okay, I’m stealing you.” You looked up from your suitcase. “What?” She nodded seriously. “Me and you.” You blinked. “From Dean?” “Especially from Dean.” You laughed. “That's rude.” “It's true.” She walked further into the room, dropping onto the edge of the bed. “Don't get me wrong, I love my brother.” “Debatable.” “Extremely debatable.” You smiled. “But he has been unbearable.” You frowned slightly. “Unbearable?” Summer looked at you like you genuinely didn't understand. “Oh my God.”” What?” “You really don't know.” You shook your head. Summer stared. Then softened because suddenly she realised something. You weren't pretending. You genuinely didn't know. “He really doesn't tell you?” You shrugged. “Dean tells me things.” “Yeah.” She smiled. “But he doesn't tell you how much.” The words sat between you. You looked down. Your fingers played with the sleeve of Dean's hoodie you were wearing. A nervous habit, one Summer immediately noticed. She noticed everything. “He loves you.” Your head lifted. The sentence was so simple, so certain that it caught you off guard. Summer smiled gently. “I know.” Your heart squeezed, you looked away. “I love him too.” The admission still felt strange sometimes. Not because it wasn't true. Because it was. It was the easiest truth you'd ever had. Summer's expression softened. “Good.” You laughed quietly. “Good?” “Yeah.” She shrugged. “Because I've never seen him like this.” You looked back at her, “What do you mean?” Summer leaned back, thinking. “Dean has always been the guy who takes care of everyone else.” That sounded exactly like him. “But he doesn't always let people take care of him.” You swallowed because you knew that. You knew that better than most. “And then you showed up.” The memory made you smile slightly. “You mean I annoyed him into friendship.” Summer laughed. “Yeah.” A grin. “Actually, that's probably the most Dean thing ever.” You smiled. You had practically forced yourself into his life. You had refused to let him disappear. And somewhere along the way he became yours.

Summer watched you for a moment, then her voice softened. “You know what's funny?” “What?” “I knew he liked you before he did.” You laughed. “No way.” “Absolutely.” “When?” She smiled. “Probably the first time I heard about you.” You frowned. “Dean barely knew me.” “Exactly.” That made you pause and Summer smiled. “He would talk about you like you were this impossible person.” Your heart warmed. “What did he say?” Summer thought for a second. “That you were annoying.” You gasped. “Excuse me?” She laughed. “I'm not finished.” “Okay.” “He said you were annoying.” A pause. “Then he said you were funny.” Another pause. “Then he said you were the only person who didn't treat him like he was broken.” The room went quiet. Your smile faded slightly. Because that sounded like Dean. Summer continued. “He didn't realise he was falling for you because he was too busy being grateful you existed.” Your eyes burned. You looked down quickly. Because of course you were going to cry. It was becoming embarrassing. Summer immediately noticed. “Hey.” “I'm okay.” “I know.” The answer was immediate. Just like Lori's had been. You looked at her and that tiny thing almost broke you. Because there it was again, someone believing you could be okay without needing proof. Summer reached over and squeezed your hand. “You know you don't have to be okay all the time here, right?” Your throat tightened, “Summer...” “No.” She shook her head. “Seriously.” Her voice was gentle, “You don't have to earn being loved here.” The words hit harder than you expected. Because that was exactly what you'd spent years doing. Earning, proving, trying. Summer smiled. “You can just exist.” A tear slipped down your cheek. She smiled. “Also, you're stuck with me now.” You laughed through the tears. “Is that a threat?” “Absolutely.” “What if I say no?” “Dean will be upset.” You rolled your eyes. “You're using my boyfriend against me?” “Yes.” You both laughed. And for the first time in a long time, you didn't feel like you were standing on the outside of something beautiful. You felt like you were inside it. Chosen, wanted, loved.

Later, when you walked back downstairs, Dean immediately looked up. The second he saw your face, his expression changed. Concerned. Protective. “What happened?” You smiled. “Your sister is terrifying.” Summer gasped. “I was nice.” Dean looked between you both. Then smiled. Because he could see it. The thing he had hoped for. You and his family. Fitting together like you were always supposed to.

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You had forgotten what Christmas was supposed to feel like. Not because you didn't remember Christmases before Sienna. You did. That was almost the hardest part. You remembered the excitement, the decorations, the noise, the feeling that the whole world stopped for one day. Then everything changed. Christmas became something quieter, something heavier, something you got through. But here it was different. The Di Laurentis house didn't feel like it was trying to ignore the sadness. It just wasn't letting it take over. And somehow that made all the difference.

“You're cheating.” You looked up from the board game in front of you. Dean looked offended. “I am not.” “You literally just moved two spaces further than you were supposed to.” Peter immediately pointed at him. “Thank you.” Dean looked around the table. “This is unbelievable.” Summer laughed. “You are the worst cheater because you genuinely think nobody notices.” “I don't cheat.” “You absolutely do.” You looked at Dean. “You are literally a terrible liar.” His eyes immediately softened because somehow even you teasing him made him look like you had handed him the world. “Wow.” “What?” “Nothing.” You narrowed your eyes. “Dean.” He smiled. “You just called me out in front of my whole family.” “And?” “And I love that.” You rolled your eyes but you couldn't stop the smile. The whole room noticed especially Lori. She didn't say anything. She just looked at you and for a second, you caught the expression on her face. Like she was memorising it. Like she was happy to see you happy. The thought made your chest ache but not painfully, not like before. Just enough to remind you how much had changed.

“Okay, new rule.” Summer grabbed the game pieces. “No more letting Dean win.” “I don't win.” “You do because everyone feels bad for you.” Dean looked offended. “That's worse.” You laughed, actually laughed. The kind where your stomach hurt. The kind where you forgot for a second that you had spent the last few days falling apart, Dean noticed, he always noticed. His hand found your leg beneath the table. Just a small touch. A reminder. I'm here. You looked at him and he smiled. The room around you kept moving, everyone talking, everyone laughing and Dean just sat there looking at you like he still couldn't believe you were real.

Later, after dinner, everyone ended up in the kitchen. Which apparently was where every important family moment happened. Lori was making hot chocolate, Peter was stealing food, Summer was trying to convince everyone that matching Christmas pyjamas were necessary and Nick was pretending he wasn't entertained. “You absolutely need them.” Summer was pointing at you. You laughed. “I don't think I do.” “You do.” Dean immediately nodded. “She does.” You turned. “You're siding with her?” “Always.” The answer was immediate, easy. You stared at him for a second. Because it was still strange. Lori noticed, again. She noticed everything, she smiled softly. “Dean's right.” You looked at her. “You're all teaming up against me?” “Yes.” The answer came from everyone at once and you laughed. Something inside you settled. A feeling you weren't used to, belonging.

Later, when the house finally slowed down, you found yourself standing in the living room, just looking. The Christmas tree lights reflected across the room. Stockings hung by the fireplace, gifts were piled underneath. Everyone was asleep or getting ready for bed and for a moment, you were alone. Until Dean appeared behind you. “You okay?” You smiled slightly. “You always ask me that.” “Because you always say you're fine.” You looked at him, then laughed softly. “Fair.” He came closer, his arms wrapped around you from behind. Your back against his chest, your favourite place. “I just...” You looked at the tree. “I don't remember the last time Christmas felt like this.” Dean's hold tightened, not enough to hurt. Just enough. “I know.” You swallowed. “I feel guilty.” His head immediately turned. “Why?” You shrugged. “I don't know.” You looked down. “I just...” Your voice got quieter, “Being happy feels weird.” Dean was quiet for a moment, then he turned you gently to face him. His hands rested on your waist. “Darling.” The nickname still made your heart soften. “You being happy doesn't mean you miss her less.” Your eyes burned. “Sienna would want this.” The tears came but this time they weren't painful. Dean brushed one away. “She'd want you laughing.” Another. “She'd want you loved.” Another. “And she would absolutely hate that you spent years thinking you weren't allowed to be.” You laughed quietly through the tears. “That sounds like her.” Dean smiled. “Yeah.” A pause. “I think she'd like this.” You looked around. At his family. At the lights. At him. “I think she would too.” Dean pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then another, just because he could. And standing there on Christmas Eve, wrapped up in the arms of the person who had changed everything, you realised something. You hadn't forgotten the people you lost. You had just finally started making room for the people you still had. And for the first time in years Christmas felt like Christmas again.

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You woke up to laughter, for a second, you forgot where you were. Your eyes opened slowly, the room still soft and blurry with sleep. There was warmth beside you. Dean. His arm was wrapped around you, his face half buried in your hair, still completely asleep. For one tiny moment, everything was still. No sadness, no memories, no heavy feeling in your chest. Just him. Just Christmas morning. Then you heard it. A crash downstairs. A loud voice. Someone laughing. Someone definitely arguing. You blinked and then you remembered. New York. The Di Laurentis house. Christmas. A smile slowly spread across your face. Dean shifted beside you, barely awake. “You're smiling.” You looked down at him. His eyes were still closed. “You're awake?” “Unfortunately.” You laughed quietly. “Rude.” He opened one eye. “Very tired.” “You were the one who wanted to come downstairs early.” “I wanted to.” A pause. “I did not say I wanted to be conscious.” You laughed again and immediately, Dean's eyes opened properly. Because that was the thing. That sound, your laugh. He had missed it. He had spent days watching you cry, watching you apologise for being upset, watching you try to make yourself smaller. And now you were lying beside him, laughing before you were even fully awake. It felt like a miracle.

“What?” You noticed him staring. Dean smiled. “Nothing.” You narrowed your eyes. “Dean.” He reached up and brushed a piece of hair away from your face. “I just like seeing you happy.” Your expression softened and because you were you, you immediately tried to deflect. “You say that like I'm never happy.” He raised an eyebrow. “Darling.” You laughed, “Okay, fair.” He smiled, then pulled you closer, “Five more minutes.” You looked at him, “Dean.” “Please.” “Your family is downstairs.” “They'll survive.” “Your mum made Christmas breakfast.” “She loves you now. She'll understand.” You gasped. “Your mum loved me before she met me.” Dean grinned. “Exactly.” You rolled your eyes but you didn't move. You stayed there, curled into him. The Christmas lights from the window reflecting across the room and for a few minutes, you let yourself have it. You let yourself be happy.

Eventually, the chaos downstairs became impossible to ignore. Especially when Summer yelled, “If you two are awake and still hiding upstairs, I'm coming up there!” Your eyes widened. Dean sighed. “She has no boundaries.” “You love her.” “Unfortunately.” You laughed and that was how you ended up downstairs. Barefoot. Wearing one of Dean's hoodies. Holding his hand. And walking into the loudest Christmas morning you'd ever experienced.

Lori immediately spotted you. “There they are!” You froze slightly because the excitement in her voice wasn't forced. She was genuinely happy you were there. “Come here.” Before you could protest, she was hugging you, again. You smiled into the hug. “Morning.” “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” The words hit harder than expected, not because they were sad because they weren't. They were normal, simple. A normal Christmas greeting. And somehow that was the thing that nearly broke you. Lori pulled back. Immediately noticing your expression. “Oh.” You shook your head quickly. “I'm okay.” She smiled gently. “I know.” There it was again, that sentence, not questioning, not demanding proof. Just believing you. She squeezed your hands. “Merry Christmas.” You nodded, “Merry Christmas.” And then Peter immediately ruined the emotional moment. “Okay, everyone stop crying before breakfast. I refuse to be responsible for emotional Christmas tears before coffee.” You laughed. “You're impossible.” “Thank you.” “That wasn't a compliment.” “I choose to believe it was.” Everyone laughed.

The presents had already gotten chaotic. Which, apparently, was just how Christmas worked in the Di Laurentis household. There was wrapping paper everywhere. Peter had somehow already lost part of his gift. Summer was accusing everyone of stealing hers. Lori was insisting nobody had eaten enough breakfast. And Dean was sitting beside you, completely relaxed, one arm behind you on the couch, looking happier than you'd seen him in weeks. You kept catching him looking at you. Not in a subtle way either. Just openly. Like he still couldn't believe you were sitting there. Like he was memorising it. “You know you're staring, right?” Dean didn't even look embarrassed. “No.” You laughed, “Dean.” “Okay.” A pause, “Maybe.” You shook your head. “You're ridiculous.” “Yeah.” He smiled. “But you like me.” You tried to hide your smile. “Unfortunately.” “That's all I needed.”

Before you could reply, Lori appeared with another present. “Okay.” She pointed at you. “This one is yours.” Your eyes widened. “Lori, you've already given me too much.” Immediately, everyone looked at you, confused. Peter frowned, “That's not how Christmas works.” You laughed. “I mean it.” Lori smiled softly. “I know.” That somehow made it worse because she understood. She understood that accepting things was harder for you than giving them. She sat beside you. “Open it.” So you did. Slowly. Inside was a beautiful knitted scarf. Soft, warm. The kind of thing someone had actually taken time to choose. You ran your fingers over it. “It's beautiful.” Lori smiled. “Summer helped.” Summer immediately looked proud. “I picked the colour.” “You did good.” “Thank you.” You laughed And then Lori added quietly, “I thought you needed something warm.” Your eyes flickered up. She shrugged slightly. “Because you always seem to be taking care of everyone else.” The words caught in your throat and Dean's hand found yours instantly. You smiled. “Thank you.” And you meant it.

Then Summer suddenly gasped. “Wait.” Everyone looked at her. “What?” She pointed at Dean. “It's your turn.” Dean immediately looked suspicious. “Why are you excited?” “Because I know what she got you.” Your eyes widened. “Summer.” “What?” “You're ruining the surprise.” “I am enhancing the experience.” Dean laughed. “You told her?” Summer looked offended. “I helped.” “You helped?” “Yes.” Dean looked at you. “That worries me.” You rolled your eyes. “Open it.”

He smiled, then reached for the present. For a second, you forgot everyone else was watching, because this was Dean and you had spent so long trying to figure out how to show him what he meant to you. Not just as your boyfriend. But as the person who had stayed. The person who had brought you back, the person who had loved you when you didn't know how to let yourself be loved. He opened the wrapping paper and immediately went quiet. Inside was a framed photo. Not a new one. An old one. Beau. Dean picked it up carefully. The room softened. Because everyone knew. Everyone understood. It was a picture of Beau and Dean from before. Both younger. Both laughing. The kind of picture that captured exactly who Beau had been. Not the loss, not the sadness. Just Beau, happy, alive. You watched Dean's expression change. His fingers brushed over the frame. “Where did you get this?” Your voice was quiet. “I found it.” Dean looked up. “I know how much he means to you.” His eyes immediately softened. “He was your best friend.” A pause. “And I know I didn't know him the way you did.” Dean swallowed. “But I know he mattered.” The room was completely silent, you continued. “I don't want you to ever feel like loving me means leaving him behind.” Dean's eyes burned because that was the thing he had never said out loud. The fear. The guilt. The feeling that moving forward somehow meant losing Beau all over again. You reached for his hand. “I know how much you miss him.” A small smile. “And I know he would have loved annoying you about me.” A laugh escaped him, a real one. Because that sounded exactly like Beau. “Yeah.” Dean looked back at the photo. His thumb traced the edge. “He would've loved this.” Your heart tightened. “Yeah?” He looked at you, the emotion in his eyes almost broke you. “He would've loved you.” The words were quiet, certain. And you knew Dean. You knew how much that meant. Because Beau was the person who mattered, the person who had been there before, the person whose loss had shaped everything.

Dean leaned over and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Long. Grateful. “I love you.” You smiled. “I love you too.” Peter immediately ruined the moment. “Okay, wow.” Everyone looked at him. He shrugged. “I was enjoying the emotional moment but I also need to know if Dean got anything else because apparently the bar is now incredibly high.” Everyone laughed and Dean laughed too. Still holding the photo. Still holding your hand.

Later, when the room got quieter, you noticed him place the picture somewhere safe, not hidden, not put away, displayed. Right beside everything else. A reminder that Beau was still part of his life and so were you. Not replacing. Not forgetting. Just adding more love to a life that had once felt like it had lost too much.

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The house eventually settled. Which felt impossible considering how loud it had been only a few hours earlier. Christmas morning chaos had faded into the comfortable kind of tiredness. The kind where everyone was full, happy. Wrapped up in blankets. The television played quietly in the background. Half of the family had fallen asleep wherever they were sitting. Peter was somehow asleep with a bowl of snacks still in his lap. Nick had disappeared upstairs. Lori had finally stopped insisting everyone needed more food. And you? You had fallen asleep on the couch. Of course you had. Dean had noticed before anyone else. You were curled into the corner, his hoodie sleeves covering your hands, your head resting against the pillow beside you, completely peaceful. It was the first time he'd seen you sleep without some tiny part of you still looking tense. Without your eyebrows pulled together. Without looking like you were waiting for something bad to happen. You just looked happy. Dean had stood there for a moment longer than necessary, just watching you because he still couldn't quite believe this was his life.

Then Summer appeared beside him. Quietly. For once. She followed his gaze, then smiled. “Oh.” Dean immediately looked away. “What?” She folded her arms. “Nothing.” “Summer.” She grinned. “You are so obvious.” He rolled his eyes. “I have no idea what you're talking about.” “Dean.” “No.” “You look at her like she invented the sun.” He laughed, “That is dramatic.” “Is it?” He didn't answer because unfortunately it wasn't. Summer leaned against the wall beside him, the teasing faded. “You really love her.” Dean looked back at you, the answer should have felt terrifying. A few months ago, maybe it would have. Love was complicated, love meant losing people, love meant having something important enough to hurt. But looking at you? It didn't feel scary. It felt easy. “Yeah.” His voice was quiet. “I do.” Summer smiled. “I know." Summer looked back toward you. “You know what's funny?” “What?” “She was the last person you expected to fall in love with.” Dean frowned. “What?” She shrugged. “Think about it.” He listened. “You two met and she basically forced your way into your life.” A smile pulled at his mouth. “Yeah.” “She annoyed you.” “Very much.” “She challenged you.” “Constantly.” “She didn't let you disappear.” Dean went quiet because that was the truth. You hadn't saved him. You hadn't magically fixed anything. You had just stayed. And somehow that mattered more. Summer continued. “And then one day you looked around and realised you had someone who knew you.” A pause. “Really knew you.” Dean looked at you again. His chest tightening because she was right. You knew the parts of him he tried to hide. The grief, the guilt, the fear. And somehow you loved him anyway.

Summer smiled. “You're going to marry her.” Dean laughed. Summer looked at him. “Dean.” “What?” “You know I’m right.” He shook his head. “You're ridiculous.” “Am I?” “Yes.” “Okay.” She paused. “Then why didn't you laugh properly?” That made him stop because she was right. He had laughed. But only because the idea sounded impossible. Not because it sounded wrong. Summer watched his expression change, slowly, the realisation settling. Dean looked back at you, at the girl sleeping peacefully in his childhood home, at the girl who had walked into his life during the worst moment of it and somehow made everything brighter. He thought about Florida, you crying in that kitchen, you laughing tonight, your hand finding his under the table, the way you fit with his family, the way his family already loved you. And suddenly, he didn't picture some distant future, he pictured moments. More Christmases, more mornings, more laughter, more ordinary days. A home. A family. A life. With you.

Summer smiled softly. “There it is.” Dean looked at her. “What?” “That face.” “What face?” “The one where you stop being scared and start thinking.” He shook his head. “I hate that you know me.” “No you don't.” He smiled. “No.” A pause. “I don't.” Summer bumped his shoulder. “You know she loves you too, right?” His eyes immediately went back to you, the certainty of it still surprised him sometimes. You loved him, not because he was perfect, not because he had everything figured out. Just him. “Yeah.” His voice softened. “I know.” Summer nodded, then whispered, “You're going to be okay.” Dean looked at her and for once he believed it. Because months ago, his whole world had been Beau. Then grief, then surviving, then you. And now? Now there was a future, a future he actually wanted, a future that didn't feel like losing something. It felt like gaining everything. Dean looked back at you and quietly, almost to himself, said, “Yeah.” A small smile appeared. “I think I am.”

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By the time the house had finally settled, it felt like Christmas had existed for an entire week. Which, honestly, was probably because with the Di Laurentis family, it practically had. There were empty mugs everywhere, wrapping paper still somehow hidden in random corners, a half finished Christmas movie playing quietly in the background. Everyone was tired. But happy. The kind of tired that came after a day you wished you could replay. You were sitting on the couch, curled up under a blanket, watching Dean from across the room. He was helping Lori tidy up or, more accurately, Lori was telling him where things went while he pretended he wasn't listening. It made you smile because this was Dean. This was the version of him you didn't think you would ever get to see. Not the boy who carried grief like it was part of him. Not the boy who thought he had to handle everything alone. Just Dean. Laughing, teasing, loved. Eventually, his eyes found yours and immediately his expression changed. That soft look. The one that always made you feel like you were the only person in the room. He tilted his head slightly. Come here. You knew that look.

A few minutes later, after making some excuse about needing to grab something upstairs, Dean took your hand and led you away. You followed him down the hallway, smiling. “What are you doing?” “Nothing.” “You have a terrible poker face.” “I have a great poker face.” “You really don't.” He laughed quietly and there it was again. That sound. One you had missed so much.

When you reached his room, he closed the door gently behind you and for a moment, neither of you said anything. The Christmas lights outside the window cast a soft glow across the room. It felt strangely peaceful. Like the world had finally slowed down. Dean walked over to his bag. “I have something for you.” Your eyes widened. “Dean.” “What?” “You already did so much.” He turned back to you and his expression immediately softened, “Darling.” You went quiet because you knew that tone, “You know you don't have to keep saying that, right?” You frowned. “What?” “That I do too much.” You looked down, a little embarrassed. “I just...” Dean crossed the room. Slowly. Carefully. Like he wanted you to hear every word, “You spent so long convincing yourself you weren't worth choosing.” Your eyes burned. He took your hands. “And I need you to understand something.” A pause, “You never had to earn me.” The tears came immediately because that was the thing. That was the thing you had been afraid of. That one day he would realise loving you was too much, too complicated, too painful. Dean squeezed your hands. “You don't have to be perfect.” A small smile. “You don't have to be the funny one.” Another. “You don't have to be the strong one.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You just have to be you.” You swallowed, “Dean...” “I mean it.” He smiled softly, “I love you when you're laughing.” A kiss to your hand. “I love you when you're annoying.” You laughed quietly. “Rude.” “I love you when you're crying.” Your smile faded slightly. “And I love you when you don't know how to let people help you.” Your eyes filled again. Because nobody had ever loved the difficult parts. Only the easy ones. Dean reached behind him and picked up a small box. “This is not because you came here.” You looked at him. “What?” “It's not because Christmas was hard.” He shook his head. “It's not because I feel bad.” He placed the box in your hands. “It's because I love you.”

You opened it carefully, inside was a necklace. Simple. Beautiful. The pendant was small, delicate. You looked closer and your breath caught. It was a tiny star, “Dean...” He smiled nervously. “I know it's not some huge thing.” “It's perfect.” He looked relieved. “I just...” He paused, “I wanted you to have something that reminded you.” “Of what?” His eyes met yours. “That you're not alone anymore.” That was it, that was what broke you. Not because it hurt. Because it healed something. You looked down at the necklace. Then back at him. “I don't know what I did to deserve you.” Dean immediately shook his head. “No.” You looked at him. “Don't say that.” “But-“ “No.” He stepped closer. “You don't get to say that anymore.” His hand came up, brushing away your tears. “You didn't earn love by being perfect.” A soft smile. “You just existed.” Another tear slipped down. “And somehow, that was enough.” You laughed through it. “You're really good at making me cry.” “Yeah.” A grin. “Pretty sure that's my talent.” You rolled your eyes but you were smiling.

Dean helped put the necklace around your neck. His fingers brushed your hair aside. A tiny gesture. But somehow it felt bigger than anything. When he finished, he pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then another. Then one to the tip of your nose just to make you laugh. You looked at him, really looked at him. The boy you met because you refused to leave him alone. The boy who became your safest place. Your best friend. Your home. “I love you.” Dean smiled, “I love you too, darling.” And for once you didn't feel like you were waiting for something to go wrong. You were just standing in a bedroom full of Christmas lights. With the person you loved. And the future didn't feel scary anymore. It felt like something you got to look forward to.

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The house was finally asleep, after the noise, after the laughter, after a full day of people talking over each other and making memories without even realising they were doing it. Everything had gone quiet. The kind of quiet that only came late at night, soft, comfortable, safe. You were asleep beside Dean. Curled into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world like you belonged there and maybe that was the thing Dean was still getting used to. Not you, never you. Just the idea that something good could stay. His eyes were open. He wasn't tired. Not because he was upset. Not because something was wrong. Because for the first time in a long time his mind was full of the future and he wasn't afraid of it. A year ago, the idea of forever would have felt impossible. Too big, too uncertain, too much like putting his heart somewhere it could get broken. Then Beau died and everything changed. He remembered that time so clearly. The grief, the anger, the feeling that the world had kept moving even though his had stopped and then you appeared. You, with your stubbornness, your inability to leave him alone, your refusal to let him disappear into himself. You hadn't fixed everything, you hadn't erased what happened, you had just sat beside him in the dark. And somehow that was enough. Dean looked down at you, your face was peaceful. The necklace he gave you caught the faint glow from the Christmas lights and his chest tightened. Because you were wearing something he gave you. You were sleeping in his family's house. You had spent Christmas with his people. You had laughed with his sister. You had hugged his mother. You had sat at his table like you had always belonged there. And suddenly he understood what Summer meant. This wasn't some impossible thing, this wasn't something he had to be scared of, this was his life. You were his life.

His fingers gently brushed through your hair, careful not to wake you. He thought about the first time you met. How he never expected you to matter. How he never expected the person who annoyed him the most would become the person he couldn't imagine losing. He thought about all the little things. Not just the big moments. The way you stole his hoodies, the way you laughed at his terrible jokes, the way you always reached for his hand when you were nervous, the way you loved people so fiercely, the way you carried so much sadness and still somehow chose kindness. You. Always you. A small smile appeared. Because the funny thing was he used to think love would feel like losing control. Like giving someone the ability to hurt him. But with you? Love felt like coming home.

He looked around the room. At the Christmas lights, at the snow falling softly outside, at the person asleep beside him. And for the first time in his life, the future didn't look like something waiting to take something away. It looked like something waiting to give him more. A house, maybe. A wedding, definitely. Kids, a family. A thousand ordinary mornings, a thousand Christmases. A life. With you. Dean pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. You shifted slightly, still half asleep. “You're staring again.” His smile widened. “Maybe.” You opened your eyes just enough to look at him. “You're weird.” “Yeah.” A pause. “But you love me.” A sleepy smile appeared on your face. “Unfortunately.” He laughed quietly. There it was. That laugh. The one you brought back.

His advisor. The boys. Coach. Probably half of Briar. Dean has already sent a photograph of himself wearing a Bruins cap with the caption manifesting but also this was the only one at the airport, followed three minutes later by Tucker saying do not let him take credit for this and Logan contributing if they don’t pick you we riot as if an NHL franchise might reconsider its scouting strategy under threat of John Logan.

Normally, Garrett would have answered all of them. Something smug. Something easy. A photograph of himself in the suit with a caption about how good he looked under pressure.

Instead, he’s losing a fight with his tie. She watches him from the vanity, one leg crossed over the other beneath the thick white hotel robe, her hair pinned and curled and sprayed into a version of itself that had taken a woman downstairs forty-five minutes and several alarming clouds of product to create. 

Her makeup is finished, soft and polished in a way that makes her feel older whenever she catches sight of herself, though the robe is doing useful work against becoming too impressed. There’s something difficult about feeling sophisticated while wearing terrycloth with the hotel’s initials embroidered over one breast.

Garrett tries the knot again. The narrow end slips through his fingers, the silk twisting wrong beneath his collar. He exhales through his nose, pulls it loose, starts over, then stops halfway through with both hands suspended near his throat like he’s abruptly forgotten the entire concept.

She watches his fingers. They’re shaking. She knows his hands. Knows what they look like wrapped around a coffee cup, pressed warm against her back, flicking a bottle cap across the kitchen, threaded through hers beneath tables when he’s bored and wants to be touching her without turning it into a thing. 

She can see the tiny miss of his thumb against the fabric. The second attempt to pinch the tie in the same place.

“Baby,” she says softly.

Garrett’s eyes meet hers in the mirror. “I’ve got it.”

“Mhm.”

“I do.”

The knot folds into something that looks less like formalwear and more like an injury requiring assessment. She presses her lips together.

Garrett catches it. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

His eyes drop back to the tie, fingers pulling the silk apart again, and something near her ribs tightens at how quickly the nerves reclaim him.

She stands, gathering the robe closed where it loosens at her thigh, and crosses the carpet toward him. “Let me help. Here.”

“I know how to tie a tie.”

“I know you know how to tie a tie.” She steps into the narrow space between him and the mirror, catches both ends gently, then tips her face up at him. “You also know how to put on skates, but I assume your hands would be equally useless if someone made you do that right now.”

Garrett huffs a breath that almost becomes a laugh. “That’s comforting.”

His hands fall to his sides. No longer fighting the tie, and she begins again beneath his collar, smoothing the silk flat against his shirt. 

Up close, she can see where he nicked himself shaving near the edge of his jaw. The tiny pulse moving too quickly at the base of his throat. His cologne sits lightly over soap and starch and the warmer scent of his skin, familiar enough to settle her even while the rest of him feels wound tight beneath the white shirt.

She loops the fabric, folds it over, draws the knot through slowly. Garrett watches her face instead of her hands. She can feel it, the weight of his attention moving over her curled lashes, the careful concentration in her mouth, the little furrow that appears between her brows when the silk catches once beneath her fingers.

“There,” she murmurs, pulling the knot upward and folding his collar down around it. She smooths both sides, then lays her palm briefly against the centre of his chest. “Very handsome. Slightly terrified, but I think that’s fashionable.”

Garrett looks at himself in the mirror over her shoulder. The tie sits straight. His throat moves once before he lets out a long breath, some part of it collapsing against the top of her head. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay.” Her hand stays where it is, over the fast, hard beat beneath his shirt. “You alright?”

His mouth pulls at one corner, no humour in it. For a second, he looks like he might give her the public answer – the one about being excited, honoured, ready, all those clean little words he’s probably repeated into microphones and across conference tables for weeks. 

Then his eyes come back to hers, dark and open in the mirror. “Fucking terrified.”

The honesty settles softly between them. She smiles, and lifts onto her toes. Garrett bends before she has to reach very far, his hands finding the loose belt of her robe as her mouth presses to his. 

The kiss is small. Warm. Careful around lipstick and nerves, though his lips linger for one extra second before she draws back, close enough that her nose brushes his.

“I’m still here,” she says. “No matter what happens downstairs, I’m still here.”

Garrett’s eyes search hers. “I know.”

“You get picked first, twenty-seventh, two hundred and twenty-fourth, or every general manager in the league develops sudden onset stupidity. I’m coming back up to this room with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Though if you go two hundred and twenty-fourth, I might bully your advisor a little.”

“He’d deserve it.”

“Probably.”

His forehead comes down to hers, the knot of his tie brushing the edge of the robe. For a few seconds, neither of them moves. The air conditioner hums near the window. Traffic sounds faint and far below. 

Garrett’s hands settle more firmly at her waist, thumbs pressing into terrycloth like he’s checking she’s real and not part of some elaborate draft-day hallucination brought on by stress and insufficient breakfast.

Then her phone buzzes on the vanity. She closes her eyes. “That’ll be the hair woman checking whether I’ve ruined her life’s work.”

Garrett’s mouth curves faintly. “You should get dressed.”

“You say that like you’re not enjoying the robe.”

“I’m trying to be respectful.”

“On today of all days?”

“I’m growing.”

“Terrifying.”

He lets her go reluctantly, and she crosses to the garment bag hanging from the wardrobe. Her dress is soft pink, because she’s met herself before and sees no reason to begin pretending otherwise during a nationally televised sporting event. 

It falls close through the waist and loosens over her hips, the neckline simple enough that Phil Graham cannot reasonably develop an opinion about it, though she suspects he could develop one about weather if Garrett appeared insufficiently prepared for rain.

She steps into it near the bed, easing the fabric up beneath the open robe before shrugging the robe from her shoulders. Garrett has turned toward the window with exaggerated dignity, hands tucked into his pockets, though his reflection in the glass gives away the brief drop of his eyes.

“Very subtle,” she says.

“I’m looking at the city.”

“My ass is in the city?”

Garrett laughs properly this time, the sound short and surprised enough that something in her chest loosens. “You’re distracting me.”

“That’s quite literally my job today.” She pulls the dress into place and gathers her hair carefully over one shoulder. “Can you zip me?”

Garrett turns. His face changes before he can stop it. It’s only a little shift, his eyes moving over her from the narrow straps to the fitted waist and down, then returning to her face with the sort of stunned restraint that gives her far more satisfaction than a dramatic reaction ever could. 

He comes up behind her and takes the zipper between his fingers, drawing it slowly along her spine while she watches them both in the mirror.

His suit jacket still waits on the chair. Without it, his white shirt stretches cleanly over his shoulders, sleeves buttoned at his wrists, tie dark against his chest. 

He looks older than he did yesterday. Or maybe only sharpened by the occasion, every familiar part of him arranged into something that belongs on television: the curls he had complained were too neat after the stylist left, the strong line of his jaw, the broad body built by years of people deciding what it should become before he was old enough to object.

The zipper reaches the top. Garrett’s fingers stay there for a second, warm against the bare skin between her shoulder blades. Then he bends and presses his mouth to her shoulder.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs.

Her smile comes slowly in the mirror. “Thank you, baby.”

Garrett’s eyes lift to meet hers in the glass. Something soft moves over his face, then he folds both arms around her middle and pulls her back against him, careful of the dress and entirely unconcerned with the construction of her hair. 

His face disappears into the side of her neck. She laughs, reaching down to lay her hands over his forearms.

“You sure we can’t just stay here?” His voice is muffled against her skin. She can feel the shape of the words and the warmth of his breath beneath her ear.

“Mmm. No.” She turns her head enough that her cheek brushes his curls. “Unfortunately, I don’t think the Bruins will come conduct the draft from the foot of our bed.”

“They should. They’ve got the budget.”

“Probably.”

“Room service could bring up the jersey.”

“Very intimate. Very professional.”

Garrett huffs into her neck, but his arms tighten. Her nails move gently up the inside of his forearm. In the mirror, he’s shut his eyes.

She watches him for a moment before asking, “You nervous about seeing your dad?”

His eyes open. The answer sits in the stillness that moves through him before he gives it. “Yeah.”

She keeps her touch slow, nails moving back down toward his wrist. “More than the actual draft?”

“Different.” Garrett’s jaw shifts near her temple. “The draft’s just… whatever happens, happens. He’ll make it feel like something I’m doing wrong while it happens.”

The words come out dry, nearly careless. His arms say something else. One hand has closed around the opposite wrist in front of her stomach, holding himself in place.

She turns within the circle of him, careful not to catch her hair on the buttons of his shirt, and looks up. “You’ll be sitting between us.”

“I know. But you’ll be there the whole time, right?” he asks, too quickly for it to sound casual.

Her expression softens. “Yeah. The whole time.”

Garrett nods once, though his eyes remain fixed on hers like the answer needs to be checked for structural weakness.

“Hey.” She takes one of his hands, threading their fingers. “If you need a conversation out, squeeze my hand twice. I’ll figure it out.”

His brows draw together slightly. “Figure what out?”

“Anything. I’ll ask him about himself. Men love that.” She lifts one shoulder. “His draft, his stats, the state of professional hockey, whether he thinks suits have become too narrow through the thigh. I’ll become fascinated by literally whatever buys you five minutes.”

That faint, unwilling smile appears. “He’ll know what you’re doing.”

“Then he can admire the technique.”

“Baby.”

“You shouldn’t have to stress about him today,” she says, quieter now. “He doesn’t get to turn this into an exam. You already did the work.”

Garrett looks at her for a long second. His thumb moves once across the side of her finger, small and absent and so familiar it makes the hotel room feel briefly like any other room they have been alone in. “Thank you, baby.”

She squeezes his hand once. “Anytime.”

The arena is all light, noise, and men pretending not to be scared. Everywhere she looks there are suits. 

Dark navy, charcoal, black, expensive fabric pulled over broad teenage shoulders, each prospect surrounded by some arrangement of parents, siblings, advisors, girlfriends, coaches, all of them carrying the brittle brightness of people trying not to think too hard about the fact that a stranger with a microphone is about to alter the direction of somebody’s entire life.

Cameras travel through the aisles. Staff members with headsets move quickly between tables. A sports network desk glows near one end of the arena, analysts shuffling cards and speaking with the measured excitement of people who know thousands of living rooms are waiting to hear whether they were right. 

The giant screens overhead keep cycling through team logos, prospect rankings, highlight packages, close shots of nervous faces that become instantly composed when the red camera light appears.

Garrett’s table sits inside the designated prospect section, a small round surface dressed in black with three chairs placed tightly around it. Three. 

No room for an advisor, no buffer, no fourth body to absorb any of Phil Graham’s attention. Only Garrett between the two of them, his father on one side and her on the other.

Phil has greeted her politely. That’s the nicest possible interpretation of what happened.

He shook her hand, glanced at her dress, and said, “Good to see you,” in the tone of a man acknowledging a competent valet. 

Then his attention returned to Garrett and has not strayed far since, moving over his tie, his cuffs, his posture, the placement of his chair, the fact that Garrett accepted sparkling water instead of still like carbonation might somehow damage his draft stock.

She sits with her knees angled beneath the table, one hand folded in her lap, the other caught firmly in Garrett’s. He took it almost as soon as they sat down, drawing it over onto his thigh and interlacing their fingers where the black tablecloth hides them from the cameras.

His knee has been bouncing for nineteen minutes. The movement travels into her wrist each time his leg lifts beneath their hands. Up, down. Up, down. A steady anxious rhythm beneath the speeches, applause, and television commentary.

Phil is speaking near Garrett’s ear. She cannot catch every word over the arena sound, only fragments.

“–watch your expression.”

“–teams look for composure.”

“–if Boston passes, don’t react.”

Garrett’s face remains turned toward the stage. From a distance, he probably looks exactly as Phil wants him to: shoulders square, chin level, mouth neutral. 

Up close, she sees the muscle jumping once in his jaw. The way his thumb has stopped moving over hers. The colour slowly draining from the knuckles wrapped around her hand.

Phil continues. “Twenty-four is later than they should be taking you anyway. Your numbers–”

Garrett squeezes her hand twice.

She moves before he’s fully released the second squeeze, leaning forward just enough to look around him with an expression of bright, harmless interest. “Mr Graham?”

Phil pauses, visibly displeased by interruption and too well-mannered in public to say so. “Yes?”

“What was your draft like?” she asks. “Was it this fancy?”

It’s almost comical, the speed at which the subject takes him. Phil settles back slightly. His face shifts into something smoother, the hard focus leaving Garrett and turning outward as though a camera has found him. “Nothing like this. There were cameras, obviously, but the production now is excessive. When I was drafted, players understood that the real work began afterward.”

Garrett’s thumb moves against hers again.

She widens her eyes with a level of interest Allie would either applaud or denounce as emotionally dishonest. “Were you expecting to go when you did?”

Phil begins telling her. The room around them falls away while he explains the scouting reports, the teams who called, the one general manager who made a grave error in judgment by selecting another forward first. 

She nods in the right places, asks one question that produces another seven-minute answer, and keeps Garrett’s hand anchored in her lap while his knee gradually slows beneath it.

At one point, Garrett turns his face just enough to look at her. She doesn’t break character. She only runs her thumb once over the side of his hand, hidden beneath the tablecloth, and asks Phil whether rookie camps were tougher then than they are now.

Garrett’s mouth twitches.

By the time Boston goes on the clock, her own pulse has migrated somewhere inconveniently high in her throat.

The Bruins logo fills every screen in the arena, black and gold and suddenly enormous. A timer appears beside it. Five minutes, beginning its slow descent in bright digital numbers.

Around the table, the air changes. Garrett goes very still. His fingers tighten around hers, the pressure building between each knuckle until she can feel his pulse through the side of his hand. His knee stops bouncing entirely. 

Phil sits straighter in his chair, one hand flattening over his own thigh, gaze fixed on the representatives gathered near the Boston table.

She knows they’re interested. Everybody knows. Boston has spoken to Garrett repeatedly – formal interviews, calls with management, meetings that left him pretending he hadn’t replayed every answer afterward. 

His advisor has said twenty-four often enough that the number has started to feel like an address they’ve been travelling toward for weeks.

Still, interest isn’t a promise. Hockey people enjoy reminding everyone of that. Draft boards move. Teams trade. Someone ranked fifteenth drops into the second round and has to remain seated beneath cameras while strangers discuss his disappointment like weather.

The timer slips beneath four minutes. On the broadcast desk, the analysts begin filling the space. 

One discusses Boston’s need for a centre with size and two-way intelligence. Another brings up a prospect from Sweden. Then Garrett’s photograph appears on the screen overhead, taken in his Briar jersey with his hair damp and his expression halfway between focused and annoyed.

Her breath catches.

The graphic lists his height, weight, position, season totals. Clips follow. Garrett splitting two defenders. Garrett scoring from the slot. Garrett turning toward his teammates after a goal, mouthguard half out, face alive with that sharp, bright joy she knows better than the people narrating it ever could.

“Garrett Graham has been one of the most complete college forwards in the country,” an analyst says through the arena speakers. “Next in line for captain at Briar as a sophomore, strong leadership qualities, terrific hockey sense, and of course there is the pedigree. His father, Phil Graham–”

Phil’s name appears before Garrett’s highlight reel has even finished. Beside her, Garrett’s shoulders tighten. Not enough for television. Enough for her.

She turns her palm beneath his and laces their fingers more securely. His gaze flicks to her for half a second, and she smiles. A small lift of her mouth that says she’s here, exactly where she promised.

The timer passes two minutes.

Her stomach feels hollow. Removed. As if every useful organ has evacuated and left only a bright, shivering space beneath her ribs. 

She cannot stop looking at Garrett’s profile. The clean line of his tie she fixed. The curl near his temple that has already escaped whatever product the stylist used. The tiny scar under his chin. Her boyfriend, sitting under a screen carrying his name while an NHL team decides whether it wants to make him part of its future.

Her boyfriend. The thought nearly makes her laugh, except she’s too close to crying.

Twenty years old and projected first round and still the same man who once ate cereal out of a mixing bowl because Dean had used every clean dish hosting a poker night. 

The same man who lies across her bed after practice and puts his cold feet under her thighs despite repeated warnings. The same man who kisses the inside of her wrist when he’s tired and thinks she’s asleep.

The timer stops at forty-seven seconds.

The Boston representatives stand. A wave of sound moves through the arena, not loud yet, only recognition spreading from table to table. Cameras pivot. Garrett inhales. His whole hand closes around hers.

Someone from the Bruins approaches the microphone with a card. She forgets to breathe.

“With the twenty-fourth selection in the NHL Draft, the Boston Bruins are proud to select, from Briar University, Garrett Graham.”

For one second, Garrett does nothing.

The arena erupts around him. Applause, cheers, music hitting hard through the speakers as the Bruins logo burns across every screen. Somewhere near the broadcast desk, a commentator is already talking over the moment, but Garrett remains seated for one strange, suspended beat, staring toward the stage like he’s heard his name spoken in a language he understands individually but not all together.

Then he laughs. It bursts out of him, stunned and breathless, his head dropping for half a second before he looks at her. His eyes are wide. Bright. Younger than they looked in the hotel room.

“Holy shit,” she says, already standing because everybody else is and because her body has become incapable of containing itself. “Garrett.”

Phil reaches him first. Or Garrett reaches Phil. She cannot tell through the rush of chairs, bodies, cameras closing in. Garrett hugs his father with one arm, Phil’s hand landing hard between his shoulder blades, his mouth moving near Garrett’s ear with something she cannot hear.

Then Garrett turns. She’s laughing and crying at the same time, which feels excessive and also completely outside her control. Her hands lift uselessly between them before he catches her around the waist and drags her against him, suit and all, her heels nearly leaving the floor from the force of it.

“Congratulations, baby,” she says into his shoulder, one hand gripping the back of his jacket. “I’m so proud of you. Holy shit.”

Garrett laughs again, warm and disbelieving against her hair. “Thank you for coming.”

“As if I’d miss this.”

He pulls back enough to see her face. His hands remain firm at her waist while she cups his cheeks, thumbs near the corners of that huge, helpless grin. 

Cameras are somewhere around them. Phil is beside them. The arena is watching or not watching; she has no idea. Garrett bends and kisses her once, quick and smiling, the contact landing slightly crooked because neither of them can stop grinning.

Then somebody in a Bruins jacket touches his shoulder.

The next part happens too quickly. Garrett’s guided toward the aisle while people clap. He keeps looking back at her, once over his shoulder, then again near the stairs to the stage, like he expects the room to rearrange while he’s not watching it. 

She presses both hands together beneath her chin, crying openly now and making no attempt to preserve whatever the makeup artist had intended.

Onstage, Garrett shakes hands with league officials and Boston executives. Someone places a black Bruins cap over his curls, flattening them badly enough that she laughs through the tears. 

He’s handed a jersey with GRAHAM across the back and the number twenty-four beneath it, then helped into it over his suit jacket, the shoulders sitting broad and slightly absurd over the tailoring.

He turns toward the photographers.

Garrett Graham in black and gold, Bruins cap low over his forehead, jersey stretched over his suit, holding the front for the cameras while flashes burst white across the stage. 

His grin is different now. This one looks almost too large for his face. It keeps breaking at the edges into disbelief.

She claps until her palms sting. Something inside her feels physically swollen. Too much pride pressing outward through skin and ribs and throat. She looks at him beneath the Bruins logo and thinks, with a clarity that makes her breath catch, I love you.

The thought arrives without warning and without drama. She simply loves him.

She loves him so much that watching him stand there hurts. She loves the boy under the jersey, the nervous hands from this morning, the forehead against hers, the tiny second squeeze beneath the table. 

She loves him in a way that feels less like falling and more like discovering something has been built quietly inside her while she was busy looking elsewhere.

Then Garrett’s moved offstage, swallowed immediately by people with credentials and clipboards.

The applause thins. The draft continues. Phil’s surrounded almost at once. An advisor shakes his hand. A reporter leans in to congratulate him. 

Someone from the Bruins organisation says, “You must be proud,” and Phil gives a modest smile that somehow still manages to suggest he personally engineered the entire selection from conception onward.

Nobody asks her anything. Not that they should. It’s not her draft. She hasn’t spent her life on skates or taken hits into boards or carried the weight of Phil Graham’s expectations across every practice since childhood. She doesn’t need congratulations.

Still, the sudden absence of Garrett leaves her standing strangely outside the machinery of the moment. He had been beside her, holding her hand so tightly she could feel the imprint, and now everyone seems to know exactly where they belong except her.

A staff member with a headset gestures for Phil to follow. “Immediate family this way, Mr Graham.”

The woman’s gaze reaches her and pauses. She smiles automatically, holding herself still beneath it.

“She’s with Garrett,” Phil says, already turning.

Not his girlfriend. Not her name. Only a practical explanation, the verbal equivalent of an extra bag included with the booking.

The staff member nods and gives her a temporary pass. She follows through a concrete hallway full of cables and black curtains, then is eventually separated from Phil anyway when someone directs him toward media and sends her to a small waiting room with beige chairs, bottled water, and a television mounted too high on the wall.

“Garrett will be brought through when he’s finished,” a volunteer tells her kindly.

She sits. Then stands again because sitting feels impossible. On television, the draft has moved on. Another boy’s name is announced, another family surges to its feet, another life changes under bright lights while she paces three steps toward the window and three steps back. 

Her phone is unusable. Hundreds of notifications stack across the screen. The hockey group chat is moving too quickly to read. Allie has sent seventeen messages, beginning with OH MY FUCKING GOD and ending with WHY DID NO ONE WARN ME THE HAT WOULD MAKE ME EMOTIONAL. Dean has written THAT’S MY FUCKING BOY so many times the words have lost structural integrity.

She sends one message to the group – he’s with media. i’m waiting. he looked so happy – then puts the phone down before she cries on it.

Forty minutes later, footsteps come hard down the hallway. She turns just as Garrett appears in the doorway.

He’s still wearing the cap. His tie has shifted slightly off-centre. The Bruins jersey is folded over one arm now, his suit jacket visible again, and he looks completely overwhelmed–flushed cheeks, bright eyes, grin already spreading as if he has been holding it back for every photograph and interview and finally found the person he can give the whole thing to.

“Hi,” she manages.

Garrett crosses the room in four strides and hits her with enough force to make her squeal. His arms wrap around her waist, lifting her clean off the carpet, and then she is turning in a circle beneath the terrible fluorescent lights with both arms locked around his shoulders.

“Garrett!” she laughs, heels swinging uselessly. “Put me down before we destroy your knee on draft night.”

“Don’t care.”

“You’ll care tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow Garrett can deal with it.”

He puts her down eventually, though only enough for her feet to touch the floor. His arms stay around her. Her hands slide into his hair beneath the edge of the cap, and then his mouth is on hers.

The kiss isn’t quick this time. It’s warm and deep and entirely too long for a public waiting area with an open door and a volunteer probably stationed twenty feet away. 

Garrett kisses her like he’s been holding his breath since somebody pulled him from the table, one hand broad at the centre of her back, the other locked around her waist. She can taste mint and the faint dryness of nerves, feel his smile interrupt the kiss once before he catches her mouth again.

Her fingers tighten at the nape of his neck. Garrett makes a low sound against her lips, pleased and wrecked and still half-laughing, and the whole arena could burn down around them without either of them demonstrating useful emergency awareness.

When they finally separate, it’s only by an inch. Her lipstick has transferred faintly near the corner of his mouth. His cap is crooked.

“I’m so proud of you,” she breathes, both hands coming to his face. “Holy shit, Garrett. You’re a Boston Bruin.”

His eyes go wide again, like he keeps forgetting and having the information returned to him by surprise. “I know.”

“First round.”

“I know.”

“Twenty-fourth.”

“I was there, baby,” he murmurs. 

“I’m processing.”

Garrett laughs, head dropping briefly until his forehead rests against hers. His whole body is buzzing beneath her hands. She can feel it in the quick movement of his breath, the restless flex of his fingers at her waist, the way his smile keeps coming back no matter what he does with his mouth.

Then he seems to remember the jersey. “Wait.”

He steps back only far enough to unfold it, holding it up between them with both hands. Black and gold. Crisp new fabric. GRAHAM printed across the shoulders in heavy white letters.

“Got my name on it,” he says, and the sheer boyish wonder in his voice nearly ruins her.

She reaches for the edge, fingers brushing over the stitching. “Holy fuck, baby.”

“Look.”

“I am looking.” Her eyes move over the name, then back to his face. “This is… shit. I’m–”

“I love you.”

Garrett freezes. The sentence appears to have escaped without consulting him. His mouth remains slightly open, eyes fixed on hers, hands still holding the jersey between them. For one second, he looks more terrified than he did waiting for Boston to make its selection.

“I–” He laughs once, nervous and helpless, lowering the jersey. “Thank you for coming, and I love you. Those were supposed to be two separate thoughts, probably, but–”

Her grin breaks over her face so quickly it almost hurts. Garrett stops talking. “I love you,” she says.

He stares at her.

She laughs, because his expression is unbearable, because her chest feels too full, because she can sit through five minutes of draft suspense but Garrett Graham needing confirmation will be what kills her. “So, so much.”

“Yeah?” The word comes out rough and disbelieving.

She nods, hands sliding around his shoulders. “Yeah.”

Garrett’s face opens. There’s no cooler way to describe it. Every careful, nervous part of him gives way at once, grin bright and enormous beneath the crooked Bruins cap, eyes shining with something that has nothing to do with camera flashes now. 

He drops the jersey onto the nearest chair and catches her around the waist again before she can object, pulling her flush against him.

She kisses him once, smiling too much for it to land properly. “My boy,” she murmurs against his mouth. “I love you.”

Garrett’s hands spread over her back. “My girl.” 

The words settle into her warm and sweet, though somewhere beneath them is the faintest little tenderness from the hallway, from the staff member pausing over her place, from forty minutes spent alone while everybody claimed some part of Garrett’s future. 

It disappears beneath the way he’s looking at her now. Not through her. Not past her toward the next person waiting to congratulate him. Only her.

“I love you,” he says again, quieter this time, like he wants to hear what the sentence sounds like when it is placed deliberately between them.

Her nose brushes his. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Mhm. Would’ve been awkward if you got drafted by my least favourite team and then didn’t love me.”

“They’re your least favourite team?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

“You should probably learn hockey.”

“I know plenty.”

“Name three teams.”

“The Bruins.”

“Good start.”

“The Briar Hawks.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“And…” She narrows her eyes thoughtfully. “The one with the red jersey.”

Garrett stares at her for half a second, then laughs so hard his head drops into her neck. The sound moves warm over her skin, shoulders shaking beneath her arms.

She runs her fingers into the curls at the back of his head. “Can we go back to the hotel?”

His laughter stops. Garrett lifts his face slowly, eyes narrowing with immediate interest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She smooths the lipstick mark from the corner of his mouth with her thumb. “You look very hot in your suit, I look very hot in my dress, and I’ve been in public for several hours. I think I’ve earned room service.”

His mouth curves. “Just room service?”

“And privacy.”

“Right.” He nods with exaggerated seriousness, already reaching for the jersey. “Privacy’s important.”

“So important.”

“Should we tell my dad we’re leaving?”

She considers that. “Do you want to?”

Garrett looks toward the open doorway, then back at her. His hand finds hers without hesitation, fingers sliding between hers and holding tight. “Nope.”

Her smile softens. “Then let’s go.”

He gathers the jersey over one arm, keeps her hand in the other, and leads her into the hallway with the Bruins cap still crooked on his head and her lipstick still faintly visible near his mouth. Somewhere behind them, another name is announced to another burst of applause. 

Ahead, the arena corridors twist toward elevators, exits, waiting cars, the first night of whatever comes next.

Garrett squeezes her hand once as they walk. Not twice. He doesn’t need rescuing now.

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

You slowly blink awake, and your eyes adjust to the almost pitch black darkness enveloping Garrett's bedroom. The room is illuminated by the moonlight peeking through the drawn curtains, and the digital clock on the nightstand that reads 3:22.

It's only been a few hours since you and Garrett practically collapsed onto his bed and passed out. You were awakened by a slight discomfort in your lower abdomen, which you chalk up to your need to run to the bathroom.

You lift the blanket and carefully untangle your boyfriend's arms wound around your waist. He stirs, but thankfully settles again, rolling onto his back on his side of the bed. Having memorized the layout of every corner of his space, you step into the bathroom without turning the lights on, and you finish your business as quickly as possible.

When you return, Garrett is in the same position you left him in. You lift the sheets, ready to crawl back into the bed beside him, but you freeze when you notice something that definitely was not there right before you had gone to sleep—a dark patch on the pristine gray sheets of Garrett's bed.

A sharp jolt of panic rushes through you, and you turn on the lamp on your side. You slowly peel the duvet off to see better, and lo and behold, your suspicion is confirmed. You had started your period while you had been asleep, had bled through your nightwear onto your boyfriend’s sheets. You realize now that the slight ache in your lower abdomen is actually from your period, and nothing else.

You try to think of ways to carefully remove the sheets without waking Garrett, but your boyfriend is about 200 pounds of pure muscle and is an incredibly light sleeper, so you are left with no choice but to wake him up, despite the embarrassment and shame running through your veins.

“Garrett,” you whisper as quietly as possible as to not scare him awake, but he jolts up anyway, sitting up on the bed to look at you properly.

“What’s wrong?” He is immediately asking, his voice groggy from the lack of use and thick with concern. He runs his hands over his face to rub the sleep away, and he looks at you, his eyes scanning your face carefully. “What happened, baby? Are you okay?”

“Sort of,” you whisper, and his brows crease further at your vague response.

“Sort of? Talk to me, baby. What happened?” His hand comes up to hold your face, his thumb stroking your cheek.

“My period started while I was asleep, and I kinda bled through and stained your sheets,” you mumble, barely audible for him. “I’m so sorry.”

The furrow of his brows softens, as does the rest of his face. An easy, relieved smile grows on his face before he even realizes, an affectionate chuckle slipping out almost against his will, and before you can ask why he’s laughing, he has your pouted lips pressed softly against his. “You are so cute, and I love you,” he whispers against your lips before pulling away completely. “Stay here for a bit, baby,” he murmurs as he leaves the bed.

You watch him disappear into the bathroom, and a few seconds later, you hear water running, unmistakably filling the large tub he has. He spends a little while inside the bathroom before the tap turns off, and he emerges.

His face softens when his eyes land on your timid, unmoving form on the bed, your face twisted in embarrassment. He walks over slowly and kneels on the floor in front of you, his soft, worried eyes trying to catch your gaze. “Baby, hey, what are you so ashamed about?”

You stay silent for a few beats, your eyes looking into his, before your tense body starts to relax. “I stained your sheets,” you say quietly, “I was trying to change them without waking you up, but I can’t exactly push you around without waking you up, can I? And I can’t push you around, in the first place.”

A laugh escapes him as he leans in to kiss you again, the gesture quick but sweet. “Your period started, so what?” He says gently as he pulls away. “It’s normal, baby, it’s okay. I promise you that a little blood won’t scare me away. I’m completely in it with you, okay? I love you.” He stands up, gingerly taking your hands in his. “Come on, baby. Warm bath for you. Don’t worry about anything else.”

Soon enough, you’re submerged in the warm water of the tub, surrounded by the scent of the bath oil you have always found comforting, especially during your period. You didn’t think he paid enough attention to remember how much oil you liked using.

You hear rustling and shuffling from outside the bathroom as he undoubtedly changes the sheets and the duvet, his favorite song from The Foundations playing softly from his phone. You hear him humming along to the song quietly, and you smile.

He appears by the door, carrying the bunched up sheets and tossing them into the basket to wash in the morning. He then turns to you and leans against the doorway, his gaze soft and warm, and your heart flips at the sight of him looking at you. “How are you feeling, baby? Do you need anything else?”

“I’m feeling so much better.” You sigh, sinking deeper into the tub. “And no, I don’t need anything else. This is more than enough. Thank you, and I love you.”

He smiles, walking over and pressing a gentle kiss to your head. He then picks your dirty clothes off the floor and walks toward the sink. He turns the tap on and starts washing your soiled sleep shorts, as well as your underwear, rinsing the blood stains from the fabric.

You do not know whether to feel guilty, or horrified, or overwhelmingly loved, so you settle on feeling all three of them at once, and Garrett notices just by how you are looking at him. He smiles at you like he’s not washing your underwear for you, and you think you can melt into the tub.

Just incase ppl don’t know: NARP= Non-Athlete Regular Person

Tucker was late. Something which hadn’t happened since that fateful week of freshman year. 

Your withering glare those first few classes, coupled with the snide little comments about “punctuality only being necessary for us NARPS,” was enough to kick his ass into gear. 

To you, it just seemed like he did so out of competitiveness alone. Spite and a childish grudge, just like you.

In reality, Tucker was trying to impress you—to make up for his colossal embarrassment of a first impression. Eventually, after only being met by more of your glares and even more snippy comments, it sure became a competition.

Now, however, the last thing he wanted was a fight. For the first time ever, he’d planned on catching you before class. Earlier than early, like you always had been, to hopefully smooth over the awkwardness this whole Fifth Line post had created.

After hours of tossing and turning, Tucker had finally dozed off—and then he’d had slept through his alarm. Not terribly late, but pushing it enough that he was rushing to the bathroom for a shower. But, of course, Dean was already in there. It was the whole reason he had that alarm in the first place, to get in the bathroom before Dean camped out there for a good hour.

“Dean!” Tucker bellowed, banging a fist on the wooden door. “Come on, man! I’ve got class in forty minutes!”

By the time Tucker had weaseled his way in there, thick steam still fogging up the mirror, he barely had time to wash his armpits before he was racing his way to the sink.

And then he forgot Logan had borrowed his truck, so he had to fucking wait for Garrett to give him a ride to campus andit was raining—

and now he was bolting through the doors of your culinary lab. Sweat and rain pooling down his back. 

He looked ridiculous. He knew he looked ridiculous, probably like a shaking wet rat, and because he was late everyone was staring at him. It wasn’t the largest class Tucker had—only a dozen duo stovetop stations with rolling stainless steel islands parked at each end—but it certainly wasn’t intimate enough to stop the embarrassment singing his cheeks. 

“Welcome in, Mr. Tucker,” Professor Bernard chuckled along with the class.

Tucker gave an awkward, pinched smile before shuffling over to his station—your station, technically. Ever since that fiasco of a first culinary lab freshman year, the whole department found a fun thrill out of lumping the two of you together. You were determined enough as students that they knew neither of you would let your bitterness affect your work. In fact, Prof. Bernard had been the one to say how it would only boost your performance. “Nice, friendlycompetition,” he’d called it.

Yet, the way you glared at him was anything but friendly. Somehow, today it was even more lancing.

“Hey,” Tucker whispered, attempting a slight lift to his cheeks. 

You barely glanced up from your recipe copy, looking through your brows like he was a piece of shit on your shoe.

Tucker tried brushing it off, chuckling airily, “Okay then.” 

Even when you rolled your eyes at his response, Tucker took a controlled breath in, focusing on shoving his backpack underneath the mobile island. Just as he finally turned to face you, an apology on the tip of his tongue that he’d been fully prepared to have thrown back in his face, the professor’s voice rang out.

Shit. Now he’d have to catch you after class. Literally racing to beat you because, like everything with you apparently, you took leaving class as competitively as the class itself.

“All right!” Bernard clapped everyone to attention. “A little change of plans, some of the burners had to be disconnected for maintenance yesterday, so we’ll be working in pairs. Station partners only, please!” Then the room descended into frenzied chatter.

Huh. Well, that made things a hell of a lot easier. Tuck even smiled reflexively, damn relieved he wouldn’t have to run again today.

But then he turned to face you, still grinning stupidly—and audibly gulped at your expression. 

Recently, he'd started to forget why exactly he had found you so intimidating from the start. But then he actually looked at you—heart in his hands—and the hate in your eyes squashed it like a bug.

Well, maybe this wouldn’t be that easy.

“Get your coat and apron on, dipshit.” Hands squared firmly on your hips.

His tongue felt dry and leaden, weighing his jaw down dumbly. “Uh-um—yes, ma’am.” Before scrambling to grab the Briar blue apron off the hook. 

Your eyes rolled again and Tucker felt a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.

“Enough with the cowboy bullshit, Marina can’t hear you from across the room.”

That actually stilled his movements, heart rate calming enough that he could speak without a stutter. “What?”

Your laugh was bitter as you roughly snatched the steel prep bowls to the center. “The whole cowboy, southern charm bullshit you pull. Save it for when I'm out of ear shot next time, cause I nearly tossed up my lunch last Thursday when you oh so graciously grabbed that sack of flour for her.”

Genuinely, utterly confused, Tucker’s brows pinched. “Wha—I was just being nice.”

With another cackle, you harshly thwacked an egg flat on the counter, cracking it into a large bowl. “Oh sureee—so it’s safe to assume calling her sweetheart was just you being nice, too?”

This felt like a trap. It absolutely was a trap. Because if he answered honestly—that he called every girl sweetheart, even his five year old cousin—she’d never believe him. He could already hear you retort: well you sure as shit don’t call me sweetheart, and don’t start now, dipshit.

“Yes?”

Your movements paused. Hand hovering over the bowl as another cracked yolk plopped into the awaiting bowl. 

Tucker visibly cringed as you slowly swiveled your head to face him. 

“Oh yeah? Real convincing, cowboy.”

A light bulb blinked over Tucker’s head before he yelped, just a bit too loudly, “So that’s why you call me that?!”

For a split second, the conversations in the room halted. Everyone glanced over at your joint station as Tucker sheepishly smiled for an awkward moment, before they all turned back to their regular programming.

When he looked back at you, Tucker’s face warmed as you bit your lip. The edges of an amused smile still peeking out around it.

“Smooth.”

“Oh shut it,” he huffed, harshly tying the apron with a tug.

You only met him with another teasing, amused grin. “Yeah, real sold on this southern hospitality thing.” Then pausing as you chucked the last shell in the scraps bowl. For a second, you scanned him over like he was stupid—a common occurrence, obviously. “Why the hell are you just standing there? Roll out the dough, moron.”

Tucker had to suck in his teeth before spouting something his momma would’ve slapped him for.

Breathe. All you’ve gotta do is apologize. Stop letting her distract you, or insult you, or cut you off, and just do the damn—

“Wait,” Tucker blurted out, “why’m I rolling out dough? We’re redoing the French omelette recipe.”

Again, you looked at him through your brows. Completely exasperated. “Did you even read Bernard’s email—never mind! How could I forget? You’re too busy for that.” Going back to the large steel bowl with a whisk, wielding it in a way Tucker just knew you could certainly figure out how to use as a weapon. “Unlike me, who has so much free time, right?” Ending with a mocking, bitter guffaw.

Tucker sputtered, “I didn’t—”

Breathe. Apologize. Don’t bite her head off.

“I’m sorry, you’re right.”

Suddenly your vicious whisking halted. Head rotating again like another horror film. The look on your face was equally as confused and horrified. “Huh?”

Tucker exhaled again, smoothing over his apron. “I didn’t read Bernard’s email. You’re right, I’m sorry. Okay?”

This time your eyes searched his face, drifting down to his figure wildly like the answer to a confounding puzzle might be hidden in the fabric of his jeans. “You dying or something?”

“What? No—can I not just say sorry?”

You still stared like he’d grown two heads and somehow that irritated him even more.

“Jesus—just tell me what we’re doing...Please?”

With a satisfied smirk, you slid the paper to his side, still maintaining eye contact. “Quiche Lorraine.” Still watching as Tucker verified the paper. “We’re supposed to look at Bernard’s notes from the last time and focus on modifications before we go off book next week.”

“Huh,” Tucker wondered out loud, flicking through the notes the professor had attached for both of your individual assessments last week. “But together, right?”

“That is how a joint project works, yes.”

Tucker sighed again, still staring at the paper to prevent glaring at you. “What’d he say about yours?”

As if you’d had it engrained since that morning, you repeated “Nice structure, perfect presentation, excellent crust...lacking seasoning and depth of flavor.”

Tucker couldn’t help chuckling, looking back up at you as he read his own feedback. “Nice structure, good crust but too rustic of a presentation...excellent seasoning and depth of flavor.”

Once again, you rolled your eyes. “Figures.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Tucker grinned boyishly. ‘Seems like I could teach you a thing or two.”

“Roll out the fucking dough, Einstein.”

Tucker chuckled, “Yes, ma’am.” 

As expected, you fought over every aspect except bake time and temp. Tucker almost cackled at your lack of seasoning, smugly grinning when he tossed in another tablespoon of black pepper and freshly chopped dill. “Adds some brightness,” he’d said—to which you’d childishly mimicked him behind his turned shoulder. 

Then it came to the crust—and you nearly stabbed him with a chef’s knife. The way he basically flopped the dough into the quiche pan was his first offense. When you’d insisted he needed to push the crust more delicately into the scalloped edge, he whined about it taking too long and his finger being too big to actually do it gently with creating cracks. Of course, you couldn’t care less about whining and actually forced him to slow his movements, one scalloped dip at a time. After blind baking the crust, you had poured the egg mixture and popped it into the oven for the final time.

So now, you both were standing there. Silently watching the seconds tick bye in the orange glow of the oven light.

Not often were the two of you that quiet, and Tucker savored it. Sneakily glancing over to watch your face. He hated to say it, but you looked tired. It probably was the only reason you hadn't insulted him in the last five minutes. Maybe he should’ve like it more, made a joke about finally shutting you up.

It only made his stomach twist.

“Hey—um,” Tucker coughed, a bit startled when you looked over at him with a quiet softness to your expression. “Jules showed me those dm’s, all the photos and stuff.”

He almost cursed himself for bringing it up when your content softness grew a sharp edge, an invisible wall coming back up.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he continued before you could brush it off, “That wasn’t—I...you shouldn't have to deal with that.”

The sharpness dulled a bit, arms still crossed but eyes searching his face for sincerity. “Is all that normal for you?”

He just shrugged, looking back at the oven. “Comes with the territory.”

“Real fun stuff.” Voice was bitter in a way that made his heart clench. 

“Seriously, let me talk to Jules again. I’ll handle it.”

You finally let Tucker hold your eye contact, but almost instantly, he could feel the way you reinforced your shields. Shoulders bristling. “I’m a big girl, Tucker. I can handle it myself.” Then turned back around to start cleaning your station.

Sure, he expected it. A glare. A sneer. For you to chuck his apology right back at him, hitting Tucker squarely in the nose.

He just didn't expect to feel so hollowed out after.

At the end of class, Tucker and you silently presented the quiche to Bernard. After taking a couple bites and inspecting the plate for a painfully long moment, he smirked proudly. “Well done, you two. Full marks.” The man mischeviously glanced between you both, smile curling under his gray mustache. “Maybe I need to assign partner labs more often.”

Every Friday was karaoke night at Malone’s—and every Friday you were tucked into that boiling hot kitchen. 

Fridays weren’t pretty. If you mix a hoard of drunk college kids with microphones and an elevated stage, things were bound to happen. Knowing that, Hannah and Allie normally took Friday night off—unless they were downright desperate for the money (*cough cough* like you were). So they’d normally just drop in for cheese fries, a couple of drinks with Sean and Dexter, and then skedaddle. 

Most of the other line cooks avoided it as well. Having a wife and kids at home wasn’t exactly conducive to the late weekend closing times. Like Larry and José—who every shift, without fail, asked why a pretty girl like you wasn't out on the town on making memories. 

You were broke. That was the short and long of it. 

As an in-state student, you were going to school for relatively little compared to everyone else (read as: you were paying a kidney instead of an arm and a leg). Plus your parents, God love them, could only cover so much while handling the restaurant. So yeah, money was tight.

From the second you’d applied to Briar, you knew you would major in hospitality. After all, you were set to inherit The Mayflower Inn, the restaurant and boutique hotel that your grandparents started back in the 60s. A place so small that it was basically a bed & breakfast compared to the other Boston chain hotels. Being the only one of your cousins to actually give a crap about the Inn, it wasn’t really a surprise you’d run it—but a colossal burden all the same.

All day, every day, you reminded yourself what was at stake. If you skipped even one hospitality lecture, thousands of dollars went down the drain and you could miss out on a vital education that would keep the business afloat. But, if you came back fully trained with your culinary degree, your parents could hire you instead as head chef—along with a severe pay cut for the position, of course. That way the money could go towards something else, like taking on more waitstaff or better produce. You had spent these three years penny pinching and skipping meals, you could do it for a couple more. 

Because if things failed, there would be no one to fall back on. No plan B—and you sure as hell weren’t selling your soul to private equity—so it was all you. 

Your future depended solely on yourself, so you acted accordingly.

Well—not all the time. Even you could admit that Hannah, Dexter, and Allie were the best thing to happen in your lifetime. When entering Briar freshman year, the best you’d hoped for was a couple of good friends you could study and grab dinner with at the dining hall. Then, you’d say your goodbyes once you all graduated.

Those three though, you were keeping forever—as long as they’d let you.

Being the friends they were, Allie and Hannah had come back to the diner after class just to keep you company while you set up for karaoke during the post-lunch closed hours. 

And being the fact she’s Allison Hayes, Allie was grilling you about working set up shift. Alone.

“Why are you doing this by yourself? Again?”

Still unwrapping the tangled microphone cords, you huffed, “Della pays me double and Gus is always late, so I'd rather just take double the pay for double the work I'd be doing anyways.”

Actively restocking the napkin holder, Hannah cut in this time. “Okay, then, why don’t you just take the set up shift alone and swap your dinner shift with him?”

“Guys—”

“Three years, babe!” Allie whined. “Three years and not once have you gone out with us on a Friday.”

Still turned away and hunched over the mic box. “I need the money, Al.”

“Dude,” Hannah cut in this time with a sympathetic smile, “same here, but you also kinda have to enjoy life. We’ve got less than two years left together—come on.”

“I see getting fake laid made you real chipper.” Roughly, you picked up the mic box to slam in on the stage. “I’ll take a break senior year.”

“No, you won’t!” Allie cried again, this time standing up to follow you so you couldn’t conveniently run away to the kitchen. “Y’know what you said last summer, when you found you out didn’t have classes on Tuesdays and Fridays anymore?”

Both girls, in unison, echoed, “You doubled your shifts.”

“Guyyyyss,” you groaned again, finally turning around with a pinched pout. 

“It’s lookin’ great, hon!” Della called out, appearing from the swinging kitchen door. “Oh, hi girls! Didn’t know you were working today. Shift swap?”

Ever Hannah, she returned Della’s wide smile. “Nope, just keeping her company.”

The older woman put a hand to her heart like she was touched. “What gems you are.”

“Oh, Della! Quick question.” Allie jumped around you to be in the older woman’s eyeline. “Is it too late for Gus to take her shift tonight?”

Your head whipped to face Allie, lips pursing. “Al—”

“Course not!” The old woman crowed. “That boy needs to learn the ropes anyways.”

“Um, Della,” you gritted out, “I had to teach Gus how to turn on the fryer last week...he’s been working here since March.”

The older woman just waved you off, looking completely unconcerned. “Karaoke night’s perfect then—a little baptism by fire.”

You gulped. 

Thanks to Fifth Line, everyone knew you worked Fridays. Apparently, your cheese fry special was legendary even. God forbid the whole campus think the way Gus cooked was your cooking. That would truly be the arsenic cherry on top of this shit cake of a week.

You awkwardly chuckled, trying to not sound like you were now bordering on a panic attack. “Could we, I don’t know, maybe put up a sign that names the line cooks for the night? Just so everyone’s aware.”

Della cackled. “Sure thing, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want your good reputation tarnished, would we?” Ending with a wink.

For the first time that day, your shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, Della.”

“Or!” Allie cut in. “You could come to karaoke night—as a normal person, for once.”

Nevermind, both shoulders were back up to your ears. “Hilarious.”

Like tweedle-dum to Allie’s tweedle-dee, Hannah piped in with the most fake sounding surprise. “What a wonderful plan, Allie! How did you ever think of that?”

At least Allie sounded like she hadn’t been practicing it in the mirror.

You glowered. “I hate you two.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea!” Della bellowed. “ ’Bout time you took a weekend off. Y’know, I’m surprised you never used the extra employee discount.”

All of you turned to face your boss. “What discount?”

“Didn't you read your contract? Since you girls have worked here for over a year, you get 50% off food and drinks on weekends—starting Friday nights.”

From the way you three glanced at each other stupidly, Della couldn’t help barking an amused laugh.

“I mean, at least we’re not as bad as Chris,” Allie added with a grimace. “The guy doesn't even know we get a shift meal.”

“That kid’s got a screw loose or something.” The old woman mumbled, checking her watch quickly. “Gotta head out girls—but have fun tonight, you deserve it!”

“Bye, Della!” You all called out. 

As the staff entrance slammed shut, Allie and Hannah squealed, “FINALLY!”

“You are wicked, nasty women.”

Allie clasped her hands wholesomely. “Awww, how sweet you are.”

Instantly, it came on like a migraine. “Fuckin’ hell—don’t remind me.”

“Huh?”

Hannah chuckled, popping off the top of the decorations bin for you. “Dean’s calling her Honey now.”

One side of Allie’s face screwed up in disgust. “In like a romantic way?”

“Ew—no. It’s cause of the post.” Shuffling back over to the decorations bin now. “Him and Jules got the whole hockey team in on it.” At that reminder, you groaned again. “Plus the whole campus at this point—this is why I didn't wanna go, guys! You saw it, I can’t walk on the campus without a phone being flung in my face.”

“Babe, at some point you just have to ignore it,” Allie sympathetically cooed, coming over to gently fix your hair while you hunched over the bin, pouting at the tangled kaleidoscope of streamers. “You take the drama out of it and they’ll get bored.”

“Oh yea, sureeee.” 

Suddenly, she clapped behind you, making you jump and almost drop the streamers. “You and Tucker should do a song together tonight! Something about like not liking each other, or something.”

Hannah cackled, coming around your other side to grab the end of the streamer in hand. “Even I think that’s a bad idea, Al.”

Voice straining as you hung the streamers on your tippy toes. “The only people who could get me on that stage are you two so I can hide behind your voices and just hum.”

With a satisfying thump, Hannah tacked the other end of the streamer in place. “Fat chance you’re getting me up there.”

“Perfect,” you sighed, collapsing back down on flat feet.

You both jumped again as Allie squealed. “I have an idea!” Running away to speakers the speakers.

Before either of you could ask, the first phrases of piano blared out of the speaker.

“Shit—Sorry!” Allie yelled before turning the volume down, followed by the sound of a click and then the beginning phrase replayed.

She popped around the speaker with a devilish grin as she watched your face morph from horror to a pouty scowl as recognition flickered behind your eyes. 

It was “Honey, Honey” from Mamma Mia—because apparently Allie could be a real comedian only when it was at your expense.

“Allie...no.”

Hannah cackled, finally catching on. “Why didn't I think of that?”

“Because you’re not a musical theatre genius like moi,” Allie giggled with a twirl.

You however, remained unmove, pouting at her grin. “No.”

“Oh come on!” Allie squealed, scuttling over to grip you by your shoulders. Stone cold serious as she said, “It’s Abba, you’re like contractually obligated as a woman to sing.”

“I didn’t sign anything, you’ve got nothin’ on me.”

Allie groaned, “Oh come on! Live a little!” Whipping around to run back to the speaker as she restarted the song. In her heeled boots, she nearly face planted over the wires as she tried scurrying back to the stage. Fumbling with a mic just in time to wail out the first line.

“Honey honey, how you thrill me, a-ha, honey honey!” Shimmying for added effect. 

For a whole verse, you remained strong. A pinched glare still perched on your face—right up until Hannah grabbed a pink streamer. With a friendly shove to your shoulder, she hopped on stage and slung the streamer around Allie’s shoulder like a feather boa. It was dangling so long behind her that if Hannah stepped wrong Allie might be swiftly flung down—the thought suddenly making a laugh bubble out. 

“Ah-hah!” Allie yelped while pointing at you from above.

Unconsciously, your lips puckered out as you attempted to smother a smile.

“Too late!” Hannah cackled, taking hold of your arm to tug you on stage. With another chortle, she wrapped the dangling streamer end around your shoulder. Both laughing harder as you flinched from the tickle to your neck.

For the next few minutes, you forgot all about the whole Fifth Line situation, relishing in the bubble you all created. It was maybe the first time that week where you weren’t hyper aware of anyone watching, even in an empty room. But you weren't surprised—after all, it was always like this when you with with them. 

Most of the time you didn’t even need alcohol to feel buzzed around them. Walking home together with a warmth tugging at your cheeks and your stomach cramping from laughing so hard. When the three of you were together, the world seemed to fade out. Just you three, the music, and the dizzying feeling of being young and dumb together. 

It was probably why you hadn’t heard the front entrance bell ding past the music. 

While singing the end of a verse, shouting out “doggone beast!” Allie tried jumping from the short stage to stick her landing. However, the sharp ripping of the pink streamer shocked her back so much that she wobbled on her landing, flopping flat on her ass. 

That did you three in, practically snorting with laughter as Allie rubbed her sore butt cheek, still unable to stop grinning. 

“Owwie-hehehe,” she whined with an uncontrollable giggled. The song fading out as she still sat immobile on the floor through the final verse.

To your horror, an echo of applause rang out in the empty diner.

All three of you scrambled to face the entrance—the one that Allie supposedly locked and flipped the closed sign around hours ago. Maybe you could've handled it being Della or even another line cook, they’d tease you for days but at least you could survive it.

But Garrett, Logan, Birdie, and Tucker...you should’ve bought a gun. 

Garrett was grinning wildly, arms crossed over his black hoodie. “You guys really gotta lock that door.”

From down below, Allie laughed sheepishly, “Oops.” Before reaching a hand up, twiddling her fingers to cue one of them to help her to stand. Of course, Tucker was the first to spot it and immediately lunged forward to take hold of her hand, helping pull her back up.

Back on flat feet, Allie patted Tucker’s shoulder. “Thank you, good sir.”

He chuckled with a stupidly charming grin. “Anytime.”

Still near the front door, Logan coughed to cover a laugh. “You practicing for tonight, Honey?”

Your finger came out to point furiously at him, accidentally dropping the torn streamer. “Watch it, you’re still on thin ice, Logan.”

“Ouch,” he sighed with faux grimace, an ever present smirk still peeking through. 

Before long, Garrett had waltzed over to help hoist Hannah off the stage, instantly causing you and Allie to exchange smirks at the way she fiercely blushed beside him. 

Right as you’d turned, the torn streamer now crumpled in one fist, a hand appeared in front of you. Unconsciously, your eyes narrowed in on it like it was a weapon pointed to your head. In many ways it was, because it being Tucker’s hand made the decision all that more lethal to your pride. 

After a second, you tried opening your mouth to spat something bitter about never needing his help—but he swiftly interrupted you. Apparently, Tucker was well acquainted with the signs of an insult was coming his way, specifically from you. 

“Just shut up and take the damn hand.” 

This time your eyes narrowed in on his own, more angered by the way he’d actually shut you up with it. His tone more stern and unmoving than he had ever dared with you—and, unfortunately, more effective than you’d ever admit. 

Beyond your recognition, all of your friends were eyeing the show. Each fighting smirks as you begrudgingly accepted the hand with an eye roll and immediately ripped your hand away when you’d landed on the ground. Tucker’s own hand fell down to his side, fingers flexing quickly like the fleeting touch had stung. 

“Well,” Birdie chuckled to Logan, “guess I was wrong about that.”

Endnotes: NEXT PART IS kArAoKe nighttttt

❥In the meantime, feel free to check out my Jack Abbot series here— "I'm on Fire"

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“What? You wanna try mine?” you ask, lifting your spoon to his lips but he pushes it away with two fingers.

“I still can’t believe you.”

“Seriously?” you giggle.

“Yes, seriously!” he insists as you take the bite yourself. “The audacity.”

Your shoulders bounce as you fight off the laugh threatening to break past your lips.

“I’m being so serious right now, baby.”

“I know,” you whisper, the words barely breathing past your lips as you try not to crack.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You absolutely do not,” he counters.

He looks down at you, waiting for your undivided attention. You turn your head, looking up at him, watching the forgotten ice cream on his spoon drip off onto his bare chest.

You lean in, grinning, running your tongue up his warm, tight skin and he scoffs again, pushing your head away.

“Knock that shit off,” he scolds you through a half-laugh. “You don't get to lick me.”

His arm slips away, shifting from you completely, putting space between the two of you. He fixes his hat, muscles flexing with it, the gold chain around his neck flickering in the low light, just a pair of grey Briar sweats and cozy socks on his body.

Your cheeks puff as you trap another laugh behind them when he gives you a jaded look for checking him out after all that.

“What?” His eyes narrow at you, voice still dancing between irate and amused. “You’re laughin’.”

“M’not.”

“You are.”

“I’m literally eating dessert, Graham.”

“You can do both,” he mutters through a mouthful of ice cream himself.

“I don’t think I can.”

“You absolutely can because you’re doing it right fucking now—”

“Calm down,” you laugh when his voice cracks as it tumbles from his lips.

He thumps you on your head with his spoon and you push him away. Garrett leans a little closer, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “I don’t appreciate being mocked.”

“I’m not mocking you, baby.”

“Yes, you are,” he snips. “You're extremely easy to read.”

“Can't a girl ask questions?” you ask, looking back toward the movie.

He mutters under his breath, sliding a rough finger under the strap of your tank top, lifting it, letting it fall with a little snap, stinging comedically versus ever-so-slightly like he hoped it would.

“I have never been so disrespected in my own home,” he mumbles like a tired father.

The laugh slips free before you can stop it. “You’re so dramatic.”

“So dramatic?” he asks, turning his body toward you, sitting up straighter. “So dramatic?”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek so hard it almost hurts just to keep yourself from laughing again. “I just asked what sport would you play if you were more athletic? I didn't mean to make you emotional.”

He pivots toward you slowly, eyebrow cocked, begging the silent question. Emotional… Are you fuckin’ kidding me?

You keep your eyes on the movie for another second before finally glancing over, and he's there for a question you'll hear loud and clear.

“What did you call me now?”

“…Unathletic?”

“No. Emotional.” He chuckles, letting out a long breath through his nose, shaking his head like he’s trying very hard to stay calm as a smile threatens at the corner of his mouth. “You know hockey is like the most athletic sport.”

“Mhmm?” you hum.

“We average like five miles a game.”

“Wowzers,” you giggle.

“My slapshots are over a hundred miles an hour, princess. You can't even drive that fast. And you're gonna sit there and act like that shit isn't athletic?”

Garrett lets out another long groan, dragging a hand over his face before pointing the spoon at you.

“You know what?” He sits forward. “I’m not done.”

You angle toward him, already trying not to smile. “You’re not?”

“I bench three-fifteen.”

“Hot damn.”

“Three-thirty-five on a good day.”

“Oh, thank god—”

“I squat four-fifty.”

“Sensational,” you answer, watching his nostrils flare.

“I’m givin’ you actual stats and you don’t give a fuck—look at this shit, baby,” he huffs, flexing for you, trembling with the effort. He rolls his shoulder, showing off his triceps too.

“Wow…” you murmur, letting your eyes wander over his broad body. “…Big boi.”

“…Did you just call me big boi?” he asks, staring at you another second before his eyebrows lift.

“Good boy?”

Garrett’s lips fall open like that title might have very well crossed the line “…I hate that,” he admits.

“Huh?”

“I hate that I liked that. Stop sweet talkin’ me when I’m pissed at you.”

You blink at him, all innocence again. “…Why are you pissed?”

“Shut up… Fuckin’ brat.”

Your head snaps toward him, acting offended yourself. “Garrett Graham.”

“Garrett Graham,” he mocks you, lifting his voice to a higher octave.

“Don’t be a bitch about it. It was just a question.”

His eyebrows shoot up so fast they practically disappear beneath his curls. “Thin ice.”

“What?”

“That's what you're skatin’ on,” he mutters, his abs tightening with his laugh, the ice cream-slicked spoon gliding along his tongue, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

Garrett drops his spoon back into the bowl with a dramatic sigh, settling his big body into the couch a little more before he looks over at you.

“Can't even enjoy my sweet treat right now.” He points at you again. “Fuck you.”

“Ughhh,” you scoff, “I’m just messin’ with you, baby.” You reach forward, plucking your phone out of the place you had it resting, thumb tapping with a beep before you toss it to the side.

"…You're joking?"

“‘Bout what?” you ask, your lips curling into a smile.

“‘Bout what, my ass,” he scolds. “You were recording that shit.”

“Well…” You tilt your head, scraping the last bit out of your bowl. “I could lie—” You gasp as his hand closes around your wrist, eating your last bite of ice cream before you can react. “RUDE!”

“ME?” he fires back with the same offense. “You’re rude. And wrong. I’m athletic as fuck. Take it back.”

“I know, baby. I know,” your voice turns impossibly sweet, more sympathetic than not, like you’re trying really hard to believe that just as much as he does, which only fires him up more.

He lets your wrist go and you lean across the little space between you, cupping both of his cheeks in your hands and squishing his face until his lips pucker into an unwilling pout before you kiss him.

He lets you do it too, chuckling through it as you rub your thumbs over the apples of his cheeks.

“I believe you,” you breathe. “So fast.” Your lips pushing against his again. “So talented.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles.

“Six miles a game is so damn impressive, baby.”

“I said five.”

“You’ll get there,” you breathe as his hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you into his lap, his other arm hooking tight around your waist.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters.

He kisses you deep, sugar lingering on his soft lips before his tongue slips in. Garrett’s hand drifts lower, dipping between the waistband of your leggings, squeezing the supple flesh underneath in his big palm.

“Should make you suck my cock right here for teasin’ me, pretty,” he mumbles into your kiss. His hand reaches farther, your panties already soaked when his finger traces along the fabric. “You get wet off tormenting me, or what?”

“Maybe,” you breathe.

“Hmm… I got a question for you, baby,” he mutters, letting the tip of his thick finger dip in your wet hole. He pushes in and out slowly, letting that comment dangle in the air for a moment.

“What?” you ask impatiently.

“You athletic, bunny?”

You chuckle against his lips, your chest pushing a little tighter to his. “Maybe,” you whisper, and a crooked smile slides across his lips.

“Run.”

“…What?” you laugh breathlessly, the man still teasing your pussy with his fingers even after the threat.

“You heard me… You. Better. Run,” the words drip past his lips into yours.

“Garrett.”

“I’ll even give you a ten-second head start, baby.”

“You’re kidding—”

“One.”

“…Garrett.”

“Two.”

You scramble over his lap so fast you stumble a little, feet finally finding the hardwood with a slap, fixing your tank top, tugging up the back of your pants as you scurry toward the steps, but he’s already to seven.

“Eight… Nine…”

Behind you, Garrett’s voice follows at the exact same steady pace, his spoon scraping up the last bit of his ice cream, completely unconcerned by your growing panic as your foot hits the first step.

“Ten…”

You squeal, grabbing the banister to keep yourself from slipping as your socks slide against the polished wood.

By the time you hit the middle of the staircase, you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe, glancing over your shoulder, your eyes matching his.

Garrett’s long legs eat up the distance, moving like the captain of Briar’s hockey team—fast, ridiculously athletic, and somehow already much closer than you could ever imagine.

Your scream echoes through the stairwell, bouncing off the high ceilings while Garrett’s laugh follows right behind it.

It isn’t even a normal laugh anymore. It’s loud and completely unhinged. Your heart pounds against your ribs, feet scrambling for any extra bit of traction while you practically throw yourself up the stairs two at a time.

You make it maybe three more steps before a pair of strong arms wraps around your waist, tossing you over his shoulder. Your entire world flips upside down, your eyes landing somewhere around the back of his gray sweats.

“Garrett!” you squeal—Crack! His hand lands against your ass with a playful smack.

“You’ve been runnin’ that mouth for thirty minutes,” he pants. “We threw gloves. I caught ya. Not my fault you’re slow as shit.”

He turns his head, chuckling against your skin before he bites teasingly. He isn’t actually angry—you know that much—but he’s absolutely decided you’re not getting away with tormenting him for the better part of half an hour without paying for it somehow.

“You’re in trouble,” he informs you matter-of-factly as he clears the last few stairs. You groan dramatically, going limp over his shoulder.

Your heart races wildly, every laugh stealing what little air you have left as you throw yourself farther up the staircase.

Garrett’s breathing barely changes. His footsteps never slow, never stumble, his strong legs carrying him up the stairs with the same effortless burst that gets him to loose pucks before anybody else on the ice.

And somewhere in between the first step and the last, you realize you probably should’ve picked a less athletic man to bully for the last thirty minutes.

“I’m sorry. Okay?” you giggle.

“Nah,” he chuckles, shouldering his bedroom door open, kicking it shut behind him with the heel of his foot. “Told you to run,” he reminds you, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “Gave you a ten-second head start like a gentleman.”

You smack his ass in mock protest, still breathless from laughing all the way up the stairs but before you can say anything he’s flipping you back over.

Your body lands on the comforter, a surprised gasp tripping past your lips as you press yourself up on your elbows to get a better look, but he’s already climbing over you.

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he catches your face with a single hand, smiling so hard he can barely keep a straight face.

The two of you end up rolling sideways, tangled together in a mess of limbs and discarded clothes.

“Fuck, baby,” he teases, cupping your cheek in his hand as his body presses down on top of yours, watching you struggle to catch your breath. “Breathin’ hard and I don’t even have my fingers in you yet.”

“—You should though,” you whisper, the sweetness in your voice almost breaking him. “Felt so good downstairs.”

“Is that so? Glad you were enjoying yourself, pretty,” he mumbles, and you can just hear the “but” waiting to leave his lips after all of that bullying. “You’re not gettin’ off that easy.”

His mouth parts against yours, tongue sweeping slow and hungry, tasting you as his hand moves away. You moan into him as your hands slide up his chest, finger twisting into his curls, dragging him closer.

Garrett’s hips press forward, grinding slow and heavy between your legs, gold chain swinging at his collarbone, dragging cool against your skin.

His hand slides up your body as his lips toy with your breast, biceps swelling when he tilts down, mouthing at your chest and sucking at the gentle skin of your cleavage. He moans around you when you bring his fingers to your lips.

His eyes flick up to yours—dark and heavy as you slide two into your mouth. The tips press against your tongue and your lips seal tight, cheeks hollowing.

He lets out the filthiest groan as you swirl your tongue—just like you would if it were his cock in your mouth—and you know from the look on his face that he’s remembering that little threat he made downstairs.

“You want it, huh?” he asks as you whimper a soft ‘yes’. “Suck it. Maybe I’ll forgive you.”

“Baby,” you sigh, your lips trembling at the corners when you fight back a smile, forcing your lips into a pout.

“You want me to feel bad for you?” he chuckles, rolling you effortlessly on top. You giggle with delight, your hand slapping against his muscular chest as you steady yourself.

His hand tangles in the back of your hair, pulling you down to his mouth. His lips brush against yours, humming out a pleased sound having you on top like this. “Got twenty more minutes of teasin’ you. Do a good enough job and I’ll make it ten—”

“Football,” you grin.

“What?”

“I would have said football.”

“Keep talkin’,” he warns, his palm reaching up, resting on the top of your head, guiding you down. You laugh breathily, dragging your tongue along the deep ridges of his stomach, pressing kisses as you work lower and lower.

He sinks a little deeper into the pillow, lashes lowering as your fingers wrap around his thick dick, pumping as a line of spit falls from your lips.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “That’s it.” The praise falls from his lips as his hand rests behind his head, propping himself up for a better look as you tap his swollen tip against your tongue.

The thick muscles in his thighs clench with each slap, jaw dropping as your lips wrap around him tight, one hand slipping into your hair.

You moan around his length, taking him deep, watching his eyes roll back. “Christ… Just—Just like that, baby,” he pants, guiding your head, using your mouth to stroke him.

You let him use you—let him fuck your throat—spit slicking your chin as your eyes water and your hands grip his thighs for balance.

The wet sounds fill his room—every moan, every gag, every obscene sound making you more and more desperate.

His big hands rest on the back of your head, eyes pinching shut, fucking up into your mouth from the bottom. Your nails drive into his thighs, throat hot with the effort as his dick swells on your tongue.

You can tell he’s close, his breathing quickening with each passing second—that praise leaving his lips coming out a little more slurred as your soft lips glide up and down his dick.

“Thinkin’ about cummin’ just like this, pretty. What do you think?” he grits through his teeth—a smug smile painting his features.

You mumble around his dick and he grins, pulling you off him, leaving you reaching for air.

He rolls you again, spreading you open, a scream leaving your lips when he slaps your pussy. Your legs clamp together and all he does is shake his head with a grin, clicking his tongue, gripping your thigh to pin it down again.

He drives into you, burying himself to the hilt, your hands finding his hips, trembling at how deep he is.

Your gasp snaps into a moan, back arching off the mattress, when he draws his hips back, the muscles in his chest and stomach flexing tighter when he drags his body. His eyes fall, eyeing his wet cock, the head dropping between his shoulders as he blows out a deep breath.

“Wanted you so bad I barely made you beg,” his words grumble past his lips as his chain swings in your face.

You pull him down by his necklace, crashing your lips to his again. Your teeth scrape his lip, his tongue licking into your mouth. You’re so wet he slides in and out of you with ease, slick sounds echoing between your bodies.

He grinds down, hips circling, making your breath catch. “Yes,” you cry, clenching around him, and he groans—loud and filthy.

“Look at you. Crying on my cock—” he grunts, slamming his hips forward so hard your body jolts, skin smacking against his. “Fuck, pretty girl. You made a goddamn mess for me, huh?”

Sweat drips off his brow, biceps flexing as he squeezes your hip, keeping you flush to him, using the leverage to slam into you harder.

His hands hook behind your thighs, folding you in half, pinning you to the bed as he drives into you. Your nails claw at the sheets, then at his back, then into his hair, pulling at the roots.

“Garrett—Garrett, holy shit—” he dips down to kiss you—his cock sinking impossibly deep.

“You’re right there. C’mon, pretty girl. Stop bein’ a brat and fuckin’ give it to me.”

Your head falls back, mouth open in a silent cry as your body tightens, every muscle trembling as he keeps hitting that exact spot.

“C’mon, baby. Let him hear who makes you cum.”

Your orgasm rips through you hard, a choked sob escaping your lips as you clamp around him, shaking under his weight.

“That’s it,” he whispers against your mouth, still thrusting through the aftershocks. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

You’re soaking him, dripping down your thighs, pulsing around him as he keeps fucking you through it, working you toward another.

“Feel that mess you made?” he asks, smugness laced in every word. “Proud of you, baby. So filthy for me. Need you on top.”

He pulls out fast, making you whine at the loss of him. Garrett wraps his hand around his dick, pumping as he watches you climb on top, hovering over him, delicate fingers circling your clit as he licks his bottom lip.

You spread your thighs, sinking on his tip, taking the first few inches, moving up and down teasingly before you take the rest—eyes locked on his, nails digging into his chest.

You ride him hard, your bodies colliding in messy, rhythmic slaps, the sounds of your pleasure filling the room.

Garrett grabs your waist, lifting you just enough to slam back up into you. “You’re gonna cum for me again,” he rasps. “Right fucking now.”

And you do—your belly tightens, the band snaps, and his name tumbles past your lips as your head falls back. Your throat’s ragged from sobbing his name, thighs drenched in sweat and slick, shining under the low light.

“Goddamn, baby… I’m almost there,” he mutters, reaching up to hook a hand around the back of your neck and kiss you, his hips stalling out as a whimper slips from his lips when he sighs that he’s cumming, filling you with his heavy load.

You shut your eyes in exhaustion, his smile sliding against yours as his nose nuzzles yours. His cock throbs inside you still, his heartbeat thudding against yours.

He kisses you again anyway, both of you still breathing hard, forehead resting against yours. His smile lingers, lazy and completely satisfied at how exhausted and fucked-out you look.

“You know…” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “You still haven’t apologized.”

“Yes, I did,” you laugh.

“Mm-mm,” he grunts, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

“Literally said I was sorry,” you pant, drawing in a breath as he waits for you to finish your sentence, not even trying to hide the teasing look on his face.

“For ruinin’ my sweet treat?” he lifts an eyebrow. “No, you fuckin’ didn’t.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.

“This?” he asks, tipping his chin toward your body. “This reaction’s apology enough for callin’ me unathletic, baby.”

His eyes drift over your face, taking in your damp skin, the little wisps of hair stuck to your forehead, the way you’re still trying to catch your breath.

“Stop,” you chuckle, turning your face away a little as he looks up at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

“Look at you… So sweaty,” he teases softly, his voice losing most of its bite as his fingertips tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

Heat climbs into your cheeks, your lip bitten to hold back your smile. “Stop teasing me, Garrett Graham.”

“Coming from you?” he smiles, grabbing your cheeks between his fingers before stealing another slow kiss. “That more than made up for you fuckin’ with me,” he whispers, the words deep—vibrating against your mouth. “…Now delete that fuckin’ video.”

“Absolutely not.”

Garrett’s smile spreads against your lips before he lets out a quiet, defeated chuckle, already knowing exactly what your answer would be. He gives your hip a playful squeeze and shakes his head once.

“Well, fuck,” he sighs. “Round two, princess.”

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