chye

You lunged for it. “Give it back.”

He twisted away, holding it just out of reach. “Absolutely not. This looks educational.”

“Dean.”

Garrett immediately perked up. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

Dean’s grin widened. “Oh, it’s not nothing.”

Tucker turned his head, looking up at you from where he sat between your legs. His brows lifted, more amused than nosy, and somehow that made it worse.

“Di Laurentis,” Tucker said. “Give her the phone.”

Dean pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m offended you’d assume I’m doing anything wrong.”

“You stole her phone.”

“Temporarily relocated it.”

“Dean,” Hannah said, already fighting a laugh. “Give it back.”

But Dean had already seen enough.

His eyes dropped to the screen, and then his face transformed.

“Oh my God.”

You covered your face with both hands. “I hate you.”

Logan leaned over the back of the couch. “Read the title.”

“No,” you snapped.

Dean cleared his throat in a formal, dramatic voice. “Saddled by Sundown.”

Garrett choked on his water.

Logan made a sound like he had been punched in the ribs.

Hannah burst out laughing.

You snatched the throw pillow beside you and hurled it at Dean’s head. He ducked out of the way, still laughing.

“It’s a book,” you said, hot all over. “People read books.”

Dean looked down at the cover again. “This man is shirtless in a barn.”

“Farm labor is very demanding.”

Garrett nodded like he was considering it. “True. Lots of hay. Heavy equipment.”

“Don’t help,” you said.

Tucker still hadn’t moved, but you felt his thumb sweep once over the inside of your ankle.

You looked down.

He was watching you now, his mouth curved just enough to make your stomach tighten.

Dean, tragically still alive, kept going. “Wait, wait. There are more of these in the app. She has a whole collection.”

“Dean,” you said slowly. “I am begging you to remember that I know where you sleep.”

“Cowboy romances,” Logan said, looking far too pleased with this development. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“You don’t see most things coming,” you muttered.

Garrett leaned back in his chair, pointing his slice of pizza at you. “So is this why you got weirdly defensive during that movie when Dean said cowboys were overrated?”

“I was defending the genre.”

“The genre of shirtless barn men?” Dean asked.

You reached for another pillow.

This time, Tucker caught your wrist gently before you could throw it. His hand wrapped around you easily, warm and solid.

“Save it,” he said. “He’ll only get louder.”

Everyone started talking again, and slowly, mercifully, your phone was returned. You locked it immediately and shoved it under your thigh like that would erase the last five minutes from history.

Tucker gave your ankle one last squeeze before standing.

“You okay?” he asked, low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

You lifted your chin. “I’m fantastic.”

His eyes moved over your face, taking in every bit of false dignity you had left.

“Sure are,” he said.

You hated the way his accent made two simple words feel like a hand sliding beneath your shirt.

By the time you all made it to the bar, the cowboy jokes had mostly died down, replaced by Dean getting rejected by the karaoke host because he tried to submit the same song three times under three fake names.

The place was crowded and loud, packed with Briar students, locals, and a few regulars who seemed deeply unprepared for whatever Dean had planned.

You claimed a booth in the back with Hannah while the boys fought their way to the bar.

“I’m sorry,” Hannah said, still grinning. “But the way your face dropped when Dean read that title was incredible.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side. I also support your right to read about dusty, emotionally unavailable ranchers.”

“They’re not all dusty.”

“Of course not.”

“Some of them bathe in rivers.”

Hannah laughed into her drink, and you tried very hard not to look at Tucker where he stood at the bar.

He was leaning with one elbow on the counter, talking to the bartender like they were old friends, because of course he was. Tucker could make friends with a parking meter. He wore jeans and a dark shirt that fit him in a way you had been trying not to notice all night. His hair was a little messy from the cold outside, and when he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes found you immediately.

You looked away before you could do something humiliating.

The night settled into the kind of chaos that only happened with that group. Garrett sang a painfully sincere power ballad and somehow made half the bar cheer for him. Logan and Dean performed a duet that involved too much hip movement and absolutely no musical talent. Hannah recorded the entire thing while Garrett yelled, “That’s my girl,” even though she had told him twice that recording evidence of Dean’s crimes was a public service.

Tucker stayed beside you through most of it, shoulder brushing yours in the booth, one arm stretched along the back behind you. He did not mention the books again. He did not tease you about cowboys or covers or shirtless men in barns.

The silence felt deliberate.

You were halfway through your drink when Dean stumbled back to the table, flushed with victory from whatever crime he had just committed onstage.

“Tuck,” he said. “You’re up.”

Tucker lifted his brows. “Am I?”

“You are now. I signed you up.”

“Of course you did.”

Dean dropped into the booth beside Logan. “You’re welcome.”

You turned to Tucker. “You don’t have to.”

He looked at you for a second too long.

Then he smiled.

Not wide. Not obvious. Just enough to make you nervous.

“Nah,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “I’ll do it.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What did he sign you up for?”

Dean pressed his lips together with the focus of a man trying to keep a secret and failing at every visible level.

“Dean,” you said.

“I’m just here for the arts.”

Tucker walked toward the small stage, and your heart started beating harder for no reasonable reason. He looked too comfortable up there, taking the mic from the karaoke host, rolling his shoulders once like he was getting ready for something more dangerous than a song in a bar full of drunk college students.

Then the opening notes started.

You froze.

Dean slapped both hands over his mouth.

Logan fell forward onto the table, already laughing.

Garrett looked at you, then at Tucker, then back at you. “Oh, he’s dead.”

You sank slowly into your seat.

“No,” you whispered.

Hannah grabbed your arm. “Yes.”

Tucker stood under the cheap bar lights with the microphone in hand, his eyes already on you, and started singing “Save a Horse.”

The whole room erupted.

Dean was on his feet immediately.

Logan pounded on the table.

Garrett yelled, “Commit to the bit, Tuck!”

And Tucker did.

He did not have the best voice in the world, but he had enough confidence to sell it and enough charm to make the entire room go with him. He moved across the tiny stage like it belonged to him, smile easy, head tipped slightly whenever the crowd sang along. He kept it funny at first. Light. Ridiculous. Playing into the shouting and clapping like he was only doing it because Dean had signed him up.

Then he looked at you during the chorus.

Your entire body forgot how to behave.

He didn’t point. Didn’t wink. Didn’t make it obvious enough for everyone to catch.

He just held your gaze, singing the title like he knew exactly what it would do to you.

Heat climbed up your neck.

“Oh, she’s dying,” Logan said.

“I am not.”

“You kind of are,” Hannah said, delighted.

Dean leaned across the table. “Are the cowboys in your books this committed? Because I respect the hustle.”

“I’m going to pour this drink on you.”

Onstage, Tucker laughed through the next line, probably because he could see you plotting murder from the booth. It only made him worse. He got the crowd clapping again, voice rough and warm through the cheap speakers, and every time the song swung back to that chorus, his attention drifted to you like a match being struck.

By the time it ended, you were gripping your glass too tightly.

The bar erupted into applause.

Tucker handed the mic back, stepped offstage, and started toward the booth while Garrett and Logan cheered like he had just won a championship.

Dean bowed to him. “You’re welcome. I created this.”

Tucker slid back into the booth beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours.

You stared straight ahead.

He leaned in, voice low. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m considering a transfer.”

“To where?”

“Somewhere without karaoke.”

“That’d be a shame,” he said. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

You turned your head.

He was close. Too close for the amount of people at the table. His eyes were on your mouth for half a second before they lifted again.

“I was embarrassed for you,” you said.

“Were you?”

“Mhm.”

Tucker nodded slowly, as if giving that the respect it deserved, which was none. “That’s why you haven’t touched your drink since I got onstage?”

Your fingers loosened around the glass.

Across the table, Dean was loudly explaining to Garrett that he had “changed the romantic trajectory of the evening,” so at least no one was paying attention.

No one except Tucker.

You tried to find something sharp to say. Something that would put the night back where it belonged, with jokes and distance and plausible deniability.

Instead, you said, “You’re a terrible friend.”

The amusement in his face shifted into something lower, steadier.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was hoping that came across.”

Your breath caught.

Tucker’s hand slid under the table and rested on your knee. Not high. Not rushed. Just there, his palm warm through the fabric of your skirt.

“Tell me I’m reading this wrong,” he said.

There was still laughter around you. Dean shouting. Garrett arguing. Hannah ordering another round. The bar lights flickering over Tucker’s face.

You could have lied.

You had lied for months.

But his thumb moved once against your knee, and your self-control went thin enough to tear.

“You’re not,” you said.

Tucker’s jaw worked slightly.

Then his hand moved higher.

Your breath went uneven.

He leaned back like nothing had happened, picked up his beer, and took a slow drink. To anyone watching, he looked relaxed. Normal. Like he hadn’t just shifted something huge between you with two quiet words and a hand under the table.

Then he stood.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” he said casually.

Dean waved him off, too busy trying to convince Hannah that he deserved producer credit for Tucker’s performance.

Tucker did not look at you when he walked away.

You stayed in the booth a little longer, listening to Dean talk over Logan, feeling the heat of Tucker’s hand still sitting on your knee like he’d left a mark there.

Then you slid out.

Hannah caught it, because of course she did. She glanced from you to the back hallway, and whatever she saw on your face made her pick up her drink and start an argument with Dean loud enough to cover you leaving.

Bless her.

The hallway to the bathrooms was dimmer than the rest of the bar, narrow and lined with old posters. Your pulse beat hard in your throat as you passed the women’s room and found Tucker near the single-use bathroom at the end.

His eyes lifted when he saw you.

That was all it took.

He opened the door behind him, and you slipped inside.

The lock clicked.

The room was small, with a sink set into the counter, a mirror, and music thumping faintly through the walls. For half a second, Tucker only looked at you.

Then you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down to you.

Tucker kissed you like he had been waiting all night to stop pretending.

There was nothing slow about it. His hand came to the back of your neck, the other finding your waist as he backed you toward the sink. You made a small sound against his mouth when the counter hit the backs of your thighs, and he swallowed it, kissing you deeper.

He tasted like beer and mint and Tucker, familiar in a way that made your chest ache even as your body went molten.

His hands slid down to your hips.

“You have any idea,” he murmured against your mouth, “what you looked like sitting in that booth?”

You tugged him closer. “Annoyed?”

“Distracted.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

Tucker kissed along your jaw, then down your neck, his mouth warm and unhurried even though the rest of him was anything but. The music outside changed, bass thumping through the door, and someone laughed somewhere in the hallway.

The sound should have made you stop.

Instead, your hands slid under the edge of his shirt, fingers pressing into the warm skin at his waist.

Tucker’s breath hitched.

“Keep doing that,” he said, voice roughening, “and we’re not making it back to the table.”

You dragged your nails lightly over his skin.

“Good.”

His hands tightened on your hips, and whatever control he’d been pretending to have snapped thinner.

Then he lifted you onto the sink counter.

The mirror shook faintly behind you. You wrapped your legs around him, and he stepped between them, kissing you again like he had no interest in remembering there were people waiting just outside.

His hand slid beneath the hem of your skirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of your thigh.

He paused.

His mouth stopped moving against yours.

You felt the second he realized.

He drew back enough to look at you.

“No panties?” he said, voice lower than before.

You tried to look composed and failed spectacularly. “Laundry day.”

His eyes darkened.

“That right?”

“Yeah.”

His hand moved higher, slow enough to make you grip the edge of the counter.

“All night,” he said, “you were sitting next to me like this?”

Your knees tightened around his hips. “I didn’t plan for you to sing that song.”

“No?” His mouth brushed yours. “What did you plan for?”

“Nothing involving a public bathroom.”

Tucker kissed you once, hard and brief.

“Plans change.”

His fingers slipped between your thighs, and your whole body jerked when he touched you. The sound you made was too loud for the space, too honest, and Tucker caught it with his mouth while his hand worked under your skirt.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” he murmured.

“You started this.”

“I sang a song.”

“You knew what you were doing.”

His smile brushed against your cheek. “Yeah, I did.”

He pulled his hand back just enough to lift it between you. You watched, breath stuck in your chest, as he licked two fingers slowly, his eyes not leaving yours.

Every thought in your head vanished.

Then his hand was under your skirt again.

“Oh,” you breathed.

He rubbed your clit in slow circles, slick fingers moving with a confidence that made your hips shift forward helplessly. You caught his shoulder with one hand and the counter with the other, trying to stay quiet as pleasure rolled through you fast and bright.

Tucker watched your face like he was learning what ruined you.

“You’re trying so hard to keep quiet,” he said, mouth near your ear. “It’s making it worse.”

You swallowed a moan. “Tuck.”

“I like that,” he said. “Say it like that again.”

Your thighs tightened around his hips.

He pressed a little firmer, circles steady and sure, and you gave him exactly what he wanted because you couldn’t help it.

“Tuck.”

His breath dragged out rough against your neck.

“There you go.”

The praise hit you hard, and he must have felt it in the way your hips rolled against his hand, because his fingers slowed just to make you chase them. Then they slipped lower, teasing your entrance, and your laugh broke apart into a gasp.

The music outside swelled, loud enough to rattle the door in its frame. A burst of laughter passed down the hall, and Tucker moved closer, his body covering yours as though that could hide what the two of you were doing.

His fingers pushed inside you.

Your grip on his shirt tightened.

He moved slowly at first, watching your face, reading every little shift. Then he curled them, and you had to press your mouth to his shoulder to keep from making too much noise.

“Tucker,” you gasped.

His jaw brushed your temple. “That’s the spot, huh?”

You nodded into his shoulder, too far gone to make a joke out of it.

He did it again.

Your whole body tightened.

“God,” you whispered. “Please.”

“Please what?”

You lifted your head enough to glare at him, even though you were breathing too hard for it to land properly.

“Tuck.”

He smiled, but it was strained now, his control wearing thin. “I know. I’m sorry. I just like hearing you ask me.”

You reached between you, fingers finding his belt. “Then I’m asking.”

Tucker kissed you as he helped, hands brushing yours, breath uneven. He got his belt open, shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough, and you caught one glimpse of him before he was reaching for his wallet with the kind of urgency that made your stomach flip.

“Tell me you have a condom,” you whispered.

He pulled one out.

“Thank God,” you breathed.

He tore it open, rolled it on, then gripped your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the sink. The movement made you gasp, your skirt pushed up around your hips, his jeans low, both of you still mostly dressed and somehow that made it filthier.

Tucker’s hand came to your face.

He kissed you once. Not rushed. Not this time.

Then he lined himself up and pushed inside.

Your mouth fell open, but no sound came out at first. He stretched you slowly, one hand braced on the counter beside your hip, the other gripping your thigh. Tucker’s forehead dropped against yours as he filled you, his breath shuddering.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Your nails dug into his shoulder. “Tuck.”

He stayed still once he was all the way inside, jaw tight, his body pressed close enough that you could feel the effort it took for him not to move right away.

“You feel so good,” he said, voice rough. “I need a second.”

A breathless laugh escaped you.

He smiled against your cheek, and then he started to move.

The first thrust made your head fall back against the mirror.

His hand came up behind your neck, cushioning you before you could hit too hard. Even here, even like this, he noticed. Then his hips snapped forward again, and your thoughts scattered.

He fucked you against the sink with his mouth at your neck and one hand gripping your thigh, keeping you open for him. The counter creaked beneath you. The mirror fogged slightly near your shoulder. Your skirt was bunched at your waist, your top twisted under his hand, your body taking him in quick, deep strokes that made it nearly impossible to stay quiet.

“Tucker,” you breathed, and his name came out broken.

His grip tightened.

“You have no idea,” he said against your throat. “How many times I thought about you like this.”

You clung to him, barely able to answer. He angled his hips, and the next thrust hit so perfectly that your eyes squeezed shut.

“There,” you gasped.

He caught it immediately.

“There?”

“Yes.”

He kept that angle, steady and focused, kissing you to swallow the sounds you couldn’t hold back. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge, pleasure building too fast after his fingers, your body already sensitive and wet for him.

His hand slid between you again.

When his fingers found your clit, you nearly fell apart.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

Tucker’s breath stuttered. “Come on. Let me feel it.”

Your body locked around him.

He kissed you hard as you came, his fingers still moving, his hips slowing just enough to drag it out. The orgasm hit you in waves, your thighs shaking around his waist, one hand slapped over your own mouth because you could not trust yourself.

He watched you through it, eyes dark and stunned, like he could not believe he got to see you like this.

Then his thrusts got rougher.

Desperate.

He buried his face against your neck, breathing hard, his hands gripping you as he chased his own release. You held onto him, murmuring his name near his ear, and that seemed to finish him.

Tucker came with a low groan, his body pressing yours back against the mirror, his hips stuttering once, twice, before he went still.

For a few seconds, the only sounds were your breathing and the muffled disaster of the bar outside.

Then someone in the hallway shouted, “Yo, whoever’s in there, some of us have beer organs with limited patience.”

Dean.

Of course.

Your eyes widened.

Tucker dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he whispered.

You started laughing, quiet and helpless, your body still wrapped around his.

Tucker lifted his head, and the look on his face softened so much that it made the laughter fade in your throat.

He kissed you gently.

Then once more.

Then he helped you down from the counter like your knees were not in immediate danger of betraying you. He cleaned up, fixed himself, washed his hands, and handed you a paper towel without making you ask.

You straightened your skirt, then turned to the mirror and immediately regretted it. Your hair, your mouth, the flushed look on your face all gave you away at once.

Tucker came up behind you, but he didn’t wrap his arms around you right away. Instead, he braced both hands on the sink on either side of you, boxing you in without touching anywhere except the faint brush of his chest against your back.

You looked at him in the mirror.

He was watching you there, his hair a little mussed, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes quieter now than they had been all night.

“I don’t want to walk back out there and pretend this was just the song,” he said.

Your fingers paused at the hem of your skirt.

Tucker’s eyes stayed on yours in the mirror, steady in a way that made your chest feel too tight for the room.

“I want you,” he said. “Not just tonight. Not just because Dean’s an idiot and I picked a song I knew would get under your skin. I mean seriously.”

Your throat went dry. “You’re telling me this in a bar bathroom?”

His mouth curved a little, but he didn’t look away. “Yeah. Not my best setting.”

“No,” you said, softer now. “But it’s very you.”

Tucker leaned in, pressing one kiss beneath your ear. “Let me take you home. Let me take you out tomorrow. Let me do this right after doing it completely wrong first.”

You stared at him in the mirror for another second, trying to keep your face together and failing.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Tucker’s hands tightened once on the sink, like that one word had hit him harder than anything else you’d done in that bathroom. Then he kissed your shoulder, soft and lingering, before finally reaching past you to unlock the door.

Dean was leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed.

Not surprised. Not horrified. Barely even interested.

Just waiting.

“Finally,” he said. “I was starting to think I’d have to send Garrett in with snacks.”

You froze in the doorway. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know I was right.”

Tucker sighed. “Dean.”

“No, no, I’m being mature about this.” Dean pushed off the wall, eyes flicking between Tucker’s hand at your waist and your very obviously fixed-in-a-hurry hair. “I’m not saying a word.”

You stared at him.

Dean lifted both hands. “Out loud.”

Tucker started guiding you past him.

Dean fell into step beside you like he had been invited. “For the record, I accept thank-you gifts in cash, liquor, or public acknowledgment that I’m the reason this happened.”

“You are never getting that,” Tucker said.

He huffs a laugh and reaches for the back of her jacket when she starts drifting toward the edge of the path, steering her around an oncoming cyclist without interrupting her baking autopsy. 

She moves where he puts her automatically, continuing as if this is a completely normal thing for another person to do with her body. Which, for them, it is. “I think the baking powder was old, but I only bought it last month, so maybe it’s the flour. Or the oven. The ovens in my building are fucked.”

“Thoughts and prayers.”

She bumps her shoulder into his arm. “Do you think the guys would eat the failed ones?”

Garrett looks down at her. Her woollen hat is pale pink, naturally, with a little pom-pom on top that keeps brushing his shoulder whenever she moves closer to avoid someone. “Dude, Logan ate a chicken wing he found under the couch.”

Her nose wrinkles. “How long had it been there?”

“We didn’t ask.”

“Why wouldn’t you ask?”

“Sometimes knowledge is a burden, princess.”

She rolls her eyes at the nickname, although she stopped seriously protesting it somewhere around the hundredth time he used it. Now she mostly makes a face because he seems disappointed when she doesn’t. “So that’s a yes?”

“That’s an enthusiastic yes. Bring food into that house and they’ll build a religion around you.”

She nods, satisfied. “Okay. I’ll bring them around tonight. Maybe I’ll do another batch too, so you can compare them.”

“You want us to conduct a cupcake trial?”

She nods. “I want constructive feedback.”

“We’re not qualified for that.”

“You’re constantly giving opinions nobody asked for. I think you’ll manage.”

Garrett grins, holding the dining hall door open. “After you, Your Highness.”

“You’re so annoying,” she says, sailing past him into the warmth.

It hits them immediately, thick and overheated after the cold outside, carrying the smells of coffee, fried food, tomato sauce and approximately six hundred damp winter coats. 

She unwinds her scarf as they join the queue, still talking about whether sour cream might work better than yoghurt, while Garrett collects two trays from the stack and begins assembling her lunch with the efficient resignation of someone who knows exactly how this works.

She doesn’t ask him to. She hasn’t asked him in years. She just follows beside him, pointing out what she wants occasionally, although he already knows she’ll take the soup if it’s tomato, the pasta if it isn’t visibly congealed, the little fruit cup without melon because she claims melon tastes like wet disappointment. 

He puts a bowl of tomato soup onto her tray, adds a grilled cheese, grabs the strawberry yoghurt before she notices it’s there and trades the banana from her fruit cup for the grapes in his because she likes those better.

He does all of this while complaining about Coach.

“I’m telling you, he’s on my ass because I missed one pass yesterday,” Garrett says, balancing both trays against his forearms as they move through the crowd. “One. We still scored on the next shift.”

She grabs two forks and slides them onto the trays for him. “Was it a bad pass?”

“That’s not the point.”

She giggles. “That means yes.”

“It wasn’t bad. It was... slightly overly optimistic.”

She gives him a look. “You passed to nobody.”

“There was supposed to be somebody there.”

“Was there?”

Garrett looks at her.

She smiles sweetly. “Just gathering information.”

He mutters something about betrayal and carries their food toward the quieter side of the hall, waiting while she chooses a table near the heaters before setting her tray down in front of her. She immediately steals one of his fries, because their careful food allocation system only applies when she benefits from it.

Garrett sits across from her, stretching one long leg beneath the table until his sneaker knocks lightly into her boot. “Anyway, Coach acts like I personally invented turnovers. He kept me after practice for twenty minutes going through film.”

She makes a sympathetic noise around a bite of grilled cheese, shrugging out of her jacket as the heat begins sinking through her sweater. “He’s riding you because he knows you can take it.”

“Great. Inspiring.”

“No, I mean it.” She drapes the jacket over the back of her chair and smooths her hair down where the hat flattened it, leaving herself in a fitted pale-pink top that clings softly to her body. “He knows what you’re capable of, G. That’s why he notices when you’re even slightly off. It would be worse if he stopped caring.”

Garrett, who has been reaching for his drink, misses the straw entirely. The top is long-sleeved. It covers her from her collarbones to the waistband of her jeans. There’s nothing objectively scandalous about it, except that she’s not wearing a bra and the metal bars through her nipples are pressing clearly against the thin fabric.

He has seen this before. Technically.

The white tank top incident happened months ago, and since then he’s become painfully aware that the piercings exist beneath multiple items of her wardrobe. He's seen them through sweaters, dresses and the tiny pink top that nearly caused him to commit several felonies at his own party.

But awareness hasn’t produced immunity. It's produced a highly specific form of suffering.

She’s still talking, entirely unaware that the captain of Briar’s hockey team has been rendered incapable of operating a straw. “You’re the captain. He expects more from you because everyone else takes their cues from you. That doesn’t mean you played badly. It means one slightly optimistic pass from you matters more than five terrible ones from Dean.”

Garrett nods slowly.

Her eyebrows lift. “Are you listening?”

“Yep.”

“What did I say?”

“That Dean sucks.”

“Garrett.”

His gaze drops again before he can stop it. The little bars make subtle shadows beneath the pink fabric, more suggestion than display, which is somehow worse. He thinks about her dorm room. The white tank. The way she had crossed her arms and accidentally made the situation more obscene. He thinks about what the metal would feel like against his tongue.

Her fork clicks against the bowl. “Eyes are up here, loser.”

Garrett drags his attention back to her face. She’s staring at him with an expression that is mostly unimpressed, although colour has crept faintly along her cheekbones.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “Totally. Sorry.”

“You’re such a guy.”

“In my defence–”

“There isn’t one.”

“In my defence,” he continues, “you brought weapons into a family dining establishment.”

Her mouth twitches. “I’m wearing a shirt.”

“We’ve had this argument.”

She tilts her head. “And you lost it.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

He leans back in his chair. “Interesting. Doesn’t feel like losing from where I’m sitting.”

She kicks him beneath the table, but her lips have curved around the edge of her spoon. She would never tell him, obviously, because Garrett already possesses enough confidence to power a medium-sized city, but there’s something satisfying about watching his eyes betray him. 

She knows what she looks like. She chose the shirt this morning, stood in front of her mirror and watched the pink fabric settle over her chest, the piercings just visible enough that nobody could reasonably accuse her of doing anything deliberate. Nobody except herself.

It’s been months since a man made her come. Not since she has come, technically. Her vibrator is dependable, discreet and considerably less likely than most men to ask whether she’s close after thirty seconds of mediocre effort. 

But it’s been months since someone else managed it, and the last hookup had ended with her staring at a boy’s ceiling fan while he treated her left thigh like it contained a secret combination.

She’s had sex. It’s been fine. Fine in the way a cafeteria sandwich is fine: technically sustaining, occasionally pleasant, never something she dreams about later. Garrett, unfortunately, has appeared in those dreams.

Brief, treacherous images that arrive while the vibrator hums between her legs and she’s already warm and pliant enough not to push them away. Garrett’s mouth at her chest. Garrett’s broad hand flattening over her stomach. Garrett saying princess in that lower voice he uses when he stops teasing and means something.

The first time it happened, she had been so appalled that she stopped immediately. The third time, she came hard enough to kick the blankets onto the floor.

Now he’s sitting opposite her, trying not to stare and failing so openly that warmth pools low beneath her stomach. He drops his eyes to his food like he’s imposing discipline on himself, jaw moving as he chews, ears faintly pink.

She takes another spoonful of soup and watches him over the rim. Interesting. Maybe she doesn’t need to stop wearing the shirt after all.

A week later, Garrett has his tongue in another girl’s mouth when she decides she wants to go home. The two things are unrelated. Completely.

She’s been ready to leave for at least ten minutes, which is a reasonable amount of time to spend standing in the corner of an aggressively expensive fraternity house, pretending she cannot see her ex-boyfriend sitting across the room with his new girlfriend folded prettily into his lap.

The fact that Garrett is making out with a blonde against the kitchen counter has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.

The party has that sticky, overripe feeling they all develop after midnight, when the floors have become tacky with spilled beer and the music is loud enough to flatten every conversation into shouting. Someone has knocked a decorative framed photograph off the hallway wall. 

A group of freshmen are playing a drinking game with rules that seem to involve pointing at one another and screaming. The air smells like vodka, perfume and the warm electrical threat of an overloaded speaker.

She’s wedged between Tucker and Logan on a sagging couch, her legs crossed beneath a short black skirt, trying to contribute to a conversation about whether a hot dog qualifies as a sandwich while three girls near the drinks table keep glancing in her direction and whispering.

They’re hockey girls. They attend every party, know every player’s schedule and become visibly displeased whenever she sits too close to Garrett. She’s never done anything to them. Except perhaps exist in his immediate vicinity.

One of the girls looks her up and down, her attention lingering on the leather jacket buttoned over the baby-pink crop top beneath it, then turns away with a small curl of her lip.

“Did she just roll her eyes at me?” she asks.

Tucker, who’s absolutely seen it, becomes very interested in the label on his beer. “Didn’t notice.”

“Liar.”

“I’m practicing peace.”

Logan glances between her and the girl. “Maybe she has something in her eye.”

“Both eyes?”

“Serious condition.”

Across the room, Garrett’s hand slides along the blonde’s waist.

Her stomach gives one hard, unpleasant twist. Which is stupid. Garrett hooks up with people. She knows this because she has interrupted him during hookups frequently enough that Dean once suggested they install a traffic-light system outside his bedroom. 

Garrett has never cared. If she needs a ride, his notes, help moving furniture or someone to kill a spider while another girl is in his bed, he complains loudly and then does whatever she wants.

He always puts her first. That’s simply how their friendship works.

The blonde curls her fingers into Garrett’s hair, tugging his head down to deepen the kiss, and something inside her turns hot and mean.

She stands.

Logan looks up. “Where’re you going?”

“Home.”

“Tuck can call you a car.”

She shakes her head. “Garrett drove me.”

Both boys look across the room.

Tucker rubs his mouth. “He appears occupied.”

“He won’t mind.”

Neither of them answers, because they have witnessed this particular ecosystem before and understand that interfering would only put them closer to the blast radius.

She crosses the room, stepping around another couple making out. Garrett doesn’t see her coming. His back is partially turned, one arm braced beside the blonde’s shoulder, his mouth moving slowly against hers while she presses into him with considerable enthusiasm.

She taps him on the shoulder. “Garrett.”

He hums without pulling away.

Her jaw tightens. “Garrett.”

He breaks the kiss just enough to glance over, lips swollen and curls mussed beneath the blonde’s hand. “What?”

“I want to go home.”

His eyebrows knit, focus dragging slowly into place. The blonde uses the pause to kiss along his jaw, her glossy mouth leaving a faint pink mark beneath his ear. “Make Dean drive you.”

“Dean disappeared twenty minutes ago to have sex with someone.”

Garrett squints past her into the crowd. “Twenty minutes?”

“Yes.”

“Great. He’ll be back any second.”

The blonde laughs against his neck. It’s not even particularly mean, but it lands that way.

She folds her arms, leather creaking softly at the shoulders. “Garrett.”

“What?”

“Please. I want to go home.”

The blonde’s hand tightens at the back of his neck. “She can get an Uber.”

Garrett’s eyes move to her face properly then. He knows her too well. That’s the problem with best friends. You can arrange your mouth into something neutral and keep your voice level, but they know where to look for the cracks. 

His attention traces the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she has tucked one thumb beneath the cuff of her jacket and begun worrying the leather, the fact that she’s refusing to glance toward the couch where her ex is practically eating his new girlfriend’s face.

“You good?” Garrett asks.

“I’m fine. I just want to go.”

His mouth flattens slightly. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Princess.”

“Nothing happened.” She hates the tiny strain in her own voice, hates the sympathetic crease already forming between his brows. “Forget it. I’ll walk.”

“Great,” the blonde says. “Bye.”

She hooks her fingers around Garrett’s neck and tries to pull him back down.

Garrett resists without seeming to think about it, his body going still beneath her hand. He looks from the blonde to his best friend, who’s already turned away, spine straight as she begins weaving toward the front door alone.

The desire he’d been nursing all evening evaporates so quickly it’s almost impressive.

“Hey,” the blonde protests when he steps back. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, no. Sorry.” Garrett grabs his jacket from the counter and follows. “I’m driving her.”

“She’s being dramatic.”

He stops. It isn’t anger. Garrett’s anger is colder than most people expect, shaped by years of learning precisely how dangerous loud anger can become. His face empties instead, the easy warmth dropping out of his eyes as he looks back at the girl.

“She’s my best friend,” he says. “Don’t make me choose.”

The girl gives a short, disbelieving laugh. “What the fuck?”

He catches up with her outside, where she’s standing at the foot of the porch steps with her arms folded against the cold and her chin tipped stubbornly toward the road.

Snow crunches beneath his shoes as he approaches. “You seriously gonna walk?”

She doesn’t look at him. “Maybe.”

“In that skirt?”

“I have legs.”

He scoffs. “You also have no survival instincts.”

She finally glances over, eyes narrowing. “Go back inside, Garrett.”

“No.”

“You were busy,” she mumbles. 

“I’m aware.”

“She seemed nice.”

“She wasn’t.”

She huffs, kicking some snow with her shoe. “She was nice before I interrupted you.”

Garrett exhales through his nose and holds out his jacket. She stares at it. “Put this on.”

“I have a jacket.”

“Yours ends at your ribs.”

She looks down at herself. “It’s cropped.”

“It’s useless.”

She makes an offended little sound but lets him drape the heavier coat around her shoulders anyway, swimming briefly in the dark fabric while he guides her toward the car with a hand at her back. 

The contact is firm and familiar, his palm fitting into the curve above her skirt as naturally as if it was designed for him. Neither of them mentions the girl again.

Inside the car, Garrett turns the heat on high and pulls away from the curb while she works his jacket off, the leather one following because the warmth blasts through the vents almost immediately.

She tosses both into the back seat and settles into the passenger side in only a pink top. Garrett looks over. The car jerks toward the centre line.

“Jesus Christ.” She grabs the door handle. “Are you trying to kill us?”

He corrects hard, tires hissing over wet asphalt. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

“A top.”

“That’s not a top.”

The baby-pink material is thin and fitted, cut just beneath her chest with narrow straps and a low neckline. Under the shifting orange light from the streetlamps, the metal through her nipples presses visibly against it, small hard bars beneath soft cotton.

Garrett fixes his eyes on the road with the rigid concentration of a man attempting to land an aircraft during a storm. She watches the muscle tick in his cheek. Interesting.

She adjusts the seat belt so it sits between her breasts, making the fabric pull tighter. “Sorry for interrupting.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You were having fun,” she murmurs. 

“I was making out with someone.”

“That’s usually considered fun.”

He glances at her for half a second, catches the faintly innocent widening of her eyes, then looks forward again. “You wanted to go home.”

“You didn’t have to take me.”

“Yes, I did.”

She frowns. “Why?”

“Because you asked me to.”

The answer is so simple that it presses strangely beneath her ribs. She tucks one leg beneath herself, turning slightly toward him. The skirt rides higher over her thigh, although this is a natural consequence of sitting and not something calculated to make his grip tighten around the steering wheel.

“You always do what I ask?”

“No.”

She bites back a smile. “You do.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“You’re driving me home after I interrupted you with a girl.”

He frowns. “You were upset.”

“I said I was fine.”

“You say you’re fine when you’re actively on fire.”

“I do not,” she frowns. 

“You cried because Starbucks discontinued your syrup.”

“It was seasonal and I was hormonal.”

He laughs, the sound breaking some of the tightness between them. “You’re ridiculous.”

She looks out through the window before he can catch the smile tugging at her mouth. The campus passes in wet, blurred ribbons of light, bare trees black against the snow.

When he pulls up outside her dorm, she gathers both jackets but keeps his around her shoulders as she opens the door.

Garrett leans across the centre console. “Text me when you’re upstairs.”

“I’m ten feet from the entrance.”

“Text me anyway.”

She looks at him, his face softened by the dashboard glow, curls still messed up from another girl’s hands. The sight should bother her more than it does. Or perhaps it already bothers her exactly enough. “Thanks, G.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She climbs out, then bends to look back inside. The neckline of the pink top shifts. Garrett’s gaze falls. She catches him. His eyes lift slowly to hers, entirely unrepentant now.

She smiles, small and sweet. “Eyes up here, loser.”

“Go inside, princess.”

She closes the door before he sees how pleased she is.

A few weeks later, she’s on the hockey-house living-room floor with Dean asking why the puck bunnies hate her.

It’s nearly three in the morning. The party has contracted into its final, strange form, leaving behind twelve people who either live there, are sleeping with somebody who lives there, or have become too comfortable to understand that they should go home.

Music plays quietly from somebody’s abandoned phone. Empty cups crowd the coffee table. A girl is asleep beneath Tucker’s good throw blanket, which he keeps glancing at as if worried she might stain it with unconsciousness. 

Logan sits cross-legged on the couch eating chips directly from the bag, while Dean sprawls in an armchair with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, looking far too alert for someone who has consumed enough alcohol to tranquilise livestock.

She sits on the floor between Garrett’s legs, her back against the couch, the hem of her little black dress riding high over her thighs. 

Garrett’s been quieter than usual tonight and drunker than normal, although the two things appear to be related. His knees bracket her shoulders. Every few minutes, the inside of his calf brushes her arm when he shifts.

Dean studies her over the rim of his cup. “Why do the puck bunnies hate you so much, dude?”

She frowns. “They hate me?”

Dean immediately winces. “Oh. That’s– hate is probably too strong.”

She frowns. “You just said hate.”

“I’m drunk. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

She turns to look at Logan and Tucker. Both avoid her eyes with the speed of men who have already decided Dean can die alone.

“They hate me?” she repeats, voice small.

Garrett’s arm drops around her shoulders before anyone answers, heavy and warm as he hooks her back against his chest. “Don’t worry about it.”

She holds onto his forearms. “I’m not worried. I’m asking.”

“Same difference.”

She tilts her head back to look at him. His face is upside down from this angle, curls falling over his forehead, cheeks flushed slightly from alcohol. “That isn’t an answer.”

“Don’t need one.”

“Garrett.”

He tightens his arm around her and presses his mouth briefly to the top of her head, an absent gesture that makes Dean’s eyebrows climb before he wisely takes another drink.

Tucker clears his throat. “They don’t hate you.”

“They just don’t love how close you are with the team,” Logan says, aiming for diplomacy and landing somewhere near the border. “Especially Garrett.”

She twists around enough to look at him. “Why?”

Four male faces regard her in exhausted silence.

Dean waves one hand vaguely. “Because you’re always here.”

“You’re always here," she replies.

“I live here.”

“So does Tucker. They like Tucker.”

Tucker blinks. “Thank you?”

“And Logan.”

Logan nods seriously. “I’m very popular with women.”

“They don’t want to sleep with Tucker,” Dean explains.

She rolls her eyes. “They definitely do.”

Tucker’s expression becomes pained. “Please stop including me.”

Garrett’s hand spreads over her upper arm, thumb rubbing slowly through the thin fabric of her dress. “Doesn’t matter whether they like it. You’re not going anywhere.”

The certainty in his voice settles low in her chest.

She looks down at her hands. “I want to be friends with them.”

Dean’s face softens, the drunk sharpness slipping away. “Why?”

“Because I’m friends with all of you, and they’re always around, and it’s awkward when they stare at me.”

“They’re jealous,” Logan says.

“Of what?”

Again, silence.

Garrett reaches down and takes her cup before she can finish what remains in it. “You’ve had enough.”

She makes a small noise of protest. “That was mine.”

“You’re stoned.”

“I’m also thirsty.”

“That’s vodka.”

“Vodka’s a liquid.”

Tucker gets up and returns from the kitchen with a glass of water, holding it out. “Here.”

She accepts it with both hands. “Thank you, Tuck. You’re my favourite.”

“Bullshit,” Garrett says behind her.

She drinks, then settles back into him, pleasantly heavy and loose. Somebody changes the subject. Dean begins recounting an experience with a girl who asked him to keep his socks on because his feet were distracting, which turns into a discussion about weird hookup requests and then, somehow, whether women can tell when a man is faking confidence.

She listens with her cheek resting against Garrett’s knee, mind drifting slowly through the conversation. The weed has softened the room around its edges. Garrett’s fingers move through the ends of her hair without rhythm, gathering strands and letting them slide away.

“Women can always tell,” she says eventually.

Dean points at her. “See? This is valuable research.”

“You’re terrible at hiding when you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I always know what I’m doing.”

She laughs. “That’s exactly what a man who doesn’t know what he’s doing says.”

“What about Garrett?” Logan asks.

Garrett’s hand stops in her hair.

She looks up. “What about him?”

“Can you tell when he doesn’t know what he’s doing?”

“I’ve never seen him have sex.”

Dean nearly chokes on his drink. “Thank Christ for that.”

She tilts her head. “I’ve walked in after. And right before.”

“That’s still too much information.”

She thinks about it, lips pressing together. “Garrett usually knows what he’s doing.”

Garrett’s fingers resume moving, slower now. “Usually?”

She shrugs, her shoulder sliding beneath his palm. “I don’t know. Men are generally disappointing.”

The room stills almost imperceptibly. Dean lowers his cup. “In what context?”

Her brain, softened by weed and exhaustion, allows the truth to slip out without consulting the part responsible for dignity. “It’s been so long since a man made me come.”

Every pair of eyes turns toward her. She blinks at them. Then the sentence reaches her.

“Oh,” she says. “Fuck. Did I say that aloud?”

“Very much,” Tucker answers.

Logan nods, eyes wide. “Clear as day.”

Dean looks somewhere between fascinated and afraid for his life. “Do you often think things like that while we’re talking?”

“I didn’t mean to.” She covers her face with both hands. “Disregard it.”

Garrett has gone completely still behind her.

Heat moves up her neck despite the fog in her head. “Seriously. Everyone forget it.”

“Already gone,” Tucker says kindly.

“Never happened,” Logan agrees.

Dean taps his temple. “Deleted.”

Garrett says nothing.

The conversation restarts with the brittle enthusiasm of people attempting not to acknowledge a live grenade beneath the coffee table. She sinks lower against the couch, mortification gradually fading beneath the warm drag of exhaustion.

By four, the remaining guests have either left or collapsed into various corners. Garrett nudges her shoulder. “Come on.”

She looks up at him through heavy eyelids. “Where?”

“Bed.”

Her mouth curves before she can stop it. “Wow. Buy me dinner.”

“You ate half my fries earlier.”

“So romantic.”

He gets to his feet and pulls her up by both hands. The room sways gently. She bumps into his chest, laughing when he catches her around the waist.

“No way you’re going home like this,” he says.

“I could walk.”

He raises his eyebrow. “You can barely stand.”

“I’m standing right now.”

“Because I’m holding you.”

She peers down at his arms around her. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

He guides her upstairs, one hand firm at her waist while she climbs with exaggerated care. 

In his room, he shuts the door and pulls a clean hoodie from a drawer, tossing it onto the bed. “You can sleep in that.”

She picks it up and presses it to her nose. “Smells like you.”

Garrett turns his back so quickly it might qualify as evasive action. “Change.”

She stares at the broad line of his shoulders beneath his sweater. “You’ve seen me in underwear.”

“Not tonight.”

“Why not tonight?”

“Because you’re high.”

She laughs to herself and reaches behind her for the zipper of her dress. Garrett stays facing the wall while fabric whispers down her body, collecting around her boots. She steps out of it, unhooks her bra and lets it fall onto the pile, then pulls his hoodie over her head.

It hangs to mid-thigh, thick and warm, the sleeves swallowing her hands.

Garrett throws a pair of boxers over his shoulder without looking. They land against her face. “Rude.”

“Put those on too.”

She tugs them over her underwear, rolling the waistband once so they stay up. “You can look now.”

He turns cautiously.

His gaze moves over her in a single, helpless sweep: bare legs, his boxers sitting low on her hips, his hoodie hanging loose enough that one shoulder has slipped through the collar. Her hair is mussed. Her mouth is pink from drinking and biting at it all night.

Garrett looks away first.

“Your turn,” she says.

He points toward the bed. “Get in.”

“I want to watch.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve told an entire room you haven’t come in months and now you’re wearing my clothes.”

She considers that. “That’s true.”

Garrett rubs both hands over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

He steps into the small closet alcove, although the door doesn’t close properly and the angle leaves him partly visible in the mirror beside his dresser. She sits on the edge of his bed and watches him pull his sweater over his head, the muscles in his back shifting beneath smooth skin. His pants follow, pushed down over narrow hips and strong thighs until he stands in black boxers.

Her mouth actually waters. Garrett glances toward the mirror. Their eyes meet in the reflection. She doesn’t look away. His jaw flexes.

For one suspended second, the room seems to narrow around them, warm and quiet and threaded through with everything they have been pretending not to notice. Then Garrett grabs shorts and a t-shirt, pulling them on with unnecessary force.

When he returns, she’s still sitting upright, staring at him.

He points toward the opposite side of the mattress. “You stay on your side. I stay on mine.”

Her stomach drops with stupid disappointment. She had been almost certain he was going to kiss her. Maybe not certain. Hopeful enough to feel embarrassed now.

She climbs under the covers anyway, watching him turn off the lamp before lying beside her with a cautious strip of mattress between them.

The darkness makes her braver. “I could be your fuck bunny.”

Garrett goes rigid. “What?”

She rolls onto her side to face him, struggling to arrange the words through the pleasant fog in her skull. “Your puck funny.”

“What?”

“No. Fuck punny.” She frowns. “That isn’t right either.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Puck bunny,” she says triumphantly. “I could be one.”

His voice is tight. “You’re a stoned bunny.”

“I’m a horny bunny.”

Garrett makes a sound that seems physically painful. “Well, sleep, horny bunny.”

She huffs, rolls away from him and buries her face into his pillow. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m being responsible.”

“Boring.”

“Goodnight, princess.”

She intends to say something cutting. Instead, she falls asleep halfway through the inhale.

The fourth time, she wakes with Garrett hard against her ass and his arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

For several soft, disorienting seconds, she doesn’t remember where she is. There is only warmth – the heavy comforter tangled around her calves, a broad palm spread low across her stomach, slow breath disturbing the hair at the back of her neck.

Her mouth tastes faintly like vodka and sleep, her limbs weighted with the pleasant remains of the weed, and she's wearing far more fabric than usual in bed because Garrett’s hoodie has bunched around her hips sometime during the night, leaving one bare thigh tucked between both of his.

Then he shifts behind her. The hard length pressed into the curve of her ass moves with him, unmistakable even through his shorts and the boxers he made her pull over her underwear, and every blurred piece of the night before snaps sharply into place.

His room. His bed. Garrett standing half-naked inside the shallow cupboard while she watched through the mirror. Her own voice declaring that she was a horny bunny before she passed out facedown against his pillow like the sophisticated, sexually irresistible woman she so clearly is.

She should be mortified. Instead, heat gathers between her legs with embarrassing speed.

Garrett’s body is curled around hers as though neither of them spent several careful minutes negotiating opposite sides of the mattress. His chest is firm against her back, one knee wedged between hers, his face pressed into her hair.

The position is intimate in a way that should feel unfamiliar, except everything about him already belongs inside the architecture of her life. His arm around her. His hand on her waist. His clothes against her skin. Garrett is always touching her, always letting her lean, climb, tug and settle wherever she wants.

The only new thing is how badly she wants more.

His breathing is still deep and even. She lies perfectly still, staring at the thin bars of morning light stretching across his wall while her pulse begins beating in places it has no business being this early. Garrett’s hand flexes against her stomach, fingers spreading as though even asleep he is making certain she’s still there, and the movement draws the hoodie upward another inch.

She could leave it alone. She could untangle herself, find her dress and spend the rest of their friendship pretending she never woke up with his erection pressed against her while yesterday’s confession sat between them like a match beside gasoline.

It's been so long since a man made her come.

Garrett heard her say it. Garrett, who stared at her piercings through the pink top in the dining hall until he forgot how drinking straws worked. Garrett, who abandoned a girl mid-hookup because she asked him to drive her home. Garrett, who had clenched his jaw when she offered to become his puck bunny and then tucked her into his bed instead of taking advantage of how stoned she was.

Garrett, who is hard against her now.

She moves before she can talk herself out of it. Only slightly at first, a slow backward press of her hips that could almost be blamed on sleep. The reaction is immediate. Garrett’s breathing catches against her neck, his entire body tightening behind her, though his hand remains motionless across her stomach.

Her lips curve against the pillow. She does it again.

This time she rolls her hips deliberately, letting the soft curve of her ass drag against him through the thin layers separating them. Pleasure flickers low in her belly from the pressure of his thigh between hers, nowhere near enough but more than enough to leave her suddenly, painfully aware of how wet she's becoming.

Garrett wakes with a rough inhale.

“Shit.” His arm loosens and his hips jerk back as though he's touched something hot. His voice is wrecked by sleep, low enough that it moves through her body before the words fully register. “Sorry. I didn’t–”

She has spent months wondering what his mouth would feel like. She has spent weeks wearing thinner tops and pretending not to notice every stolen look.

She has spent an entire night aching beneath his attention, only for him to place an honourable strip of mattress between them and tell her to sleep.

She's finished waiting. She rolls over, fists one hand into his curls and kisses him.

Garrett goes completely still beneath her mouth. For one terrible heartbeat, he doesn’t kiss her back. His lips are warm and slightly parted, his body rigid beside hers, and humiliation begins crawling up her throat – but then she hooks her leg over his hip, presses herself against the hard shape beneath his shorts and makes a small, impatient sound into his mouth.

Something in him gives. His hand clamps around her waist and he kisses her back so hard that the breath catches in her chest. There's no careful, uncertain exploration, no fumbling attempt to determine whether best friends are allowed to do this.

Garrett kisses her like he's already imagined it too many times to need instructions, his mouth opening over hers, tongue sliding hot and sure against her own as he rolls her beneath him.

The mattress dips. His body settles between her thighs, broad and heavy enough to make her feel trapped without placing his full weight on her, and the sensation empties her head of everything except him.

Her Garrett. Her best friend, who carries two trays through the dining hall because she doesn’t like balancing her soup. Who knows she wants the strawberry yoghurt and hates melon. Who always does what she asks, even while complaining like she has sentenced him to hard labour.

Except he isn’t waiting for her instructions now.

She reaches for his face, wanting to pull him closer, but Garrett catches her wrist and presses it into the mattress beside her head. The abrupt restraint sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through her.

He pulls back just enough to look at her, his chest rising hard beneath his shirt. His curls are ruined beneath her fingers, his mouth flushed from hers, but his eyes are startlingly clear now, fixed on her with an intensity that makes her stomach clench.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

She shakes her head immediately.

“Words, princess.”

“No.” Her voice emerges breathless and embarrassingly soft. “Don’t stop.”

His gaze drops to her mouth. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

She expects him to tease her. Instead, something almost hungry passes over his face, quick and raw before his mouth comes down on hers again.

She melts beneath him. There's no other word for it. All the sharp little remarks she might ordinarily use to protect herself disappear the moment Garrett’s hand tightens around her wrist.

Her body seems to understand the arrangement before her mind catches up: Garrett above her, Garrett in control, Garrett deciding how fast and how hard while she clings to him and lets him.

He shifts his hips, pressing himself firmly between her thighs. A thin whimper escapes her.

Garrett stills for half a beat, as if the sound surprises him. Then he does it again, slower this time, grinding the thick ridge of his erection directly against the place already pulsing beneath her underwear.

Her free hand flies to his shoulder. “Garrett.”

“What?” he asks, mouth brushing the corner of hers. The word is too calm for what he's doing.

She cannot remember what she intended to say. He moves again and her head falls back, throat exposed to him, every nerve beneath her skin drawn tight.

His lips find the sensitive place beneath her jaw. He kisses it once, then opens his mouth against her neck, teeth grazing softly enough to make her toes curl inside the sheets.

“This is what you wanted?” he murmurs.

She nods.

His fingers tighten around her wrist. “Wanted me to wake up and fuck around with my best friend?”

The filthy edge to the question sends another helpless noise from her throat. Garrett has always had a dirty mouth – on the ice, during video games, whenever Dean says anything remotely provocative – but she's never heard it aimed at her like this, lowered against her skin until the words feel like touch.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“How long?”

She turns her face toward him, cheeks hot. “I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

His other hand slides beneath the hem of the hoodie, palm moving slowly up her bare stomach. She feels every roughened patch of his skin, every subtle drag of his fingers. The hoodie lifts with his wrist, cool air following the heat of his hand.

“Months,” she admits.

Garrett’s mouth stops against her throat. The silence lasts only a second, but she feels the answer move through him. His hips press more firmly into hers. His breathing roughens.

“Months,” he repeats.

She nods, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “Since you– saw me... the tank top. Maybe before.”

His thumb traces beneath her breast. “You’ve been thinking about me since then?”

Her body arches toward his hand without permission. “Garrett, please.”

“Thinking about what?”

She squeezes her eyes closed. She cannot say it while he's looking at her like this. Not when the fantasies felt illicit even alone in her dorm, her vibrator between her legs while she imagined his dark head lowered over her chest.

Garrett releases her wrist only to catch both hands together and press them above her head with one of his. His other hand cups her breast beneath the hoodie, warm and possessive, thumb finding the metal bar through her nipple as though he has known exactly where it would be all along.

He strokes it once. Her entire body jerks beneath him.

“Oh.”

Garrett exhales through his nose, the sound nearly a groan. “That sensitive?”

She nods, breathing too quickly. He rolls the piercing gently beneath his thumb, watching her face while pleasure sparks through her in sharp, bright bursts. Her thighs tighten around his hips. The friction between them makes her ache, but he refuses to give her the rhythm her body is beginning to chase.

“Was this it?” he asks. “You thinking about my hands on these?”

She tries to pull her hands free, because she needs something to hold onto. He keeps them pinned easily.

“And my mouth?” His thumb circles her nipple. “You think about that too?”

“Yes.”

The answer breaks out of her before embarrassment can stop it.

Garrett’s eyelids lower. “Fuck, princess.”

He pushes the hoodie higher, baring her breasts completely. The fabric gathers beneath her raised arms, leaving her trapped inside his clothes and exposed beneath his gaze. Garrett simply looks for a moment, and the undisguised want on his face makes her feel more naked than she is.

She has seen him stare before. Across dining tables. From the driver’s seat. In her dorm room when the white tank turned translucent beneath the light.

This is different. There's no joke waiting behind his eyes, no exaggerated plea for her to cover up before he fights somebody. His attention moves over her slowly, the muscles along his jaw tightening as he takes in the silver bars and the way her nipples have already hardened under his hands.

“I knew they’d look good,” he says, voice rough. “Didn’t know they’d look this fucking good.”

Her stomach turns molten. “G.”

He lowers his head. The first touch of his tongue is directly over the metal.

She gasps, back lifting from the mattress, but his hand keeps her wrists firmly above her head. Garrett traces the bar with the tip of his tongue, slow enough that she can feel the contrast of warmth and cool metal, then closes his mouth around her nipple.

Her eyes fall shut. “Oh my God.”

His groan vibrates through her breast. He sucks with controlled, deliberate pressure, tongue moving around the piercing while his free hand cups the other side, fingers kneading the soft weight before his thumb begins teasing that bar too.

Every fantasy she has had was inadequate. None of them accounted for the size of him over her, the scratch of morning stubble against her skin or the way he keeps grinding lazily between her legs while his mouth works at her chest. None of them sounded like Garrett groaning because he finally has her nipple on his tongue.

Her hands strain uselessly in his grip. “Please.”

He lifts his head, lips wet, eyes dark. “Please what?”

She looks down between them, frustrated tears almost prickling at the corners of her eyes from how badly she wants him. “Touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

“You know what I mean.”

His mouth curves slightly, but there's none of his usual bright humour in it. “Ask properly.”

Ordinarily, she would tell him to go fuck himself. She would roll her eyes, call him an idiot and take whatever she wanted through persistence alone. Now, with her body shaking beneath him and his thumb sliding over her piercing, there is nothing she would not say.

“Please touch me,” she whispers. “Please, Garrett. I need you.”

His expression changes again, satisfaction and something heavier moving beneath it. “There’s my good girl.”

The praise pours through her like heat.

Garrett switches breasts before she can recover, mouth closing around her other nipple while his hand slips back down her stomach. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of the boxers she borrowed and drags them slowly over her hips, leaving her underwear beneath.

She lifts herself immediately to help him.

“Eager,” he murmurs against her skin.

She cannot summon enough dignity to deny it. “Yes.”

He pushes the boxers down her legs and tosses them aside. Her knees fall open around him almost instinctively, the pink fabric between her thighs already damp enough to cling.

Garrett looks down. A sharp breath leaves him. She feels the attention like another touch, direct and scorching. Some small remaining instinct makes her knees begin to draw inward, but Garrett catches one and presses it back into the mattress.

“No.”

The single word makes her still.

His palm slides along the inside of her thigh, spreading her wider as he settles beside her. “You wanted my attention so badly, you can take it.”

Her lips part. He keeps his eyes on her while his fingers reach the damp centre of her underwear, pressing lightly through the fabric.

Pleasure jolts through her. Her hips lift toward his hand, searching for more before she can pretend otherwise.

“Look at you,” Garrett murmurs. “All that bossing me around, and this is all it takes?”

She shakes her head, though she has no idea what she's denying. He moves his fingertips in one slow stroke and her breath trembles out of her.

“Please,” she says again.

His eyes snap back to her face. The sound seems to affect him every time, as though he's never heard her ask instead of demand and has already become addicted to it.

Garrett hooks his fingers beneath the waistband and draws her underwear down. She helps impatiently, kicking the fabric away the moment it reaches her ankles. The exposure should embarrass her, but the only thing she can think about is his hand returning to her.

It does. His fingers slide through the wetness between her thighs, unbearably gentle at first, gathering it slowly as though he has all morning to learn her.

Both of them exhale.

“Jesus,” Garrett says softly.

She grips the sheet beside her, already fighting the urge to lift her hips into his palm. “What?”

“You’re fucking soaked.”

Heat burns across her face, but he sounds pleased rather than mocking, his voice roughening as he strokes through her again, spreading her open with two fingers and watching the slick gather against his hand.

“This all for me?”

Her eyelids flutter. “Maybe.”

Garrett looks up at her. “Maybe?”

His thumb drags over her clit, slow and deliberate, and her whole body jerks.

“Yes,” she gasps.

“Yeah?” He circles again, firmer this time, mouth curving when her thighs twitch around his wrist. “You get this wet thinking about me?”

She swallows, embarrassment dissolving beneath the ache building low in her stomach. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he repeats, like he doesn’t believe a word of it.

His middle finger presses against her entrance, not entering yet, just teasing there while she tries not to move. She fails almost immediately. Her hips tilt toward him, chasing the pressure, and Garrett lets out a low laugh that makes everything inside her tighten.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Can’t even wait for me to put my fingers inside you.”

“Garrett.”

“What, princess?”

“Please.”

He slides one finger into her slowly. Her mouth falls open.

The stretch is slight, nowhere near enough, but the feel of Garrett inside her – Garrett, her best friend, the man she has imagined with his hand between her legs more times than she would ever admit aloud – makes a thin, breathless whimper escape her.

His eyes sharpen instantly. “That’s the noise you make?”

She turns her face into the pillow, mortified, but his free hand catches her jaw and draws her back.

“No. Don’t hide.”

He pushes his finger deeper, curling it inside her, and her lashes flutter as pleasure sparks hard through her.

“G–”

“There?” he asks, already doing it again.

She nods quickly. “Yes. Right there.”

Garrett keeps his eyes on her as he begins moving, drawing his finger almost all the way out before pushing it back inside, slow enough at first that she feels every inch of it, every deliberate curl and drag against the place that makes her stomach tighten. Her legs fall wider.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

The praise pours straight through her. She moans, soft and helpless, and Garrett’s jaw flexes like the sound hurts him.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You like that?”

She can barely answer. “Yes.”

“Like me telling you how good you’re being while I finger you?”

Her hips rock into his hand.

Garrett smiles, dark and pleased. “Yeah. Thought so.”

He adds a second finger. The fuller stretch makes her gasp, fingers flying to his forearm as he pushes them into her together, watching her face the entire time. “Oh my God.”

“Too much?”

She shakes her head frantically. “No. No, don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping.”

His fingers begin fucking into her properly then, the rhythm steady and deep, his palm pressing against her clit every time he pushes back inside. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet room, each slick thrust loud enough to make heat crawl over her chest.

Garrett hears them too. “Listen to you,” he says, voice dropping lower. “So fucking wet for me.”

She whines, head falling back as his fingers curl harder. “Garrett, please.”

“Please what?”

She has no idea. More. Faster. Everything. “Please make me come.”

The words leave her on a broken breath. Garrett’s expression turns almost feral.

“Yeah?” His fingers drive into her again, faster now, finding the exact angle that makes her thighs shake. “You need your best friend to make you come?”

She nods, unable to stop the sounds spilling from her.

“Say it.”

“I need you.”

“Need me how?”

Her nails dig into his wrist. “Need your fingers. Please, G, please–”

He groans and kisses her hard, swallowing the next whimper as his hand works between her legs. His fingers thrust deep and curl with every stroke, firm and controlled, while his thumb finds her clit and begins circling in time with them.

The pleasure climbs so quickly she can barely breathe. She clings to his shoulder, moaning into his mouth as he fucks her with his fingers, every thrust sending another hot pulse through her.

He knows exactly when to speed up, when to press harder, when to drag his thumb over her clit in tight, relentless circles that make her hips buck helplessly against him.

She had wondered whether this would feel awkward. Whether she would become too aware of every ordinary thing she knows about him – how he takes his coffee, the face he makes when he loses at cards, the exact pitch of his snore after an away game.

Instead, it feels terrifyingly natural. He knows her even here. He feels the way her body clenches around his fingers before she can tell him she needs more. He hears the pitch of her moans changing and immediately fucks into her harder, curling his fingers against the spot that makes her vision blur.

“Garrett,” she whimpers.

“I know.”

His voice is rough now, every ounce of control in his hand rather than his mouth.

“You’re taking me so well,” he murmurs, watching his fingers disappear inside her. “Fuck, princess. Look at you.”

She squeezes around him, and his breathing stutters.

“That feel good?”

“So good.”

“Better than those other guys?”

The question should make her laugh. Instead, the jealousy underneath it sends heat through her. “Yes.”

“How much better?”

Her voice breaks when he drives his fingers into her again. “So much.”

Garrett’s mouth brushes her ear. “That’s because they didn’t know what to do with you.”

His fingers curl. She cries out softly.

“Didn’t know you needed someone to take their time,” he continues, filthy and tender all at once. “Someone to keep going when you start getting all sensitive.”

Her thighs begin trembling. “G, I’m close.”

“Yeah, you are.”

He fucks his fingers into her faster, thumb moving firmly over her clit while she writhes beneath him. She tries to turn her face away, overwhelmed by his attention, but Garrett catches her jaw again.

“Look at me.”

She forces her eyes open. The approval in his expression nearly destroys her.

“That’s it,” he says softly. “Want to watch you come on my fingers.”

Her stomach tightens violently. The pressure becomes almost unbearable, pleasure building so hard and fast that panic flickers through her. “G–”

“I’ve got you.”

She shakes her head, fingers closing around his wrist even as her hips keep meeting every thrust. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“It’s too much.”

“No, baby.” He presses a kiss against her cheek, then the corner of her mouth, never slowing his hand. “You’re just not used to somebody doing it right.”

A broken whine escapes her. Garrett smiles against her skin.

“That’s it. Let me hear you.”

Her legs try to close around his hand, but he shifts between them, using his body to keep her spread open while his fingers continue fucking into her.

“Don’t run.”

“I’m not–”

“You are.” His thumb presses harder against her clit, and her back arches. “Stay right here. Take it for me.”

She nods frantically, tears prickling at her lashes from the intensity.

“Good girl.”

The praise hits at the exact moment his fingers curl deep inside her. The orgasm tears through her. Her body clamps hard around his fingers, a cry breaking loose before Garrett covers her mouth with his.

Pleasure pulses outward in fierce, breath-stealing waves, her hips jerking helplessly against his hand while he keeps fucking her through it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against her lips. “Come for me.”

She whimpers into his mouth, fingers tangled desperately in his shirt as another wave rolls through her.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight.” His voice is wrecked now, proud and filthy. “Such a pretty fucking girl.”

The words make her clench around him again. Garrett groans and slows his fingers only slightly, dragging the orgasm out while she shakes beneath him, every stroke making her twitch and gasp.

“G– please–”

“I know, baby.”

She tries to curl away when the pleasure turns too sharp, rolling onto her side with a broken sound, but Garrett follows her, arm wrapping around her waist while his fingers remain inside her.

He gives her one last slow curl. Her whole body shudders. Then he finally stops. For several seconds, she cannot speak.

Her heart pounds beneath the hand he settles over her ribs. Her face is pressed into his pillow, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths, Garrett’s body warm along the length of her back.

He withdraws his fingers carefully, and she whimpers at the sudden emptiness.

Garrett kisses her shoulder. “That okay?”

She lets out a weak, incredulous laugh. “Okay?”

Garrett’s mouth moves against her skin. “Need to know.”

She turns her head enough to look at him. His expression has softened, the sharp control from moments before giving way to the Garrett she knows – the one who checks that she has texted after walking ten feet into her building.

“That was so good,” she whispers.

The admission makes his grin appear slowly. Stunned and pleased, as though he cannot believe he's the one who finally gets to see her like this. “Yeah?”

She nods, too blissed out to pretend otherwise. “Really good.”

“Shit.” He drops his forehead between her shoulder blades with a quiet laugh. “I’m barely awake.”

A giggle escapes her, loose and helpless. “Me too.”

When she shifts, she feels how hard he still is behind her. She turns in his arms and reaches for him immediately, wanting to give back even a fraction of what he has just done to her, but Garrett catches her wrist before she can get beneath his waistband.

“We’ve got time for that.”

She frowns. “But you didn’t–”

“Later.”

“Garrett.”

He kisses her before she can argue, slower now, his hand cradling the side of her face. “You were the emergency.”

A stupid, warm ache opens beneath her ribs. She studies him when the kiss ends. His hair is a mess from her hands. His mouth is swollen. He's still her best friend, entirely and unmistakably, except now he's held her down and made her come so hard she briefly forgot her own surname.

Nothing is broken.

The room is still his room. The radiator still clicks beneath the window. Downstairs, somebody drops something heavy and Logan groans loudly enough to be heard through the floor.

She still knows him. Maybe she knows him better now.

“Can we be friends with benefits?” she blurts.

Garrett blinks at her.

She pushes herself higher on the pillow, ignoring the fact that the hoodie is trapped around her elbows and her underwear is somewhere near his desk. “It makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.” She gestures vaguely between them. “You can actually make me finish. Apparently very easily, which is irritating, but useful.”

“Useful,” he echoes, mouth twitching.

“And I won’t have to interrupt your hookups anymore.”

“You’ll absolutely still interrupt my hookups.”

“There won’t be hookups to interrupt,” she says, then pauses. “I mean, unless you still want to hook up with other people. We haven’t discussed exclusivity. This proposal lacks detail.”

Garrett laughs softly, staring up at the ceiling for a second before looking back at her. “You’re negotiating naked.”

“I do my best work under pressure.”

His hand slides along her bare waist beneath the tangled hoodie, thumb moving in a slow, absent stroke that makes her want to climb back on top of him.

“Friends with benefits,” he says.

She nods. “Nothing else changes.”

“Secret?”

“Definitely," she nods. “But Logan will walk in on us within a week.”

“Probably.”

She smiles. “But until then, nobody knows.”

Garrett watches her for a long moment, something unreadable sitting quietly behind his eyes. “And if it gets weird?”

“We stop.”

“No drama," he tilts his head.

“No ruining the friendship,” she agrees. “It’s us. We’ll be fine.”

The words feel true while she says them. Garrett holds out his hand.

She looks down at it, then back at him. “Are we seriously shaking on this?”

“It’s an agreement," he shrugs.

“You just made me come while holding me down.”

“And now I’m being professional.”

She laughs and places her hand in his. His fingers close around hers, warm and firm, his palm roughened in familiar places. He gives her one solemn shake without taking his eyes off her.

“Deal,” he says.

“Deal.”

Garrett releases her hand only to slide his arm around her waist and pull her beneath him again. She squeaks, laughter catching in her throat when he settles between her thighs, mouth already lowering toward her chest.

“What are you doing?”

“The deal started.”

“It started ten seconds ago.”

“Long ten seconds.”

His lips close around one of her piercings. Her hands fly into his hair and the argument dissolves into a breathless moan.

Garrett smiles against her skin. “Thought so, princess.”

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It’s all so familiar that there’s almost a comfort to it. There’s nothing Garrett hates more than feeling out of his skin, so everyday that happens like clockwork drives relief down his spine. What grates on him is the constant reminder of competition; they’re all there hoping to get picked for the season, and sometimes it shows in the way players are obviously more concerned about showing off than doing well as a team. 

The upside is Logan training alongside him; sometimes when the going gets tough, he’d turn his head midskate to where Logan is on the ice, and he’d feel like he’s back at their Briar rink again, skating just because it’s fun, just because it’s the only thing he knows how to do. Maybe that’s why it hits him harder than he lets himself show, when he gets picked to play for the Bruins straight after training and Logan gets thrown in the AHL. 

“G, I was passed over three times in the draft,” Logan had told him when the news broke out, somehow being the one to comfort him in a strange role reversal. “I knew my first season was basically done for, anyway.”

Garrett remembers huffing, then, the youthful stubbornness that got him through college still clinging on his freshly-graduated bones. “Yeah, but–”

“Just watch out for next season,” Logan interrupted him with a pat on his shoulder. “Then it’s me and you taking over the NHL. Yeah?”

He let out a small smile, just because he felt like Logan needed to see it more than hear his complaints. “You better play your ass off for the Baby B’s.”

It had worked, because Logan gives a breathy chuckle and pats his shoulder again, firmer this time. “You bet I will.”

And, to be very honest, Garrett’s rookie year is nothing short of amazing. Aside from a few mistakes his first couple games that can be chalked up to beginner’s nerves and him having an adjustment period, he probably plays the best he’s ever played. The energy is different when it’s the pros. Palpable. Almost like he can swat through it with his hockey stick. And it’s not lost on him that every move he makes on the ice, every goal, every tackle, every skid gets compared to his father. And so he plays even better. If they’re going to compare them either way, he might as well surpass the son of a bitch. 

They’re mid-season, about fifty games in, when Garrett meets her. 

It’s an away game against the Rangers, of all teams, so Garrett’s muscles are tense even before their plane lands in JFK. The whole journey from the airport to their hotel is blurry and robotic. He gets handed his keys in the lobby, which he receives with a nod, and then he’s in his hotel room, crashing on the bed, eyes trained up the ceiling. He hates feeling like this. Like his dad still has one hand gripping his wrist. Like the bruises all over his torso are still a credit to him. Especially now, when Garrett is probably the freest he’s ever been; he’s making his own money, building his own legacy on the ice. 

He hasn’t spoken to his dad in months, probably close to a year. But Garrett knows with cold certainty that Phil Graham will be on the stands tomorrow night, arms crossed over his chest, watching his every move like a predator stalking its prey. He might not approach Garrett. They might not see each other at all. But the effect will be the same; commentators noting his presence, sports analysts contributing how he’s going to play tomorrow to him being there. More comparisons. More shots of Phil’s reactions during plays. More post-game ambush interviews about making him proud. Garrett fucking hates it, and he hates that he can’t do anything about it even more. 

It’s 10 PM by the time he feels his stomach protesting loudly, and he remembers that he hasn’t eaten since the little plane snack he was given during the flight over. He knows the others are out somewhere on a team dinner, one he had opted out of with the excuse of sleeping the plane ride off. Part of him regrets the decision now, alone in his room with his stomach grumbling something angry. 

Garrett gets his phone out and squints at the screen. A few notifications greet him; a text from Logan, another one from Tucker to their group chat named ‘Dean’s Bitches’ of a pic of a meal he had prepared, some notifications from his private Instagram account. He shoots a quick reply to Logan and hearts Tuck’s picture before going on google to look up the nearest places he can grab a bite. 

Within minutes, Garrett finds himself in the streets of Manhattan, hugging a thick jacket to his body in an attempt to shield himself from the harsh February cold. The diner is easy enough to spot, tucked in between an ice cream shop and a laundromat. There’s only a few people inside, so he luckily gets a booth to himself. He orders a steak, medium rare, their signature fries, a decaf coffee. He hesitates, then adds a chocolate chip pancake for good measure, making the waitress give him a motherly smile that makes his insides feel instantly warmer. 

Garrett’s in the middle of helping himself to a dinner roll when the bell by the entrance rings, accompanying with it a cool gust of wind that he feels even from where he’s sitting. 

He looks up and almost drops his bread. 

Her hair is long, almost to her waist, light and wavy and windswept, as if she’s constantly running her fingers through them. She has a black trench coat on, tied tightly at the waist. She’s beautiful in a way that makes Garrett’s stomach drop. 

He watches her scan the place almost absentmindedly, and then their eyes meet, gray to a color he doesn’t know yet. His breath hitches. It only gets worse when a small smile pulls at her lips and she begins walking to his table. 

“You play for the Bruins,” she says, eyes gleaming and smile still in place. 

She is even prettier up close, but her words bring up a safe enough topic that gets him back his bearings. Hockey, he can talk about. He nods with a smile, all false bravado. “Foreward center. Are you a fan or something?”

“Or something,” she says, before gesturing to the seat in front of him. “Can I?”

“Please,” he nods, trying to make his heart settle in his chest. 

She unties her belt with steady hands. Garrett finds himself looking at her fingers for some reason; lithe and long like a pianist, nails with a neat manicure he can’t describe for the life of him. She shrugs off her coat, folds it, then places it on the seat nearest the wall. She’s wearing a cozy cream knit sweater underneath and the tip of her nose is red from the cold. No wedding ring, but a lot of ear piercings. All of this he notices from the five seconds it takes her to sit down in front of him. 

“That final goal you made at your last game was pretty sick,” she tells him, eyes already scanning the menu a waitress handed her the minute she got settled in her seat. “I’ll have your classic pancakes, please. Thank you.”

Garrett rubs a hand over his right jaw. He doesn’t know how to place her. She’s not acting like a puck bunny, or even a regular fan. She says the words straightforwardly, like she’s just stating a fact. She doesn’t seem intimidated by him, or nervous, or even particularly affected by his presence, even if she did ask to sit with him. So instead he just says, “Thank you,” his voice going gruff by the end.

“Tomorrow’s going to be tough, though,” she continues, eyes now running over his figure as if she’s contemplating the Bruins’ odds at tomorrow’s game. “It’s got history. The Rangers won’t go down without a fight.”

He leans back at this. He knows what she’s insinuating; his dad’s legacy, his dad’s home rink. Like he gives a fuck. “We know that. We’re ready.”

“Good,” she grins at him, and for a moment Garrett forgets about the pressure that’s been weighing him down since the flight to New York, since he saw the tweets about the game and his dad and the eyes on him tomorrow. The only thing in his mind right then is how gorgeous she looks, flushed from the weather and talking about his game like she’ll personally be affronted if he loses. 

“Who are you?” He can’t help but ask by the time their food has arrived and she’s midway through talking his ear off about all the mistakes the Penguins made on their last match. She raises an eyebrow at that, immediately making the tips of his ears red. “I mean–you just. You seem to know so much about hockey.”

It’s her time to blush at that, a pretty pink color that sends very ungentleman-like images straight to Garrett’s brain. “I kind of grew up with it. My dad also used to play.”

“Wait, really?” That stuns him for a moment, makes him look her over with brand new eyes. Nothing in her appearance reminds him of any older player he knows in particular, but then again, there are hundreds of retired NHL athletes. “Who? Do I know him?”

She lets out a little laugh, stabbing a piece of pancake with her fork. “Trust me, you know him.”

“What team?”

She gives him a knowing look, deliberately dragging her eyes up and down his frame.

“The Bruins?” Garrett asks, mind already going over the potential prospects. “Shit. I’m stomped. I have no idea.”

Another look falls on her face, more amused and a little bit exasperated. Garrett narrows his eyes and looks at her properly again. Light hair. Full lips. Strong jaw. And–

Green. Her eyes are green. Familiarly so.

“No way,” he says, a disbelieving laugh already coming out of his mouth. She grins back at him with a shrug, making him huff once more in disbelief. “Shit. You’re Andrew Sinclair’s daughter.”

“Guilty.”

Garrett wracks his brain for a name. He’s sure he’s read about her somewhere, or Andrew’s mentioned her during team dinners with former Bruins players. Something short. Maybe starting with an ‘A.’ Anna? Ara? No. He says the name he’s thinking of out loud.

He knows by the way her breath hitches that he gets it right.

“And you’re Garrett Graham,” she says, leaning forwards on the table a little. 

He tries not to be too smug. “You know who I am?”

“The same way you know I am,” she grins back brightly. 

It’s then that Garrett remembers something incredibly important–more important than her being a legacy kid like him, or her being so gorgeous under the fluorescent diner lights that it’s almost unfair. She's Andrew Sinclair’s daughter. Andrew Sinclair, former captain of the Boston Bruins and Phil Graham’s number one rival. 

“Oh,” he says dumbly, which seems to make her more amused. 

“Right,” she chuckles before echoing, “oh.”

He looks down at his plate; the half-eaten steak, the untouched stack of chocolate chip pancakes right next to it. Of all the people in the city he could meet tonight, right when he’s close to spiralling about playing against his dad’s home team, it happens to be the daughter of his rival. It’s like the universe is telling him something, or sending a big ‘fuck you’ to his dad. Either way, Garrett’s not one to look at a gift horse in the mouth. 

“It’s a good thing I play for your dad’s team, then,” he finds himself saying, elbows resting on the laminate table and head leaning down so he can speak more quietly. 

The edge of her mouth twitches, but something in her eyes tells him that there’s interest there, too. “Really?”

“Yeah, well,” he feigns a shrug. “Wouldn’t want your dad thinking you’re sneaking around with the enemy.”

This time, she’s helpless at the way her face betrays her amusement, eyes crinkling and mouth parting with a silent laugh. “Who says anything about sneaking around?”

“Let me see,” Garrett begins, tapping his fingers on the table. “It’s eleven pm at night in Manhattan, we’re here having dinner just the two of us, you look pretty enough to be on a date…Think of the optics.”

She raises her eyebrows and chances a glance under the table. “You’re literally wearing sweatpants.”

“Irrelevant,” Garrett shoots back with a wave of his hand. 

She doesn’t bother holding back her laughter now, throwing her head back against the booth and exposing the soft line of her throat. “I like the confidence.”

“Thank you.”

“Unfortunately,” she drags out, widening her eyes at him mockingly. “We can’t be on a date.”

It’s his turn to raise his eyebrows. “No?”

“No,” she shakes her head at him, faux solemn. “We can’t be on a date because I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett feels his stomach drop to the floor. Disappointment, mostly, though there is also a hint of something more dangerous. Stubbornness. Boyish and annoying and unfortunately very on brand for him. He scrambles for his next words, seeing her watch him closely, her eyes twinkling and her lips pulled to a small smile. She’s enjoying this. 

“That’s funny,” Garrett finally says, and he hates that his voice comes out more scratchy, letting her know that she caught him off guard. He glances around. “I don’t see him.”

She cuts up another piece of pancake, taking her sweet time letting him wallow in the charged silence. She picks one up with a fork and only pauses when it’s hovering near her perfect lips. “You will.”

The Bruins lose. Badly. 2-5, with Garrett only scoring one of two. In hindsight, he knows he did his best; the pressure was on; they were on the Rangers home rink; fucking Phil was in the stands looking at him with a small smile that he itches to punch off his face. But the loss feels like a loss, anyway. And Garret’s never been one to lose elegantly. The one good thing about not being captain, though, was that he gets to fuck off and forgo post-game interviews in favor of wallowing in the shower. 

He gets a few pats in the back and shoulders as he walks past the tunnel. From behind him near the rink, he hears the voice of their captain, Luke, beginning his rounds of questions, his voice clipped back but polite, a bit out of breath but still composed. Garrett doesn’t know how he does it, but he supposes Luke is a veteran at this point, having played for the Bruins for over a decade and being captain for five years. 

“You win some, you lose some,” someone says from the side of the room, and Garrett looks over to see Andrew Sinclair, his arms crossed in front of his chest, lips turned into a frown. That’s not what Garrett’s eye focuses on, though, because beside him, clad in the same black trench coat she was wearing the night before, stands her, hair just as windswept, face carefully blank. 

Her eyes suddenly avert towards him, and he finds himself halting in his steps. She raises an eyebrow, as if saying, ‘I thought you said you were ready?’ which doesn’t make his mood any better, so he huffs out a breath and continues towards the locker room. 

He takes a long shower, letting the hot water melt away the agitation sitting on top of his skin like dirt. He hears his teammates coming and going. His phone is probably blowing up. Some pitying messages from his friends. Tucker had organized a watch party at the hockey house. Logan and Dean definitely watched from their own places. They probably knew from the moment Garrett stepped foot on the ice that something was off. They’d played together enough times for them not to. He doesn’t even want to start with the internet and what they’re saying about him. Reddit’s probably tearing them to shreds. Twitter’s probably full of puck bunnies defending them. It’s exactly what he doesn’t need. 

The hot water runs out, and Garrett is forced to step out of the cubicle, dripping to his toes. He snatches his towel and begins to dry himself off in quick, calculated movements, already envisioning the bed in his hotel room and the flight back. He can’t wait to get away. 

The door to the locker room swings open, and Luke walks in, half his gear already falling off his body. He starts at the sight of him. “Graham. You’re still here?”

“Long shower,” he answers, shoving his legs into the gray sweats he brought. He dresses methodically. Deodorant. White t-shirt. His beloved Briar hoodie. A few sprays of cologne. 

“You okay?”

Garrett hates the careful tone. Like he’s a ticking time bomb. Like he’s a kid about to throw a temper tantrum. Nothing in the way he plays or has behaved since he went pro indicated that he’s the type of person to do that. He worked fucking hard throughout college to cure himself of that innate anger. But that doesn’t matter to anyone outside his inner circle, because to them, he’ll always be Phil Graham’s son. “I’m fine, man. Not the first game we lost; it certainly won’t be the last.”

He shoulders his duffel bag and walks away. 

She is right outside when he steps out of the locker room, back pressed to the cold wall, legs crossed over the other, one hand busy with her phone while the other is tucked into her coat pocket. 

“Hey,” Garrett blinks in surprise, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. 

“Hey, yourself.” She gives him a smile. Garrett notes that she still looks annoyingly beautiful, like she waited in the hallway just to haunt him. “So…”

“Don’t,” he shakes his head, already knowing where she’s going with this. 

She looks at him, mustering an innocent expression that’s betrayed by the light in her eyes. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to,” Garrett says with a sigh. 

She tilts her head, eyes narrowed at him like she’s examining him for something. He hates that he feels her gaze straight to his stomach. “You don’t know me.”

“I know that you wanted us to win tonight,” Garrett shrugs. “And we ate shit. We both know it.”

She considers him for a second, and then she shrugs, a real smile tugging her lips upwards. “Okay. That goal was clean, though, I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks,” he deadpans. “That makes me feel so much better.”

“I aim to please.”

“Yeah?” Garrett raises an eyebrow. He feels another pang in his stomach at seeing how that makes her falter, her cheeks turning darker with heat. 

She bites her lip, like she’s choosing her next words carefully. “You should stop flirting with me.”

Garrett walks closer, until he’s only a few steps away from her. “Why?”

Up close like this, he can see each heave her chest makes, going up and down in time with her breaths. He can see her fingers twitch, like she’s aching to touch him just as much. She wants him. Garrett is almost confident about that. She’s just holding herself back. And Garrett’s never been one to back down from a challenge. 

“I told you,” she says, voice low in a register that makes him swallow harshly. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Right,” he nods, pursing his lips. “And I still don’t see him.”

Before she could speak, the locker room door opens again, and Luke steps out, hair unbrushed and dripping wet like he didn’t have the time to towel it dry. Garrett steps back from her instinctively, but he frowns when he sees the way she tenses up, arms coming to wrap around herself. 

“Babe,” Luke greets, and Garrett watches in silent horror as his captain crosses the space between them and presses a chaste but tender kiss to her temple. “I’ve got a quick meeting with our coaches. I’ll meet you at the hotel?”

She nods, smiling up at him. But it looks different. Mellower, maybe. Whatever it is, it’s a far cry from how she smiled at Garrett earlier, and definitely leagues away from how she smiled last night. Garrett feels his feet stuck in place, like his shoes have suddenly been glued to the concrete floor. He watches the entirety of their ten second interaction mutely, lips slightly parted in shock, brain going about a thousand miles per minute trying to compute what he’s seeing. 

“See you, Graham,” Luke says to him, as if finally registering his presence. 

Garrett doesn’t flinch, but it’s a close thing. “Yeah, bud.”

His throat feels dry. He knows he’s frowning, looking at her with unhidden confusion. She refuses to meet his gaze, which only serves to deepen his frown. 

He waits until Luke is out of sight before clearing his throat, because not doing so will definitely result in his voice sounding pathetic. “Him?” Garrett wishes he could unsee the way she jumps at the words, even if his voice remains low. “Luke’s your boyfriend?”

She glares at the floor for a second before averting it on him. She juts her chin out defiantly. “Yes. And?”

“I–” Garrett struggles to find the appropriate words, so in the end he just goes for the truth, which more often than not gets him going straight for the jugular. “He’s old.”

“He’s not old.”

“He’s like forty.”

She glares even harder. “He’s thirty-eight.”

“You can’t be older than twenty-five,” Garrett continues, his mind still trying to process what he witnessed. The term of endearment. The casual touch and kiss. It makes his skin crawl. 

“I’m twenty-three. I’m an adult.” She shakes her head, but she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than him. 

Garret clenches his jaw. He didn’t even know Luke had a girlfriend. And Andrew Sinclair’s daughter, of all people? How can her dad approve? How is this not a big news somewhere? Is he so offline that he wasn’t aware of the two of them?

“I can literally hear you thinking, you know,” She tells him, her tone more forcibly relaxed now, as if she’s decided that whatever is on his mind isn’t worth the fight. Because who is Garrett, anyway? He’s just a stranger who plays for her father’s former team whom she had dinner with one night. And not even a date-dinner, either. Just dinner. An unplanned one. At a diner. They had pancakes, for god’s sake. “Just say it.”

Garrett swallows harshly. Where she was within reach just a few seconds ago, now she feels lightyears away, barricaded by invisible forces and a glaring neon sign saying ‘CAPTAIN’S GIRLFRIEND. DO NOT KISS.’ His brain is still catching up on trying to uphold the suddenly very sacred rule that’s been laid out in front of him. 

“I think,” he starts to say, trying to ignore how his body responds to the way she looks, the way she’s looking at him like she’s waiting for him to drop the other shoe, how much he hated it when Luke got too close to her. “I think I need a drink.”

She pauses for a second, before a slow grin takes up her entire face. “Perfect. Lead the way.”

The next time Garrett sees her is months later, at the NHL Awards held in Las Vegas where he’s up for the Calder Memorial Trophy award as Rookie of the Year. It’s something Garrett never even considered within the realm of possibility; something even his dad hadn’t achieved in his career. And so Garrett spends the whole week leading up to it buzzing under his skin. He takes Logan as his plus one, because Tucker is busy with college and letting Dean loose in a room full of important people is a recipe for disaster. He doesn’t see her on the red carpet when he walks it–he doesn’t think of her at all, actually, which is a rarity in itself. The Rangers game had been the last one she attended for the season so far; something about being busy in grad school studying sports journalism that he only knows about because they’ve become Instagram mutuals who occasionally like and reply to each others’ stories. 

Just because he hasn’t seen her in a while doesn’t mean Garrett forgets about her, though. The second night they spent together at his Manhattan hotel bar bonding over hard liquor, fruity cocktails, and Hockey stays engraved in Garrett’s mind. The way she looked that night, flushed from the alcohol and temples damp with sweat. How freely she laughed at all his quips, even when he wasn’t trying to be funny. How she avoided the topic of her controversially older boyfriend (who happens to be Garrett’s captain) expertly, dodging his subtle questions and launching into a different topic that will carry him away. If he had thought she was beautiful in the diner when they first met, it was nothing compared to how she looked with her walls halfway down, lips turning blue from her drink and her voice scratchy from overuse. 

He had walked her up to her room, partly because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, and also partly because he didn’t want their night to end. The need to touch her itched at his bones. He knew it couldn’t happen. It simply couldn’t. And yet he wished for it anyway the whole elevator ride, the silence between them thick with tension and unspoken want. The worst part is Garrett can see how much she wished for it too. For him. She had looked at him through the corners of her eyes the whole ride up with her lower lip bitten, as if that made things easier. When they reached her room, she had pressed up against the door, eyes dark, looking up at him through her lashes. “We should probably stay clear of each other from now on. Just to be safe.”

Garrett remembered biting back a smirk. It’s the closest she’ll ever admit to feeling the thing that is beating alive and pressing in between them, so he nodded his head, not wanting her to take the subtle admission back. “Okay.”

“Just to be safe,” she repeated, catching his eyes meaningfully.

“If you don’t go inside soon, I’m going to kiss you,” Garrett had told her, making her gasp slightly and back up even more into the door. 

Her eyes had dropped to his lips afterwards. Garrett remembers this clearly, because his own had followed her gaze down, and it had taken all of his self-control not to follow his words through. 

“I’m going,” she whispered, reaching out an index finger to push lightly at his chest. The contact had burned through his shirt. “Goodbye, Garrett.”

She gave him one more look, and then she got inside.

He spent five minutes standing there in the hallway, head tilted to the ceiling and cursing everything that led him to that moment.

So no. Garrett couldn’t exactly forget her after that. He tries, though. 

He still hooks up with other women. He goes through his games with a single-minded focus to win, because he knows wherever she is, she’s keeping tabs on their matches. He tries not to be awkward around Luke, even when he finds himself flinching whenever he mentions her offhandedly, or whenever Garrett finds him being a little too friendly with the puck bunnies tailing after them at their away games. Garrett tries not to think about her so much that he begins dreaming about her; sometimes it’s just recollections of their time together, other times his brain tries to supply what could have happened if he’d had enough balls and kissed her in that hotel hallway anyway, even with the knowledge that she’s somebody else’s. It’s a relief, really, that his Calder nomination took his mind off her even for a moment. Garrett’s never been good at not getting what he wants. And he wants her. Badly. Almost desperately. 

The problem with wanting someone you can’t have is that sometimes you long for them hard enough that they materialize right under your nose undetected. And when they do, you find yourself thinking that even the littlest of scraps from them will be fine, as long as you still get to call those parts yours. That’s what Garrett’s thinking about, anyway, sitting at the same table as her and Luke and her dad at the NHL awards, him trying to act normal at finally seeing her after months of social media stalking and shallow comments and Logan giving him questioning looks every five minutes that tells him no, he’s definitely not being normal. 

He sees Luke lean in to whisper something in her ear, and his hands form fists hard enough that Logan takes notice.

“G, are you sure you’re alright?” Logan says under his breath, shooting him a concerned look. “You look…”

Angry, he doesn’t say out loud, but Garrett already knows. His jaw is clenched. His hands fisted. He probably looks pissed off as fuck. And she is sitting there, eyes darting towards him every once in a while like she’s allowed. Like she knows what she’s doing to him and she does it anyway.

“I’m fine,” Garrett manages to grit out, forcing himself to relax. “Just nerves.”

She cut her hair, he realizes blatantly, the waves now falling just past her shoulders. And her dress. God. Deep-burgundy, leather, plunging. It’s like she’s designed just to test his limits. 

Their eyes meet again. Her lips twitch, like she knows exactly what’s going on in his mind.

Fucking hell. 

“I think you’re up next,” Logan says, perking up in his seat. “You ready, G?”

Garrett reaches for his glass of water and gulps it down. He shakes his head, mostly to himself. “I’m not gonna get it.”

“You’re gonna get it.”

His eyes snap towards her, who has raised her eyebrow at him challengingly. Luke is preoccupied talking to their coach seated beside him, but her father hears her and raises his glass in Garrett’s direction with a laugh. “Oh, definitely.”

Garrett forces himself to look away from her, the stubborn set to jaw her making the room feel a hundred degrees hotter. 

“You’re gonna get it,” Logan says this time, lips pulled up in excitement. “And if you don’t, fuck it, right? You had your best fucking season yet, man. Savor it because I’m stealing the thunder in the next one.”

That eases the ball of nerves in his gut, and Garrett finally lets out a genuine chuckle. Logan’s been unbearable ever since finding out he’s being promoted to the NHL for the next season, but Garrett can’t say he isn’t relieved to be finally playing with his best friend again. 

The announcers go on stage, and Garrett feels his grip on his glass tighten. It’s not a big deal, really. He still had an amazing rookie season. He’s swimming in money and sponsorships. He just bought a new car the other week. It’s not a big deal that Phil never even got nominated, or that for once he didn’t bother to show up and ruin his night. It’s no big deal that he feels her staring at him, like she’s so sure he’s going to win. 

And then it happens. 

He wins. 

Their table erupts in cheers, all of them standing to their feet. Garrett feels weightless. Logan is shaking him by the shoulders, but he seems to have lost his hearing, the noise around him muffled and unintelligible. For a second, his eyes meet her’s; her smile is small compared to the other people around them, her hands politely clapping. But her eyes. Warm and wanting and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

Garrett clears his throat and tries to think of unsavory thoughts the whole way to the stage. He’s not going to receive his Calder trophy with a visible hard-on, thank you very much. 

The after party is loud and dark. Occasionally, a stripe of neon would cut across the space and make Garrett wince, but he knows better than to leave too early. Every time someone spots him, they reach for a hug or a handshake, so familiar with him even if he’s never seen their faces before. He’s showered with congratulations and good jobs and enough compliments to boost his ego straight to space. He thinks of the trophy he won, sitting all by its lonesome in his hotel room nightstand. He barely had the time to put it there before he was dragged back down, because he simply couldn’t miss the celebration as the ‘man of the hour.’ 

Logan is out there somewhere, already smashed in the face. The last time Garrett had seen him, he’d been embarrassingly emotional about the whole thing, which Garrett would never admit had made his own throat feel tight. And then some of the guys from the team snatched him over, talking about some initiation for the new recruits. Garrett watched them drag his best friend away with a reluctant smile, the drink in his hand clinking from the melting ice cubes. 

He doesn’t mean to brood or stand alone in one corner. It just sort of happens that way. Everything still feels so surreal. Being in the pros. Winning the Calder Memorial Trophy. Finally getting Logan in the team with him. He feels out of his body. He doesn’t know how to deal with the thing he’s been working towards since he could remember slowly happening right in front of him, unfolding like a red carpet he’s meant to just walk on casually. Garrett’s torn between being happy and being anxious that at some point, it will all end. Not exactly the celebratory thoughts someone who just won rookie of the year should have. 

Garrett smells her perfume before he can even see her coming. It’s the same one she wore that night in the Manhattan hotel bar, the same one that permeated his senses as he stood across from her in the hallway in front of her room. She walks closer until she’s right beside him, her shoulder pressing against the same wall. “It should be illegal to look that broody with the night you’re having.”

“Hey,” he greets her, eyes fighting to stay on her face. It’s not an easy fight; with her close like this, he can feel the heat coming from her skin, see the rise and fall of her chest in his periphery. 

“Garrett,” she says, biting back a smile. “Congratulations.”

That gets a real smile from him that he tries to tamper down immediately. “Thank you. Where’s Luke?”

“Wow,” she says, raising her eyebrows to her hairline. “Straight to the point, are we?”

Garrett shrugs, and then he adds, just because it’s the truth and it’s been gnawing at him since he saw her seated at his table earlier that night, “You look beautiful.”

The words make her pause for a second.

“Luke is here somewhere,” she tells him. Her eyes have little specks of gold in between the green. Her irises are blown wide. He tries not to think too much about the reason why. “I’m not his keeper.”

“No,” Garrett agrees with a tilt of his head. “You’re his girlfriend.” The word feels bitter in his mouth. Wrong. It bothers him enough that he adds, just to tease, “and yet.”

She swallows. “And yet?”

“You’re here.” Garrett says with another shrug. “With me.”

She scoffs, her arms crossing in front of her chest. She does that a lot, he noticed. When conversations veer out of her control, or when she’s even the slightest bit uncomfortable. Garrett doesn’t know her, not really, but he knows body language. And hers is loud and easy to translate. “To offer my congratulations.”

“Sure,” he acquiesces with a nod, just a touch condescending, because he knows how to get a reaction from her. 

“You’re so sure of yourself, aren’t you?” 

“I’m sure of what I want,” Garrett corrects, stepping just a bit closer. 

She breathes in deeply through her nose. Her lips are parted, the red painting them slightly smudged now. Garrett wants to mess them up even more. Wants that color branded all over him. “Luke is your captain.”

“I know,” he says, because he does. He knows there’s no way this is going to end well. Garrett isn’t one to wish for things other people already have ownership of. He’s not one to wreck relationships. But he’s never wanted anyone as much as he wants her. And in his fucked up brain, that takes precedence. “You know the saying. What he doesn’t know…”

Like he said. Want something hard enough and you’ll settle for scraps. 

“You’re impossible,” she says, but the want is clear in her eyes, and her body is fully tilted towards him, like she just can’t help herself. 

“I’m in room 3504,” Garrett says, because he’s presumptuous and cocky and he’s burning underneath his skin. 

Her jaw drops, a chuckle getting out. “Impossible.”

Garrett finally lets himself look. He doesn’t hold back; he trails his eyes from her face to the skin of her neck slowly, down to her chest and the delicious swells of her breasts, the curve of her waist accentuated by the leather dress, the dip in her hips. He knows she’s trying to appear unaffected, but her chest puffs out under his scrutiny, like she subconsciously wants him to study her further. 

“Goodnight,” Garrett tells her simply, like he hadn’t just been looking over her like a starved man. 

Something flashes in her eyes. Regret maybe. Lust, definitely. Garrett allows himself to smirk. Just once. And then he leaves.

The after party’s basically dead, anyway. 

The knock comes sooner than he expects.

He’s probably been in his room for eight, ten minutes, his shoes kicked off, his suit jacket thrown over an armchair, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, when the sound echoes throughout the hotel room, sending heat down his spine instantly. No one else would bother him this time of the night. Everyone is too drunk and too tired and too preoccupied. So really, it could only be one person. 

Garrett gulps down harshly. It’s a bad idea–the worst, actually. There’s no way he’s getting out of this unscathed. And yet the image of her there right outside his door, unable to resist him, wearing that dress that’s been driving him insane all night…All morals go out the window. 

He crosses the room in three big strides. The second he opens the door, his breath leaves him.

For the first time since he met her, she looks unsure of herself. Her hands are fisted by her sides, but Garrett can see them shaking. Her shoulders are hunched slightly. She looks breathless, like she ran from the elevator to his door. But her eyes are clear. Determined. She wants this as much as he does. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to it. 

“Shut up.” She places one palm to his chest, already heaving with anticipation. The touch burns him instantly, the direct skin contact from his unbuttoned shirt sending tingles down his spine. She walks him backwards, lips bitten, and kicks the door close. It’s the hottest thing Garrett has ever seen. 

“Listen–”

Her hand on his chest suddenly grips his shirt to pull him close, their bodies flushing together. “Just shut the fuck up and kiss me.”

And, well, who the hell was he to decline?

They don’t mean for it to become an affair. 

That’s what Garrett says to himself, anyway, three weeks later in another hotel room, this time in New Jersey before their game with the Devils. She’s riding him steadily, her hands braced on his chest and her head thrown back. Garrett’s gripping the sides of her hips like a lifeline, helping her bounce on him, his feet planted on the mattress to get more power behind his thrusts. 

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. Something to take the edge off. To get her out of his system and vice versa. 

“Fuck,” she cries out, nails digging into the skin of his chest. Her mouth is dropped open, eyes closed shut. She feels so good wrapped around him that Garrett doesn’t even know what sex felt like before her anymore. “Garrett.”

“I know,” he grits out, squeezing her hips. “I know, baby.”

A choked sob leaves her straight from the chest. “I’m close.”

“I know,” he says again, before reaching one hand down between her legs where their bodies are meeting, finding her swollen nub of nerves expertly. “Let me help you.”

He feels her clench around him, and his thrusts stutter in pleasure. It was supposed to be a one-time thing, but Garrett can’t help himself. He’s addicted–to her taste, to the way she feels, to her mouth, to the sounds that leave her lips when they’re tied together like this. Every single time with her feels like a revelation. The pleasure is always white-hot and delicious, the guilt secondary. Because who the fuck cares about screwing over his captain when his girl feels like liquid gold sinking down his cock?

“Don’t–” she says, slightly slurring. “Don’t stop. Please. Please.”

Garrett keeps his pace steady, the rough pad of his thumb rubbing harsh circles on her clit. He knows how close she is just by how much her cunt is fluttering around him, her hips jolting with every thrust, her face screwed up in abandon. 

He sits up suddenly, and the angle change causes another loud cry from her mouth. He buries his face in her jaw. Licks at her neck, her shoulder blades, the pulse point beating erratically under her skin. “Need you closer.”

“No marks,” she gasps out, but he barely registers the words. She shifts her head just enough to press their lips together. It’s messy and unbidden, the kind that he knows isn’t pretty from the outside; all spit and tongue and teeth clanging together. But the feel of her warm mouth on his gets a groan from his chest. Something about how dirty it is gets to him. The pure instinct of it. No false pretenses. Just raw need. 

Garrett feels her whole body tighten, around him and over him and against him, and suddenly she’s coming with a muffled shout, her thighs shaking from where she’s straddling him, the long line of her neck exposed. He can’t resist it, so he leans forward and nips at the skin there with his teeth, and with a loud grunt, he follows her over the edge, pumping her full of his release. 

The comedown is slow. She collapses on him, her knees giving out, but Garrett is unbothered by the extra weight. If anything, the close pressing of their bodies add to the warmth smothering his chest from the inside. She digs her nose into his neck and for a while they just lay there, him panting soft breaths into her hair, her warming his softening cock that’s still stuffed inside of her. 

“All good?” He finally manages to say, moving his head so he can look at her face.

Her eyes are closed, but her lips are ticked slightly upwards, a pleased smile if he’s ever seen one. “Stop fishing.”

“I’m asking how you are, Sinclair, not for a performance review.” Garrett chuckles. 

She huffs and opens her eyes. “Fine. 10/10, no notes–Garrett!”

Her squeal cuts off her own words, Garrett’s fingers finding their way to her waist and tickling the sensitive spots there. The movement makes him slip out of her, which in turn causes her to gasp for a whole other reason. 

“Sorry,” Garrett says, not feeling sorry at all. He stands up with a groan, then drags a hand down her arm gently. “Let me get you a warm towel.”

Her hand shoots out and catches his wrist, halting him. “Don’t bother. I need a shower.”

His eyebrows raise at that, gazing down at her naked body sprawled on his hotel sheets, sweat-glistened and perfect. “Oh?”

“Alone,” she corrects with a roll of her eyes. “Besides, don’t you have a team dinner in, like, fifteen minutes? Luke said something about going over some tapes informally.”

Garrett immediately tenses up at the mention of her boyfriend. 

She notices, because of course she does, and her face falls, the mood in the room suddenly flipping. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he shakes his head immediately, his jaw muscles working overtime. “Just. Do me a favor? Don’t mention him when you’re still naked in my bed with my come dripping out of you.”

She gives him a look. “Garrett.”

“What?” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “It’s a fair request.”

Listen. Garrett knows he’s a piece of shit. He knows he’s fucking another man’s girl. Knows that he’s on the losing end of this arrangement. But that doesn’t mean it still doesn’t suck. That it doesn’t make his chest ache sometimes when he thinks about their situation for too long. Or when she goes to a game wearing Luke’s name and number but having her eyes locked on Garrett, like that makes him feel any better. Like that doesn’t make him feel less like a dirty little secret. Whatever. He knows what he signed up for. 

She sits up slowly, looking at him with an unreadable expression on her face. And then she’s closer, enough to wrap her arms around his waist and press her forehead to his stomach. His abs contract at that, and his cock stirs in half-interest. 

“I’m sorry,” she says against his skin, her warm breath hitting him softly. “Hey. I’m sorry, okay?”

She tilts her head so only her chin is pressing against his stomach this time, her eyes catching his. 

Garrett feels the tension leave his bones slowly, like blood oozing out of a small wound. One of his hands pushes back her hair to cradle her cheek. Sitting there by the bed, looking up at him with such gentleness and remorse, bare and pressed up against him and so comfortable in her nudity…It’s a losing fight. Because right now she looks like she’s his, and Garrett can’t always tame the part of him that wants her to stay that way. 

The first time she stays the night is during the off-season. They get a little break, just over two weeks, before starting with practice again. Luke goes home to his parents in Canada, and she goes home to Garrett’s Boston apartment. 

She brings one duffel bag of clothes, only planning to stay for at most four days. She ends up staying the entire break. 

The novelty of not having to sneak out of hotel rooms and look over their shoulders and cut their meetings short is like a drug. They spend almost the entire first week fucking on every surface of Garrett’s apartment: his bedroom, of course, and then braced against his vanity table and in front of the mirror; his gigantic tub, and then the bathroom sink; in the living room on the couch, on the living room floor, against the floor-to-ceiling one-sided windows. The kitchen is a dangerous place, because playing house and being domestic on top of all the fucking has Garrett developing some sort of pavlovian response to the sight of his quartz countertop. He had laid her there one morning and buried his face in between her legs long enough that they were both afraid the scent of her wouldn’t rub off the surface anymore. 

One night, about nine days in, she ties Garrett up to his headboard with fuzzy pink handcuffs that are surprisingly quite durable. She wears a black lace set that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination and grinds and teases him to oblivion, until he’s a panting, pleading mess. 

“Please, baby,” Garrett croaks out when she slips the panties off with a wiggle of her hips. He feels her dripping over his stomach. Sees her nipples poking out from the flimsy fabric of her bra. “I can–I can smell you. Feel you dripping.”

She hums, rubbing herself all over him. He struggles against the handcuffs hard enough to rattle the headboard. “Can you?”

Before he can speak, she lifts her waist and shifts her body down. For a moment Garrett thinks she’s going to take him in her mouth, but she skips his cock entirely and heads for his abdomen where her wetness has spread. “Oops. I made a mess. Sorry.”

And then she sticks her tongue out and licks his belly clean. 

“Fuck,” Garrett breathes out, straining against the cuffs again. “Fuck. Fuck. Come here. Baby, please.”

She’s grinning when she comes up, both hands braced on his shoulders and looking way too proud of herself. Garrett is too far gone to care. “What, baby?”

The nickname sends another streak of heat down his spine. “Come–fuck, just sit on my face. Sit on my fucking face.”

She freezes for a second. “What?”

“Please,” he sounds absolutely wrecked, his throat cracking with want and desperation. 

She exhales shakily, and then she moves up on his body until she’s hovering over his head. Her thighs are already trembling, her desire smearing on the insides messily. “Like this?”

“Closer,” Garrett says, voice rough. “Ride my face, baby. That’s it.”

The second she drops down on him, Garrett pounces. He eats her out like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Drinks her juices like a stranded man on a dessert who found an oasis. Groans at the taste like it’s the best meal he’s ever had. 

“Shit, Garrett,” she hisses, her eyes rolling back from the feel of his mouth, one hand coming up to brace against the headboard. Her hips jerk involuntarily with each stroke of his tongue, the flush in her face going down to her chest. “Yes. That–that’s it.”

The sounds they’re making are obscene. They’ve never been this loud before, had never been brave enough to allow themselves to be. Illicit affairs are meant to be kept secret, hidden in between random hotel rooms and carparks and the occasional public bathroom, with hands covering mouths and muffling noises that otherwise would inform everyone else of what’s going on. But in here, in Garrett’s apartment, in his bedroom, they can be whatever the fuck they want to be. 

“Not gonna last,” she mumbles. Garrett can already feel her twitching, the telltale signs of her orgasm that he has memorized so much they’re already engraved in his brain appearing flawlessly. “Garrett.”

He hums against her, and that’s all it takes. She comes with her mouth open in a silent scream, her breath leaving her lungs violently, riding his face for all its worth. It’s not graceful or perfectly on beat. That’s always what sets his veins on fire. It’s instinct; the most basic, human kind. Garrett could die suffocating on her release and he’d go a happy man. 

“Uncuff me,” he manages to pant out when she pulls away just enough to sit on his stomach again, still loose-limbed and floaty from her orgasm. “Baby. Uncuff me. Now, please.”

“Hold on,” she scrambles for the keys on the nightstand. She unlocks the cuffs with shaky fingers, her thighs still twitching from the aftershocks. The second his hands are free, Garrett’s on her, switching them so suddenly it makes her squeal. “Fuck!”

He huffs his laughter in her face, grin bright and eyes dark, his chain dangling in the space between their chests. “You done?”

“Is that rhetorical?”

Garrett gives her an unimpressed look before ducking down and catching her lips against his. He times it badly; her mouth is open, so the first press has him kissing the air inside her mouth and her basically eating his lips. Before she can laugh at that though, Garrett uses his hips to press her down, one hand going to her chin to adjust the angle and press their mouths together properly. She moans against him, gripping the nape of his neck and tugging at the curls there. 

He pulls away enough to breathe against her lips, “I need to be inside you so bad.” He shifts his weight and then hooks one of her legs over his hip. “Ready?”

She nods wordlessly, breasts heaving up and down in a torturous sight. Garrett guides himself to her entrance and doesn’t wait a second more before sinking into her tight heat. 

“Fuck,” she gasps, hands coming up to his shoulders. 

Garrett gives her another kiss. Chaste, this time, but no less heated. And then he begins to move his hips. He sets a furious pace, knowing this isn’t one of those times to drag it out. He’s been on the edge since she tied him up and gave him a show. He’s aching with the need to finish inside of her, to feel her milk him dry, to hear the choked whimper she always lets out whenever he does. He bends down and takes one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking harshly. 

“Shit, Garrett,” she curses with a gasp, her entire body jolting in place. Her grip on his hair tightens, and then she’s guiding him down to her face again for another kiss, their salivas mixing messily. “Hmm.”

“You feel so fucking good,” Garrett tells her once they pull away, breath fanning against her face. “Never been this good.”

Her face does something at that, but Garrett’s not really in the proper mental space to decipher what it means. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, baby.”

She reaches down to play with her own clit, but Garrett snatches her hand away, making her whine in protest. “Garrett.”

“No,” he grunts out, thrusting harder and getting a broken “oh!” from her mouth. “Want you to finish just like this. With just my cock.”

“I–” she stutters, eyes fluttering at another deep thrust. “I don’t know if–if I can.”

“Course you can,” Garrett adjusts their bodies slightly, and when he sinks down inside her again, he hits her right where she needs him, her sharp cry cutting sharply across the room. “There you go.”

He sees her eyes begin to fill with tears. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

Garrett can feel her clenching around him, can feel her thighs shaking almost violently where they’re pressing on his sides. It feels fucking amazing, the way it always is with her. And Garrett isn’t even sure what makes fucking her so different. He’s been with plenty of other women before. But he and her slot into place like they’ve been molded from the same clay. Like they’re just right for each other. He doesn’t think he’s alone in thinking this. He doesn’t think it’s just him. He doesn’t think Luke had ever fucked her this good. 

Sweat drips down both of their foreheads. Garrett loses his sense of time. All that matters is how hard she’s gripping him, the little whimpers from her lips, the teary eyes that refuse to look away from him. It’s fucking intense and it’s everything Garrett can’t imagine going without. 

He begins to feel the familiar tightening that starts low from his stomach. He tries hard to keep his pace, but it grows frantic anyway, because it feels too good and Garrett can only have so much self-control. 

She feels it too. “Inside,” she gasps out, digging her fingernails into his skin hard enough he’s sure she’s leaving half-moon marks. “I want it inside me. Come inside me, baby, please.”

“Jesus Christ,” Garrett groans, burying his face in her neck.

“Garrett–” she cries out, and it’s his only warning before she starts squirting around him, gushing all over his bedsheets with a choked gasp. 

Garrett lets out a sound, more animal than man, and buries himself as deep inside her as he can. “Shit.”

He continues fucking her through both their orgasms, their bodies trembling with aftershocks. 

Somehow the night simmers into something delicate and quiet. His hips move gently over hers, his hand tangling with her hair to get her to look at him. She’s so fucking beautiful his chest hurts, so he closes the distance between them and kisses her while they both wind down, soft and filled with something they’re both too cowardly to name. 

They’re freshly-showered and hungry. She is attempting to assemble a meal from the minimal ingredients Garrett has in his fridge and pantry while he’s sitting on his kitchen island watching her work. She’s wearing his shirt–an old Briar U Hockey one that’s slightly loose on the neckline and frayed at the edges. She looks comfortable. At ease. The image gives him all kinds of wrong ideas. 

“You surprisingly have a decent amount of greens,” she tells him, face buried in the fridge. 

Garrett snorts. “Don’t give me too much credit. I rarely do my own grocery shopping.”

She straightens up at that just to shoot him an unimpressed look, her nose scrunched up in fake disgust. “Forgot you’re an elite athlete with access to money and nutritionists for a second. My bad.”

“If you wanted a demonstration of my athleticism, you could have just asked.”

“Fuck off,” she says back before opening one of his kitchen cabinets. “I can probably do a veggie stir fry. That alright?”

“Yum,” Garrett nods, pauses, then adds, “Protein?”

She doesn’t stomp her feet, but it’s a close thing. “Ugh. Fine. There’s chicken breast here somewhere.”

They spend a few quiet minutes just existing around each other. Garrett tries to play some game on his phone, a mobile version of the Hockey video game they loved to play in college that Dean had recommended in their gc, but every few minutes he gets distracted by her moving in front of him. He never thought the sight of someone chopping vegetables and hovering over the stove with one hand on their hip would get him going, but like he said. He’s developing pavlovian responses to every single thing in his house these days. 

She reaches for some seasoning somewhere to the right of her, causing the shirt she’s wearing to ride up. Garrett can’t take it anymore, so he crosses the room and immediately wraps his arms around her from behind, nosing her neck and inhaling her scent deeply. She smells like his body wash and his laundry detergent and it makes him hug her to his body even tighter. 

“I’m cooking,” she admonishes, but he can tell it’s half-hearted by the smile threatening to take over her face. She leans back against him, her head to his shoulder, and shoots him a side-look. “Hi.”

“You’re pretty,” he mumbles into her skin. He can’t resist it; he nips at her clothed shoulder with his teeth. 

That makes her yelp. “Garrett!”

“That’s taking way too long,” he points at the pan of veggies offensively. “Come on. Let’s eat later.”

She laughs, a bright, tinkling sound that Garrett feels reverberating in his chest. “Garrett. We can’t just fuck and sleep the whole two weeks. We need sustenance.”

His eyebrows raise to his hairline. “Sustenance?”

“Shut up,” she laughs again at the sight of his smile slowly growing bigger. 

“You sound like my friend, Tucker,” Garrett chuckles, fingers traveling down her sides to squeeze at her hips. He doesn’t move away even when she continues stirring at the pan, just lets his body follow quietly along with her movements. 

She hums. “You miss them? Your friends?”

“Sometimes,” Garrett says, but then she turns her head slightly to give him a disbelieving look. He huffs. “Fine. A lot. I guess. I mean–I kind of spent most of my life alone. Solo sports clinics and training. I went to boarding school at eleven and didn’t really click with anyone there. But for four whole years, I had the guys.”

She places the spatula she’s holding down to turn towards him fully. “They’re your family.”

“Yeah,” Garrett shrugs, swallowing around the sudden tightness in his throat. “It feels weird that we live different lives now. Sometimes in the mornings I still expect to wake up to Tucker’s cooking, or Dean wreaking havoc in the living room, or Logan fiddling with his tools.”

She flicks the stove off. “You said you went to boarding school at eleven?” When he nods at that, her eyebrows furrow, like she can’t quite wrap her head around it. “Why?”

That makes him laugh, even as he’s reaching behind her to grab two empty bowls for them. “Because my dad’s an asshole and my mom died? I don’t know.”

“You never talk about him,” she suddenly says, voice more careful now, her eyes examining him closely. “Your dad.”

“I rarely talk to him, so.”

“He’s why you were so out of it at the Rangers game, right?” She asks. She begins scooping the stir fry into their bowls. “Can you grab us some forks?”

Garrett does as he’s told, then tips his head towards the kitchen island. 

He doesn’t want to talk about his dad, especially here in the sacred space they’ve built in his apartment these past few days, in a place his dad has never stepped foot on, has never tainted. He doesn’t want to tell her how weak and incompetent Phil Graham has made him feel, because those aren’t things you tell someone who you just fuck occasionally. But even labelling what they’re doing in his head as that feels wrong somehow, like he’s betraying their connection. But what are they doing? Because she is still very much Luke’s girlfriend, and Garrett is still her dirty secret. 

“Phil is a shitty person and an even more terrible dad and husband,” Garrett says instead, stabbing a piece of broccoli with his fork. “I’m better off with him out of my life. Let’s just leave it at that.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but her phone rings suddenly, buzzing against the solid countertop. They look down at it at the same time. Luke.

Immediately, Garrett is filled with this cold sensation, like he’s been doused with icy water. She looks at him like she’s guilty of something, and it makes the feeling worse. He clenches his jaw and pushes away from the island, turning his back on her and going to the fridge to pretend like he’s looking for something. 

He hears her pick the call up. “Hello?”

Even just the sound of her voice, too timid and smaller than what she usually uses, gets him to grip the door of his fridge tight enough that his knuckles turn white. Still, he can’t help but be hyperfocused on every word out of her mouth, his brain trying to supply what Luke could be saying on the other line. Clearly Garrett enjoys torturing himself. 

“Yeah, it’s fine,” she says, and then she laughs, fake and shallow. Garrett doesn’t know how Luke can’t tell, when her real laugh is probably the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. “It’s fine, Luke. Your parents miss you.”

He knows he’s been standing in front of the fridge too long, but he can’t bring himself to care. He can’t look at her while she’s talking to her boyfriend like they weren’t just playing house literally thirty seconds ago. 

“Alright.” Luke says something on the other line that makes her pause. And then she says, almost hesitantly and definitely more quietly, “I love you too. Bye.”

His whole body tenses up. 

Garrett lets the words wash over him. He closes the fridge door too hard. “I’m out of beer. I’m just going to–”

She’s right next to him in seconds, her eyebrows scrunched up, her eyes pleading. “Garrett, please.”

It slips out of him before he can fashion it into something cleaner, more eloquent: “Why are you still with him?”

She freezes. “What?”

“Why are you still with him?” Garrett repeats, slower this time. His heart is pounding in his chest. They’ve never had this conversation before. Had actively avoided having it, even. 

They have all these unspoken little rules: only approach each other at parties when everyone is already too drunk to notice, don’t make eye contact for more than five seconds because apparently Garrett can’t be subtle in the slightest. During Hockey seasons, they can only fuck before games, because Luke always looks for her after. Never bring up her relationship with Luke, and in turn she can never ask about the other women in Garrett’s life. Only, there are no other women, because Garrett is stupid and weak and he hasn’t wanted anybody else ever since he got a taste of her. 

And the worst part is Garrett knows she doesn’t love Luke. Not really. She can say the words and try to convince everyone including herself, but Garrett knows what in love looks like and it doesn’t look like her when she’s around Luke, all small and shrinking on herself. Garrett had been there, once, in college with the first serious relationship he ever had. Things might not have worked out with Hannah for the long run, but he still thinks of their time together fondly. He had learned a lot in that relationship. He had experienced love for the first time–love that made you better; love that made you feel tall. And whenever Luke’s around, tall is the last word he can use to describe her. 

“You don’t get it,” she finally says through glassy eyes. 

Garrett huffs. “You’re right. I don’t.”

“I thought we had a deal,” she continues. Garrett isn’t sure if she’s angry or frustrated or panicked. Maybe a mixture of the three. “You know I have a boyfriend. You know that we have to do this in secret.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“That's exactly the point!” She exclaims with a disbelieving laugh. “Would you honestly be bothered that I have a boyfriend if we were just sleeping around? If this is still just casual for you?”

Garrett wants to tell her that it was never casual to him, not really. He wants to tell her that thinking about her being with Luke makes him sick to the stomach. That sometimes he gets nightmares about everyone finding out and a huge fight breaking out between him and his captain on the ice, a direct parallel to one of the biggest mistakes he made in college (not that he regrets bashing in that monster’s face). But the words feel too deep for what they are. Too real. Because she’s right; he knew what he was getting into. He didn’t sleep with her because he had this delusion that she’s going to leave her boyfriend for him. 

“It’s not about me,” Garrett shakes his head. “It’s not. I don’t care if we’re casual or if you’re hooking up with a dozen other people. That’s your prerogative and I’m not your boyfriend. I care that you’re staying in a relationship with someone almost twice your age when you’re clearly unhappy and not in love with him.”

Her face cracks open. She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, so they just stand there awkwardly in the middle of his kitchen in silence. Finally, when the quiet is close to suffocating, she says, “He’s retiring this year.”

“What?”

“He’s retiring,” she repeats, backing up until she’s leaning against the counter. “His family’s been convincing him to retire since he turned 35. That was already pushing it, especially for Hockey. But he’s finally doing it this year.”

Garrett frowns, confused. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“He helped me a lot when we first got together,” she explains, looking down to fiddle with her hands. “I was sort of a problem child. Comes with the territory of being a legacy kid, I guess. I was just so…angry. At my dad for never being around. At myself for still wanting to be a sports journalist when it’s so intrinsically tied to him. I was lost. Drugs and parties and everything that can help me release all that anger.” 

Garrett doesn’t say anything, letting her words marinate in the air while he fights to keep down a reaction. Because aren’t they the same? Hasn’t he been struggling with the same things, the same anger, all throughout his life? Drugs, parties, alcohol, or endless trainings, non-commitments, and obsessive focus—they’re all just different ways of getting to that same harmful escape. 

She sniffs and then continues, “And when he first asked me out, he promised that he’d help me straighten myself out. Help me become more mature. Sober. He had this five-step regime—“ she lets out a wet laugh. “He’d make me do cardio every time I wanted to get high. Had me down a green juice every time I wanted to get wasted. He brought me to games. He got me closer to my dad again. To this world that I so stubbornly left yet desperately miss.” 

She finally looks up and meets Garrett’s eyes. “He was there for me when I needed someone. Molded me when I needed shaping. And when he retires, he’s going to need me, and I’d feel awful if I left him alone when that time comes.”

“Love isn’t owed, baby,” Garrett tells her. His voice comes out tired and almost pleading, because he needs her to hear him out. “No matter what he did for you. I mean–what’s the endgame here? Stay with him, marry him, have his kids just because you feel like you owe him? Just find some other guy to sleep with to satiate your needs in the meantime? Does that make you feel better?”

She glares up at him. “I never planned to cheat on him.”

“But you did.”

“Because it’s you,” she tells him simply, like that wouldn’t ruin him, like that wouldn’t make his heart stop in his chest. She shrugs at him with a sad smile. “You snuck up on me.”

Garrett exhales loudly. 

Before he knows it, he’s backing her up to the counter and gathering her in his arms, one hand coming up to cup her jaw and pulling her up to meet his mouth. The kiss is filthy and deep, with exactly the amount of passion that he knows her relationship lacks. Maybe if he kisses her hard enough, she’ll come to her senses. 

He taps her hip as a warning, and then his hands are lifting her up to sit on the countertop. Her legs wrap around his waist instinctively, already twitching. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers against his lips. Garrett kisses her jaw, down to her neck, the blade of one shoulder exposed from his shirt’s stretched neckline. “I brought you into this mess.”

She did; or maybe he did it unto himself. Either way, Garrett still wants her like he’s never wanted anyone. Needs her like he needs air. So he pulls her forward and kisses her again, because if he’s going to be settling for scraps, then at least some part of him can still feel good. 

Garrett spends his fourth of July with family, which means he spends it with Logan, Tucker, Dean, and their girlfriends at the Di Laurentis summer home in the Hamptons. He drives over with Logan, Grace, and Tucker and tries not to think about where she is, even though he already knows that she’s with her family at her Dad’s. He definitely also tries extra hard not to think about the headlines of Luke retiring that greeted him when he opened his twitter account last week, or the team farewell party the coaches had set up for him in a couple days. And Luke is probably with her and her family, so Garrett does his best to avoid going on social media and seeing something that is going to derail his entire weekend. 

Dean is in tacky board shorts with little dolphin prints all over them, shirtless, with crooked sunglasses sitting low on his nose when they finally arrive, spreading his arms wide and yelling, “There they are!” 

Garrett rolls his eyes, but his lips are already betraying him with a fond smile even before he can get out of the car. 

“There’s my rookie of the year!” Dean points at him with a wide grin. “How are you, man?”

“Please tell me you’re not drunk already,” Garrett says, exasperated, but Dean just throws one arm over him for a side hug which he easily returns. 

Dean smirks. “Please. I’ve matured but I’m not boring.” And then he’s welcoming Logan and Tucker with the same enthusiasm, and Garrett feels something in his chest settle at the familiarity of it all, his brothers being in one space again. 

“Come on,” Dean says, gesturing to the ridiculous glass door entry way. “Allie’s just doing some self-tapes but she should be done soon. There’s a grill, a pool, a bonfire, some fireworks. It’s going to be the best weekend ever, boys.”

And for a while, it really is. Garrett forgets about the looming practice schedule that was sent to his email the night before. He forgets about the tiny pang he always gets in his chest when he finds himself craving for his friends’ company and realizing they’re leading separate lives now. He forgets about the last time he saw her before Luke came back; the intensity of it; her nails branding scars in his back, her breath mingling with his, their eyes staying locked on each other the whole way. Sex had never felt more vulnerable and more painful, and Garret had watched her pack her bag and leave his apartment with a lump in his throat the entire time. 

Tucker grills them the perfect steaks while he tells them all about his senior year at Briar and how he’s thinking of pursuing his major rather than a career in sports. Allie recounts the most absurd Broadway stories and interactions with famous people known to man. Garrett and Logan lay off on the hockey talk, even if Dean purposefully brings up his assistant coaching gig for a girl’s team in the city to bait them into it. 

By sunset, they’ve somehow convinced themselves that each boy had to set off his own firework, so the four of them line up near the docks with Allie and Grace watching them with their phones out. Dean accidentally sets off too early and almost falls to the water in shock, causing the rest of them to follow along clumsily. The night sky begins to take over, dark blues and purples painting the above canvas as they double over in laughter, carefree and together. 

Garrett and Logan build the bonfire afterwards, and they’re sitting there huddled around the warm flames when Garrett’s phone goes off. He glances down at it absentmindedly and immediately tenses up, because she is calling. It’s the fourth of July; he’s surrounded by his family and she’s with hers, and she’s calling him. 

“Excuse me,” Garrett says to no one in particular, setting his bottle of cold beer down and standing up. “I gotta take this.”

He pays no mind to the curious looks he gets at that, instead shuffling inside to the kitchen and staring at his vibrating phone for a few seconds. With a quick glance to make sure the coast is clear, he hits accept. “Hello?”

There’s a pause for a moment, like she’s surprised he answered at all, before her voice fills his ears, soft and warm. “Hey.”

“What’s up?” He asks tentatively and then immediately winces at the poor choice of words. “I mean, is there something wrong, or…?”

“No, no, God,” she laughs breathily. The sound does something to his chest. Tightens it and loosens it all at once. “Nothing’s wrong, I just–I guess I just wanted to call you. Hear your voice.”

Garrett feels his shoulders slacken at once, a short exhale leaving his lips. “Yeah?”

“Don’t be annoying about it,” she warns, and the almost petulant way she does it finally gets him to laugh. 

“How was your fourth?” He asks instead, leaning against the kitchen counter more comfortably. “Had any fun?”

“Yeah,” she answers. He can almost imagine how she looks; flushed from the day’s activities, hair windswept and flying all over the place. She’s probably somewhere private, too, like her childhood bedroom. Maybe she’s in the kitchen just like him, to be away from prying ears. “Mom cooked up all her signature dishes. I feel so bloated, I swear I’m not going to be able to fit in my pants tomorrow.”

Garrett chuckles, soaking in her voice and the casual way she tells him about her day like this is something they do. Only, they don’t. Not really. They text each other stupid shit from time to time. Mostly, though, it’s schedules and addresses and hotel room numbers. This is something new, and the abnormality of it makes his heart race. “I sincerely doubt that.”

“How about you?” she asks. “How’s the Hamptons?”

“Fancy,” he answers, his face still stretched by a too-wide grin. “But nah. Tuck made a feast and Dean had us setting off fireworks in the docks. For a second, I was fully convinced we were all going to lose a limb.”

“Yikes,” she says with a laugh. “I’d pay good money to see that.”

“I’m pretty sure Allie and Grace took some videos. I’ll send them to you.”

“Allie and Grace?” Something in the tone of her voice gets Garrett to pause a little. 

“Yes,” he says carefully. “Dean and Logan’s girlfriends.”

“Oh,” she exhales. “I thought–never mind.” This time, when she laughs, it’s a little different; a little self-deprecating. “When are you getting back in the city?”

Garrett half wants to press her for more, even though he already has an inkling as to what she was thinking. But digging for more is exactly the kind of unspoken rule they have that would get her all silent and apologetic when he breaks it, and right now Garrett just wants to hear her voice, so he lets the moment go. “Uh, day after tomorrow. We got our new practice schedules already, so I want to get ahead and start training early or else that first day back on the ice with the team is going to kill me.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” she says. “Dad’s already talking about taking the cup this season. It’s insane.”

Garrett groans, lifting one hand to rub his eyes. “You should not have told me that. That’s just gonna get in my head.”

“Don’t you dare. You better give me a good season, Graham.”

“You’re the boss,” he shoots back, trying to not feel silly about the stubborn smile on his face that just won’t go away. “Can we meet? When I get back?”

She’s quiet for a few seconds, enough to make Garrett anxious. They’re deliberately skating over the big elephant in the room that is Luke’s retirement announcement the previous week, deliberately acting as if nothing in their dynamic is going to change now that she’s not exactly expected to come to most of their games without her boyfriend playing. That–combined with Luke’s sudden free time–has been plaguing Garrett’s mind the entire week. The truth is that he’s been waiting; for the other shoe to drop, for her to heed what he said to her at his apartment, for anything that will throw him a bone. Right now, this phone call is as close as he’s gonna get. 

“I’ll try, okay?” She says softly, voice quieter now. It shouldn’t be enough. It shouldn’t. But in Garrett’s ear, with her sounding like that, it kind of is, and if he examines that too deeply, he’s going to feel pathetic, so he takes the words for what they are. “I miss you.”

Garrett closes his eyes at that. It’s unfair that she can undo him with just three words, a four-hour drive away and belonging to someone else. It’s unfair that Garrett lets it happen, anyway. “I miss you too. You left, like, a hundred hair ties at my place.”

That makes her scoff out a laugh. “I did, huh?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles with a smile. “I don’t know how a single human could have that many and still lose every single one. I’ve been finding them in the most random places.”

“Keep them for me,” Garrett can practically hear the smile in her voice. “I’m sure I’m going to need them some day.”

“Alright,” he says, biting down on his lower lip and pretending like his heart isn’t doing ridiculous gymnastic stunts in his ribcage. “I will.”

His friends are quiet when he gets back to the backyard, the loud conversation from before lulling to a peaceful silence you only get when you’re with people you trust enough to just exist around. Allie has drifted to sitting on Dean’s lap, her head resting over his shoulder and her hands gripping her fancy cocktail glass close to her chest. Logan is on the grass sitting in between Grace’s legs while she absentmindedly braids his hair. Tucker, funnily enough, looks like he’s about to doze off in his seat, eyes drooping and mouth slightly parted. They all turn towards him when he slides the door open, but it’s Logan who calls him out on his disappearance.

“Who was that?” He asks, eyebrows slightly furrowed. 

Garrett stops in place, his mind scrambling for a decent excuse but somehow only coming up with, “Uh, no one?”

It’s the exact wrong thing to say, because it causes Logan to frown deeper, Tucker to blink awake, and Dean to form an almost evil look in his eye. 

“Hold on a second,” Dean says, a slow smile growing on his face. “Don’t tell me–”

“Don’t,” Garrett stops him, which, again, is a terrible idea. 

Dean laughs disbelievingly. “Holy shit. You were talking to a girl.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Fuck off, Dean.”

“Fuck!” Dean laughs louder, jolting Allie in place and causing her to slap his knee in annoyance. “I cannot believe you’re hiding a girlfriend from us. Why didn’t you bring her here, man?”

He glares at each of his friends with enough vigor that it makes the situation worse. “Because I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Do we know her?” Tucker asks, completely disregarding his words. 

Garrett sighs. “There is no her.”

“Then why’d you hide away inside for a little phone call?” Logan quirks an eyebrow at him.

He gapes. “I wasn’t hiding.”

Logan just gives him a look. 

“Garrett has a girlfriend?” Allie asks, suddenly invested in their conversation. She sets her cocktail glass down. “Wait, I wanna meet her.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Garrett says with a shake of his head, then immediately realizes his mistake. “Wait.”

But Dean has already sat up in his seat, one finger pointed at him like he just discovered something world-changing. Logan’s eyes are popped open and Tucker is trying to hide his smile. 

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Grace says, leaning forward. 

“Garrett,” Dean says, giving him a look. His voice is low, faux serious and all condescending. “Don’t be shy. Who’s the girl?”

He laughs helplessly. “Oh my god. No one.”

“G, you’re already caught, man,” Logan shakes his head. “Just fess up.”

Garrett trudges to his seat with heavy steps. He takes the beer he set on the floor and gulps it down, wincing at the now lukewarm liquid sliding down his throat. When he’s done, all his friends are looking at him expectantly. He has to hold back a groan. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Okay…” Logan nods, waiting for him to continue. 

Garrett laughs again, more dryly this time. He runs a hand over his eyes and says the words he knows he won’t be able to take back. “She’s not my girlfriend because she already has a boyfriend.”

Silence. 

Almost all of them have their jaws drop open, looking at Garrett in varying degrees of shock, confusion, and uncertainty. Dean, to his credit, doesn’t say anything stupid yet, though his lips twitch like he’s already thought of exactly the wrong thing to say to make him feel worse. 

“Right,” Logan says, blinking stupidly. “So we’re going to need a few more details than that.”

Allie holds her hand up. “Wait. Are you telling us that you’re—what? A side piece? Garrett Graham is someone else’s—I don’t even know what to call it. What’s the male version of mistress? Boytoy?” 

“Wow. Thanks, Al,” Garrett flashes her a sarcastic smile and raises his bottle up at her. “That makes me feel so much better.” 

Tucker leans forward, sleepiness completely forgotten in favor of dissecting Garrett’s love life. “Dude. Seriously. What do you mean she has a boyfriend?”

Garrett tilts his head to look at the sky. It’s dark, but unlike in the city or in Boston, he can see the stars from here, sparkling and scattered prettily above him. He wonders blithely if somewhere in her childhood home, she had attempted to see them today as well, through the tall buildings and city smog. 

He’s aware that he’s about to break another one of their unspoken rules: a flashing red sign that dramatically reads ‘no one can know.’ But Garrett has been carrying this secret for almost three months now, has been carrying his want for her for even longer, so he thinks he owes it to himself to at least try and unburden a little bit of the weight from his shoulders. “I’ve been…seeing someone.”

“Someone…who has a boyfriend…” Dean supplies, dragging the words out with his eyes narrowed almost mockingly. 

Garrett glares at him, but it lacks the normal heat. After an ugly pause, he continues. “Yes. She’s been having an affair. With me.”

He watches them take his words in. It’s a true testament to his trust in their bond that he knows that while it’s within their right to judge him, he knows that they will never abandon him for what he’s doing wrong. They’ll be on his ass, sure. Logan is probably already mentally preparing a whole lecture on self-respect and boundaries for the ride back to Boston. Allie is looking at him like she’s curating a to-watch list of all the affair-adjacent movies she knows that ends in absolute disaster. Only Dean is looking a little unconcerned, his eyebrows raised in a way that tells Garrett he’s a little impressed. 

“Do we…” Logan trails off, rubbing at his chin. “Do we know her?”

“I’m not telling you that, man,” Garrett says with a shake of his head. “I gotta–look. I gotta protect her, right? If this gets out, it’s going to look so bad for her.”

Grace chooses that time to quip, “So it’s someone important enough that the media will care if this gets out.”

Garrett gives her a look. Not helping. She raises her arms as if to say ‘sue me.’

Another stretch of slightly uncomfortable silence, and then Dean clicks his tongue.

“Wow,” Dean finally says, leaning back in his seat. 

“What?”

“I just–yeah. Wow.”

“Dean.”

Dean glances around at them. Beyond the unaffected expression, Garrett spots something real slipping through the cracks. Concern, maybe. “Just…Why?”

There’s a pause. All of them seem to be waiting for his answer with an almost buzzing curiosity that would have been funny under different circumstances. 

Garrett has to exhale at that, like his breath has been stolen from him, because isn’t that the age old question? Why? Why did he agree to this? He could maybe excuse the first time, charge it towards hormones and lack of control and getting a beautiful, taken girl out of his system. But the time after that, and the time after that, and the time after that…there’s no excuse. There’s no clean explanation that could justify what they’re doing. It’s not just her relationship and reputation they’re risking; it’s hurting other people deliberately. It’s lying. It’s Garrett’s freaking career. So why? Garrett doesn’t know if he can extract a correct enough answer, so he just tells them simply, “I don’t know.”

“Are you in love with her?” It’s Allie who asks, because of course she does. 

“No,” Garrett says immediately, even if something in his chest protests at the words. It’s just not possible. How can he be in love with someone he hasn’t been given a chance to love? Sure, he knows how to kiss her and touch her and fuck her in a way that makes their blood sing in their veins. But love? “I–it’s casual. It’s not a relationship or anything. We just hook up sometimes.”

Allie looks like she’s about to call him out on his bullshit. Logan definitely smells his insincerity from where he’s sitting. But it’s all that Garrett can offer that at least resembles the truth. 

"You're a good guy, G,” Logan begins to say, catching his eyes and refusing to let him look away. He does that sometimes; look at him like he knows something he doesn’t. Like something is written clearly and in bold font across Garrett’s forehead that he can read but is invisible to Garrett’s own eyes. It’s annoying and also comforting, because he knows Logan will never not have his back. “You know what you’re doing is wrong. You’re also an adult. No one else is privy to your decisions. You’re allowed to make mistakes. But... Take it easy, alright? I think I can speak for all of us when I say that no one here wants to see you get hurt.”

It already does, Garrett wants to tell them. It already hurts when he wants her by his side but she can’t come because Luke is with her. Or when she’s within reach but Garrett can’t cross the room and go to her. Or when they have real conversations in between the sex, like real people with real emotions, and she kisses him just to kiss him. It’s a bone-dry weight on his chest every time; an unhealing bruise that stings him sometimes when she presses on it too hard unknowingly. It already hurts. 

“I don’t know how to stop,” Garrett confesses, looking down at his sandaled feet. He hates that his voice catches in his throat. It makes him sound like a kid begging for more candy. It reveals layers on his skin that never should have been exposed in the fourth of July air. “I know it’s wrong but I just–I don’t know. I need her.”

They don’t say anything more after that, probably because they all know that there’s nothing to say that would magically undo his mistake or give him the clarity he needs. Still, a part of Garrett wishes someone had said something, had given him instructions or a manual he can follow, because Garrett doesn’t know what to do. All he knows is that he drives back to Boston in two days, and the first thing he’s going to do is call her and make her go to his apartment because he misses her and he needs her close to him. 

He leans forward and gets another beer bottle from the ice box next to him. The drink fizzles when he pops it open, foam spilling over and wetting his hands. His friends try to get the night back to normal, chatting idly among themselves, quieter now that something ugly and real has been exposed. And Garrett just sits there drinking his beer with sticky fingers and the knowledge that he’s on the precipice of a heartbreak that he’s not sure he can ever recover from. 

Luke’s farewell party is held at some upscale rooftop bar a couple minutes away from TD Garden. Garrett almost doesn’t go. He had sat in his bed staring at his phone for almost an hour going over the e-invite sent to his mail and coming up with reasons why he couldn’t come. Maybe he went down with something; flu or chickenpox or diarrhea. Maybe he slipped in the bathroom and had to go to the emergency room. Maybe his car broke down, or he suddenly has a family emergency out of town, or he has a date he simply couldn’t miss. Every excuse is better than the bitter truth, which is that he couldn’t come because he’d rather not see the girl he’s been having an affair with play the part of the perfect girlfriend to his soon-to-be-retired team captain. 

All of that is moot, though, because Logan bombards him with enough texts asking him where he is and telling him he’s already half an hour late and that if he didn’t get his ass to Luke’s party, he would drag him there himself. So Garrett puts on a pair of black pants and a white shirt, snatches the keys of his Jeep from his foyer and drives to the party in total silence. 

He must’ve been a complete asshole in his past life, because he arrives at the bar just as they’re doing speeches, which immediately makes him want to scurry back to his apartment with his tail tucked between his legs. Logan is standing by one of the cocktail tables near the middle and he immediately raises a hand up to signal Garret to come over. It takes him forever to reach him, getting stopped at every turn by his teammates and coaches and other members of the Bruins staff. By the time he manages to squeeze himself beside Logan, he finally sees her. 

She looks beautiful, which should be a given already but somehow still catches him off guard. The dress she’s wearing is gold and it moves like liquid over her body, catching the light in a way that feels like punishment to him. Garrett immediately zooms in on the arm Luke has thrown loosely around her waist. The touch is familiar, absent minded, the way people make contact when they don’t have to think about it too much. Garrett moves his jaw, just to get some of the tension out. And, because fate is playing him like a fiddle that night, she looks away from the marketing guy doing a speech on the makeshift stage and makes direct eye contact with Garrett. 

He sees the way she registers his presence, the slight hitch of her breath evident in the movement of her chest. 

Garret isn’t sure if he should wave or smile at her or avert his eyes completely. How do you face the woman you were fucking into your mattress less than 24 hours ago and greet her like an acquaintance? The answer is unclear, so he doesn’t greet her at all. He glances away pointedly, teeth grinding down together, and holds a finger up to order a drink–preferably something strong enough to get him through this godforsaken party. 

When he turns his head, Logan is already looking at him with a concerned frown. Garrett immediately stiffens at the calculating look, especially when Logan’s eyes flash towards where she is standing by Luke’s side for a second before darting back to him. 

“What?” Garrett asks, but already he knows the tone he uses is too defensive, too close to the truth. 

Logan opens his mouth but pauses. He chances another look at her. “You okay, G?”

His drink mercifully arrives, and Garrett downs it with a wince. He tries to ignore the weight of her stare all the way from across the room. “Fine. I’m just fine.”

The VIP all-gender bathroom is clean and quiet. It’s one of those fancy ones with a sitting area and coffee table near the door, the smell of generic freshener wafting through the air. Garrett collapses on one of the cushioned armchairs and covers his face with both hands, head leaning back against the tiled wall. 

He’s been at the party for close to forty minutes now. He’s done his part: he had smiled at all the correct people, gave away hugs and laughs like expected, chatted about the upcoming season, held his drink up in a toast at the announcement of their new captain. He did all these things while ignoring how much his eyes want to seek out where she is, so he thinks he deserves a little break. It’s not easy to long for someone ten feet away and not being allowed to show how much. 

Logan has been unusually quiet all evening, too, and Logan quiet is basically a recipe for disaster. He knows Garrett too well; he wouldn’t put it past him to be able to put two and two together just from Garrett’s late entrance alone. So Garrett dials up the charm and the pretense, extra careful under his best friend’s scrutiny. He’s sure it doesn’t work either way, but if he tries hard enough, maybe Logan can just let it go. 

He thinks of picking up a girl for the night. There are a lot of puck bunnies and friends of WAGs invited; he’s been approached by a fair few, himself. But the thought of even looking at another woman in that way makes him want to throw up, which he decides might be the most unfair thing in the world when he has to go the entire night watching the woman he wants be in somebody else’s arms. 

The bathroom door clicks open, but he pays it no mind until a familiar voice startles him to put his hands down. “Oh.”

She is paused awkwardly by the door, one hand still on the knob and her lips parted in surprise. 

Garrett sits up slowly, hands bracing on each arm of the chair. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says back quietly. She cranes her neck to look at the hallway before stepping inside fully, locking the door with a flick. She approaches him in slow, tentative steps, only stopping when his knees are almost touching the fabric of her dress. “You were late.”

He looks up at her with a harsh swallow, one hand already reaching out to pull her waist. “Come here.”

She completely melts into him; there’s no other way to describe it. She sits down on his lap sideways, her arms going around his neck, her forehead meeting his, and her body relaxes to an almost ridiculous degree, all the tension leaving her body with the simple contact. 

“Hi,” she whispers again, more softly this time. 

Garrett tightens his hold on her. It shouldn’t make sense for them to fit together so perfectly, for their bodies to feel like they’ve been molded together by a separate entity in their past lives. She smells like expensive perfume and sweat and that distinct smell of her that he’s grown addicted to in the months that he’s been privy to know her scent privately. She bumps their noses together, like she’s doing some scent inventory of her own. 

“You look beautiful,” Garrett says roughly, spreading his palms wide on the expanse of her back. 

She exhales through her nose. “Thanks, baby.”

He examines her face, the perfectly done make up, her glossy lips. He can’t help himself, so he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

“Of course,” she almost frowns, pressing their foreheads harder together. “You never have to ask.”

So Garrett tilts his chin up and kisses her. It’s soft and slow and deep, and he hopes it conveys how shitty he feels as well as how much he could never stop wanting her. She hums against his mouth and gives back as good as she got. It’s a kiss that doesn’t lead to anything more than a simple pressing of two pairs of lips together; there’s no wandering hand or suggestive eyes or grinding hips. The warmth of it spreads from their point of contact and down to Garrett’s chest, where it blooms into something new and inevitable. 

“I’m going back to my place tonight,” she says when they pull away, still close enough that the words paint butterfly kisses all over his face. “Can you meet me there?”

Garrett exhales shakily. “Of course, baby.”

She pulls back just enough to push some of his curls back, lower lip bitten in thought. He knows what she’s going to say before she even opens her mouth. “I’m sorry–”

“Don’t–”

“No, listen,” she insists, putting down her hand on his shoulder and squeezing it. Her eyes are deep and her eyebrows are furrowed slightly. “I’m sorry. I know tonight isn’t easy for you.”

Garrett squeezes her waist. “It’s okay.”

“You always say that,” she almost laughs. 

“Because it is,” he shrugs. “Much better than the alternative, which is not having this at all.” 

She falls silent at that. She looks down at one of her hands pressed to his chest. “That won’t always be true, you know?”

“What do you mean?” 

She starts playing with one of the buttons on his shirt. Her throat moves like speaking has suddenly become painful. “One day, you won’t be okay with this. It’s not going to be enough. And you’re going to meet another person who can give you more than the secret moments that we steal away. That’s probably the best outcome, really.”

Deep in his stomach, Garrett feels panic settle slowly. “What are you saying?”

She still doesn’t look at him. “I’m saying that I won’t blame you if you wake up one morning and realize that you don’t want this anymore.”

Garrett’s already shaking his head before she can finish speaking. “I’ll never not want this.”

“I can’t leave him, Garrett,” she finally meets his eyes. Hers are wet and bright with tears, her face screwed up in guilt. “He’s all I’ve ever known.”

He feels that like a knife to the chest. “That’s not true.”

She gives him a confused look. 

Garrett swallows. “It’s not. I’m here. You know me. You’ve been knowing me for months. You’ve been kissing me and touching me and branding yourself on my skin while pretending that you’re in love with a man who bores you to death. Who makes you feel small.”

“Luke doesn’t–”

“And it’s okay,” Garrett interrupts. His voice remains gentle even through the huge lump in his throat. “It’s fine. I can deal with that. And maybe you’re right. Maybe one day I’ll meet some girl who can give me what you can’t. But the same is true for you. Maybe one day, you’ll realize that you’re not duty-bound to stay with Luke just because he groomed you into the person you think you have to be.”

“Garrett…”

“And when that happens,” he continues, voice cracking. “I wanna be here.” He cups her face so she can look him properly in the eyes. “Baby. I wanna be here.”

That night, they fuck with a reverie that they’ve never felt before. The safe pretense of ‘casual’ and ‘just hooking up’ are thrown cleanly out of the window, and Garrett keeps his lips on hers while he thrusts inside of her so deeply it’s like he wants to engrave his name under the skin of her belly. They’re quiet, almost suffocatingly so, the air filled with gasps and whispers of each other’s names. She cards her fingers through his hair and looks at him with such undisguised wanting that Garrett feels his world tilt off its axis. He’s never going to stop wanting this. He’s never going to stop wanting her. 

Allie’s words from the 4th come back to him, then. “Are you in love?” She had asked, in a way that hopeless romantic people who are in long, committed relationships tend to do whenever they find out you’re kind of seeing someone. Garrett had been quick to spout a denial back then, an immediate “no” that plagued him for the rest of the trip. 

And now, pressing himself so closely to her body so he can convince himself that there is an end to this where he comes out on top, where he doesn’t get left behind, where she sees sense and actually fucking chooses him…

“Are you in love?” Allie had asked. 

I don’t know, his mind answers. But if it’s not love, then it’s pretty fucking close.

Logan catches him after practice. He and Grace had invited him over for dinner, and Garrett had nothing better to do, so they agreed to just drive over to Logan’s place together. They’re at a stop light, Garrett leaning his head on the window and Logan tapping his fingers on the stirring wheel, when Logan turns to him and says, “It’s her. Right?”

Garrett sees more than feels the way his body stiffens in his reflection on the window. One of his hands forms into a fist, but he keeps it hidden from view, pressing it to the side of his thigh. “What?”

The light turns green, and Logan puts his car in drive. And then he says her name. “It’s her. The girl you’ve been seeing.”

Garrett turns to him with a frown, mouth open, a half-formed excuse already planning to fall out, but Logan continues. 

“You don’t have to lie to me, G,” he says, eyes focused on the road and voice annoyingly calm. “I know you. I saw the way you two looked at each other at Luke’s party. And the way the both of you disappeared for like, fifteen whole minutes. I noticed.”

When Garrett exhales, it’s a twisted mixture of dread and relief. Because finally their most sacred rule is broken. Finally someone else other than the two of them knows. And maybe it’s the start of things beginning to change, because they’ve been stuck circling around this affair with no direction for so long. “Yeah. Yes.”

Logan at least looks somewhat shocked that he admits to it so quickly. “Fuck. Really?”

“You literally told me you figured it out,” Garrett says with a frown. “Why are you acting shocked now?”

Logan sputters. “Well–thinking it is different than actually having it be confirmed!”

Garrett sighs, more exasperated than panicked this time. 

He feels Logan side-eyeing him. “You good, G?”

“What?”

“I mean–are you okay? How–how are you dealing with it?”

Garrett rubs one hand over his mouth. “I’m dealing with it.”

“I can’t believe you’re fucking Luke’s girlfriend,” Logan shakes his head with a small disbelieving chuckle. “It’s a good thing I never have to play with him. That would be so awkward. How did that even happen?”

Garrett shrugs. He hasn’t seen her in a couple days, and already he feels her absence like a limb. Sometimes he wishes he could want her a normal amount, as opposed to the living, beating, all-encompassing way he feels for her under his skin. “Some people just sneak up on you, I guess.”

It all comes to head a little over a month later, which Garrett should have seen coming. Things have been too good lately. They’ve been seeing each other too frequently. They text almost everyday. Whenever they sleep together, they don’t even pretend that it’s just for sex anymore. In fact, one night, he had been so tired from practice that they don’t fuck at all. But she still slept curled against him in bed, pressing soft kisses to the center of his back tattoo and rubbing her hands on his stomach to lull him to sleep. Garrett should have known that a shift would be coming. It always does when things get too good. 

He’s been home for five minutes, curls still damp from his post-rink shower, when his phone lights up with a call: her. 

He’s in a good mood; they’ve won their first few games, he has his best friend on the ice with him, he gets along with their new captain fine. The season’s looking to be another amazing one. So when he sees her name in the caller id, he thinks nothing of it at first. “Hey, baby. What’s up?”

It takes her a few seconds to respond, which immediately raises alarm bells in his head. 

“Baby?”

When she speaks, her voice is croaky and small, like she’s been crying. “Can you come pick me up?”

He’s moving before he even registers the words properly, tugging his jacket from the coat rack and sliding his feet in some slides. “What happened? Where are you?”

She rattles off an address, some 24-hour fast food place a couple blocks away from her house. She’s breathing deeply enough that it makes Garrett feel rattled to his bones. 

“Baby,” Garrett says again, fingers snatching his car keys from the counter. “What happened?”

“He knows,” she sobs out. Garrett feels his entire body freeze. “Luke knows, Garrett.”

The whole drive over is a blur. He asks her to stay on the line with him, but they both stay silent. Occasionally, she sniffs, or he hears her cry quietly, and it makes Garrett press down on the gas pedal a little harder. Finally, after what seems like both forever and a half second, he arrives at the location she sent. He parks haphazardly, but she is already jogging over to his car before he can even step out of it. He snaps the door shut and barely has time to brace himself before she’s throwing herself at him, her head tucking in his neck and sobs wracking her body.

“You’re okay,” Garrett says shakily, wrapping his arms around her tight enough to lift her off the ground. “You’re gonna be just fine. Come on, baby.”

She shakes her head, still hiding in his neck. He feels the wetness of her tears smearing on his skin. Feels the trembles going through her body. 

“Baby,” Garrett’s voice catches in his throat. “Come on. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

The drive back to his place is even quieter. She has her arms crossed over her chest, mascara smudged and her hair a mess. She’s stopped crying by the time they reach his apartment, but her mouth remains shut and her eyes averted to the floor, like looking at Garrett would set her off again. Still, he keeps one hand gently on her lower back the whole way up his floor, partly so he can reassure himself that she really is here, that she’s okay and safe and with him. 

“Let me run you a bath,” he says when they get inside and after he takes both of their jackets and hangs them up. She still doesn’t say anything, but she nods her head, a small movement that at least gets Garrett to breathe properly again. 

He fills his tub and searches for her favorite bath gel from his vanity cabinet. He makes sure the temperature is just the way she likes it; he lights candles and tidies up the shelves and prepares a fresh robe and towel and some of her hair ties. When he gets back to the living room, she is on the couch with her arms wrapped around herself, staring blankly ahead. 

“It’s ready,” he announces with a low voice. 

She finally shifts her head to look at him. Her eyes fill with tears instantly.

“Baby,” Garrett sighs, coming closer so he can hug her again. “Come on. You’ll feel so much better.”

She lets him take her clothes off slowly. There’s nothing sexual about it; just pure care. He folds them neatly and stacks them in a pile on his counter. And then he goes around her and begins to tie her hair. He does a terrible job; her hair is too messy and he can’t be bothered to scourge his apartment for a hairbrush, and he’s never really tied a girl’s hair before. But she says nothing of it, even when he finishes and drops a kiss to her bare shoulder. The only sound she makes at all is when she sighs heavily as she finally steps into the bath and lowers her body down, the warm water reaching her neck. 

Garrett bustles around for something to do. Puts toothpaste on her toothbrush. Lines up the skincare products she has for easy access. Fluffs and re-fluffs the towel. Finally, when he can’t pretend to be busy anymore, he puts a hand on his head, turns to her and says, “I’m just going to find you some clothes–”

“No,” she suddenly says with a shake of her head. “Please don’t go.”

Garrett lowers his hand slowly. “Okay…”

“I need to tell you,” she continues, her voice breaking midway. “What happened– I need to tell you.”

He comes closer until he’s right next to the tub, and then Garrett lowers himself to the tiled floor, uncaring about getting his pants wet. “Okay. Tell me.”

Her face breaks open, but she manages to hold off her sobs this time around. “Sorry. Sorry. I can do this.”

“Baby, if you’re not ready–”

“No, I need to say it,” she insists, tilting her head back. “He’s been suspicious for a while. Luke.”

Garrett gulps harshly. “He has?”

“It’s my fault,” she says with a cry, shutting her eyes tight. “I–I stopped.”

“What do you mean? Stop what?”

She looks over at him. She looks so hurt and guilty and terrified that Garrett feels his heart squeeze in his chest. And then she says something that completely unravels him: “I stopped sleeping with him. For–I don’t know. Three months now, maybe.”

Garrett leans back on his hands with a shaky exhale. He does the math in his head: three months was before their off-season vacation. Before they could get a taste of what it would be like to be together truly, without deadlines and secret meetings and schedules. Of what it would be like to sleep next to each other and wake up tangled up in bed. Three months was before Garrett could admit to himself that he wanted more. 

“I told him some terrible excuse,” she laughs wetly. “Something about seeing my doctor and my moods being all wrong or whatever. And he bought it at first. It wasn’t that difficult to do. We didn’t live together and he was so busy with his retirement planning. I had grad school. But now that everything has dialled down…He started asking questions. And he would get this look on his face, like he knew I was hiding something.” She looks down at the water. Her voice grows quiet, but Garrett hears every word like a gunshot. “He tried tonight. He made dinner and had flowers and candles. But I–I couldn’t do it. And the second I stopped him, he just–he got so angry.”

Garrett feels his entire body freeze, except for his hands, which are fisted and shaking so violently by his sides that he has to move them to rid the trembles. He places them on the edge of the tub and grips that instead. “Did he hurt you?”

Her eyes widen at the words. “What? No, no, he didn’t do anything. He–he yelled. He was so angry. He kept saying these awful things but–he’d never–he didn’t do anything physical or–”

“Okay,” Garrett interrupts her, breathing deeply through his nose. The cold-fear is still there sitting underneath his skin. Abuse isn’t just physical. And he’d been noticing, hadn’t he? He’s been saying for so long how small and unlike herself she looks whenever she’s around Luke. And he didn’t do anything about it. “What did he say?”

She laughs again at that, in time with her tears falling to her cheeks. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”

“Don’t do that–”

“Garrett, I’ve been cheating on him for months,” she says. Her lower lip is trembling and so is her chin. The tears seem neverending. “I haven’t been in love with him for longer. And he–he went through my phone. He found our texts. We use nicknames, thank god, so he doesn’t know that it’s you. But he knows for sure that I’ve been having an affair. He knows it’s with another player. He was so angry and he looked disgusted at me and he kept calling me–” she interrupts herself with a shake of her head, like she can’t bear to repeat the words. “I couldn’t be there anymore. So I left and then I called you.”

“Why?” Garrett asks. When she shoots him a confused look, he grits his teeth and clarifies, “Why’d you stop sleeping with him?”

He hates that he’s fixating on that little fact. Hates that the words are out of his mouth before he could disguise them as something less selfish and pathetic. It shouldn’t matter. Not really. Not when she is obviously hurting. But his brain just can’t compute why. 

She looks at him for a second, and then she says, “When’s the last time you slept with another person?”

Not since you, he wants to say right away. He wants to tell her that he hasn’t even looked at another girl since that first night in that Las Vegas hotel. But the words feel too much, even if they’re true, so instead he tells her through his throat, “A while.”

She smiles, small and sad. “There’s your answer.”

Garrett wakes up to sunlight slipping through the cracks of his black-out curtains. He tries not to shift too much, mindful of her sleeping body half on top of him, her face buried in his chest, one of her legs draped over his waist. She’s wearing his sweater and little else, hair all tangled from not being dried properly before she got to bed. She’s warm. Comfortable. Garrett thinks about staying still on his bed forever. He could do it, if he wanted to. Alas, he has practice in a few hours, and the problems the two of them were facing last night still haven’t gone away. 

He shuffles carefully, arranging her in a way that doesn’t disturb her sleep. Even with her eyes closed and her mouth slightly parted, Garrett can still see the previous night’s marks on her face; red-tipped nose, eyes slightly swollen, dry tear tracks down her cheeks. He wishes he knows what to do to make everything better. Something more useful than running her a bath or holding her in her sleep. Something concrete that would take all of her pain and guilt away. 

They made a mistake–that much, he can’t deny. Luke has every right to be angry. If he ever finds out that it was Garrett who she is having an affair with, he has every right to bash his face in. To ruin his reputation. All of these things, Garrett knows to be true, but he still can’t rationalize the protective instinct in him telling him to punch Luke’s smug little face for making her cry. For making her small. For letting her believe that she can’t escape their relationship even if she’s not happy anymore. For molding her to think that way. 

It’s not textbook grooming. 

He remembers her telling him about it on one of the recent nights they’ve begun to spend together, draped in honesty and words that are a little too vulnerable. They met when she was just sixteen at one of the last few games she had allowed her father to drag her to before college and before she had begun distancing herself from hockey and from her dad, though they didn’t really speak or converse with each other deeply whenever they found themselves together. 

The next time they saw each other was when she was twenty; she had gotten drunk at a club and was so filled with drunken rage that she sat outside the curb of Warrior Ice Arena determined to confront her father. It hadn’t crossed her mind that Andrew had been retired for years and wouldn’t be showing up at all. It hadn’t crossed her mind that it was 4 AM in the morning and literally no one would be there. In her alcohol-fuelled brain, she was a little kid again, full of disappointment and resentment towards a father who was barely a father. Luke had shown up around five-thirty for some early ice time and seen her shivering on the ground. She said he saw someone helpless; Garrett thinks he saw an opportunity. A project. 

It took them two months to make it official. By the fourth month, she was already spending Thanksgiving with Luke and her family, trying to repair her relationship with her dad. Everything fell so perfectly into place that Garrett has a hard time believing it wasn’t carefully planned. 

He looks down at her again, her arms wrapped around a stray pillow now that he’s successfully gotten up from the bed without waking her. Garrett thinks about her 20-year-old self, lost, freezing on the curb at four in the morning, longing for a dad. He thinks about where he would have been around that time; sophomore year, trying to prove himself on the ice at Briar, trying to escape his father’s shadow and–more importantly–his wrath. Training himself to the ground. Chasing a dream he wasn’t sure was entirely his. If they had met then, they probably would have exploded in a bomb of paternal trauma and bad decisions. They probably would have been the worst for each other. But Garrett longs for this alternate reality, anyway, because then she would have been his before she was ever someone else’s. 

Garrett keeps his movements quiet as he showers and gets ready for the day. He goes to the cafe on his street to buy them breakfast, grateful for the two weeks she had spent in his place because now he knows her coffee order like it’s his own. His brain begins coming up with itemized plans: talk to her. Find out what she wants to do. Do everything he can to make that happen. She wants to stay with him for a while? Drive her to her place to get her things. Clear out some closet space for her. Make sure her beauty and skincare products are well-stocked in his bathroom. Done. He wants that too, so it’s not like doing those things will be hard work. She isn’t sure what she wants? Fine. She can stay with him, anyway. 

The TV is running an old sitcom when he gets back, the sound wafting through the morning air peacefully. She is on the couch, her knees hugged to her chest, still wearing his sweater. She’s slow to rise when she sees him, as if she’s not sure her feet could be steady. Garrett puts the food down on the kitchen island before approaching her in steady steps. 

“Hey, baby,” he rasps out, scanning her from head to toe, looking for signs of last night’s distress. “I got breakfast and coffee.”

That pulls a small smile out of her. She reaches her arms out and wraps them securely around his waist, pressing her forehead to his chest before inhaling deeply. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

She pauses then says, almost shyly, “I woke up and you were gone.”

The words send a pang straight to his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she laughs against his shirt, burrowing her face further until her words are all muffled from the fabric. “I’m just being silly. I figured you went out to get some food.”

“All I have in my fridge are, like, frozen peas.”

She snorts. “That tracks.”

“Alright,” Garrett scoffs defensively, squeezing her tighter. “Bully the guy who got you coffee.”

She lets out another amused sound, and then she inhales again, her arms tightening around him. “You smell good.”

His mouth ticks up. “I showered.”

“I figured.”

They stay there standing in the middle of his living room embracing each other for a while. Or maybe forever. Time doesn’t make sense when he’s with her, so he can’t be sure. Eventually, though, her hunger wins out, and she drags him by the wrist to the kitchen, making grabby hands at the brown cafe paper bag still sitting invitingly on the counter. 

For a while, it was almost like last night hadn’t happened. She asks about how practice has been going, about how Logan is adjusting to the big leagues. Garrett makes her talk about the thesis paper she needs to do to complete her Master’s, and she rants about her adviser for almost half an hour straight, both in admiration and frustration. They hold hands the whole time that they’re eating, knees pressing together, faces never more than six inches apart. It’s a whole new kind of intimacy, one they hadn’t shared much with each other before. Garrett wants to box the whole morning and keep it in his jean pocket for safekeeping. 

“I gotta go in a few,” Garrett says when they’re just about finished with breakfast, glancing at the wall clock to his right. “Coach is making us watch some tapes before practice. I think he’s nervous about this season’s starting line.”

She makes a face. “I think you’re projecting, but whatever.”

“I’m not projecting,” Garrett denies, but he knows she’s kind of right. “I just think it’s nice to be prepared.”

“You’re such a control freak,” she laughs with a shake of her head. “I bet you planted the tapes idea in his head. Actually, I don’t need to bet. I know.”

Garrett rolls his eyes, but his lips are tugged up traitorously with a smile. “Whatever. Do you need a ride?” He feels his heart pound in his chest, but he continues, “I can spare a couple minutes if you need to get some of your things or something. You’re welcome to stay here.”

She immediately tenses up. She tries to play it off, but they’re sitting too close together, and Garrett feels the movement even more than he sees it. 

“What?” He asks, brows furrowing in concern. “What’s wrong?”

She pulls away from him slowly, the scrape of the chair pushing back against the floor sharp and grating to the ears. Her hands begin fiddling together, which is never a good sign. “Luke called me. While you were gone.”

Garrett feels his own shoulders tighten up. He knows without looking that his hands are already forming fists at the mention of him alone, knows his jaw is doing that pulsing thing that it always does when he gets pissed off. “Okay.”

“He said he wants to talk,” she continues, eyes trained on the kitchen island like it’s somehow became the most fascinating view in the room. 

“Okay,” Garrett repeats, just because he feels like he should say something. 

She chances a quick glance at him, a split second thing, before averting her gaze again. “He said he was still mad. Obviously. But that he thinks we can still work through this.”

“No,” Garrett immediately says, shaking his head. He feels his blood pounding violently in his head, feels his chest tighten at even the insinuation. Because last night–however horrible and painful and terrifying it was–that was supposed to be it. That was supposed to cut her ties with Luke clean. It wasn’t supposed to just be a blip on their relationship, an irrelevant fight that they could talk about over dinner like someone forgetting a date or failing to take out the trash. It was supposed to be it. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“We’re just going to talk–”

“Holy shit,” Garrett laughs without humor, standing up from his seat so suddenly the chair almost topples over. He walks several steps back, away from her, from her scent that’s now an amalgamation of his body wash and his laundry detergent, from her guilty eyes, from her touch that he craves but now makes him sick to the stomach at the same time. Because this is never going to end. She’s never going to leave Luke. Garrett’s never going to convince her otherwise. “You just–” He cuts himself off before he can say something he doesn’t mean. 

She’s looking up at him with tears already lining her eyes, frozen in her seat like she can’t do anything else but watch him unravel in front of her.

“You’re never going to leave him,” Garrett finds himself muttering, almost to himself, though he knows his voice carries the message across from the way she holds herself even tighter upon hearing them. “You’re really never going to leave him. It doesn’t matter what I say or how you feel. It doesn’t matter that you’re not in love with him, or that you can’t even pretend enough to stand his hands on you. It doesn’t matter that I’m right here. I’m right fucking here.” Garrett rubs a hand down his face with another helpless chuckle. “You’re never going to leave him.”

Her voice breaks when she speaks. “Garrett–”

“And I’m starting to realize that…” he clenches his jaw. He doesn’t want to say the next words out loud. He knows what’s going to happen if he does. But Garrett just feels so fucking tired all of a sudden, like all the weight of the world has suddenly been put on his shoulders. He’s tired of always looking over his shoulder. Of feeling guilty for wanting her. Of being her dirty secret. He’s tired of her scraps. 

“I can’t–” he shakes his head. “I can’t do this. I can’t do it. I can’t.”

He sees her face fall, panic taking over her features. “What are you saying?”

“I thought I could, but I can’t,” Garrett shrugs. His throat and chest feel tight, like oxygen is suddenly secondary to the white-hot pain. It shouldn’t hurt this much, he thinks. She’s not his girlfriend. She’s not his anything, really. “I know we said casual. I know I said I was fine with it. I know I said it was enough but that was before–fucking–I don’t know, before you started staying over like you belonged here, or before we started sharing pieces of our lives together, or before we started kissing just for the sake of kissing. I thought I could do it but I can’t. It’s not enough. It’s not.”

She shakes her head slowly. Tears are falling rapidly down her cheeks, but her body is still, like she’s afraid if she makes any sudden movements, the moment will escape her clutch and he’ll be out the door. “Please don’t.”

Garrett feels his chin tremble, so he has to tilt his head and look up at the ceiling. He shakes his head again and exhales deeply. “I can’t do it.”

“Garrett, please,” the crack in her voice is a wet and horrible thing. It grips at Garrett’s throat like a vice. 

He knows if he looks over at her he’s going to lose all his composure. He knows if he sees her crying, sees her hurting because of what he’s saying, he’s going to take it all back and kneel at her feet. It’s for this reason that when he looks back down, he avoids looking at her entirely, focusing his gaze on the empty plates and paper cups of coffee instead, bracing both of his arms on the edge of the island. 

“Listen, you don’t understa–”

“You can’t make a choice so I’ll make it easy for you,” Garrett interrupts her. His voice has gone quiet but no less resounding. He feels their weight in his tongue even before they’re out of his mouth, hears them crash into the space between them in loud, resigned thuds. “You don’t have to choose anymore.”

“Garrett.” A sob escapes her chest, guttural and almost animalistic. It makes him clench his eyes shut. 

“You don’t have to choose anymore,” he repeats through gritted teeth. It takes everything in him to get the words out. Everything. “I have a practice I need to go to. I’m gonna leave, and– and when I get home, you won’t be here. You’ll be with him. And I’m done.” Garrett nods, like he’s trying to convince himself even more than her. He swallows thickly, and then he repeats his words, just so they could stick and land somewhere permanent. Just so he could pretend that one day, they’ll ring true. “I’m done.”

He snatches his car keys off the table and he walks out before he can change his mind. 

Are you in love with her, Allie had asked. 

Like there’s a reality in which he isn’t fucking head over heels.

The drive to the Warrior Ice Arena is a blur. 

Garrett isn’t sure how he manages to get there uninjured and with his car in one piece. The only thing he’s sure about is how much his hands are shaking, and how he feels like he left his soul right there in his kitchen in the clutch of the loss of his life. 

He parks almost haphazardly. Lifts the hand brake harshly. And for a few seconds, he just stares blankly ahead, his lips parted and his brain trying to catch up to the flashing pain he’s feeling all over his body. He had done it. He let her go and it fucking hurts. 

His body seems to cave in at the same time that his heart does, and Garrett doubles over the stirring wheel with a shaky exhale, finally letting himself break. 

This is how Logan finds him a couple of minutes later, knocking at his car’s window with his eyebrows furrowed in concern. 

“Garrett, open the door,” Logan says, tapping on the glass continuously. His voice is muffled from being outside, but Garrett hears him loud and clear. Still, he blinks sluggishly at nothing for a couple of moments, not registering his best friend’s words yet. Logan taps more insistently. “Garrett.”

He reaches for the lock almost absentmindedly and clicks on the unlock button. In a flash, Logan is opening the driver’s side door, one hand pushing Garrett’s shoulder back to inspect him properly. “What the fuck happened to you, man?”

But Garrett can’t speak. If he tells Logan, if he says the words out loud, then that means this is real. He lost her. He let her go. And maybe he’s a coward. Maybe he’s weak. But he doesn’t want to face that reality yet, so he just shakes his head, his vision blurring even as he fights not to cry like a kid. 

“I cant–” he shakes his head, staring at the way his fingers clench and unclench around the steering wheel. 

He hears Logan exhale. “Okay. Okay. Come on. Get out of there. I’m driving.”

“What?” Garrett finally looks at him in confusion. 

“You can’t drive when you’re like this. I’m not letting you.” Logan’s tone makes it clear that he’s not taking no for an answer. Garrett steps out of his car slowly, one heavy foot at a time. 

He feels untethered. Like he’s going to float away any second now, or maybe sink into the ground. He had known heartbreak before. He had cried over losing his college girlfriend and had been sad for months afterwards. But the pain taking over his body right now feels crippling and brand new, which feels absurd because she and him were never serious in the first place. He had hoped, he can admit; in between lingering kisses and quiet conversations and laughter. He had hoped they would get there someday. Hoped to pull her close and kiss her without having to hide. But it never happened. They were glorified fuck buddies at best, and maybe that’s why the hurt is so surprising. 

“Start thinking of a solid excuse why we’re missing practice, G,” Logan calls to him while he comes around to get to the passenger seat. “Everyone’s going to be on our ass.”

Garrett doesn’t say anything even after he gets inside the car and tugs his seatbelt on. He doesn’t question where they’re going or why Logan’s skipping ice time with him. He just leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes, content in letting his best friend take him away. 

It’s only a couple of minutes–maybe half an hour–later that he feels the car pulling to a stop. Garrett looks around at the empty parking lot. The familiar curved shape of the building that he called home for over four years. The banners with the Hawks mascot. “We skipped practice so you can take us to Briar?”

Logan rolls his eyes, turning the car engine off. “Come on.”

The rink is empty. Practice wouldn’t be for another two hours, at least. Logan takes out a set of keys and wiggles them in front of Garrett’s face. 

“You still have that?”

“Yep,” Logan says, popping the p. “I’m sentimental like that.”

The walk to the rink is so familiar Garrett feels like he traveled back in time. There are only a couple of lights turned on, and the quietness of the morning loosens his shoulders bit by bit. He follows Logan’s lead, and they walk until they reach the players’ bench just a few steps away from the ice. Logan sits first, then taps the space next to him pointedly. 

Garrett drops down beside him with a heavy sigh. 

“Remember the first time we stepped on this ice?” Logan suddenly says, a small smile taking up his face. “Freshman year summer tryouts.”

Garrett frowns but nods anyway. “Yeah. We were insufferable.”

“I was so excited to play college hockey, man,” Logan laughs, slapping his knee with his palm. “I just remember thinking to myself that I can’t fuck it up. I had to be the best freshman there because I wanted to make the starting line so bad. And then you fucking saunter in like you already own the place.”

Garrett lets himself smile. Even back then, he had a single-minded focus on becoming the best, on succeeding in a way that would finally get his dad off his back. A lot of universities had reached out to him then, offering him a place on their teams with just his high school stats and his father’s name backing him up. Briar hadn’t been one of them. He got invited to a tryout, like all the other college hopefuls there with him. Garrett won’t pretend that having Phil Graham as his dad didn’t make getting in easier for him. He’d be deluding himself if he did. But Briar at least had the decency to see how he played first before deciding he’s worth it. “I wanted it badly, too. I wanted to know how good I was without my dad breathing down my neck.”

“And you fucking killed it,” Logan tells him, making him scoff out loud. Logan elbows him harshly. “Just fucking take the compliment, G. I’m not giving those away for free.”

Garrett pauses for a moment. He looks at the ice, freshly resurfaced and so shiny the fluorescent lights are reflecting off it like a mirror. He thinks about all the hours he spent here–practices, games, more practices, sometimes skating just to skate. He could be angry or elated or fucking devastated and all he would do is come here and let the smell of the rink wash over his senses like water. Garrett clenches his jaw. “We were kids.”

“Yeah,” Logan agrees. “We were.”

A beat. And then, “We’re not kids anymore.”

He sees Logan look at him from his periphery, waiting for his next words. “No.”

Garrett feels his eyes begin to sting, so he averts his gaze upwards. “And growing up means…we have to make tough decisions. Because we know better. Because we need to take care of ourselves, too.”

Logan hums. “Doesn’t mean it still won’t hurt, though.”

Garrett finally turns his head to look at him, a humorless laugh falling from his lips. “No. It doesn’t.”

Another pause. Then Logan asks, “You love her?” 

His throat tightens and he feels his shoulders sink. “I think…I don’t know how not to.”

They stay there for another hour, only leaving when the team finally arrives for their practice. Coach Jensen asks them to sign a couple of things. Tucker is so smug at being their friend that he practically grows five inches from it. They get lunch at Malone’s just the three of them for old times’ sake, sending a picture to the gc with Dean only replying with ‘fucking traitors.’ And Garrett pretends his chest isn’t caving in. Maybe if he does it often enough, it will come true. 

Life goes on. That’s always been the cruel part. 

A New Year’s Eve party after a win against the Capitals is a high like no other. The previous season, the Bruins played (and lost) on the 1st, when most of his teammates were hungover and Garrett had to go home embarrassed at their 6-2 score. Tonight, fresh off a win with no games scheduled in the morning, Garrett loses count of how many shots had been handed to him. 

His stomach is twisting ever so slightly, not used to the overindulgence anymore, and Logan is hanging off of Grace’s arms by their table with glassy eyes and the most dopey smile in existence. Somewhere on the dance floor, Dean and Allie are dancing and/or most likely making out without a care for an audience. 

Garrett leans against the bar. His body feels heavy with alcohol, his movements turning sluggish. He’s panting just a little—Dean had dragged him and Logan to the dance pit earlier, when a cheesy song from their college days began playing from the speakers. They jumped up and down more than they danced, and for a while Garrett forgets. But only for a while. 

It’s been five months since he last saw her. 

When he returned from his surprise trip to Briar with Logan, his apartment was empty. All of her things were gone—clothes, toothbrush, her skincare products and makeup that used to take up too much space in his bathroom. She didn’t leave a note. She didn’t text him or call him or beg for him to come back. She simply left and that was it. 

Her break up with Luke hits the media a week later, and Garrett has to stop himself from reaching out. Because if she had finally escaped her relationship and she still never came back to Garrett, then that has to mean something. That has to mean that no matter how much it hurt, letting her go was the right thing to do. It’s harder to convince himself of that when he’s getting a box from under his bed a couple of days later and sees a stray hair tie hidden there, or when he’s on the ice and he subconsciously glances at where she usually sits. The only relief is that Luke and her’s joint statement names “mutual decision” and “growing apart” as their cause of break up, so Garrett doesn’t have to worry about her reputation any more than he worries about her well-being in general. 

“Post-win blues?” 

Garrett whips his head around to see a woman he doesn’t know–dark short hair, long lashes, thick eyebrows. She’s wearing a bedazzled, bodycon dress version of a Bruins jersey, and even in her heels her head only reaches Garrett’s shoulders. 

“I’m Cara,” she introduces herself with a hand extended towards him. Garrett takes the handshake politely, gesturing to the bartender and buying her a drink, only because he feels like it’s the right thing to do. 

She tells him about herself as he knocks back another shot–tequilla this time, the liquid burning down his throat pleasantly. Gun to his head, though, he couldn’t tell anyone a word that she’s saying, his mind floating far away from the party and into places that he knows he should have banned long ago. As she’s talking, Garrett catches Dean’s eye from the dancefloor; he has both of his thumbs raised up, his head nodding up and and down while an almost manic grin takes over his face. Allie’s clinging to his arms laughing, and Garrett has to try very hard to suppress an eyeroll at the two of them. 

He downs shot after shot, maintaining shallow conversation with Cora the entire time. Before he knows it, the countdown to the new year is happening, and when the clock strikes twelve, Carol tilts her chin up at him expectantly while the entire club erupts in cheers and a cheery club mix of Auld Lang Syne. Garrett lets the moment run its course and kisses her, just to prove that he still could. Just to prove that she hadn’t broken him entirely. He even lets himself take her home to her place and fuck her against the front door, his pants pooling his ankles and her dress bunched up at the waist. It’s rough and quick and it makes him feel so dirty afterwards that he spends an hour in his shower when he gets home, scrubbing his skin raw. 

In March, Garrett finds himself at the same Manhattan hotel when they play against the Rangers in New York again. He avoids the bar and the diner tucked in between an ice cream shop and a laundromat like the plague. 

The playoffs this season is brutal, and by the end of April, Garrett feels ready to collapse on the ice. Every game is hard-won by the skin of their teeth, and every loss is a devastating knock down. Garrett’s not confident about taking the cup yet. It’s their first year playing with a new captain; the team’s dynamic on the ice is still rocky, and he feels it when they hesitate at times during passes that should have been second nature by now. 

The pressure is a steady, pressing thing, especially now that they’re having their first home game in a while. Even Logan is a little psyched out, judging by the constant tapping of his foot, the skate guards thudding against the locker room floors annoyingly. “Grace just texted me. She said the crowd out there is insane.”

Garrett shoots him a look. “Not helping, man.”

“Right, right, sorry,” Logan mutters under his breath, foot still keeping the rhythmic tap-tap-tap on the floor. “How was your weekend with–what’s her name? Linda?”

“Lindsay,” Garrett sighs, already tired of the conversation. She was a friend of one of their teammates who he had been set up on a date with. Garrett let her pick the place: a Japanese restaurant in the city with dishes in small portions definitely unfit for a pro athlete like him. “The food was good, I guess.”

Logan actually laughs at that. “Brother, I’m not asking about the fucking food. I meant how was it? You know? How was Lindsay?”

“She was fine,” Garrett shrugs again, avoiding his best friend’s eyes. 

“She was fine,” Logan echoes, leaning his head back. “I’m guessing there won’t be a second date, then?”

“I’m not looking for any dates,” Garrett corrects him. “I’m not really fit for relationships at the moment.”

Logan looks like he has something to say about that, but before he can open his mouth, their coach enters the locker room and everyone’s focus suddenly shifts to the home game they can’t afford to lose. 

The Bruins easily take the first period, but the second period is where shit starts hitting the fan. Garrett takes a hard hit from one of the Flyers’ defensemen, leaving him to be benched for the entire period. He stews in the sidelines quietly, the only sound coming from him angry huffs that belong more to a comical movie villain than a supposed elite hockey player. If he’s being honest with himself, he knows the problem even before he stepped foot in TD Garden that morning. 

The problem, as always, is her. 

It was a 2AM mistake, which is funny because he shouldn’t have even been awake at that hour when he has an important game the next day. Garret wasn’t even thinking about her when he opened up his Instagram; he’d been thinking about the local Boston gossip page that posted a candid picture of him pulling up to 311 Omakase with Lindsay. Allie had sent the link of the post to his DMs, and the notification combined with his inability to sleep had him clicking on the app absentmindedly. 

It was an alright picture, he guessed, at least as far as paparazzi pictures go. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and sunglasses despite the late hour, his head ducked ever so slightly. Lindsay is walking close to him in a short red dress, her arm brushing against his, lips pulled to a wide smile. It looked far more enjoyable than the entire date had been, though Garrett wasn’t really expecting anything different. No woman can pique his interest lately, and he’s not above pretending he doesn’t know why. 

Clicking out of the gossip page was where things went wrong. The app led him back to his timeline, and the first thing that greeted him was her post from only a couple of hours ago. They didn’t block or unfollow each other–it would have been too obvious, otherwise. So Garrett just lets his team run his account for him, trying to avoid catching a glimpse of her life without him as much as possible. But now it’s all for naught, because she’s right there on his phone screen, hair almost as long as she had it when they first met a year ago, eyes crinkled, beaming down at the camera. She’s holding a thick hardbound thesis in front of her chest, and her caption reads: officially grad-waiting!

A couple of familiar people left congratulatory comments. Luke even liked it, which should have sent Garrett into a whole other kind of spiral, but he just couldn’t focus beyond seeing her face, her pretty smile lighting up the entire picture, her green eyes gleaming. She looked beautiful, of course she did, but more than that, she looked good. Happy. Lighter in a way that Garrett’s not sure he’s ever seen before apart from millisecond glimpses at moments caught off guard. 

It had been months, and he’s getting better at not thinking about her, at not hurting about her, but in that moment Garrett felt another fissure form deep in his chest, cracking like concrete and spreading thin strands of breakage all over his heart. 

He shut off his phone and darkness swallowed his entire bedroom. He tried not to think about the possibility of her seeing his face online and feeling her heart break too. 

The score is 4-3 in favor of the Flyers when Garrett finally manages to get back on the ice. Logan is there with him, eyes narrowed in that deeply focused way that he usually gets when the game is too close a fight. Their captain is explaining a play he wants them to do when Garrett instinctively glances up at the stands. 

The first person he sees is Andrew, which isn’t all that surprising. Even with his pseudo (ex) son-in-law retired, Andrew always goes to their games, especially home ones like tonight. What freezes Garrett’s entire body is the person sitting next to him, wearing a generic Bruins jersey, hair flying all over the place, the blush on the tip of her nose spreading all over her cheeks, glancing up at the scoreboard anxiously. 

Her.

Beautiful, devastating, no-longer-his her. 

Logan reads his body language immediately, following his gaze to the audience and exhaling shortly when he spots her sitting there. He pats a heavy hand on Garrett’s shoulder, finally getting him to look away from where she is. “I know this is a big deal but can you spiral later? We got a game to win.”

Before Garrett can say anything, the referee is already motioning for them to get back in position. Garrett looks back up to the stands. She’s smiling now, talking to her dad who’s gesturing wildly with his hands. Garrett hasn’t seen her in months. She’s been out of his life for longer than she’s been in it. But does it count when he feels like she never really left completely? When he knows for a fact that he can get his ribcage opened right this second and it’ll reveal her name?

His first few steps on the ice are shaky and clumsy, like he’s a toddler learning to skate all over again. But to his (and Logan’s) surprise, the next period is the definition of changing tides. Garrett plays like a fucking beast. He assists Logan into a neat goal only a couple minutes in, and he dodges all the opposing players with expert glides, reading their play like an elementary grade book. The last eight minutes of the game is practically a victory lap around the rink, and Garrett finishes it off with a clean goal that has the audience erupting in cheers. 

6-4. 

They won. 

He gets roped to do an interview the second he steps off the ice. The Bruins captain is a couple of feet away from him, doing the same thing. Logan passes by with a two-fingered salute, making Garrett scoff under his breath. 

“Garrett, what a game tonight!” The ESPN reporter gushes to him, standing on a small, square platform to be able to hold the mic up to his face. “You definitely played like you had something to prove today.”

Against his better judgment, Garrett’s eyes travel back to where she is sitting. He almost flinches when he finds that she’s already looking at him. Her smile is gone, lower lip bitten and eyes wide like she’s seen a ghost. She’s so beautiful his knees almost buckle at the sight. He’s glad he already saw her earlier, or he definitely would have embarrassed himself on live television. Heart in his throat, he looks back to the reporter and says, “I guess I did.”

“And did you?” She questions, holding the mic up higher. “Prove it?”

Garrett huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll see.”

He practically runs past the tunnel in his haste, which is probably why he almost trips the second he sees her waiting for him at the end of it, both her arms crossed, back leaning against the tiled wall casually. She stands back up when she sees him, and Garrett has to stop himself from barrelling into her and taking her in his arms. 

“Hi,” he pants slightly, chest heaving up and down. With his skates still on, he towers over her even more, her head barely reaching his shoulders. 

She’s standing one step away. It’s the closest they’ve ever been since that fateful day in his kitchen, when Garrett realized that he has to let her go before he loses himself in something that will swallow him whole. She had been crying then, and Garrett had been trying to keep it together. Now, with her looking up at him like this, her face unreadable but close enough to touch, Garrett feels all the hurt and longing slam back into him full force. 

He misses her so much he can barely breathe. 

“Hi,” shey says back, her voice soft, still looking up at him through her eyelashes like she can’t believe that they’re sharing space again. “Good game.”

“Good?” Garrett repeats with an amused frown. “It was amazing.”

She scoffs, and the sound steadily drains the tension out of both of their bodies. “Okay, now.”

“I was amazing. Admit it.” Garrett says, feeling the edges of his lip begin to lift in a helpless smile. 

“Fine,” she smiles back slowly. “You were.”

His eyes scan her face like he’s memorizing every feature, like he’s comparing the woman from his memory to the one in front of him now, cataloguing the small differences like a scientist with a microscope. “How are you?”

“I’ve been good. Great.” She exhales a breathy laugh. “I just defended my master’s thesis, so that’s a big deal, kinda.”

He nods with a harsh swallow. “I saw. Congratulations.”

This time, when she sighs, it’s tinged with frustration. “Can we not do this?”

Garrett frowns. “Do what?”

“Make small talk like everything is normal,” she says with her eyebrows furrowed. “We both know it’s not.”

He feels his jaw clench, one hand coming up to rub down his face. “Why are you here?”

She looks down at her shoes. When she speaks, her voice is quieter, like what she’s about to say is a secret she’s been keeping close to her chest. “I wanted to talk.”

Garrett swallows thickly. “So talk.”

That makes her glare up at him before she turns her head to check their surroundings. Before he can protest, she’s dragging him by the wrist to the green room, legs moving swiftly and head slightly ducked, like they’d get less attention that way. 

She closes the door behind them with a relieved huff, closing her eyes and leaning back with both palms still pressed to the door. Garrett’s busy looking down at his own wrist, his skin still tingling with the memory of her touch. “That’s better.”

Garrett just looks at her. He doesn’t know what to say, really. He doesn’t know what’s allowed. So he just looks, because he doesn’t know when he’s going to be able to do it again. If it’s going to be another nine months, or if at all. He takes her in greedily; her flushed cheeks, the Bruins jersey that should’ve had his name and number on it in another lifetime. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you play like that,” she begins, flitting her eyes on him for a quick glance before settling on something over his shoulder. “I mean–I knew you were good, but tonight…It was different. It was like you couldn’t wait to get to the other side.”

Garrett breathes out through his nose. He’s suddenly all too aware of how sweaty he is, his damp curls falling over his face, his jersey sticking to his skin. He probably smells like shit. Still, he can’t get himself to move from where he’s standing in front of her. “Because I couldn’t.”

When she looks at him questioningly, Garrett only lifts an eyebrow at her, because of course she knows. Of course she knows that her being here is going to change things. That ending the game means that small chance of getting to talk to her again, of seeing her up close. 

She knows, and so she says what Garrett suspects she came here to say: “You really hurt me. That day at your place.”

He feels his face drop. His breath hitches on a protest, or an apology, but the air fizzles out before it can form coherent words. 

“But I know I hurt you too,” she continues with a sad smile. “I know that I dragged you to the end of your rope. And I’m sorry.” Her voice breaks at the last word. 

Garrett clenches his fists by his sides. He doesn’t move a muscle. 

“And I wanted to thank you, as weird as that sounds,” she chuckles wetly, one hand coming up to cup the back of her neck. “I think I needed that. I needed to hurt. I needed to lose you so I could understand that–” she cuts herself off with a shaky exhale. “To understand what it means. To truly be in love with someone, you know? Because I thought I knew. I thought I had it with Luke, so much so that even when I knew that I didn’t feel anything about him anymore, I just couldn’t let go. I needed to see you walk away so that I could figure out that keeping him as my safety net isn’t worth the heartbreak that cost me you.”

Garrett feels his breath leave him entirely. He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but he knows his mouth is slightly agape, his chest tight and his eyes stinging something awful. His heart is pounding so loudly that he thinks the entire arena must be able to hear its violent thud-thud-thuds against his ribcage. His brain is blank. It feels like a dream but also the most awake he’s ever been. 

“I thought I liked myself with Luke,” she tells him with a small sniff. “I liked that he got me out of my cringy rebellious funk. I liked that he got me closer with my dad again. I liked that I didn’t have to think with him because he’s already ten steps ahead of me. I liked that version of myself; that put-together, stable grad student who doesn’t do shitty, self-destructive things like get blank-faced drunk and push away her family and, I don’t know, cheat on her boyfriend and fall in love with another guy.”

“I–”

“Let me finish, please,” she rushes out, one tear falling rapidly down her face which she immediately intercepts with a wipe of her hand. “That’s the girl I wanted to be. The girl that Luke convinced me I had to be so I could tell myself I wasn’t a sad excuse for a human being. But you–” her chin trembles, and she has to let out a slow, shaky breath before continuing. “You never made me feel like I had to contort myself in order to be better. You just wanted me, period. And I guess I thought that if I got to keep you while I kept pretending to be this other person with Luke, then I’d get the best of both worlds. Because I didn’t know who I was anymore. Was I the lonely college girl waiting outside an arena for a dad who wouldn’t come or was I the perfect trophy girlfriend? Was I the girl you met at that diner or the one who called you on the fourth because hearing your voice made me feel like flying? I didn’t know. And for months, I’ve been trying to figure it out.”

Garrett takes a slow step forward. “Did you? Figure it out?”

“Not everything,” she laughs, wiping at her eyes again. “I did realize one important thing, though.”

Another step. Garrett feels lightheaded in the best way. “What?”

“It’s been nine months since we broke it off,” she begins. “I’ve tried therapy. I’ve tried soul-searching out-of-the-country trips. I finished my master’s thesis. I got drunk a lot. I made friends. I even went on a handful of dates. And still, at the end of the day, when I get to my bed at night, all I find myself thinking about is how much I want you there with me. How right it feels when you’re pressed against me. Like we just slot together perfectly.”

Garrett releases a breath. “You really hurt me.”

“I know.”

“I know it was hard for you to face the reality of what’s going on with you and Luke. It’s hard to unlearn the only relationship you’ve ever known, but–” Garrett blinks heavily. “You made me feel like I wasn’t enough. You’d get my hopes up so high some days that I would think this is it. She’s really going to leave him this time. I couldn’t be the only one feeling this. But then the next second, you’re leaving me and going to him. It’s–it really fucked me up.”

Her voice is smaller when she repeats, “I know.”

“And it’s been really frustrating because, like you said, it’s been nine months. I should’ve gotten you out of my system by now.” She visibly flinches at that, but Garrett continues, because he doesn’t know when else he could muster up the right words to her face. “I’m not saying you were the only one to blame. We both fucked up. You cheated because you didn’t know how to leave a toxic relationship. I slept with you despite knowing you were taken. We’re fucked up people, apparently, and what’s even more fucked up is that I still want this. I still want you like I’ve never wanted anyone before.”

Her face breaks open. The hope lining her eyes is a blinding thing, and it’s enough to get Garrett to say the next sentence he’s always wanted to say: “I’m in love with you. I hate that this is how you’re hearing it for the first time but it’s true. I’ve been trying to convince myself I didn’t love you when the whole time I was just–fucking–gone. I love you.”

“You do?” Her voice breaks at the question.

Garrett closes the distance between them, until she has to crane her neck to look up at him, until he can feel the heat coming from her skin on his own. “Yeah. I do.”

She laughs, or maybe cries–it’s a weird combination of both, but the sound goes straight to Garrett’s chest anyway. “That’s great.”

“That’s great?” He repeats in disbelief. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

Her arms slowly reach up his neck. Tentative, like she’s still not entirely sure this is really happening. Garrett feels the same. “I missed you. So fucking much I felt like I couldn’t breathe sometimes.”

He pulls her closer by the waist. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nods with another wet smile. “I love you, Garrett. I’m sorry it took so long. I’m sorry we had to hurt each other before we could get here. But I love you. And I think I’m going to be loving you for a very long time.”

Garrett feels his own eyes sting at that, but he can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed. “So we’re doing this? For real?”

“For real.”

“No more casual? No more sneaking around and hiding our relationship?” Garrett continues asking, making her nod at each question eagerly. He pauses, then says, “No more boyfriends?”

She presses even closer. “Just the one. If he’ll have me.”

“Fuck,” he breathes out, and he can’t take it anymore, so he walks her until her back is flushed against the door, ducks his head, and kisses her like he’s been aching to do since he saw her at the stands earlier that day. Since he walked out on her and felt every inch of distance like a gun to his chest. He kisses her like he loves her, because he fucking does. 

The moan she lets out at the contact goes straight to his crotch. She parts her lips slightly, and Garrett doesn’t waste any time tangling his tongue with hers, tasting her spit and familiarizing himself again with how her mouth feels all wet and open for him. 

“I love you,” she says against his lips, and Garrett has to squeeze his eyes shut at how euphoric the words make him feel. “Garrett, I love you.”

He pulls away so he can press a kiss on either of her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her eyelids still wet with tears, her jawline, down to her neck, everywhere his mouth can reach. “I love you.”

“You can’t leave me again,” she tells him, pulling him back by his jersey to press their lips together again in a chaste kiss. “I don’t think I can handle it.”

Garrett shakes his head. “Never. Not happening.”

“Good,” she grins, and then they’re kissing again. It turns filthy fast, and soon Garrett’s fighting back a groan while she grinds their hips together so they could feel even closer. “Missed you. I need you so bad.”

Garrett feels his heart stutter. One of his hands snake down from her waist to grope at the globe of her ass, making her whimper against his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Fuck,” she hisses, pulling their mouths apart with a wet sound. Her cheeks are bright red and her pupils are blown wide. Her lips are swollen and wet with their combined spit. Garrett knows he doesn’t look any better, and it’s like she’s only just registering how disheveled he looks with his filthy jersey and sweaty hair, because she laughs out loud and pushes a curl back with her fingers. “You’re gross.”

Garrett rolls his eyes but drops another quick kiss to her lips. “Someone accosted me before I could go to the locker room and shower.”

“Shut up,” she scoffs before biting down on her lip, eyes going over his frame darkly. “Do you think we’re moving too fast? Because I really want you to bend me over this door and fuck me senseless.”

“Jesus Christ," Garrett huffs, squeezing her against him. “You can’t say shit like that to me. I’m going to fucking die.”

Her eyes widen in amusement. “Well, don’t do that. I need you alive for a very very long time.”

Garrett laughs and kisses her again, but he pulls away before it can turn deeper. “I want to. I really fucking want to. But I’m not fucking you for the first time in nine months in the fucking green room. We can do so much better than that.”

“Can we?”

He nods, like he’s already got something planned. “We can.”

She laughs breathlessly, and then one of her hands reaches down to intertwine with his, already pulling him to the door. “Let’s go, then.”

“Wait,” he tugs at her gently, causing her to look back at him in question. Garrett pauses. There’s still that old lingering doubt floating in his chest that he knows they’re going to have to work hard to eradicate completely. There’s still a part of him that’s not sure if this is for real, or if they need to start hiding again, so he asks, “Are you sure?”

Her face melts into something soft. She squeezes his hand tightly. “Very sure. Didn’t you hear? Garrett Graham is my boyfriend now.”

He lets out a relieved chuckle, feeling his cheeks and ears burn. “Alright,” he nods, then copies her words. “Let’s go, then.”

The two of you went to the back of the aisle while Garrett returned to his place at the altar.

The wedding coordinator smiled. ‘’Crisis averted. Shall we continue? Best man and maid of honor, you'll be the last ones down the aisle before the bride. Dean, once Garrett's in position, you'll take yours beside him.’’ 

Dean gave a curt nod. 

He hadn’t changed much since you last saw him. His hair seemed a little longer and his shoulders wider, but he still looked as handsome as you remembered. Especially in gray. It matched his blue eyes well. 

Tearing your eyes from him, you busied yourself by smoothing the wrinkles from Hannah's dress, adjusting the water bottle in her hands that served as a bouquet before stepping off to the side. It looked ridiculous, but her flowers won’t get here until tomorrow morning so Allie improvised and gave her a water bottle instead. 

You felt a nudge. Dean was waiting and offering you his arm. You apologized quietly and took it. 

The second your hand slipped into the crook of his arm, Dean straightened and you began walking side by side down the aisle — not as a couple, not even close —, but there was something undeniably intimate about it. 

With calm eyes looking ahead and a soft floral dress ending just above your ankles, you began walking. Every step brought you closer to your brother standing tall at the altar, but all you could focus on was the feel of Dean’s bicep under your hand. 

‘’How’s Florence?’’ the latter asked quietly. 

‘’Good,’’ you replied carefully. “Quiet. Beautiful. A little too easy to get lost in.”

Dean hummed softly, like he was picturing it. “Sounds like you picked the right place, then.”

You glanced up at him, but his eyes stayed forward, focused on the path ahead. Dean’s arm stayed steady beneath your hand as you walked, like he wasn’t thinking about it at all. Like this was just another role to play.

But you were very aware of it.

The warmth of him. The solid press of muscle under your fingers. The way he matched your pace without effort.

‘’You look good in that dress, by the way.’’ 

You almost stopped walking right there, taken by surprise by his compliment. It wasn’t just any compliment though. It lingered — heavier than it should have, carrying something unspoken beneath it.

The wedding coordinator watched carefully from the front, then lifted a hand. ‘’Perfect. Stop there!’’

You both came to a halt, still arm in arm. 

‘’Dean, you'll step over to Garrett once she reaches her spot. Maid of honor, you'll line up with the two bridesmaids. Your spot is at the front."

You nodded.

‘’Perfect,’’ the coordinator said, making a note on her clipboard. ‘’Now let's practice the bride's entrance.’’

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

For the rehearsal dinner, the wedding party had gathered around a long table in the property’s large backyard. The sun was about to set over the lake, giving a beautiful golden hour ambiance, which was perfect to take pictures for the wedding album.

Three years had gone by since you all sat down together. Life had pulled everyone in different directions — different cities, different countries. Sunday dinners like this didn’t happen as easily anymore.

But somehow, the chaos was exactly the same.

‘’Because G has banned me and Pricilla from his house. You know I would never miss your birthday, Hannah,’’ Tucker defended.

You glanced at him, a soft smile on your lips. ‘’Priscilla? You got a girl, Tuck?’’ 

Logan laughed, shaking his head between bites. ‘’Priscilla is Tucker’s golden lab.’’ 

You blinked. How did you not know Tucker got a dog?

You knew he had moved back to Texas and opened a gym, but somehow a whole dog had completely slipped under your radar.

‘’That dog got mud all over my couch the last time you came over,’’ Garrett added. 

‘’And the carpets…and the entrance wall,’’ said Hannah. 

‘’And Priscilla is very sorry about the mess,’’ Tucker apologized, completely unbothered. ‘’She’s better behaved now.’’

Garrett rolled his eyes.

‘’Can I see her?’’ you asked. 

Tucker pulled up an album from his phone and handed it over. ‘’This was when Dean visited last month. He took her on a run every morning. She loved him. Refused to leave the guest room for hours after he left.’’

You raised an eyebrow as you looked over the screen. ‘’You? Dean Di Laurentis? You went to Texas?’’ 

That was unexpected. Dean had always been a city person. The kind who preferred penthouses to ranches and clubs to open fields. You had difficulty imagining him in cowboy boots and a plaid shirt. 

You swiped to the next photo: Priscilla in a truck bed, a purple bandana around her neck, someone’s hand scratching her belly. You recognized Dean’s signet ring instantly. Swiping again, a short video of Dean in athletic shorts, shirtless and sweaty, likely coming back from a run. Tuck called for his dog, but the latter stayed by Dean’s feet. 

‘’She’s very cute,’’ you said, handing the phone back. 

You couldn’t risk staring at Dean’s naked chest too long.

Tucker slipped it into his pocket with a satisfied grin. ‘’She knows it, too.’’

‘’She also knows she can get away with murder,’’ Dean pointed out. ‘’Last Christmas, she stole an entire loaf of garlic bread off the counter.’’

‘’It was artisanal,’’ Tucker defended. ‘’My girl has expensive taste.’’

Garrett scoffed. ‘’She ate the plastic bag too.’’ 

Laughter rolled through the table, and something in your chest tightened.

When you left for Europe, you had assumed keeping up with your friends through social media, texts and phone calls would be enough to stay in the loop. Apparently, it wasn't. There was so much you had missed…

‘’Enough about that dog,’’ Allie decided, setting her empty glass of wine down. ‘’Now that Hannah and Garrett are tying the knot…who is next? I saw this gorgeous dress on 5th Avenue and I need an occasion to buy it.’’ 

Hannah laughed, shaking her head at her best friend. 

Garrett’s eyes turned to Logan. ‘’My bet’s on Logan. No pressure though,’’ he added. 

Allie made a disapproving sound. ‘’Your money’s already lost Graham because Logan doesn’t want to get married. Grace told me.’’

Grace narrowed her eyes at Allie and Logan was quick to defend himself. ‘’That’s not what I said.’’ 

‘’I said I didn’t see the point of spending so much money on a wedding. I’ve seen the prices and it’s insane shit. Right now, our priority is to get a house,’’ he explained, covering Grace’s hand with his. 

Beside him, Grace nodded. 

‘’We all know Dean’s never settling down, so that leaves you,’’ Allie continued, shifting her eyes to Tucker and then to you. ‘’And you.’’ 

‘’Tucker caught Dean’s college habit, so marriage is probably not on his mind,’’ Logan teased, only to receive a piece of bread thrown at him. 

‘’And my sister is not seeing anyone,’’ Garrett said, his eyes falling on you. ‘’She would have told me, right?’’ 

Before you could say anything, Allie did. 

‘’You don’t know that,’’ Allie said smoothly. ‘’She might have a mysterious Italian man she didn’t tell us about.’’

The table went a little quieter.

There had been an Italian man in your life, but that boat sank into the Mediterranean sea before it even left the port. His name was Edoardo. He was tall, handsome and worked as a chef at a high-end restaurant. You kept him from your friends due to that relationship not being serious enough to share. 

Dean’s gaze found yours then, steady and unreadable, like he was waiting.

‘’I don’t.’’ 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

After one last glass of wine, you wished everyone good night, then went to your room. Being the sister of the groom had its perks — you had been granted a room to yourself. Unlike Tucker and Dean who were forced to room together. It'll be like away games at Briar, Garrett told them with a clap on their shoulder and an amused smile. 

Unzipping your dress and removing the makeup from your face felt freeing. Although she was relatively comfortable, you had been wearing that dress since noon. You couldn’t wait to fall on the plush bed and close your eyes.

Except your eyes wouldn’t close. 

The ceiling fan turned slowly above you. Outside, faint frog sounds mixed with crickets as the moon glowed over the lake. It should be relaxing, but instead your mind wouldn’t quiet.

It kept replaying moments you didn’t want to replay too closely.

Dean’s arm under your hand.

His voice beside you in the aisle.

His eyes on you when Allie asked if you were seeing someone.

He hadn’t looked at you like that since…Paris. 

You had posted on your social media about setting foot in Paris and, a few days later, Dean sent you a DM about an hypothetical trip to Paris. He needed a place to take his mind off work because working at his grandfather’s law firm was sucking the life out of him. 

Seeing him haul his suitcase up to your small apartment the following made you mentally kick your feet and giggle. He was really there. For you.

That night, you went to the bar under your apartment and talked over a glass of wine. It was funny how quickly life had changed from beers at Malone’s to wine in Paris. You felt so…adult. 

‘’I didn’t know you were a win connaisseur, Di Laurentis.’’ 

Dean let out a quiet laugh, swirling the deep red wine in his glass before taking another sip. ‘’I’m not. I just appreciate a good french red.’’

You smiled over the rim of your own glass. ‘’Paris does have great wines.’’ 

‘’What else is great about Paris?’’ Dean asked, raising an eyebrow and leaning closer over the table. 

You wanted to grab the front of his shirt and kiss him. But you didn’t. 

Not long after, the combination of jetlag and a long flight hit Dean and you came back to your place. 

‘’I forgot to tell you, there’s only one bed,’’ you explained, slightly embarrassed, motioning to the Murphy bed near the window. 

Dean glanced at the bed, noting your light pink sheets that matched the ones at your old dorm — some things didn’t change. ‘’What?! I thought this was the Ritz.’’ 

You threw a pillow at him and he laughed. 

The next day, instead of taking him to all the tourist traps, you decided to show him your Paris. The neighborhood café you always go to for breakfast, your favorite bakery, little rituals you loved, and hidden corners tourists rarely see. Dean’s french was terrible, so you had to translate for him…and you may or may not intentionally left out the compliments locals gave him. 

It wasn’t until that evening that he made a move to kiss you. Not a sweet, romantic kiss like the romcoms. It was all tongue and pure desire, making up for all the time he had wanted to kiss you again but refrained from. You heard a passerby whistle teasingly but ignored him, gripping the front of Dean’s button up shirt to press him against you. 

That week in Paris was your best kept secret. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

It was nearly 1am when you heard a knock on your door. 

Peeling the comforter off you, you left your bed. You assumed it was Garrett getting cold feet and needing to talk, but when you cracked the door open, your heart stumbled.

Dean.

He had changed out of his dress clothes into a pair of athletic shorts, his blond hair looking like he had been tossing and turning for the past hour. 

‘’Sorry,’’ he said quietly. ‘’I thought this was Garrett’s room… Tucker’s snoring is a violation of the Geneva Convention. I was hoping to crash with him.’’

You raised an eyebrow. ‘’Garrett's room is on the floor above. He has the master bedroom.’’ 

‘’Right. I should I guessed that.’’

Dean scratched the back of his neck, his usual confidence dimmed by sleepiness and the late hour. The dimmed hallway light casted soft shadows across his unfairly handsome face. 

‘’Do you want to come in? Can let the best man show up with bags under his eyes. It’ll ruin the wedding picture.’’ 

Inviting Dean was at the rock bottom of the list of good ideas. Actually, it probably belonged somewhere below drinking champagne on an empty stomach and letting Logan pick the wedding playlist.

Because this was Dean.

Dean, who found you alone and crying on your birthday during your second year at Briar and took you to the closest bakery to buy your favorite cake. Because no one should be alone and crying on their birthday…especially without a cake. He even made it a tradition to send a chocolate and raspberry cake to your door on your birthday. Dean who punched Hunter Davenport after he cheated on you. Dean who kissed you the night the Hawks won the Frozen Four and called you his good luck charm. Dean who came to Paris just to spend time with you. 

And now he was standing in your doorway in the middle of the night, shirtless and looking far too good for you to keep your hands — and lips — to yourself.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

‘’You dropped out of law school?!’’ you repeated, staring at him in disbelief. 

‘’In my second year. And I left the family’s firm,’’ Dean added, sinking farther into the plush pillows, one arm hooked behind his head.

Your jaw nearly hit the floor. ‘’What?!’’ 

You had always found it ironic that the guy who got into the most trouble was the one who wanted to become a lawyer — like his grandfather. But the more you got to know Dean, the more you realized there was far more to him than his Six Flags reputation. Beneath the effortless charm was someone who was genuinely intelligent. He stayed on top of his classes, picked things up faster than most people, and had a sharp mind that made law seem like the perfect fit.

Dean gave a small shrug. ‘’I realized it wasn't for me. It was...too much.’’ His gaze drifted toward the ceiling before finding yours again. ‘’After I quit, I went down to Tucker's place in Texas for a few weeks. I needed to get away, clear my head, and figure out what I actually wanted to do with my life.’’

‘’Did you find it?’’

He hummed. ‘’I coach a junior girls team. I may have missed my opportunity to play in the NHL, but hockey is still part of me.’’ 

A smile spread across your face. ‘’That’s great, Dean.’’ 

He let out a quiet laugh, though it sounded almost embarrassed. ‘’Yeah?’’

‘’Yeah.’’ 

You pulled the plush blanket over your legs as a cool breeze slipped through the cracked window. As you shifted against the headboard, Dean's eyes flickered down your cami two-piece pajama for the briefest second, following the movement before catching himself and looking back up. He could probably see your nipples against the fabric, but it’s not like he hadn’t already seen them. 

‘’I’m sure you make an amazing coach.’’

A crooked smile tugged at his lips. ‘’Those girls are something else,’’ he continued. ‘’They're between eleven and thirteen, so half the practices are spent teaching them hockey, and the other half is convincing them that falling isn't the end of the world.’’ He chuckled. ‘’But when one of them finally nails a drill they've been struggling with, it's a better feeling than getting an A on any exam I ever took.’’

You couldn't help but smile wider. ‘’You like seeing them succeed.’’

He nodded. ‘’I do.’’ A thoughtful silence settled over him. ‘’I spent so long chasing what everyone else thought I should want that I never stopped to ask myself what actually made me happy.’’

His eyes met yours, steady enough to make your stomach tighten.

“Turns out, it wasn't arguing in a courtroom. It was being at a rink.’’ 

You held his gaze a second longer than necessary, his as beautiful as you remembered. In the soft moonlight spilling through the large window, you had a perfect view of the ripples of muscles of his chest and abs. He may not play hockey anymore, but his body still carried the unmistakable strength of an athlete.

Dean caught your wandering eyes, and one corner of his mouth lifted. ‘’What about you? Paris looked good on you. Why move to Florence?’’ 

‘’A job opportunity. You know the winery we visited together?’’

His expression softened slightly, the memory clearly clicking into place. ‘’The one where you tried to convince me you could tell the difference between wines?’’ 

‘’I could,’’ you defended, grabbing a pillow and tossing it at him.

Dean laughed, catching it against his chest with an easy grin. ‘’You absolutely could not.’’

You laughed quietly before continuing. ‘’A position opened up in their marketing department. Their headquarters are in Paris, but the job is remote. I can work from wherever I want as long as I’m in the office once a month. Paris was amazing, but I wanted something different. Somewhere quieter.’’

Dean looked impressed — and proud. ‘’That’s great, baby.’’ 

The word slipped out so naturally neither of you registered it at first. Then both of you froze.

You searched his face before allowing the smallest smile on your lips. ‘’You used to call me that.’’

Dean let out a quiet breath. ‘’Old habits are hard to unlearn.’’ He tried to make it sound like a joke, but the longing in his eyes gave him away.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

A soft but insistent knock on your door slowly pulled you from sleep. Not again…

You chose to ignore it, far too comfortable under the sheets, and pressed your face deeper into your pillow. Whoever needed you could wait another ten minutes, right? 

Then you felt the warmth of someone beside you, and the events of last night came rushing back. You couldn't remember exactly when the talking stopped or who fell asleep first. You must have moved during the night absentmindedly because Dean’s arm was under the bottom of your top, resting over your soft skin and you were curled up against him. The touch was intimate, but not undesired.  

Peering one eye open, you saw that Dean was still asleep. His blond hair was messy from the night, his face relaxed in a way you rarely got to see. Without the usual smirk or playful confidence, he looked almost peaceful. 

You brushed a hand through his hair, wishing you could stop time and stay here longer. 

Unfortunately, a second knock hit your door. 

‘’Hey, you awake?’’ Grace's voice came from the other side. ‘’It’s past eight and Ava is here for hair. Madeline should be here in fifteen minutes for makeup. Unless you want to look like jetlag is affecting you, I suggest you come down. Oh, and there’s breakfast too!’’ 

Right. The wedding. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

The large living area, which had been turned into a bridal glam suite, was already alive by the time you walked in. You hadn’t bothered dressing, not wanting to get unwanted clothing marks when you’ll change into your dress later. 

The smell of fresh coffee and pastries filled the room, mixing with the sound of laughter and the occasional panic that came with a wedding morning.

It was organized chaos.

Hannah sat on a chair in her silk robe, coffee in one hand and a croissant in the other, laughing as Allie tried to convince her that she absolutely needed to get her hair into an updo because it’ll look better with her veil…and will make her chest stand out. 

‘’I don’t like having pins poking at my scalp,’’ Hannah argued, tearing a piece from her croissant. ‘’And my chest will stand out whatever I do. My dress is a sweetheart neckline.’’ 

‘’I’m with Allie on that, but not for the same reason,’’ Grace replied, sitting across from her while Ava was beginning to curl her hair. ‘’It’s gonna be hot today and having your hair down is only going to make you uncomfortable.’’ 

Hannah’s mom agreed with Grace, but reminded Hannah that it was her wedding. She could wear her hair however she liked.

You made yourself a plate with blueberry scones and some strawberries, trying to not think about the man who was in your bed. 

‘’So, are you feeling nervous?’’ you asked the bride-to-be. ‘’I can’t wait to have you as my official sister in law.’’ 

A sigh left the brunette’s lips. ‘’A little,’’ she admitted, trying to not think about everything that could go wrong. ‘’But who isn’t on their wedding day, right?’’ 

You rounded the table and sat beside Hannah, offering her a small smile. ‘’Well, if there’s one thing you can stop worrying about, it’s Garrett leaving you at the altar.’’ 

Hannah looked over at you, her eyes softening.

‘’My brother has been head over heels in love with you since college. I’ve never seen him smile the way he does when he’s with you, or talk about anyone the way he talks about you. You’re it for him.’’ You paused, glancing down at your hands before continuing. ‘’Garrett and I didn’t grow up with the best example of what love was supposed to look like. He was so scared of being like him… But he found an amazing girl who helped him realize that he wasn’t our dad’s copy. He was nothing like him.’’ 

Hannah’s eyes grew glassy, and she reached for your hand. ‘’I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry so early.’’ She tried to blink the tears away, but her mom handed her a tissue. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

The ceremony was beautiful. 

The afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the lake, its calm surface shimmering behind the flower-lined aisle. A gentle breeze carried the scent of wildflowers through the gardens, stirring Hannah's veil just enough to make it dance as she walked toward Garrett.

There wasn't a dry eye among the guests.

Especially after the vows. You had expected something heartfelt from Hannah. As a musician and songwriter, she had a way of putting even the biggest emotions into words. But Garrett? No one had expected him to put together something as touching. There hadn't been any grand declarations or poetic metaphors — just honest promises, quiet memories, and a love so undeniable even Cupid’s nemesis would’ve been rooting for them.

By the time the officiant pronounced them husband and wife, the entire lawn erupted into applause.

Garrett didn't hesitate. He cupped Hannah's face and kissed her as though he'd been waiting years for that moment — which, in a way, he had.

Across from you, you caught Dean looking at you. He didn't look away when your eyes met, holding your gaze.

You hadn’t talked once today. There hadn’t been any time to. From the moment you climbed out of bed this morning, the day had been a whirlwind of hair and makeup, dress repairs, photos, last-minute details, and the ceremony itself. 

For a brief moment, the cheers around you faded into the background.

He looked devastating in his blue suit, the tailored jacket hugging his broad shoulders and tapering perfectly at his waist. The crisp white shirt beneath it made his sun-kissed skin stand out, while the afternoon light caught the golden strands of his hair. Clean-shaven and effortlessly put together, he looked like he had stepped straight out of a perfume ad — so unfairly handsome it was almost distracting.

Dean’s gaze flickered back to the newlyweds before returning to you, and the smallest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, but something in the way he looked at you made your heart skip.

Behind you, Allie was studying the exchange without saying anything. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Long oak tables overlooked the lake, dressed with a dusty blue table runner that matched the cushion on the chairs. Low arrangements of pale blue delphiniums, white ranunculus, baby's breath served as centerpieces, accompanied by flickering candles. The woodland elegance matched Hannah and Garrett perfectly. 

On the very left, a small stage was built with a piano keyboard set in the middle, letting the guest assume Hannah would be performing later. According to Allie, she had written a song for Garrett. A song she never planned on releasing nor singing elsewhere. A song just for their big day. 

‘’A picture with the bride!’’ 

Jules called as they were holding  a camera, making sure you, Allie and Grace were all in the picture too. 

You had already taken loads of pictures, but these were only for the memories you would look back on years from now. Silly selfies, people dancing and laughing, and inappropriate gestures from the groomsmen. 

After the picture was taken, one of Hannah’s aunts stole her away and Grace went to Logan’s rescue, catching a woman well into her forties flirting with him. An amused laugh spilled on your lips at the sight. 

‘’What’s going on between you and Dean?’’ 

You snapped your attention back to her. ‘’What are you talking about?’’ 

Allie gave you a look. ‘’I saw him looking at you.’’ 

‘’You’re imagining things. When was the last time you had your eyesight checked?’’  

‘’Don’t play that card with me,’’ she warned, not letting go of the subject. 

You sighed. ‘’I’m not playing any cards, Allie. There’s Dean and I.’’ 

Speaking of Dean, he was standing by the bar, getting drinks with Tucker and a Bruins player. Tucker was talking about hockey stats, completely invested in whatever point he was trying to make, but Dean’s attention had shifted to you. His eyes moved over you slowly, taking in the blue dress you were wearing and the way the silky fabric fell perfectly against your body.

He watched Allie leave, then turned back to the bartender and ordered another glass of champagne. 

‘’Thought you might need a refill,’’ he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear as he appeared at your side.

You smiled as you accepted the glass. ‘’Trying to get me drunk, Di Laurentis?’’

Dean's lips twitched. ‘’If I was, I would have brought you something stronger.’’

A laugh escaped you. ‘’Thanks.’’

As you took the flute, his fingertips lingered against yours for the briefest second before his other hand found the small of your back. The touch was innocent enough that no one around you would think twice about it, but you felt every second of it. You leaned slightly into him, taking a sip of champagne while his thumb brushed your skin lightly.

‘’Having fun?’’ he asked.

You looked around, seeing Hannah and Garrett smiling patiently through yet another round of family photos.

‘’It's weird,’’ you admitted. ‘’My brother is married.’’

Dean followed your gaze. ‘’I know.’’

‘’It feels like yesterday we were all at Briar, and now…’’ You laughed softly. ‘’Give them a couple of years and they'll probably be chasing toddlers around.’’

‘’Garrett's going to be an overprotective dad.’’

‘’Oh, absolutely.’’

‘’Hannah's going to pretend she's the reasonable one.’’

‘’But she'll secretly be worse.’’

Dean chuckled. ‘’One hundred percent.’’

For a moment, the two of you simply watched them, the conversation settling into a comfortable silence.

‘’So, when are you going back to Florence?’’ Dean asked.

Before he could answer, the band eased into a slow song. Around you, conversations quieted as couples drifted toward the dance floor. 

‘’Dance with me.’’ 

You blinked. ‘’Dean…’’ 

He set his champagne flute on the nearest table before holding out his hand. ‘’Come on. It’ll be like on Canal Saint-Martin.’’ 

The memory hit you instantly — the warm summer night along Canal Saint-Martin, some musicians strumming their instruments beneath the glow of a lamppost while a small crowd lingered along the water's edge. Without a second thought, Dean had held out his hand, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, and pulled you into the music. He surprised you by not stepping on your feet — not even once. You swayed to the music, his hand settling at your waist before he effortlessly twirled you beneath the glow of the moon. 

No one had ever danced with you like that. No one had ever looked at you the way he had that night. 

You looked at his outstretched hand for another second before slipping your fingers into his. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You couldn’t remember who made the first move. Who reached for whom. All you knew was that Dean's lips were on yours and your hands all over each other’s body. 

Every few steps, one of you would reluctantly pull back just enough to keep climbing the stairs before crashing together again and kissing against the wall, unable to wait until you reached somewhere you could finally be alone.

This kiss was the first since Paris. 

That last night, you both agreed to never speak of Paris. Because you would never work as a couple. Dean was in New York, working at his family’s firm and would be attending law school in the fall while you were on the other side of the ocean. The distance between you was simply too much. 

Yet here you were. 

Dean’s hand cupped your jaw as he kissed you again, his tongue sliding in and caressing yours. Your fingers tangled in the lapels of his suit, wrinkling the expensive fabric as he backed you up another step.

A laugh escaped you when your heel caught on the edge of the stair.

‘’Careful,’’ Dean murmured against your mouth, one arm instinctively circling your waist before you could lose your balance. ‘’I don’t want you to get a concussion before I get my piece of cake. I’ve been wanting to do kiss you all day.’’ He pressed his right below your ear. ‘’To touch you all day,’’ he continued, kissing down your neck. ‘’To fuck you all day.’’ He pulled the thin strap of your dress down your shoulder and kissed your exposed skin. 

You leaned your head back, pliant under his lips, and pushed your hands into his hair. Dean’s breath hitched when you pulled at it, loving the way you knew exactly how to unravel him.

He kissed down your collarbone, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch of skin he hadn’t touched in what felt like a lifetime ago. 

Once you made it into one of the rooms, you pulled Dean’s jacket off and began working on his belt while he lifted the bottom of your dress up, high enough to slip a hand under and press his hand over your panties. 

‘’Dean,’’ you mewled, bucking against him. 

He smirked against your lips, keeping going as he felt a wetness soak through the fabric. ‘’Like that, babydoll?’’ 

Tease was Dean’s second name. This man absolutely loved to play with your body and vice versa. He could spend over an hour just doing that. But your body was literally aching for him right now. 

‘’Dean,’’ you repeated, breaking the kiss. ‘’If you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll kick you out of this damn room and do it myself.’’

He didn't need to be told twice. 

Pants down to his thighs, the blond slipped a condom on before pushing inside you, the sensation making you gasp  sharply and claw at the vanity table under you. You had almost forgotten why everyone at Briar went to him for a good time. Your body arched at the delicious stretch, your walls clenching around his cock. 

‘’Ah, fuck,’’ you moaned, feeling him fill you. 

Dean thrusted into you with long, deep strokes, his hands on your hips keeping him anchored. ''Baby, you feel so good,'' he praised, his pelvis smacking against your ass loudly. ‘’Missed this so much. Missed you so much.''

You rocked back against him, meeting his thrusts as desire ran through your whole body. There was no better dick than this one. Not that you would ever admit it. 

Curses left his lips as he thrusted more erratically, desperate and needy after all this time apart. Your breasts were threatening to spill from your dress, whose skirt was currently bunched up at your waist for accessibility purposes. Taking it off would have been easier, but neither of you bothered fully undressing. 

After you both finished, Dean, who was spent and breathless, pressed kisses up your spine, a smirk curling on his lips. He wasn’t ready to let go of you — and neither were you. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You and Dean slipped back into the celebration, each stealing a glass of champagne from a passing server. The music was still playing, laughter drifted across the lawn, and, thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed you had disappeared.

Dean took a sip of champagne, but you stopped him. 

‘’Wait,’’ you said, reaching up and brushed your thumb across the corner of his mouth, wiping away the faint smear of your lipstick.

‘’Where were you?’’ came Grace’s voice from behind you, making you both turn a little too quickly. ‘’You missed the bouquet toss.’’ 

You nearly choked on your champagne.

For a second, your mind went completely blank. Between the lingering taste of Dean’s lips, the orgasm he just pulled out of you and the pleasant haze you were basking in, coming up with a believable excuse felt impossible.

Dean didn't miss a beat.

"She lost an earring," he said smoothly. ‘’I was helping her look for it. It belonged to her mom’s, so it’s a very sentimental piece.’’

Grace's face immediately fell. ‘’Oh no! Did you find it yet?’’ 

You nodded, forcing a small smile. ‘’It was in the grass, over there,’’ you said, pointing to the right. 

Relief softened her features. ‘’Good!’’ 

Guilt twisted in your stomach as she smiled, completely convinced. But before you could dwell on the lie, Grace linked her arm through yours and dragged you away from Dean. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Hannah disappeared for a few minutes before returning in a different dress — a simple white satin gown that flowed around her as she crossed the lawn toward the small stage. A hush gradually settled over the reception. Conversations faded, glasses were set down, and every guest turned toward her.

She smiled as she settled onto the piano bench, smoothing the skirt over her legs before resting her hands lightly on the keys. Behind her, hundreds of fairy lights twinkled against the trees, reflecting softly across the dark lake. The warm glow bathed the stage in gold, making it feel almost magical.

Garrett stood at the front of the crowd, unable to take his eyes off his wife. 

Hannah leaned toward the microphone with a nervous laugh. ‘’Garrett and I had an unusual debut, you could say. I was going to tutor him in Ethics and, in exchange, he would help me get this one guy’s attention. He came up with this whole plan where we would pretend to date...except we forgot about the pretending part.’’

Laughter rippled through the guests, Garrett shaking his head with an affectionate smile.

Hannah's sparkling eyes found him before she continued.

‘’Music has always been my form of expression — my refuge. With a guitar in my hand and a sheet or paper, I was practically the next Taylor Swift,'' she continued, glancing at Allie. ''But there came a moment in my life where I was convinced I had lost my creativity and ability to write lyrics.''

She looked down, making your heart ache. The past may be behind her, but would never stop hurting. You had never met someone as strong as Hannah. 

‘’Garrett encouraged me to write songs again.’’ Her smile returned. ‘’He would listen to my old videos and tell me how he loved that song. How he loved my voice. His confidence in me gave me the courage to write again and to perform my original work.'' 

You’ll never forget the day of her showcase. How everyone had rushed to the auditorium to see her perform and support her. She and Garrett were broken up at that time, but he had stood in the front row — for her. 

‘’The day I accepted to tutor him was the best decision I made because, unknowingly, I needed him just as much. He didn't just make me fall in love — he made me believe in my music again. And without him, I wouldn't be recording in a music studio. So, for our special day, I decided to write and dedicate this song for you, my husband.’’ 

Hannah pressed the first keys and you got lulled into her melody, the soft notes drifting across the lakeside like a secret meant only for the two of them.

For a moment, nobody moved.

The entire world seemed to narrow down to Hannah sitting beneath the glow of the fairy lights and Garrett standing a few feet away, looking at her like she had hung every star in the sky herself.

Her voice joined the piano, gentle at first, carrying every emotion she had poured into the song. It wasn’t a performance. Not really. It was a love letter set to music.

You watched Garrett’s expression change as he listened. The playful smile he had worn moments ago slowly disappeared, replaced by something softer. Something vulnerable. 

Your eyes drifted through the crowd, looking for Dean.

He stood on the other side of the stage with Tucker, his attention on you — again. Except this time, there was no smirk. No teasing grin. No playful look in his eyes. He was just looking at you. Really looking at you. And somehow, that felt more dangerous.

You expected him to look away the second he realized you had caught him, to put that familiar wall back up and pretend he hadn’t been watching. But he didn’t.

Dean held your gaze across the crowd, the music filling the space between you.

Then Hannah’s voice rose, pulling your attention back to her. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

As fun as weddings were, nothing compared to the moment you finally take off your shoes. Pretty shoes were demons in a heel form! With a relieved sigh, you slipped the straps from your ankles and kicked the heels away before wiggling your sore toes against the cool bathroom floor.

You removed your jewelry and caught your reflection in the mirror. Your hair was beginning to fall from its carefully pinned curls, and your makeup was begging to be removed. 

Just as you were about to change out of your dress, you heard your door open and close. The sound of the water faucet running covered it, causing you a near heart attack when you saw Dean’s reflection in the mirror. 

‘’You want to kill me, Di Laurentis?’’ 

His tie had disappeared somewhere throughout the evening and the top three buttons of his dress shirt were undone. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and he looked just as tired — and tipsy — as you felt. 

‘’You’re too beautiful to kill,’’ Dean replied with an easy smile, leaning against the bathroom doorframe.

You turned off the faucet and snorted. ‘’That’s your opening line? You’d make a shit slasher killer.’’ 

‘’Who said I wanted to be a slasher killer? Can’t hide that handsome face under a mask.’’ 

You shook your head. ‘’What are you doing in my room?’’

He pushed himself off the doorframe and took a few slow steps into the bathroom. ‘’I wasn't lying, by the way."

You paused, your hand resting on the edge of the sink. ‘’About what?’’

He met your eyes in the mirror. ‘’About you looking beautiful.’’ 

‘’Can you unzip my dress?’’

Dean reached for the delicate zipper, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of your back as he slowly eased it down. The soft rasp of the zipper seemed impossibly loud in the quiet bathroom. 

When he finished, his hands lingered at your waist as he caught your eyes in the mirror, then pressed a soft kiss on your shoulder. ‘’Anything else?’’ 

You pulled the thin straps from your shoulders, letting the dress slip down your body until it pooled around your ankles, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. Dean's gaze lingered on your reflection in the mirror, sweeping over your bare skin before finding your eyes again. You should have felt shy beneath his attention, but you had been naked together long enough to not care anymore. 

A light groan left Dean’s throat. ‘’Now you’re going to kill me.’’ 

A cocky grin threatened to spread on your face. You would never get over the power you had over this man. This man who normally oozed confidence like cologne, could melt into something softer just from seeing your naked body. No one else ever acted that way with you.  

‘’Am I?’’ 

One of his hands slowly moved up to your chest, cupping and squeezing your breast in his large hand. ‘’Yeah. I’m fucking dead, babydoll.’’ 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Morning came far too soon. 

You woke up to sunlight spilling through the curtains, soft and golden, the kind that made it impossible to pretend you were still asleep. Past you was an idiot for not shutting the blinds last night. 

Rolling over, you came face to face with Dean’s blue eyes. 

‘’Morning,’’ he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

Somehow, even after an entire night of celebrating, he looked unfairly good.

A small smile pulled at your lips before you could stop it. ‘’Morning.’’

He watched you for a moment, then a familiar crooked grin appeared.

‘’What?’’ you asked.

‘’Nothing.’’

‘’You're staring.’’

‘’Can't I appreciate the view?’’ 

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't hide your smile. 

Before Dean could come up with another smug remark, the door swung open and Allie rushed inside, her hair a mess and missing one slippers on. 

‘’Bathroom emergency!’’ she announced breathlessly. ‘’My room doesn’t have a bathroom and someone is already using the main one and I really, really need to…pee.’’ She came to an abrupt stop, her eyes darting from you and then to Dean, and the fact that his bare ass was in full sight. ‘’Oh my god.’’ 

Allie’s jaw dropped. For a solid three seconds, she didn’t move — or breathe — and just stood there like someone had pressed pause on the entire universe. Then her brain caught up. Dean Di Laurentis was in your bed and completely naked. 

‘’Oh my god!'' she shrieked again, louder this time.

Dean barely flinched, while you wanted to disappear through the mattress. Not because you were embarrassed of being seen with him. It just wasn’t how you wanted to reveal your ‘relationship’. 

And you wanted to have a talk with Dean before telling anyone. What did last night mean? Was it simply two people getting caught up in a wedding, too much champagne, and old feelings...or was it the beginning of something real? You needed to know where Dean's head was. Where his heart was. 

‘’I’ll be back,’’ Allie declared, her bladder forcing her to rush to the bathroom. 

‘’Cover yourself,’’ you hissed at Dean, pulling up the sheets to hide his lower half. 

He grinned like the devil. ‘’That’s not what you were saying last night.’’ 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You had forgotten how American brunch was different from in Europe. You had grown accustomed to fresh bread, cheese, prosciutto, and an espresso that disappeared in three sips. Here, brunch was an event — towering stacks of pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs, hashbrowns, endless refills of coffee, and enough food to keep you full until dinner. 

It was also the perfect cure for hangovers. 

They also had bottomless mimosas. This was the best part of American brunch. 

At one of the tables, Tucker, Logan and three Bruins players were stuffing their faces with eggs, bacon and hashbrowns while feeling the weight of an elephant sitting on their head. Some things never changed. 

A few tables over, Allie and Grace were sitting together, visibly regretting last night’s last glass of champagne. 

With a plate of pancakes and a mimosa in hand, you walked over to them. ‘’How’s the head, Gracie?’’

‘’I hate champagne,’’ she replied, glaring at your mimosa. 

‘’She and Logan stole a bottle of champagne last night,’’ Allie explained, stabbing a hashbrown. ‘’It didn’t agree with the cocktails and she got sick.’’ 

‘’Oh no,’’ you said, feeling bad for Grace. 

‘’That’s Logan’s fault,’’ the latter grumbled. ‘’He kept getting me refills—’’ 

‘’Heard that!’’ Logan called from his seat. ‘’I plead not guilty.’’ 

You laughed, then began eating your pancakes. 

‘’So,’’ Allie began. ‘’Did you sleep well? Aunt Shauna said she heard some strange noises all night. Her room right next to yours.’’ 

Lifting your head from your plate, you glared at her. She may have kept her mouth shut about this morning, but you knew Allie Hayes too well to know she would do anything to pull the juicy gossip out of you. 

You opened your mouth to spill out some lie, but Dean appeared at your table. He had showered and changed out of his wedding clothes. 

‘’Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but Garrett is looking for you.’’ 

You raised an eyebrow. Was Garrett actually looking for you? Unlikely. He and Hannah were busy thanking Hannah’s family for their gifts and for coming to the wedding. They were from the midwest, so some of them were going to hit the road soon. 

‘’I'll be back,’’ you told the girls.

‘’Take your time,’’ Allie sang, her grin widening.

You shot her a warning look that only made her smile harder.

Dean waited until you had fallen into step beside him before leading you away from the dining room and out onto the wraparound porch overlooking the lake. The chatter from brunch faded behind you, replaced by the gentle lapping of water against the dock and the few singing birds. 

‘’We need to talk.’’ 

You nodded. ‘’I know.’’ 

‘’I assumed we would talk in the morning, but hurricane Allie blew in and…’’ Dean trailed, taking a seat on the bannister so he was closer in height to you. ‘’This weekend, it wasn’t just a wedding fling. Not for me. I’ve been thinking about you a lot since I quit the firm. About us.’’ 

He let the words settle between you before continuing.

‘’Not just the physical part. Although the sex is fucking great.’’ 

You let out a small laugh. He wasn’t wrong. 

‘’What I’m saying is, I want to try us. For real.’’ 

‘’We still live on different continents, Dean,’’ you reminded him. 

‘’I know. But we were at different stages of our life back then. I think we can work.’’ Dean searched your face, as if trying to gauge whether you were on the same page or not. ‘’I coach from September to May. I have the whole summer to myself. And you said it yourself, your job is remote. You can spend a few weeks in New York, work from there. We can make it work.’’ 

You stared at him.

Because that was the thing about Dean. When he really wanted something, he didn't just talk about it. He figured out how to get it. But right now, he was making it sound almost too easy. 

‘’I know there'll be days where the time difference sucks. Days where one of us is tired or busy or wishes the other person was just there.’’ He paused, reaching for your hands and pulling you in. ‘’But I want this. I want us, baby.’’ 

Your heart tightened. 

‘’Dean…’’ 

‘’You want it too. I know it.’’ He leaned his forehead against yours. ‘’I feel it.’’ 

Of course you wanted it. Wanted him. But you were scared of hurting. Because love was painful. 

‘’I don't want this to be something we try for a few months and then give up when it gets hard,’’ you admitted. ‘’I don’t want to get hurt, Dean.’’ 

His expression turned serious again. ‘’Neither do I.’’

He leaned to kiss you, slow and deep, and you melted against his tongue. 

Behind you, the door opened and Garrett stepped out. ‘’What the fuck?!’’

══════════════════

✿ Allie Hayes

road trip — 18+

@iceyngi — You and Allie try to keep quiet as Dean and Beau are in the front seat. | contents — Fingering (fingerblasting iykyk)

crossing the blue line — f

@atlasthegreatest — Being captain of Briar University’s women’s hockey team means Y/n was used to pressure, bruises, and keeping her composure under any circumstance. Unfortunately, none of that helps when it comes to Allie Hayes. | contents — Mutual Pinning. Di Laurentis! Reader. Fluff. Wingman! Dean.

dating allie hayes — f

@jalenspuckbunny — take a glimpse of what i think dating allie hayes would be like

ᝰ.ᐟ @bucksplum

in between — 18+

Allie only wanted to talk to Dean, and with an empty house like this she was not expecting the sight that greeted her. | contents — smut!!; kinda rough sex?; voyeurism. duh.; reader is a freak and she knows dean is too

at your service — 18+

allie shows you exactly what she wants needs. | contents — 18+ mdni; smutty, smut!; porn w/o plot!; sloppy make out; cunnilingus; sloppy fingering; oral fixation; needy!allie; sean slander (deserved); lowkey jealous!reader

✿ Beau Maxwell

aim, set, match: a maxwell masterclass in finding you — f, a, h/c, top gun: maverick crossover

@maverist — beau maxwell, star quarterback and golden boy concusses woman with football, sending her to the hospital. maybe his aim isn't so perfect after all. or maybe it's exactly what it needed to be. | contents — heavy foreshadowing, references to God/religious language, hospital & medical imagery, inaccurate concussion protocols & non-medical language around treatment, mentions of blood, serious injuries, car accident, trauma recovery, emotional breakdowns, character frustration/snapping (non-abusive), chronic pain & rehabilitation, brief mentions of mobility loss/fear of paralysis, so much fucking angst with just the right sprinkle of fluff

you still sleep with it? — f

@andy-15-07 — You knew the stuffed rabbit was probably going to be found eventually.

neglected — h/c

@iceyngi — The project you're working on has taken over your life, leaving you no time for the needy men in your life. | contents — Posessivey behaviour. Miscommunication. Arguing!! (but happy ending)

guardian angel — tw, a, f, h/c

@pucksandpower — you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives | contents — descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries

✿ Dean di Laurentis

the trunk in the closet — f

@andy-15-07 — Dean with a reader who collects baby clothes for her future kids

figure it out — cr, f

@toonice113 — You try to play a prank on your boyfriend but it just ends up with him completely spiraling

jealousy, jealousy — 18+

@deansgirl66 — After you show up to the off campus house to have fun and party. Some guys start flirting with you, dean takes you upstairs and makes you remember who you belong to. | contents — Mentions of drinking, having sex (p n v) , dean is very dom and rude, controlling, cum control, bondage (wrist are held by dean), swearing, oral (fem receivied), fingering (fem received), teasing, pet names, reader calls dean "daddy”.

obsessed — f, h/c

@book-lish — It wasn’t crazy to feel a little insecure over your boyfriend’s ex. Right? At least that’s what you told yourself. | contents — Mentions of Sex and Alcohol Consumption

in between — 18+

@bucksplum — Allie only wanted to talk to Dean, and with an empty house like this she was not expecting the sight that greeted her. | contents — smut!!; kinda rough sex?; voyeurism. duh.; reader is a freak and she knows dean is too

the love list — f

@pinkfairydreamgirl — to help you find the words to accurately describe how you feel for Dean, you create a list. you never intended for anyone to see it, least of all him. | contents — reader has behaviors that reflect those on the spectrum! no use of y/n, pet names (baby, sweetheart), sappy romance fluff, allusions to sex, kissing, cursing, teasing, tickling (sorry :/)

dimples and kisses — s, f

@land0sc21 — Dean distracts you from your work by showering you with kisses, showing off his dimples and leaving you utterly wrecked | contents — Soft dom! Dean, making out, swearing, dirty talk, hickeys, no explicit intimacy, fluff and more fluff! Reader calls Beau 'Bo' , short for Bo Peep. Don't ask why, it's an inside joke only they know about. Dean is a menace, But he's supportive and that's what matters

you had me at wrong number — 18+

@alierecss — what starts as a wrong number nude becomes something neither of them planned for. a week of texts, a facetime call neither of them hangs up from, and a party where jealousy finally shows its hand you and dean end up somewhere that doesn't have a name yet but feels like the beginning of one. | contents — explicit sexual content, sexting, nudity, oral sex (f receiving), edging, dom!dean if you squint, jealousy, slow burn compressed into one week, strangers to whatever this is, dean diLaurentis being shameless about it, probably slightly ooc dean

stress eating — 18+

@kaiwithlove — where dean is stressed about an upcoming game, and you, being the wonderful girlfriend that you are, offer to help him relax. inspired by THAT scene from off campus. | contents — porn with almost no plot, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), established relationship, dean being obsessed with reader, stress relief taken very literally, praise, excessive use of "baby", mild swearing, teasing, possessive language, body worship, dean di laurentis treating your orgasm like a personal achievement, lots of kissing, lots of touching, emotional intimacy disguised as horny behavior

pilates princess — f, cr

@shortnspidey — Dean has been dying to know why you keep sneaking out at 6 a.m. every single morning. Convinced there's a story behind it, he decides to tag along, expecting just about anything, except a Pilates class. Suddenly, the hockey star finds himself way out of his comfort zone and questioning every life choice that led him there. | contents — Pure fluff! Dean is down bad for reader, cursing, dramatic hockey boys, suggestiveness but no actual smut, probably some inaccurate Pilates descriptions (sorry)!

ᝰ.ᐟ @railingsofsorrow

i told you so — tw, a, h/c, part 1 of 2

Dean is there for you, even when you think he shouldn't be. | contents — hurt/comfort; relationship abuse; violence (mentioned); graphic description of physical injuries.

anyday. anytime. — tw, a, h/c, part 2 of 2

Dean let out a slow, heavy breath, looking down at his bandaged hand for a second before looking back up at you. “When I heard him on the phone, and then I heard you scream... everything just went black. The only thing I could think about was getting to you. I didn't care about anything else.” | contents — trauma response; harassment; graphic description of violence; hurt/comfort; protective dean; some found family comfort cause I'm a sucker for it.

ᝰ.ᐟ @pennylanefics

overheard — a, h/c, part 1 of 2

you overhear a conversation from dean's friend's that you weren't exactly meant to hear | contents — 18+, talks of sex, descriptions of sexual acts (not full on smut but describing past experiences), insecure reader, asshole friends, comparing new relationship to past ex

apologies — f, h/c, part 2 of 2

part 2 to overheard | contents — recalling of asshole friends, mentions of issues with intimacy and sex

ᝰ.ᐟ @iceyngi

in your sleep — 18+

You’re in Dean’s bed when you start having a wet dream about his best friend. Your boyfriend takes personal offence to that. | contents — smutty smut, orgasm delay/denial, dean being mean/teasing, flattened dawgy (pronebone), shoulder holder position (iykyk).

ridin’ — 18+

You’ve had a frustrating day and your boyfriend gladly lends his thigh in service. | contents — thigh ridin’. dean calls himself daddy dean. overuse of sweetheart.

neglected — h/c

The project you're working on has taken over your life, leaving you no time for the needy men in your life. | contents — Posessivey behaviour. Miscommunication. Arguing!! (but happy ending)

ᝰ.ᐟ @thebriarbunny

empty seats and gas station flowers — 18+, a, h/c

By the seventh day, Dean had officially decided something was wrong with your phone. Not because you never got mad at him—you absolutely did—but because this wasn’t how you fought. You’d tell him exactly what he did wrong. You expected him to listen. You expected the two of you to work through it together. But seven straight days without a single word? That wasn’t you. | contents — angst, silent treatment, he logs into reader’s IG, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, #male tears, groveling, one-sided voicemails, make-up sex, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v, praise, jersey stays on, creampie, spanking, pet names (baby, babydoll, sweetheart, honey, pretty + no y/n) + dean climbs onto reader’s roof

the photobooth is open — 18+

smut in the photobooth cabin | contents — brat!dean, app-controlled v!brator, public/semi unprotected sex, p in v in the photobooth, praise, pet names (baby, baby doll, bunny, pretty + no y/n), teasing, intox, overstim + dean is having way too much fun at malone’s

ᝰ.ᐟ @pucksandpower

girls just wanna — 18+, tw, a, h/c,

fuck your ex-man, I’m the man now. Think I feel bad, he was fanned out. Do what you like, you’ve been too nice. He didn’t do right, that’s too bad now | contents — 18+ themes, grooming, sexual coercion, and non-consensual psychiatric institutionalization

controlled burn — 18+, rozanov!reader

part 1 of 2 | part 2 of 2

you don’t tell him your last name. By the time Dean finds out, he’s too far gone to do anything but brace for impact. Falling for the ice-cold, vodka-drinking Russian freshman is one thing. Falling for Ilya Rozanov’s little sister is a death wish. Dean decides he doesn’t care

yours, still — 18+, h/c

Dean has never held on to anything — not girls, not feelings, not the memory of a childhood best friend who disappeared across an ocean at fourteen. Then you walk back into his life on a brisk October morning, and every carefully constructed wall he never knew he had built comes down in an instant. You came to Briar to disappear. You didn’t count on being found

civic duty — 18+

Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission

✿ Garrett Graham

found family — f, a, cr, smau, series

@sunnydilaurentis — in which y/n and her close girl friends, allie, grace & sabrina, navigate the highs and lows of college alongside a group of boys who somehow stopped feeling like strangers and started feeling like home.

cherry pie — 18+

@alcapzr — pussy drunk garrett graham | contents — Smut, Oral Fem Receiving, Pussy Drunk, Hockey Celebration, Graham Has A Thing For Eating Pussy, Spit Play, Praises, Really That Song Again?

that’s my girl — 18+

@nchye — Garrett x shy reader having the best sex of their lives. With him teasing her, and her being all shy. | contents — smut, p in v, shy!reader, backshots, dirty talk, reader has glasses

cat and mouse — f, h/c

@seventiesaces — Garrett and Hannah are dating or are they? As Garrett's feelings for you grow, his fake dating with Hannah, your roommate gets in his way of getting the girl. | contents — fluff, angst, kind of enemies to lovers but Garrett is into the whole time and you're not into it because of Hannah, Hannah playing cupid

the things we were taught — a, h/c

@townsendbaby — Garett Graham has spent his whole life trying not to become his father. Y/N has spent hers believing controlling men are proof of love. Neither of them realizes how deeply those beliefs have shaped their relationship, until one small word finally breaks everything open: “Allowed?”

the heart rate challenge… and an accidental hard launch — 18+

@thebriarbunny — Sixteen athletes, eight guys, eight women—an unsanctioned charity event between Briar’s sports teams turned too hot to handle. | contents — jealous as hell!garrett, everyone’s kissing, lap dances, accidental hard launch, stripping adjacent, brief oral from the back, unprotected p in v, squirting, situationship, fingering, roughish, pet names (baby, babydoll, my baby, my girl + no y/n), language, w.a.m., bf/gf discussions + local briar man suffers while dressed like a sexy!cowboy

the reservation — cr, f

@goldsainz — you make garrett believe he forgot about date night. | contents — garrett calls you ‘honey’. another old tiktok trend.

team effort — f

@kooksandpearls — everyone keeps asking for too much. garrett has a very simple solution. | contents — fluff, established relationship, people-pleasing, boundary issues, garrett being protective, strong language, alcohol mention

i’ll leave the porch light on — tw, a, h/c

@garrettgrahamslawyer — you bring your boyfriend to a place you’ve never brought anyone to before—your mom’s grave, the place you still go when you miss her the most. hours later, he cheats on you at a bar, and the only thing carrying you forward is the porch light glowing outside garrett graham’s house. | contents — death of a parent, mentions of suicide and sh, cancer, cheating, betrayal, and grief

jeep — h/c

@bitchinbarzal — garrett loves his car, garrett also loves you. you wrecked his car.

ᝰ.ᐟ @pucksandpower

girls just wanna — 18+, tw, a, h/c,

fuck your ex-man, I’m the man now. Think I feel bad, he was fanned out. Do what you like, you’ve been too nice. He didn’t do right, that’s too bad now | contents — 18+ themes, grooming, sexual coercion, and non-consensual psychiatric institutionalization

breaking point — tw, a

part 1 of 2 | part 2 of 2

Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. You’re dating his rival. You’re wearing the wrong colors. But he doesn’t look at you like you’re the enemy, he looks at you like he’s seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call | contents — 18+ content, domestic violence, sexual assault, and trauma recovery

✿ John Logan

last call — h/c, f

@daydreamfiles — A busy night at Malone’s turns uncomfortable when the newest Briar freshmen decide to test your patience, but Logan notices more than you expect, and later, after closing, he makes sure you know exactly why he stayed. | contents — Rude/creepy behavior toward reader, objectifying comments/behavior, workplace harassment, Logan stepping in, public confrontation, swearing, fluff, kissing, protective Logan being soft after closing.

out of the blue — f

@rhi-blogging — as Hannah’s maid of honor, your duties are simple: keep Hannah relaxed, make sure the wedding runs smooth, and do not, by any means whatsoever, fall for the best man | contents — language, SO MUCH FLUFF, love is in the air, sexual tension like a mf

magic mike — cr, s

@puckmegirl — after a wild girls’ night out with hannah and allie to a local magic mike show, logan bites off more than he can chew when he shows up to pick up his tipsy girlfriend who’s feeling handsy… | contents — fem!reader, suggestive, alcohol, established relationship, abs abs abs

breakfast and word games — 18+

@babikamagazine — logan wanted to try a new thing this time | contents — smut, oral (f reciving), logan eating you out, sex game, add a word game, semi-public sex?, cuming on face, dirty talk

the locker room incident™️ — cr, f

@puckingcuckbunny — If a small, angry music major student were to a) be one of your best friends and b) insist on going to hunt down her boyfriend to shove her phone up his ass. would you argue, even if it meant bursting into the locker room after practice? or When you, Allie and Hannah walk into the changing rooms, omitting the fact that they'd just finished practice. | contents — mention of dicks, walking into changing room full of guys? swearing? dramatic, feral Hannah. Established Hannah X Garrett, Allie X Dean, crackfic!

roadside assistance — s, graham!reader

@lovelettersfrommai — When your car battery dies, there's only one person who can help you. | contents — reader is thirsty LMAO, hopeless pining on your part, unclear whether or not john returns your crush?? mentions of hannah. I have also never read the books— so this is solely based off of show logan :)

caught — 18+

@iceyngi — You're studying at your boyfriend's house when he decides it's time to fix a leaking pipe. | contents — Oral (f! receiving)

the logan arrangement — 18+

@jadeittic — the rules are strict—you must date for two months, you must act convincingly in public, and whoever catches feelings first automatically loses. | contents — 18+ content (read responsibly!), fake dating trope, enemies to lovers if you squint, mild swearing, emotional constipation, sexual tension/suggestive banter, basically the deal but make it john logan with a few changes

lacy, oh lacy — a, h/c, series

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

@flwr-princ3ss — in which you are in love with your best friend, John Logan. but he’s got feelings for Hannah, your competition in the pop showcase. feelings may arise. | contents — angsty, feelings of doubt, discussions of insecurity, descriptions of panic attack w/o saying what it is, doubt, mentions of alcoholism, family dynamics, swearing, confrontations, doubt, self-realizations, idiots-to-lovers, learning to communicate feelings, alcohol mention

ᝰ.ᐟ @kaiwithlove

paper rings, picture frames & dirty dreams — a, f, h/c

where john logan wants to propose. unfortunately, the engagement ring is expensive, your future apartment is expensive, life is expensive, and he's slowly losing his mind. | contents — angst with a happy ending, misunderstandings, emotional hurt/comfort, secret engagement planning, financial insecurity, discussions of money, reader thinking logan is cheating, emotional repression, crying, proposal anxiety, mild swearing, mentions of grief/loss of a parent, lots of kissing, dean di laurentis being aggressively unhelpful, garrett and tucker being the voices of reason for once, paper ring proposal, excessive use of "babe", tooth-rotting fluff at the end, reader is referred to as a she & as a woman

date night? — f

where you decide to prank logan by pretending to be excited for a date he never planned. unfortunately, your boyfriend's response to being pranked is to take you on the most thoughtful, romantic date of your life. | contents — pure fluff, established relationship, prank gone wrong (or right?), logan being aggressively boyfriend-shaped, excessive sweetness, reader trying and failing to outsmart her boyfriend, garrett graham being a surprisingly useful best friend, bookstore dates, flowers, lots of hand-holding, kissing, logan remembering every little thing about reader, weaponized thoughtfulness, excessive use of "babe", use of she/her pronouns, reader is explicitly referred to as "girl", emotional damage via acts of service

ᝰ.ᐟ @folkloure

back to you, always — h/c, f

you and logan avoid each other after a fight, dean and allie come to the rescue.

tender loving care — f, h/c

reader gets a minor head injury when logan is not around and everyone jumps to help | contents — core characters mentioned but mostly dean and allie. short fic, genuinely not as dramatic as the summary makes it sound like lol.

ᝰ.ᐟ @seafoammm

plowed down! — f, part 1 of 2

you’re the captain of the briar girl’s volleyball team, leading your team through the ncaa volleyball semifinals in the hopes of reaching the championship. and you do achieve that, but not after experiencing the most insane introduction with john logan, a man you hadn’t known to exist until now | contents — cursing, sexual references kind of (no smut), probably inaccurate volleyball because i literally have never played and don’t know anything about it (i was researching as i wrote this, so i'm genuinely so sorry if it’s completely wrong. also, for the sake of plot making sense, we’re gonna say the ncaa volleyball tournaments take place in march because i want hannah and garrett, and allie and dean to be together)

earned it! — f, part 2 of 2

after plowing down john logan during one of your volleyball games, you catch the man’s eye. and, to be totally honest, he caught yours, too. but you know you can’t give in that easily; you’ve got to make him earn it, and during that process, you discover that through getting to know and understand john logan, you’ve unlocked a whole new chapter of your life that you didn’t even know was possible to exist. | contents — cursing, little bit angsty during one part (just about family stuff, nothing to do with their relationship so don’t worry), you’re the main character (sure me, idc), definitely inaccurate volleyball references. also, i know that with ncaa championships, they’re typically like a few days after the semifinals BUT FOR THE PLOT, we’re gonna pretend it’s like two weeks after (again, sorry, just bear with me).

Now, six months in its wake, she can finally say that she’s okay. Mostly. Sure, some nights, she feels his absence like a limb and it gets so fucking lonely she has to physically stop herself from calling him, but her new routine without Garrett Graham by her side has been partly tolerable. The first few months were the worst. It’s like she sees him in every corner of the campus; some days, even when she stays locked inside her dorm, she hears a laugh in the hallways that sounds too much like him that she has to put on headphones at full blast to distract herself. 

And it’s not like she can avoid him forever. Their friend groups overlap. She shares a class with half of his teammates. But the first time she had convinced herself it was fine to go to a party Garrett and his friends are also attending, she’s inside the random frat house for exactly three minutes when she sees him take another girl up the stairs. It’s the first proof that he really isn’t hers anymore. The pain hit her gradually at first, like everything is in slow motion.  And then she drops her red cup to the floor and books it out of there, crying all the way back to her place and feeling like she’s taken a knife to the chest. That’s when she promised herself to do what she can to make sure their paths don’t cross again. Garrett’s moving on; she’s allowed to do that too. 

So she tries going out. She says yes to every date offer, smiles at guys in bars, even lets some of them take her home. But the other problem with having Garrett Graham as her ex-boyfriend is that he’s ruined her for other men. And, for a reason only god and Garrett can probably answer, she can’t fucking orgasm with other guys. 

The first time she hooked up with someone else, a little over two months after they broke up and just three days after seeing him with that other girl at the party, she had brushed it off as a fluke. One night stands were always hit or miss, anyways. So what if she had the worst sex of her life? What did she expect, letting Frank from Econ take her home? And so, a month later, at a frat party her friends dragged her into, she let another random guy go down on her in the upstairs bathroom and–nothing. She doesn’t finish again. She’s frustrated enough that she buys a whole drawer of toys. If other guys can’t do it for her, then she can do it for herself. She’s a strong, independent, modern woman. 

But nothing. 

Again.

It happens enough times that she has to call it for what it is: her new reality. A reality in which Garrett Graham is no longer hers, and in which orgasms have completely evaded her. 

And now it’s six months later, and her friends are bugging her about going to another party. Only–

“You know why I don’t wanna go,” she says, pointedly flipping through another page in her history textbook. Her exam isn’t for another week, but who says she can’t do some advanced studying? 

Anna drags the book from her. “Babe. It’s been six months. Why are you still letting him win?”

That makes her glare up at her. “Who said it’s a competition?”

“Everyone,” Dylan says with a laugh. “Break-ups always are. Besides, you’re the one who broke Garrett Graham’s heart. Why do you have to go into hiding?”

“Stop saying his full name like he’s some celebrity. And I’m not going into hiding,” she shakes her head, drumming her hands on the table lightly. “I just don’t feel like seeing my ex-boyfriend on the prowl. Is that so bad?”

They share a look before turning towards her. “Yes!”

She thinks she needs better friends.

“That means he won! You’re the one affected!” Anna says.

Dylan nods in agreement. “Why not turn it around on him? Pull a guy right under his nose at a house party he’s hosting. You’re hot; you can definitely do it.”

She almost spills the truth right there; how she’s given up on casual hook ups because they always end the same way–the other guy panting like a dog and her wishing she was literally anywhere else. Sex isn’t fun anymore. Now she’s just horny and alone with nothing to do about it. But even just thinking about her little (try: huge) sex problem is embarrassing enough; literally no one can know, and it’s with that in mind that she carelessly agrees to go to the hockey house party. 

Just because she’s not looking to hook up doesn’t mean she can’t look like she is. And maybe some part of her hopes Garrett sees her from afar, the tight black cut out top that accentuates her breasts, the eye make-up that never fails to make her look sultry, the low-waisted jeans exposing her belly button piercing. Maybe it is a competition. And, she realizes while applying a final coat of her lipstick, she’s tired of losing. 

The second the hockey house comes into view, regret pounds in her blood. The porch is too familiar. There’s that wooden bench she once sat on at two in the morning, drunk out of her mind, watching Garrett fumble with the keys. It had taken him a long time to coax her into sitting, his hands warm on her shoulders. When she finally obeyed, he had kissed her forehead for no reason other than because she was right there and he wanted to. 

One quick glance at the driveway and she immediately spots Garrett’s jeep parked in its usual spot. The same jeep she had ridden in almost every day once, to class or to the rink or to whatever new coffee shop or restaurant she wanted to try out. She had kept a stock of her chapstick and emergency kit in the glove compartment; a mid-size pouch with her feminine products and a change of clothes. She wonders when he got rid of them. If he ever did. 

The lump in her throat intensifies. 

Some days, she feels totally okay. Like she’s completely washed him off. During those days, she even lets herself hope a little–that she’d have that kind of love again. That there will be other boys who will make her heart sing just as loud and make her skin vibrate against her bones. Because it can’t be just Garrett. Because if it’s just him then that means she already lost him and she’ll never get that again. 

And then there were the bad days; the ones where one glance at a spot they once stood at all pressed together is enough to derail her entire week. That one corner of the library. The parking spot near the social sciences building. The tunnel at the rink. She’d spend hours in bed, locked in her dorm, staring at the ceiling as if the water stains there held the answer on why it still hurts. Why she still feels his absence like a gaping hole in her chest. 

She had done the breaking, yes. Nothing new with a little self-harm. 

The first thing she registers the second Dylan swings the door open is the pounding music, some techno club hit that works really great for running and other sweaty activities. The living room is packed, several people crowding the air hockey table and squeezing together on the couch. It’s a relief, honestly. The hockey house is more familiar to her when it’s just her and Garrett and his roommates; quiet mornings before they all drag themselves in the backyard for their workouts, warm coffee with her legs tangled with Garrett’s while they wait for Tucker to finish cooking breakfast. 

Crowded is good. Crowded won’t make her think about cuddles on the couch and the candid polaroid picture Jules took of her and Garrett in sophomore year that used to be pinned to the fridge. 

“All good?” Anna asks.

She smiles, a little too wide to be genuine. “Yeah. Totally. I just need a drink, stat.”

The kitchen is slightly less crowded, but the people occupying the space certainly aren't making things better. 

Logan’s the first one who spots her, probably because Tucker is busy leaning over the stove and Dean is preoccupied being Dean (which means he has his tongue stuck down a girl’s throat with no care for an audience). He says her name in shock, looking at her like he’s imagining things other people can’t see. Valid, probably, since the last time he saw her here, she was frantically packing her things while trying not to collapse on her knees, Garrett trailing after her with his hair messed up and his eyes swollen. “You’re here.”

That makes Tucker look up at her. His eyes widens immediately. “Hey!”

“You’re back for real?” It’s Dean this time, pulling away from the girl he’s making out with just long enough to narrow his eyes at her playfully.

“This is an open-invite party, right?” She shrugs, reaching over the sink to get a bottle of beer. 

Her eyes flicker to the fridge. Post-it notes. Practice times. Random magnets. Definitely no polaroid pictures. Logan gestures for her drink, holding up a bottle opener. She hands it over absentmindedly. 

“Yes,” Logan agrees, though she hears a catch in his voice. “It’s just. You know. You haven’t really been back since–”

“Since you broke our captain’s heart and cost us four consecutive games,” Dean butts in, lips pulled to a smirk. 

She knows he means nothing by it, if only for the fact that he actually looks pretty delighted at her being there. For a time, she had tried avoiding Garrett’s friends as well, a combination of thinking they hated her for hurting him and just avoiding Garrett by proximity fueling her decisions. But in the two years that she was with Garrett, Logan and Tucker and even Dean had become her friends, too. Sure, they don’t exactly hang out anymore, but she still thinks of them as such. 

“And after this welcome party, I probably won’t be back at all,” she says with a faux grin, taking back her beer from Logan and raising it up. “Cheers, guys.”

She squeezes back to the living room where her friends are already dancing on the makeshift dancefloor. If she’s proud of herself for not asking about Garrett, then that’s between her and the god currently playing with her life. 

Dylan cheers once she reaches them, holding her hand up and jumping in place.

She laughs at how ridiculous her friend looks. “How are you halfway drunk already?”

“Talent,” she answers with a bright grin. 

Anna tugs the both of them closer by their tops. “Hottie alert. 5 o’clock.”

They all turn in that direction, easily spotting a guy who looks so much like the textbook definition of frat boy it almost makes her laugh. “Cliche.”

“You hets are killing me,” Dylan mutters, taking a swig of her beer. “But since we are trying to find a hook up for you, I guess he isn’t that bad.”

Anna almost jumps in place. “His hair is so tall he’s giving 2012 One Direction a run for their money. And look at his little frat shirt.”

“You’re impossible,” she laughs, but lets her eyes trail over the guy’s figure anyway. He’s cute, she guesses, in that no-strings-fun kind of way. But she’s not really looking to get disappointed tonight. 

Anna basically deflates at her lack of interest. “Oh, well. The night is young. Shots?”

“That, I can get behind,” she points, and with that her friends somehow manage to procure a bottle of tequila and tiny red plastic shot glasses. 

The pour is messy, dripping over her hand in a way she knows will be annoying later when it dries sticky. But her friends are having fun. The music is loud enough to forget anything she wants to forget. With a reluctant smile, she raises the cup up and downs the shot swiftly. 

Her face is still screwed up from the taste when the song abruptly changes. 

Heavy 80s electric guitar fills the air. A few people groan at the vibe change. Most are too drunk to care. And she freezes on the spot, one hand still holding onto the empty plastic cup, the back of her head burning. 

She doesn’t need to turn around to know who she’s going to see.  

It’s not that Garrett Graham is predictable, or that he’s deliberately making an entrance. It’s just that she had spent a good part of two years knowing him like the back of her hand. 

“Oh shit,” Dylan almost chokes on her beer, basically confirming her thoughts. 

Her shoulders tense and then straighten. Her heart is pounding louder than the classical rock song on the speakers. With a clench of her jaw, she turns around, and there he is. 

Garrett Graham.

The love of her life. 

The man she left.

The annoying part is that he isn’t even looking at her. Probably has not noticed her yet. And how could he, with over four girls surrounding him, two of whom are holding onto either of his arms like he’s a messiah. 

The annoying part is that she expected this. It’s his house, after all.

The annoying part is she’s strung like a bow, the past orgasm-free six months making her feel like her skin is melting off, and the only man she’s sure can solve her problem is looking way too good and forbidden in the low light of the party he’s technically hosting. 

He moves his head slightly to the right, and the chain around his neck catches light. That fucking chain. 

She takes another swig of her beer. 

“You okay?” Anna asks, voice more careful and less on-the-verge-of-drunk this time. 

“Fine,” she grits out. “Perfect.”

Garrett says something unintelligible and the girls around him burst in laughter, loud and screechy enough to reach her ears. 

“I think we’re gonna need more shots,” Dylan says wryly, already tilting the tequila bottle in her hands. 

It’s there, with her hand outstretched while her friend pours liquor into her empty shot glass, that Garrett looks in their direction. Their eyes meet immediately. She’s not even embarrassed about getting caught looking. He’s looking too. His eyes don’t widen. His body doesn’t tense up. From anyone else’s point of view, it’s like he doesn’t react at all. 

But like she said. She once knew him like the back of her hand. And people don’t change that drastically in just six months. So she sees the falter; the movement of his Adam's apple; the twitch in his fingers against the beer bottle. She files these observations in the corner of her mind labeled in red capital letters: DO NOT THINK ABOUT HIM, even though she absolutely still does. Because no amount of time or distance will ever erase him from her flesh. 

Dylan, because she was there when they broke up and had rubbed her back while she sobbed and had been around her and Garrett more than Anna ever had, clocks the barely-interaction with a grimace. “Yep. Definitely need more shots.”

She’s not drunk. Not yet. But she’s slowly getting there. There’s something about the loud music, the constant jump-dancing, and the sweat that makes it easier to let go. Most of it probably has to do with the fact that she feels the weight of Garrett’s gaze in the back of her head like a locked target. 

“He’s still looking,” Anna says lightly, peering over her shoulders.

She brushes the comment off. “I need a drink.”

Her friends look at the still half-filled cup in her hand. 

“I meant water,” she corrects with a roll of her eyes. “Be right back.”

She accidentally meets his eyes again on her way to the kitchen. Yep. Definitely still looking, though he’s still managing to converse with the puck bunnies all over him. Good to know he can still multitask. 

The kitchen looks relatively the same as earlier, if a little messier. Dean’s disappeared; he’s probably upstairs with his puck bunny of the night already. Logan is nowhere to be found too. Only Tucker is there still, leaning against the counter and doing something on his phone. 

She makes a beeline for the fridge. Like she expected, the mini bottles of water they always stock up on during parties are right there in the designated compartment. The familiarity is enough to make her pause. 

“Cutting off already?” The voice makes her jump, one hand flying to her chest in an attempt to settle her heartbeat. She doesn’t want to turn around to see him. She doesn’t want to talk to him or hear his voice or even breathe the same air as him. That was the plan; that had been the plan since she saw him with that girl at that party and decided that if she ever wants to move on, then she needs to cut him from her spleen completely. 

But that was before she let herself be dragged to his house. His party. She knew this was coming. Maybe a part of her wanted it, even, if only to prove something. She’s just not sure if it’s proving that she’s moved on or that she’s still stuck where she was six months ago, broken from the loss of him. 

When she turns, she does so slowly, making sure her feet are planted on the ground. She closes the fridge behind her with her foot and uses it to steady herself, leaning her back against the cold metal, unmindful of the magnets digging into her skin. 

This is the closest they’ve been since the break up, so she doesn’t punish herself much for taking her time perusing his appearance. 

Black sweater tight around his biceps. Dark jeans. That fucking chain. Hair messy and curled and falling to his forehead. Neck slightly glistening with sweat. He looks good enough to eat. Not that she can do anything about that observation. 

“And you?” She says when she finally finds her voice. Her eyes flicker to the crowd of girls he left behind in the living room. “Bored already?”

“No,” Garrett says, voice rough. Under his gaze, her clothes feel too much. The cut-out top feels too revealing, her exposed belly button too cold. She doesn’t want him thinking she dressed up for him, even if she technically did. “Not even close.”

They’re silent for a few seconds, just staring each other down. And she hates this. Hates that it feels this tense. That it’s this awkward. Silences between them used to be comfortable and peaceful. There was a time when they didn’t need words at all. He would raise an eyebrow at her and she’d smile at him. He’d give her a look and she’d kiss it off his face. Squeeze her hand and hold entire conversations in that touch. Now, it feels like a performance; like they’re two souls who used to know everything about each other meeting in another life with different bodies that are strangers. 

If she knew it would be this devastating to see him again, she never would have come at all. Because underneath the bitterness and the pretense that she’s moved on, the love is still there, beating stubbornly in her veins. The care and the regret and the hurt. She wants to ask him how he’s been. She wants to know every single thing that happened to him in the last six months down to the minute detail. She wants to say sorry for breaking both of their hearts. She wants him.

His mouth twitches, like he’s about to say something. And then a girl stumbles into the kitchen, his name on her glossy lips and her hands reaching for his arms, and she realizes with a start that she can’t want him. Not anymore. 

She looks at the girl’s manicured nails pulling at his sweater and feels a pang in her chest so violent she has to swallow back a gasp. Her eyes raise to his, and he’s already looking at her, eyebrows furrowed and his face pained. 

“Yeah,” she whispers with a small smile. “Yeah, I can see that.”

She pushes off against the fridge and walks off, back to the living room where it’s safe because Garrett’s not there with his soft eyes and his unreadable face. 

“You okay?” Dylan asks when she reappears. “You get your water fine?”

Something in her face must betray her, because Dylan and Anna share a concerned look before pulling her close. “Oh, babe.”

Anna pulls back enough to study her. “You wanna go? We can go.”

“No,” she shakes her head, letting out a shaky breath. Her eyes flicker towards the kitchen, where Garrett is talking closely with the same girl–Kendall, if she remembered correctly. She’s heard about her. They’ve been spotted together enough times that people think they might be seriously dating. Which is fine. It’s none of her business. “It’s a party. I want to have fun.”

Something catches her eye. Spiked up hair, frat shirt, tall and built and perfectly distracting. She lets herself smile slowly, giving her friends a knowing look.

After all, if Garrett can have his fun, then why can’t she?

Cliche frat boy almost makes it too easy. 

He’s the one who approaches her, first of all, though she and her friends strategically chose to dance within his line of sight. He’s polite, a little shallow, and he keeps glancing down her boobs every minute like he’s afraid they’re going to be taken away. He’s pretty enough, she decides. She’s not looking for anything other than a distraction, anyway, and she’s not expecting him to blow her mind. Not with her track record the last six months. 

Still, when he leans down to speak against her ear, her eyes cut to Garrett’s figure a couple of feet away, no girls around him this time, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his back leaning against the wall. He’s already looking at her. “You wanna dance?”

“Sure,” she grins, downing another shot before letting him lead her to the middle. She meets Garrett’s eyes again as they’re making their way to the dancefloor, and against her better judgment, she raises an eyebrow at him challengingly. His jaw tenses, the grip on his beer bottle tightening. Satisfaction pangs in her stomach, low and hot.

The bass is heavy and thudding, the perfect background noise to grinding under the guise of dancing. She immediately turns to press her back against cliche frat boy’s front, his hands falling to her hips and helping her sway in time with him. 

She throws her head back, resting it on his shoulder and exposing the long line of her neck. He ducks almost immediately, lips brushing against her skin. “You’re so hot.”

“Thanks,” she laughs. The words do nothing to her as expected. But Garrett’s gaze feels heavy, and it’s enough to keep her going. 

Cliche frat boy’s hands go higher, going from her hips to her stomach. She knows he wants her. Can feel it tenting against his jeans and pressing onto her back. Knows his hands are itching to cup her breasts. She’s debating whether the distraction is worth the disappointment when she feels a hand grip her wrist, gentle but firm and all-too-familiar. 

“Come on,” Garrett says, voice a low grumble and eyes dark and muscles tense like he’s readying himself for a fight. 

He drags her away from cliche frat boy, the hand on her wrist burning each second the contact lasts. From behind them, she hears cliche frat boy let out a noise of protest, but like always when Garrett is close enough to touch, everything else falls away, muffled and silent, her whole focus shifting on him and only him. 

“What the hell, Garrett?” She manages to say, trying half-heartedly to tug her hand free. 

“Let’s go,” he says again, still in that rough, final tone she shouldn’t find so sexy but somehow does. 

He leads her to the coat closet, tugging gently until she’s safely inside and closing the door behind her with a flourish. 

“What is your problem?” She hisses, finally snatching her arm away. Her other hand wraps around the wrist he held, not because it hurt, but because it singes with the memory of his touch. 

Garrett turns away from her, hands on his hips, shoulders heaving up and down in time with his heavy breaths. The closet is cramped. She can’t remember the last time she’s been inside; probably the winter of her freshman year when she was still pretending she was a guest at the hockey house and not someone whose clothes belong in the spare drawer and hanging space her boyfriend provided for her. But the distance between them is small enough that her senses are assaulted with his scent. She’s suddenly all too aware of him; of how much space he’s taking up, of how she feels each breath he takes like a gunshot.

“Garrett,” she calls, finally making him turn back around. But he still doesn’t say anything, eyes dark and face pinched like he pulled a muscle. 

Finally, after a few silent seconds, she sighs in defeat, announcing, “I’m leaving.”

He moves so quickly she barely registers it, and before she knows it, one of his hands is on the door beside her head, trapping her in place. 

“Garrett,” her voice is low now, barely a whisper. She feels his hot breath fan against her face and almost closes her eyes. 

She watches him swallow like it pains him to do so. His eyes are dark, a bit wild around the edges, like something inside him has been flayed open. 

“You can be with whoever the fuck you want to be with,” he tells her quietly, voice rough and serious, making her pause in place. “But don’t do it in front of me. Don’t be cruel.”

A shaky breath leaves her mouth before she can control it. She reads the pain and anger and jealousy on Garrett’s face like a book. It’s the first glance of the real Garrett she’s had in months, the Garrett that was hers completely and encompassingly, and the sight goes straight to her core. 

She feels weak and tired and not at all in control, and it’s with resigned acceptance that she throws her arms around his shoulders, gets on her toes, and kisses him. 

She can tell that the kiss catches him by surprise, because she feels him inhale sharply through his nose. For a moment he just stands there, one hand still pressed to the door and another falling limply at his side, lips barely moving against hers. And then his brain finally catches up to him, and suddenly he’s backing her into the door even further, hips pressing into hers, his tongue darting out to trace her lips. 

“Fuck,” he pulls away enough to mutter, both of his hands coming up to cup her jaw. When he presses their lips together again, it’s wet and messy and makes a whimper sound from her throat. 

She hitches one leg up, anchoring it on his hip. He thrusts forward, and the feeling of his hardening cock on her center even through the fabric of their pants is enough to make her head fall back against the door, her mouth opening with cry. 

“Are you drunk?” Garrett asks against her lips, like he can’t possibly pull away or else she’ll disappear right in front of him. “How much have you had to drink?”

She uses one hand to pull at his sweater’s neckline, kissing him chastely. “I’m not drunk.”

“How much have you had to drink?” He asks again, voice more serious, the hand he’s using to support her leg clenching against her skin. She feels the grip burn through the denim of her jeans. 

She raises one hand to grip the back of his neck. “Enough to still know what I’m doing.”

She goes to kiss him again, but he pulls his head away, making her sigh in frustration. “What are you doing?”

Her hips shift against his, impatient and needy. She pulls him closer, until her lips are brushing against his again, not quite a kiss, but close enough. “Please,” she whispers. His other arm snakes around her waist. “Please, Garrett. I need you.”

“Yeah?” He asks, voice a little broken. 

She kisses him, quick but deep, tugging out his lower lip with her teeth as she pulls away. “So bad. I haven’t–I couldn’t–”

“What, baby?” 

The nickname makes her thighs clench together, an action that he doesn’t miss judging from the way his eyes go even darker. 

“Don’t make it a thing,” she almost whines, her hand squeezing the back of his neck. “I haven’t been able to–not since you.”

The words are vague and confusing and embarrassing, but Garrett gets what she’s trying to say immediately. His eyes widen visibly. His chest puffs out. His face does something annoying–all smug and possessive and so Garrett she could almost cry. 

“No?” 

She shakes her head. “I tried, but I couldn’t–”

His eyes flash at that. “Oh, did you?”

She tightens her hold on him, throwing her pride to the window long enough to whimper out, “Please, baby–”

His mouth cuts off the words from her lips, one hand coming up to squeeze her breast. She moans out loud instantly, hips continuing to gyrate against the obvious tent in his pants. One of his hands began to fumble with the button of her jeans, another traveling up her back under her top and unclasping her bra expertly. 

“You’ve probably been so frustrated, huh?” He says lowly, pressing a kiss to her cheek almost delicately, a huge contrast to the way his hands are now tugging her jeans and panties urgently down her legs. “All those boys not knowing how to handle you.”

She hums, kicking her jeans off one leg and not bothering to take it off completely. 

He kisses her again on the mouth, all heat and confidence. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”

And then he drops to his knees. 

Garrett’s always been a generous lover. She had never felt like he was prioritizing his needs above her own. She was a virgin when they first got together, but their first time was a fairytale when compared to all the other first time horror stories she’s heard over the years. He never skimps on foreplay. He always makes sure she feels good, often double checking if she’s okay with what they’re doing even in the middle of doing it. 

And Garrett, because he’s been made specifically to torture her and ruin her for other men, is ridiculously gifted in the art of cunnilingus. 

He eats pussy the same way he plays hockey. Controlled. Focused. One goal in mind. 

The first swipe of his tongue has her bracing herself with one arm to the wall and one hand pressed to her mouth to muffle the squeak that involuntarily leaves it. He looks up at her from in between her thighs, his lips pulled into a smirk so annoying it makes her roll her eyes, which only serves to make his eyes light up even more. 

He guides one of her legs so it can rest over his shoulders, pressing soft kisses and nibbling at the skin of her thighs before going back to her center. She’s dripping, almost embarrassingly so. He gives another experimental lick, this time the tip of his tongue snagging on her swollen clit, and she jolts in place hard enough to knock her back against the door. Anyone walking by outside would know exactly what’s going on, and she can’t bring herself to care. 

“You good?” He asks, eyes catching hers in the dim light of the coat closet. 

The question does something to her chest. Melts it into something stupid. Makes her kind of want to cry for different, more pathetic reasons. She nods once, because she can’t trust her voice not to betray her. He looks like he sees through her, anyway, because something in his eye changes, the once dark and lustful look transforming into something warmer. More reverent. 

When he leans down again, she thinks the world stops just a little. Nothing else matters more than his tongue licking up her cunt, the two fingers he suddenly thrusts inside that she greedily sucks up. He finds that sweet, spongy spot inside her instantly, because of course he does, because he’s Garrett and he knows her just as much as she knows him, even after six months of no contact. 

For a moment, the closet is filled with the filthy, wet sounds of him eating her out and his fingers scissoring her open, her breath punching out of her throat with each stroke in quiet “oh’s” that only makes him more enthusiastic. And then his lips close around her clit and he sucks, and the world turns white. 

The orgasm catches her off guard. After six long months without it, her body reacts before her brain can, and her mouth lets out the loudest screech she’s ever made, loud enough that Garrett’s eyes widen from below her, though he doesn’t stop with his ministrations. He laps at her like he’s been starving for it, fucks her with his fingers like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to do it. It takes a couple more seconds, and then she’s twitching again, her cunt pulsing around his fingers for a second orgasm that’s even stronger than the first. 

She can’t help it. Her mouth drops open with another cry and she squirts all over his face. 

“Fuck,” she gasps, legs twitching, trying to move away. “I’m sorry. I–”

His hand grips her leg tightly, voice rough and broken with want. “Don’t. Fucking–don’t.”

He presses frantic kisses all over her thighs, her hips, her legs, her belly button piercing, spreading her wetness all over. He stands up with shaky legs and tugs her forward until his mouth is on hers and she’s tasting herself on his tongue. 

“Fuck, baby,” he hisses, already turning her over and bending her, guiding both of her hands to brace at the door. “That was the hottest fucking thing–I can’t–I need to be inside you. Please.”

She hears his pants and belt hit the floor. She’s still trembling from her long-awaited orgasms, but at least she has enough sense to ask, “Condom?”

A pause. 

He lets out a loud groan. “I don’t have any.”

“Are you serious?” She turns her head back to look at him incredulously. 

He looks physically pained, his eyebrows knotted together and his jaw clenched. “I have some in my room.”

She looks down pointedly at their states of undress.

“Fuck, I know,” he hisses, throwing his head back in frustration. But they’re too close together, so the movement only serves to press her bare ass against his hard cock, making him choke on air. “Shit. Shit. Shit. What do you–I need you to decide because I can’t–”

His hips give an involuntary thrust that has her gasping out loud. 

“I’m clean,” she says, and the words shouldn’t feel that heavy given the situation, shouldn’t sound as vulnerable as it does. But Garrett raises his head to look at her like she’s rewired his brain. Like what she said meant something different. “I’ve never gone without. Not since–well, you know.”

Her heart pounds in her chest heavily. Garrett looks wrecked; like the admission undoes him even more than the sex. When his hands find their way to grip her hips again, they’re trembling almost violently. 

“Me too.” He shifts until he’s close enough to press a kiss on her shoulder. “Fuck. Me too.”

She bends over again, more purposefully this time. “Please, Garrett.”

He exhales through his nose. “Where do you want me?”

She wiggles her ass against him. “Inside, please. Need to feel you inside. ‘M so empty.”

Garrett makes a sound at that. Rumbling and raw from the back of his throat. He squeezes her hips again, once, then twice, and then one of his hands disappears to guide himself to her entrance. 

“Like this?” He whispers, rubbing the head of his cock over her clit and making her bite her lips in an attempt at being quiet. “Are you sure?”

She nods, breathless. “Please.”

The first press inside has her eyes rolling back. Garrett groans, hands gripping her hips tight enough that the skin around his fingers go white. He goes slowly, making her clench around every inch like he’s branding his cock inside her permanently. He might as well have been. It feels like forever before he finally bottoms out, nudging against her cervix and making her choke out his name.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, the entirety of his torso pressed against her back. “You feel so good. Shit.”

She shuts her eyes tight if only to stop herself from tearing up. “Please move.”

He presses another kiss, this time to her jaw. And then he pulls out almost all the way before snapping his hips back. 

“Ah,” she cries out, fingers flexing against the door. Her breasts bounce from the impact, and Garrett reaches up to cup one in his hand. They’re both still wearing their shirts, although her bra is unclasped and hanging loosely from her shoulders. 

It’s never felt this good with anyone else, and some part of her itches to tell him exactly that. That she’s never felt so owned; that he’s the only one who can take her to this place. 

He pinches her nipple, lips hovering close to her ear. “Fuck yes. Feel me?”

“Uh-huh,” she chokes out, her knees shaking and her cunt clenching even tighter around him. 

“You’re perfect,” Garrett grits out, pressing another kiss to her jaw, his thrusts never missing the fast rhythm he set. “I’ve never—fuck. I missed you so bad.”

Her lip trembles at that. “I missed you, too.” Her voice is raw and wet and ugly and he hears it exactly for what it is. His hands turn gentle, until he’s pulling out just enough to get her to turn around. 

He walks them backwards, one of his hands reaching for a random coat and throwing it on the floor. He doesn’t let go of her even as he guides them both down to the floor, the makeshift blanket out of the winter coat scratching their bare legs. 

“Come here,” he rasps out, pulling her until she’s straddling his lap. “Ride me. Please, baby.”

This time it’s her that reaches down to guide his cock inside her. She sinks down on him fast and efficiently, their open mouths pressed together, breathing against each other. The stretch burns something delicious, the angle getting him so much deeper.

“You feel even bigger like this,” she gasps out, her arms hugging his shoulders for support. “You’re so deep.”

The familiar Garrett Graham smirk paints over his face. “Yeah?”

“Garrett,” she cries, hips faltering. 

He holds her steady. “Shh. I got you.”

He begins lifting her up and down his cock, his hips thrusting up to meet her every time. She can’t even pretend to be quiet anymore. And Garrett can’t pretend he doesn’t love it; how out of control she is. How raw and genuine. 

He shifts a little bit, and the change in angle gets another screech from her throat. “Fuck. Yes. Right there. Don’t stop.”

Garret kisses her, messy and wet, his tongue pushing past her lips and teeth. She moans against his mouth, beginning to feel that familiar tightening in her stomach again. Garrett must sense that she’s close again too, because he pulls away from her lips to say, “Come on. You gonna squirt again? You know you want to.”

“I don’t—“ she grips his hair with both hands, head tossing back. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Of course you can, baby,” he tells her, voice almost condescending. “Here you go. Let me help you. Wanna feel you squirt around my cock.”

He reaches down and rubs his thumb against her clit. The reaction is instant: a scream gets caught in her throat, her open mouth pressing against Garrett’s forehead, her pussy pulsing and clinging onto his cock almost violently. She makes a real mess of it; her thighs and Garrett’s wet with her release. 

It lasts longer than is probably healthy. And Garrett fucks her through it steadily, her entire body twitching with aftershocks. His jaw is cinched tight, lips pursed in concentration. She clenches her pussy around him, and a broken groan erupts from his chest.

“I’m– close,” he grits out, pace unrelenting and making her feel lightheaded from overstimulation. “Where can I…?”

She drags him by the neck for another messy kiss. “Inside. Please. Wanna feel you fill me up.”

“Jesus,” Garrett chokes out, the words doing their intended effect. His thrusts falter once, twice, and then he’s painting her insides with his cum, so deep she’s convinced her stomach bulges with it. “Yeah. Take it, baby. Take it all.”

Her eyes closed shut at the feeling, the warmth of it, the closeness she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel again. For a moment, none of them move, even as she feels him softening inside her. Her arms are still around his shoulders, hugging him to her, and his have moved to close around her waist. 

“You good?” Garrett asks after a few seconds, one hand coming up to rub her back gently.

She nods, still lightheaded and breathless. “Yes. Just. I need a second.”

His chest rises up and down harshly as well, evidence of how winded he is, but Garrett only tightens his arms around her and pulls her even closer. “Okay.”

The music from the party continues to thrum outside the closet. She doesn’t know how they can get out with their dignities intact. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever find the strength to pull away from him. It was hard enough the first time.

Garrett moves his head, and then he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Listen—“

A loud knock comes from the closet door, making the two of them jump. “Yo, are you guys done? I need my fucking coat.”

She doesn’t recognize the voice, but the interruption is enough to startle some sense into her. 

“Oh my god,” she says, fighting back a whimper when she shifts her hips to pull herself off of Garrett.

He looks at her, face blanched and eyes trying to catch hers. “Hey, wait—“

But she’s already hopping around to put her pants back on. It’s uncomfortable; her thighs are still messy with their combined release. But her fingers are trembling and her chest feels like it’s caving in and she needs to get out of this damned closet and this damned house. 

Garrett stands slowly, tugging his pants in place. He runs a hand through his messed up hair, silently watching her panic. Her lips are as swollen as his is, both their necks painted with bites and their skin littered with bruises invisible to the eye but ones they both know will last even longer. 

Another loud knock.

“Hold the fuck on,” Garrett snaps, letting one hand pound back on the door once to highlight his words.

She finally stops fumbling, her jeans and her top firmly put in place, her hair finger-brushed, looking as put together as she can manage. She still can’t meet his eyes when she croaks out, “I’m sorry.”

Garrett exhales loudly, tilting his head to the ceiling and closing his eyes in defeat. “You’re running again.”

The fact that he doesn’t pose it as a question stings even more. Like he should have known better. Like she had already hurt him once, so this one’s on him.

She wraps her arms around herself. Her eyes burn, tears clouding her vision. “This shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t—Garrett.” The helpless way she says his name makes his face twitch. “This was a mistake. We’re supposed to be moving on.”

“Stop,” he rasps out, face all screwed up and refusing to look away from her. “If you’re leaving, just go. You don’t need to say anything else.”

“I’m sorry,” she ducks her head, crying softly now. She still feels his touch and his kisses like they’re ironbranded on her skin. Garrett still doesn’t look away; that’s the part that gets to her. 

Garrett (21:03): Yo Garrett (21:03): Logan’s still at the rink by the way

Your mind went blank for a minute as you took the meaning of Garrett’s words.

You (21:04): thought practice ended an hour ago??

Garrett (21:06): It did. He’s not left since. Garrett (21:07): Figured I’d leave it before he tried to kill me for telling him to go home. Garrett (21:15): Maybe he’ll listen to you.

A heavy sigh slipped past your lips. Logan was his own worst critic; hard on himself in ways you couldn’t even think of. When he played badly, or what he told himself was bad, he punished himself with extra drills until his muscles burned.

Tossing the duvet aside, you threw on a baggy top and grabbed the keys to your bike lock. One short cycle later, you at the arena, locking up your bike. The building was silent, save for the distant thwack of the puck echoing from the main arena.

You crept up the tunnel entrance. Out on the ice, illuminated by the stadium lights, was Logan. Even from this distance, you could see that his jersey was soaked with sweat.

You watched as he lined up a puck on the blue line. He took an aggressive shot, and then swore loudly when it hit the crossbar. He lined up another puck. Another miss. Another loud curse.

“Logan, sweetie,” you called out, unable to watch him anymore.

He froze, head snapping in your direction. The frustration on his face instantly softened when he recognised you. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

“Garrett texted.” Was all you responded. It was all the explanation you needed to give.

A flash of annoyance crossed Logan’s face. He sighed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you. Come off the ice, Loge.”

He skated over, stopping just in front of you at the entrance to the rink. He pulled his helmet off; his hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead, as he looked down at you. “I can barely hit an open net. I need to work harder, you should go.”

“No,” you replied firmly. “You know that’s not true.”

“You didn’t watch Saturday?”

Admittedly, Logan did have a poor game, it was like every missed shot only made him angrier, which made him lose his focus even more.

“I did,” you replied softly. You knew this would be a delicate subject for him, he had hardly spoken to you from since the game, and you had given him the space he needed.

“Then you know it is true.”

“Do you really believe that?” You asked, scared he’d respond that he actually did. That’d make your job much harder.

Logan looked down to his gloved hands. When he looked back up at you, his eyes were heavy with emotion. “Yes... well no, not really. I hate playing like that,” he admitted quietly.

“I know,” you responded, moving closer and reaching up so you could cup his cheek.  

“I hate you seeing me play like that.”

“One game doesn’t define you; it doesn’t change that you’re the best right wing this university has ever seen.” Your voice was rising as you went on, thick with a desire to protect and defend him even from himself. “I could watch you miss a hundred shots and I wouldn’t give a shit. Now, the rink is closed. Let’s go home.”

You stepped back, pointing to the changing room at the end of the tunnel.

The frustration was still rolling off of him in waves, but it was morphing into something else, a slow smirk appearing on his lips. “You’re hot when you’re bossy.”

“I’m always hot,” you laughed. “Now go.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took off his gloves and unlatched the small gate. “Give me five minutes to strip off the pads.”

You followed him down the corridor and into the Hawks’ locker room. Because it was so late, the main lights were dimmed, it almost felt intimate in a spooky way.

Logan dropped onto the bench of his stall, letting his stick clatter to the floor. He tossed his gloves and helmet to the side, before pulling off his skates. He was breathing hard, as if every movement took it out of him. He paused for a moment, his head hanging low.

“You still mad?” you asked, stepping between his spread legs.

“Not mad,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against him. His head rested on your stomach, his grip tight, almost desperate. “I’m frustrated and just got a shitload of energy and nowhere to put it. I thought being on the ice would help.”

That was something you could work with.

“I can think of a few places,” you whispered.

He pulled you back to look up at you. “Here?”

“Why not.” You made a point of looking around the locker room. “Nobody’s around.”

You took a step back from him and pulled your oversized top over your head and threw it to the ground. He watched as you slowly pulled off your bralette, letting your tits fall however. The second you shivered slightly in the coldness of the room, Logan stood up so fast his head spun. His hands were immediately on your chest, kneading your breasts.

As cold as the room was, his hands were colder from being out on the ice.

“Cold,” you muttered, subconsciously pulling back.

“Warm ‘em up for me,” he replied, keeping his grip on your breasts.

His eyes widened in fascination as he played with them, as if this wasn’t a regular occurrence. His thumb flicked over your erect nipple before he replaced it with his warm, wet, mouth.

You groaned, your fingers instantly tangling into his still damp from sweat hair, pulling him closer. At the same time, your head fell back as you pushed your chest into his face.

His tongue on your right nipple matched the movements of his thumb over your left nipple. For every flick of his tongue on your nipple, his thumb flicked over your other nipple. For every time he sucked your nipple into his mouth, he’d pinch your nipple between his fingers.

“Can I eat you out?” He suddenly asked around your nipple.

“As if you have to ask,” you said breathily, though, it was hot he still asked permission even after all of the things you’d done together.

“One sec,” Logan grinned as he pulled off his jersey. He quickly laid it across the carpeted floor. Grabbing your discarded top, he laid that on the floor too, just under his.

“Only the finest for my queen,” he teased as he guided you to lay down on the makeshift bed.

You snorted. “Logan, as if your sweat-soaked jersey is that much more hygienic than the locker room floor.”

“Is it not an upgrade?” He asked as he settled between your legs, pulling down your shorts.

“I guess it issss.”

Your words died on a moan as you felt Logan wipe a flat stipe across your folds. He was usually slower; he’d start on your inner thigh, sometimes even your ankle, and work his way up to your pussy. You’d say he was a tease, but he’d call it worshipping you. there was none of that today. today, he was on a mission.

Resting your ankles over his shoulders, your hand slipped back into his hair as your nails dug into his scalp. He laid flat on the floor, his tongue lapping up your juices.

One of his hands pressed down on your lower stomach as he used the other to spread your lips wider to him. He was instantly back on your clit, his teeth lightly grazing it before he sucked it into his mouth. your hands curled tightly into his hair and you weren’t gentle about pulling at the stands, earning a moan from him.

“Feels good, baby?” He mumbled around you.

You looked down to see him looking up at you from between your legs. “Feels fucking fantastic,” you purred as your hips jerked into his mouth.

His thumb came to replace where his mouth was as he licked around your fluttering hole. He tongue circled your hole a few more times before he delved in, thrusting his tongue inside you.

In that moment, you completely forgot you were on the floor in a men’s locker room, you whined loudly, throwing out praises and pleas for more. The thrill of it all had the pleasure rising within you much quicker than usual.

“How do you want to cum, baby?” Logan asked, noticing you were getting close. “On my tongue or my fingers?”

“Your fingers,” you panted, tugging at his hair so he understood you wanted his mouth back on your clit.

“Yes, ma’am!”

Logan got to work immediately, sucking on your clit as he used your arousal to coat his finger, before easing it into you.

“Not enough,” you whined.

“I know, baby, patience,” he chastised around your clit, even as he slid another finger into you.

He pushed his fingers deep enough that when he curved them, they pressed against your sweet spot.

 “Loge~,” you moaned, withering under his touch as the pleasure built rapidly.

Fucking you with his fingers, he curled and scissored them relentlessly as his tongue flicked side-to-side over your clit.

“Fuck~.” You screamed as you came on his face. As usual, he kept his mouth on you through it, gently sucking on your clit as you clenched around his fingers.

All the while, he’d been grinding against the floor, body high on the taste and sound of you. He was rock hard now, straining against the constraints of his uniform.  

Logan stood up, fingers trembling as he rushed to undo the padding on his top half. Once he got to his lower half, he grunted with frustration, ripping off layer after layer as fast as he could.

“Who now needs patience?” You teased. You got up on shaky legs to your knees, moving to assist him in taking off his gear.

His sighed in relief when, finally, his shorts were being peeled down his legs. You were on your knees in front of him, eye level with his leaking erection.   

Licking your lips, you leant forward, wrapping your lips around the tip. Logan’s hips jerked into your warm mouth as you licked up his precum. He tasted like salt and sweat, which turned you on more than anything.

You wrapped your hand around his erection, taking him as deep into your mouth as you could and using your hand to cover the rest.

“Wait, baby, I’m gonna cum.” He pushed gently at your shoulders.

You pulled off him with a lewd POP. “Already?”

“Mean,” he said, though his voice had no heat behind it. “Lie back.”

You did so immediately, laying back over his jersey. You spread your legs for him, hooking your arms under your thighs to pull them towards your chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, staring down at your slick pussy.

He stood there for a moment, entranced in the way your pussy clenched without him even touching you and how the low light caught your arousal. He thought he might cum by just looking at you.  

“Are you going to fuck me or are you going to keep staring?” You asked, pulling him out of his daze.

“You’re so bossy,” he whined as he crawled back between your legs.

“Whatever. You like it when I’m bossy.”

“No.” Logan dragged his erection through your folds, letting it catch on your entrance. “I love when you’re bossy.”

He punctuated that with a thrust into you. A ragged gasp escaped your throat as you felt your walls mould itself around him, so deliciously full. like before, Logan didn’t take his time, though his hips moved gently before the pace increased into a fierce rhythm. He pulled out, leaving just the tip in before slamming back into you.

A fresh layer of sweat began dripping down Logan’s neck as his exhausted body tried to keep pace with what his mind wanted. His sweat rolled onto you as he fell forward, burying his face into your shoulder. his arms were on either side of you, breath hitching as he murmured praises against your skin as he kept rolling his hips into you.

You were so consumed with the feeling of him all around you, with the smell of his natural musk and sweat, that you didn’t notice when the door to the locker room swung open.

“Yo, Lo, You still alive in here? I didn’t get a text back so–.”

Garrett rounded the corner into the main stall, his phone in his hand. He stopped dead in his tracks as he took in the sight in front of him.

Logan looked up at Garrett, acknowledging that he knew Garrett was there but didn’t care. He kept his pace but pressed himself closer to you, shielding your bare top from Garrett’s eye.

“Kind of busy here,” he grunted.

“I can see that–.”

Garrett’s words were interrupted by your moan as Logan hit that spot within you, leaving your toes curling.

“Can you stop fucking while I’m talking?”

You almost laughed at the audacity of Garrett.

“How about you stop talking while we’re fucking?” Logan retorted.

“He’s all good, Garrett. I’ve got this,” you said between moans.

Another hard thrust. Another moan.

“She means get the fuck out, Graham.”

Garrett promptly turned on his heel as he mumbled, “Well fuck me for caring about you, Lo.”

Neither of you watched to see if Garrett left, nor did either of you particularly care. He was already a distant memory as Logan drove into you again.

GARRETT GRAHAM

⋆˚࿔ The Art of Breaking Garrett [smut, fluff, angst] - 1, 2 ✴︎

garrett graham x dilaurentis!fem!reader summer is the time to let go, to explore, to get closer with the friends you just met. that’s why dean had decided to bring his hockey teammates to his lake house. the problem? his sister is staying there too and the little heathen just loves guys exactly like garrett graham. tall, charming, annoyingly hot. what a lovely time it’ll turn out to be for poor dean.

⋆˚࿔ Loser's Reward [smut] 𖤓

garrett graham x fem!reader naked. frustrated. still under the shower spray. garrett graham’s team has just lost the last game when the football captain’s girl shows up to rub salt in the wound. should he just ignore her or show her who the real loser is?

⋆˚࿔ Room 412 [smut]

garrett graham x girlfriend!reader x dean di laurentis adrenaline can be difficult to shake off after a game like the one they just had. maybe that's why garrett is being careless and taking care of his girl while dean is right in the bathroom. and maybe that's why dean doesn't immediately run away from the hotel room as he should.

⋆˚࿔ Burn the Couch [fluff, smut]

john logan x dilaurentis!reader x garrett graham you should receive a medal for keeping your relationship with john logan a secret for six whole months. you’ve grown skilled at stealing moments and hiding cuddles. that’s why you didn’t expect someone to walk in on you while your boyfriend is having the time of his life between your legs. what happens when that someone is garrett graham and seeing him walk aways isn’t at all what you want?

˚࿔ Don't Do This to Us [angst, smut]

garrett graham x best friend!fem!reader garrett graham has always been her sunshine, her protector, her best friend, the only one who was always there for her. is he going to be there when she asks him to fuck her?

˚࿔ Sin Wrapped in Silk [smut]

bruin!garrett graham x fem!reader garrett graham hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you all night. not when you’re wearing that sinful cream dress that looks like it was poured over your body. the second he gets you alone in a coat closet, the golden boy drops to his knees and shows you exactly how obsessed he really is.

˚࿔ Out of Sight, Out of Mind [smut, angst]

garrett graham x fem!reader your thing with garrett graham has reached its breaking point. you need to kiss (or fuck) or your unresolved tension will break the friendship you cherish so much. you just need to do something, to try and wake him up from his slumber. what's better than sending a classy nude and see where that leads you?

˚࿔ You're a Goddess, I'm Blessed [smut, angst]

garrett graham x ex!curly!fem!reader garrett graham shouldn't be jealous right now. it's only his ex dancing with a random dude. with a very short, very red outfit. with her curly hair following her body as she dances. with a smile on her perfect red lips. yeah, garrett graham shouldn't be jealous, doesn't mean he isn't.

𖦹 Blurbs

No More Talking [smut] That's My Girl [smut] Camera Slut [smut] Easy [smut]

DEAN DI LAURENTIS

⋆˚࿔ Bounce on It [smut] ✴︎

dean di laurentis x coachesdaughter!reader dean di laurentis is deep inside the only girl he's forbidden to touch. that should make it more exciting, right? except her dad is calling and he just has to pick up the phone. too bad she has no intention of stopping anytime soon.

⋆˚࿔ No Hockey Boys! [smut] ✴︎

dean di laurentis x coachesdaughter!reader only one rule: no hockey players. and you tried soooo hard to stick to it. but dean di laurentis has a way, a way that includes his tongue and fingers and a dreaded phone call.

⋆˚࿔ Good Luck Charm [smut, fluff, angst]

dean di laurentis x coachesdaughter!reader admittedly, dating a hockey player your father is coaching was not one of your best ideas. but you love him and he loves you. he loves you so much he can't help but beat up a player from the other team when he dares comment about you... in front of your dad.

⋆˚࿔ Room 412 [smut]

garrett graham x girlfriend!reader x dean di laurentis adrenaline can be difficult to shake off after a game like the one they just had. maybe that's why garrett is being careless and taking care of his girl while dean is right in the bathroom. and maybe that's why dean doesn't immediately run away from the hotel room as he should.

⋆˚࿔ The One I Run To [fluff, angst]

exhusband!dad!dean di laurentis x fem!mom!reader when your car breaks on the side of the road, late at night and in the middle of a rainstorm, you don't really have any other options but to call him. your ex-husband. the one who’s about to see you helpless after a terrible date and for whom you still have some... feelings.

𖦹 Blurbs

Bratty as Ever [smut]

JOHN LOGAN

⋆˚࿔ Burn the Couch [fluff, smut]

john logan x dilaurentis!reader x garrett graham you should receive a medal for keeping your relationship with john logan a secret for six whole months. you’ve grown skilled at stealing moments and hiding cuddles. that’s why you didn’t expect someone to walk in on you while your boyfriend is having the time of his life between your legs. what happens when that someone is garrett graham and seeing him walk aways isn’t at all what you want?

𖦹 Blurbs

Driver's Seat [smut] Easy [smut]

JOHN TUCKER

⋆˚࿔ Dirty John [smut]

john tucker x fem!reader your friends can't believe you like john tucker that much, but nobody knows the side of briar's southern sweetheart only reserved for you. nobody knows how john tucker is under the sheets, and it better stay that way.

DEAN WINCHESTER

𖦹 Canon Divergent

⋆˚࿔ Burn, Mark, Heal [smut, fluff, angst] 𖤓 ✴︎

dad!tattooartist!dean x fem!ex-wife!reader, 13k+ Dean Winchester doesn’t hunt anymore. He inks scars now, on strangers, on himself, trying to bury the past one line at a time. His shop’s quiet, but his life isn’t. Not with a kid who worships him, an ex he can’t outrun, and a town that never forgets. Change isn’t clean. But he’s trying.

⋆˚࿔ Legs on Leather [smut] ✴︎

dean winchester x brothersbestfriend!fem!reader, 3k Sam told her not to do anything stupid with his brother. He really did. But when Dean Winchester shows up to Stanford in a leather jacket and a cigarette in his mouth, there's little she can do to resist him. Really, it's not her fault she's in the backseat of his car, mouth on him, his hands in her hair. It's on Sam this time, he should've never left those two alone.

⋆˚࿔ NSFW Alphabet [smut]

season3!dean winchester x demon!fem!reader, 6k+ A very detailed rendition of Dean Winchester's sex habits when it comes to his little demon. And, oh, he's going to Hell in a few months. That's bound to end well, right? Right?

⋆˚࿔ Sea of Love [fluff] 𖤓

dad!dean winchester (x mom!fem!reader), 719 Dean records a video for his son on a quiet summer beach. There’s too much sand in his beer, laughter in the wind, and a ring burning a hole in his pocket. He’s not sure he’ll get the words right when it counts. But maybe his son, one day, will tell him.

⋆˚࿔ Tied to Trouble [smut] ✴︎

dean winchester x fem!reader, 1.2k+ A witch’s curse leaves you and Dean magically bound together in the middle of a dark, empty barn. The only way to break it? Shared heat. Which, in Dean Winchester’s mind, is obviously just permission to pin you against him and make you ride his thigh until the magic snaps.

⋆˚࿔ Post Scriptum (drip for me) [smut]

fwb!dean winchester x fem!reader, 3.2k+ Dean Winchester is the worst. A week without touching you, and now he’s glued to his stupid case notes while you stand there naked and trembling. But if Dean’s going to ignore you, fine. You’ll make him pay for it. Except the only one paying is you, rutting helplessly against his thigh until you’re soaked through and begging for him to finally give you what you need.

⋆˚࿔ I'd Lie to You (Except I Can't) [smut]

dean winchester x fem!reader, 4.6k+ Dean Winchester gets cursed with the worst kind of magic: the truth. You put down the witch before she can bleed him dry, but the spell sticks. It claws at his throat, drags out every secret he’s spent a lifetime burying. And back in the motel, there’s no stopping it. You saved his life, and he’s hell-bent on showing you just how badly he’s been needing you. One truth at a time.

MINI SERIES

⋆˚࿔ Ain't Supposed To (3/4) [fluff, suggestive] 18!dean winchester x 18!fem!singer!reader it's not love, not exactly, not yet. but it's louder than it should be. they fall in the cracks between seasons: halloween kisses, winter birthdays, spring that comes too fast, summer that overstays. bobby’s daughter and the boy she was never supposed to touch. and maybe it ends the way all stories like this do, but for a while, it’s everything.

looked at me like i was summer

trick or treat and she chose me

the frosting melted, so did i

𖦹 Alternate Universe(s)

⋆˚࿔ Desire, Directed [smut, fluff, angst] 𖤓

actor!dean x actress!reader, 20k+ She's pure chaos wrapped in heels and sunshine, he's a brooding mess with a clenched jaw and a bad reputation. Dean Winchester did not ask for this. Their fake relationship was supposed to fix both their careers. Staged desire before the World Premiere of their last movie. Except she makes him laugh for real and he kisses her like he means it. Looks like they forgot the first rule of pretending: don't believe your own lies.

⋆˚࿔ Best Served Bare [smut, angst]

bi!bestfriend!dean x fem!reader (x moc), 7k+ She didn’t plan on falling apart in her best friend's hands. Not tonight. Not in her boyfriends... ex's apartment. But heartbreak has sharp edges, and Dean’s always known how to bleed for her, with his mouth, with his hands, with the kind of heat that feels suspiciously like salvation. It’s all about revenge, until it isn't. It’s just what happens when she's tired of being quiet, and Dean's the only one who ever saw her loud.

⋆˚࿔ High Tide [smut]

dbf!dean winchester x fem!reader, 704 You are a good girl, always have been, always will be. Your dad's best friend says so himself, even now, with your toes digging into the wet sand and his hips pressed tight to yours. The waves crash against your calves, the bonfire crackles twenty yards away, and he’s got one hand gripping your hip, the other low between your thighs, telling you what a good girl you are for taking him so well where anyone could see if they looked over.

SAM WINCHESTER

𖦹 Canon Divergent

⋆˚࿔ Varsity Crush [smut]

stanford!sam x cheerleader!fem!reader, 1.2k+ Tutoring sessions with Sam Winchester are supposed to be about psych notes and study guides. But you’re sooooo bored, and determined to break his calm, good-boy exterior.

⋆˚࿔ Red Handed, Full Thrusted [smut] ✴︎

sam winchester x fem!reader, 1.2k+ Sam is focused when he fucks, possessive, obsessive, hand-on-your-back, mouth-in-your-ear focused. You're face-down and loud and not even trying to be quiet. Everything's going great until Dean walks in. Mid-thrust. Mid-you. He freezes. You don’t. Sam definitely doesn’t.

The party was in full swing inside the big house, music thumping hard enough to rattle the windows, colored lights cutting through the dark in flashes of blue and red. Logan had asked to do something low-key for his birthday, but the rush from winning 5 games back to back had made him gullible to Tucker’s persuasion and had accepted his fate. People crowded the living room and spilled out onto the back deck, the air thick with the smell of beer, perfume, and whatever someone was smoking in the corner. Garrett stood near the kitchen island, one hand wrapped around a cold bottle, the other resting low on the blonde’s back as he leaned in close to talk to her.

She was cute, with her short black dress, long legs, easy laugh, and she’d been glued to his side for the last twenty minutes. Garrett gave her the full charm offensive, smiling down at her like she was the only person in the room. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m gonna start thinking you’re trouble,” he said, voice low and teasing, his thumb tracing a slow line along her spine. She laughed, tilting her head so her hair brushed his shoulder, and pressed in a little closer. Garrett let his fingers spread wider on her back, keeping the contact light but obvious. “Seriously though, that story about your roommate? I’m still waiting for the part where you almost got caught.”

The blonde giggled again and launched into another story, her hand coming up to rest on his chest. Garrett nodded along, flashing her that easy grin he knew worked, letting his eyes dip to her mouth for a second before meeting her gaze again. He had done this a million times, leaning in when he talked, letting his hand drift just a little lower on her waist, making her feel like the center of his attention.

But then his eyes drifted across the crowded room, almost on instinct.

And there she was.

She stood near the far wall with Allie, both of them holding drinks. Allie was saying something, gesturing with her free hand, but his ex only half-listened, nodding as she took a slow sip from her glass, maybe her signature gin tonic or something dark and strong. The red velvet top she wore caught the light every time she moved, the asymmetrical cut leaving one shoulder bare, the fabric twisting across her torso and cutting away at the sides to show smooth skin and the dip of her waist. That little silver ring detail on the sleeve glinted when she lifted her drink. Below it, the skirt sat low on her hips, all ruffled layers and sheer panels that barely reached mid-thigh, showing off the curve of her legs and the way the fabric shifted when she shifted her weight. Her curls were big and wild around her face, and even from here Garrett could see the deep red on her lips. She looked good. Too good. The kind of good that made his chest feel tight for a second.

He forced his attention back to the blonde, giving her another smile and a soft laugh at whatever she’d just said. “No way. You actually did that?” His hand stayed on her back, thumb moving in small circles now, keeping the flirty rhythm going even as his eyes kept wanting to slide back across the room.

Then his ex turned her head, like she’d felt the weight of his stare.

Their eyes locked.

Garrett’s stomach dipped. She was looking right at him with her jaw tight, brows pulled in just slightly, lips pressed together in that flat line he knew too well. Angry. She looked angry. Probably because he had his hand on some other girl’s back, flirting like he didn’t have an ounce of shame. Or at least that’s what it looked like from here. The way her gaze flicked, just for a second, to the blonde beside him and then back to his face told him everything he needed to know.

Allie was still talking beside her, oblivious, but his ex didn’t look away. She just stood there with her drink in hand, staring across the party like she was daring him to keep going.

Garrett swallowed, the blonde’s voice turning into background noise again. His hand was still on the girl’s back, still flirting on autopilot with that easy smile, but every part of him was tuned to the girl across the room, the one looking at him like she wanted to set the whole place on fire.

Garrett dragged his eyes back to the blonde and gave her his best easy smile, the one that usually kept girls right where he wanted them. “Upstate, huh? I’ve got family near there. Small world.” His hand stayed on her lower back, thumb tracing slow circles through the thin fabric of her dress as he leaned in a little closer, letting her feel the warmth of him. She laughed and tilted her face up toward his, clearly enjoying the attention. Garrett kept the dance going, another low comment about how good she looked tonight, another brush of his fingers along her spine, but his gaze kept betraying him, sliding across the crowded room every few seconds like it had a mind of its own.

His ex had finished her drink and passed the empty glass to Allie. She was still smiling, softer now, as she turned and wove through the crowd toward a tall guy in a football hoodie. Garrett recognized him, defensive end, name started with a T or something. The guy’s face lit up when he saw her, it was as clear as a day. They hugged quick and easy, like they already knew each other, and then he said something that made her laugh. A minute later the beat dropped heavier, and he nodded toward the packed living room where people were dancing. She glanced once, fast, back in Garrett’s direction. Their eyes met again for half a second. Then she looked away and followed the football player onto the floor.

Garrett’s jaw flexed. He forced himself to stay locked on the blonde, asking her another question about her summer plans, chuckling when she answered, even letting his other hand come up to rest lightly on her hip so they were almost facing each other. She was warm and soft against him, still flirting back, still pressing in close. He could do this. He could keep his attention right here.

But on the dance floor, his ex was moving.

The skirt shifted with every sway of her hips, the ruffled layers catching the lights and flashing skin underneath. The velvet top twisted across her torso as she lifted her arms, the cutouts at her waist showing smooth skin every time she rolled her body to the beat. Her curls bounced around her shoulders, wild and free. She looked like she belonged there, confident, a little dangerous, completely at ease in that outfit that somehow made her look even better than he remembered.

Garrett’s grip on the blonde tightened without him meaning to.

The football player stepped in closer, hands settling on her hips as they moved together. Not low enough to be outright disrespectful, but low enough that Garrett’s stomach went tight. The guy’s fingers flexed against the skirt like he was enjoying the feel of her, and she didn’t pull away. She just kept dancing, hips still rolling in that slow, hypnotic rhythm, head tilted back a little as she laughed at whatever he said in her ear.

Garrett’s teeth ground together. He tried harder to focus on the blonde, asked her if she wanted another drink, smiled when she said yes, even brushed his knuckles along her arm like he was still fully in the moment. But every time he blinked he saw those hands on her hips, saw the way the lace moved when she danced, saw the curve of her body under that red velvet top.

The blonde was saying something about joining the dance floor themselves, but Garrett barely caught it. His stare kept drifting back across the room, locked on the way his ex’s hips kept moving, on the easy way she let that guy touch her, on the flash of red every time she turned.

He was supposed to be fine with this. That’s exactly what he had wanted.

Instead his chest burned hotter with every second he watched her dance in that outfit while another guy’s hands stayed right where Garrett’s used to be.

He watched for another thirty seconds, jaw locked so tight it ached. The football guy’s hands stayed on her hips like they belonged there, fingers flexing against the red lace every time she rolled her body to the beat. The skirt shifted with each movement, ruffles catching the lights and flashing smooth skin underneath. The velvet top clung tighter now from the heat of dancing, twisting across her torso and exposing more of her waist every time she lifted her arms. Her curls were starting to stick to the back of her neck, and even from across the floor Garrett could see the way her lips get too close to the guy’s ear. Something hot and ugly twisted low in his chest.

He wasn’t doing this anymore.

Garrett turned back to the blonde, gave her the quickest smile he could manage, and leaned in just enough to be heard over the music. “Hey, I’ll be right back, gotta handle something real quick.” He didn’t wait for an answer. His hand dropped from her waist and he was already moving, cutting through the crowd with single-minded focus, the bass vibrating up through the soles of his boots.

He reached her from behind while she was still dancing, close enough that he could smell the faint trace of her perfume mixed with the warm scent of her skin. The football guy’s hands were still resting on her hips. Garrett’s voice came out low, calm on the surface but edged with steel. “Appreciate it, man, but she’s good. You can take off.”

The guy blinked, looked between them, then lifted his hands and stepped back without argument. Smart. He disappeared into the crowd a second later.

His ex spun around fast, curls whipping across her shoulder, and the second her eyes landed on Garrett her whole face changed. Anger. Sharp and immediate. Her chest was still rising and falling from dancing, the red velvet top clinging to the curve of her breasts, a faint sheen of sweat along her collarbone catching the light. The asymmetrical cut of the top had shifted slightly, exposing more skin at her waist, and the lace skirt sat a little crooked on her hips from the movement, ruffles brushing the tops of her thighs.

“What the fuck, Garrett?” she snapped, voice low but furious, loud enough for only him to hear over the music. She took a half-step back like she needed space, but the crowd was too thick and she bumped into someone behind her. “You just walk over here and, what? Tell him to leave? Are you serious right now?”

Garrett didn’t move back. He stayed close, close enough that he could see the way her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat, close enough to watch the way the velvet fabric stretched across her stomach when she breathed hard. His own pulse was hammering, but he kept his voice even, eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I did. Looked like he was getting a little too comfortable with his hands on you.”

She laughed once, short and bitter, and shook her head. The movement made her curls bounce and the lace skirt sway against her thighs. “Oh, that’s rich. You were the one all over that blonde two minutes ago and now you’re over here acting like you have any say in who touches me? Fuck off, Garrett.”

Her eyes were blazing, jaw tight, lips pressed together the same way they had been when she first caught him flirting. She was still breathing fast from dancing, and every inhale made the cutouts in the velvet top shift, showing flashes of warm skin. Garrett’s gaze dropped for half a second before he forced it back up to her face. He could feel the heat coming off her, could see the way her fingers had curled into fists at her sides like she was holding herself back from shoving him.

“I wasn’t the one letting some guy put his hands all over me on the dance floor,” he said, voice dropping lower. “You looked like you were enjoying it.”

She stepped in closer this time, anger making her bold, close enough that the front of her red lace skirt brushed his jeans. The party noise faded into a dull roar around them. “I was dancing. With a friend. You don’t get to show up after months of nothing and start acting like you own me just because you don’t like what you see. You lost that right when you walked away the first time.”

Garrett’s hand twitched at his side. He wanted to reach out, wanted to settle it on the bare skin at her waist where the velvet stopped and the lace began, but he didn’t. Not yet. His eyes flicked down again, catching on the way the skirt hugged the curve of her hips, on the way a single curl had stuck to the damp skin just above her collarbone. When he looked back up, her expression hadn’t softened. If anything, it had gotten sharper. She was pissed. And standing this close in that outfit, still flushed from dancing, still glaring at him like she wanted to set him on fire, she looked better than she had any right to.

Garrett didn’t back down. His voice stayed low, rough around the edges. “Maybe I don’t like watching some other guy’s hands on you while you’re wearing that.”

Her eyes narrowed. The music pulsed around them, bodies moving on all sides, but the space between them felt like it had shrunk to nothing. Garrett held her stare. Her chest was still rising and falling fast from the dancing and the anger, the red velvet top stretched tight across her breasts, the cutouts at her waist flashing warm skin every time she took a sharp breath. A single curl had stuck to the damp spot just below her collarbone, and Garrett’s eyes kept catching on it before he forced them back to her face.

“You don’t get to act like this,” she said, voice low and tight, stepping even closer so the ruffled edge of her lace skirt brushed his thigh. “You don’t own me.” Her eyes were blazing, lips parted around the words, the deep red lipstick slightly smudged from the heat of the room. The lace skirt shifted with every angry shift of her weight, the sheer panels catching the flashing lights and showing the curve of her hips underneath. Garrett’s jaw flexed. He could smell her perfume stronger now, mixed with the faint salt of her skin, and it was doing dangerous things to his focus.

His gaze dropped again, couldn’t help it, tracing the way the velvet twisted across her torso, the way the asymmetrical cut left one shoulder bare and the silver ring on the sleeve glinted when she gestured. “You knew exactly what you were doing wearing that outfit tonight.”

She let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, curls bouncing as she shook her head. “Oh my god. You’re actually jealous. Grow up.”

Before Garrett could answer, a hand touched his arm from the side. The blonde had pushed through the crowd, her short black dress catching the lights as she stepped up beside him. She smiled, but it was tighter now, her eyes flicking between Garrett and the girl in red with clear confusion. “Hey… everything okay? You said you’d be right back and then you just disappeared.” Her hand stayed on his forearm, fingers light but possessive in their own way. “Who’s this?”

His ex’s gaze snapped to the blonde like a whip. The anger on her face sharpened into something colder, harder. Her shoulders went rigid, the velvet top pulling tighter across her chest with the sudden inhale. For a split second her eyes dropped to where the blonde’s hand rested on Garrett’s arm, then flicked back up, blazing. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, loud enough for both of them to hear. She took one step back, then another, the red lace skirt swaying hard against her thighs with the movement. “Perfect. Have fun.”

She turned on her heel before Garrett could say a word.

The crowd parted just enough for him to watch her walk away. She didn’t look back. Her posture was stiff with fury, one hand coming up to shove a curl out of her face as she headed toward the hallway that led to the back door. Garrett stood frozen for half a second, the blonde still talking beside him, her voice fading into static. His pulse was roaring in his ears. The image of her burned behind his eyes.

Then he was moving. He pulled his arm gently but firmly out of the blonde’s grip. “Sorry,” he said, already stepping away. “I have to go.”

He didn’t wait for her answer. He pushed through the crowd after the flash of red, the bass still vibrating up through the floor, the lights strobing across the room. His ex was already halfway down the hallway, one hand on the doorframe, disappearing outside, the lace skirt still shifting with every angry step.

Garrett pushed through the last of the crowd and stepped out onto the back porch, the screen door slapping shut behind him. The night air hit cooler than inside, carrying the faint smell of grass and someone’s cigarette from the far end of the yard. String lights were strung along the railing, casting a soft yellow glow over the wooden boards. Most of the party was still inside, so it was quieter out here, just the muffled bass thumping through the walls and a couple people talking low near the steps.

She was already at the far end of the porch, one hand braced on the railing, the other pushing a curl out of her face. The cutouts at her waist showing skin that looked even warmer in the porch light. When she heard the door, she spun around. “You have no fucking right,” she started, voice already sharp and climbing. “None. You spent the whole night with your hands on that girl, smiling at her like she was the best thing you’d seen all year, and then the second I try to have one good night you decide you get to walk over and play possessive ex? Like I’m not allowed to let someone else touch me without you throwing a tantrum in the middle of the party?” She stepped forward hard, then paced a few feet to the side before turning back, gesturing with both hands like she couldn’t contain the rage. The silver ring on her sleeve flashed every time she moved.

“I felt like shit in there. You made me feel like shit. Everyone saw you ditch that blonde and come after me like some jealous asshole. Do you know how embarrassing that was? I was finally having fun. I was finally not thinking about you for five goddamn minutes and you ruined it. You always do this. You only notice me when I’m not paying attention to you anymore. The second I look like I might be okay without you, suddenly you remember I exist.”

Her voice kept rising, words spilling out faster and meaner. “And that guy? He was harmless. He was just dancing. But you couldn’t stand it. Nooooo. You couldn’t stand seeing someone else want what you threw away. So you had to come over and make it about you again. Like always. Like the whole world is supposed to stop because Garrett Graham decided he’s jealous tonight. I was wearing this for me. Not for you. Not so you could stare at me like you still have any claim on anything. You lost that. You gave it up. And now you’re out here acting like I’m the one who did something wrong because I let someone else put their hands on me for thirty seconds.”

She was breathing hard now, curls sticking to the side of her neck. Garrett tried to speak. He really tried. But his eyes kept dropping.

Her mouth.

It was moving nonstop, sharp and furious, the deep red lipstick worn at the center from how hard she was talking. Her bottom lip kept catching the light when she got louder, fuller and angrier, shaping every bitter word. He watched the way it curled around “embarrassing,” the way it pressed tight after “threw away,” the faint smudge at the corner that made it look even more dangerous. He dragged his gaze back up to her eyes for half a second, then it fell again.

She didn’t notice. She was too far gone, too angry to see where he was looking. “You don’t get to do this to me,” she kept going, voice cracking at the edges from how worked up she was, “You don’t get to ignore me for months and then decide tonight is the night you remember how to feel something. I was fine. I was actually starting to feel like myself again. And you had to come in and ruin it because your ego couldn’t handle seeing me happy without you. That’s what this is. That’s all this is. Your fucking ego.”

Garrett’s hands were clenched so tight his knuckles ached. He took a step closer without realizing it. Then another. His eyes stayed locked on her mouth, on the way it moved, on the shape of it when she was this pissed, on how red and full it looked under the string lights. Every word she said made it harder to think. Harder to breathe. The anger in her voice, the way her lips formed the words, the way they parted and pressed and curled… it was all he could see. She was still ranting, still gesturing, still pouring out everything she’d been holding in, saying something about how selfish he was when he finally snapped.

He closed the last bit of space between them, one hand sliding around her waist right where the velvet ended and warm skin began. His other hand caught the back of her neck, fingers sinking into her curls. And then he kissed her.

Hard.

His mouth crashed against hers, cutting her off mid-sentence. He kissed her like he’d been holding it back since the moment their eyes met across the party. Like every second of watching her in that red outfit, every second of her angry mouth moving, had finally broken him. His grip on her waist tightened, pulling her flush against him as the lace skirt brushed his legs. He didn’t ease up. He kissed her deeper, like he needed to shut her up and taste her anger all at once.

Her hands fisted in the front of his shirt as she shoved up onto her toes, mouth moving against his with the same furious energy she’d been ranting with seconds ago. Garrett made a low sound in his throat and slid both hands into her curls, fingers sinking deep, tugging just enough to tilt her head back so he could kiss her deeper. Her mouth tasted like cherry lipstick and whatever she’d been drinking, and he couldn’t get enough. The red velvet top pressed tight against his chest as she leaned into him, the lace skirt brushing his thighs every time she shifted.

Then she ripped her mouth away. The slap came fast and sharp, cracking across his cheek before he could even process it. His head snapped slightly to the side from the force of it. The sting bloomed hot across his skin. Garrett’s eyes flicked back to her. He licked his lips slowly, tasting the faint trace of her lipstick and the heat she’d left behind. His cheek burned. His pulse was roaring.

She was breathing hard, eyes blazing, curls wild around her face. For one charged second she just stared at him like she couldn’t believe she’d done it. Then she grabbed the front of his shirt again, yanked his head back toward her, and kissed him.

This time there was nothing hesitant about it.

Garrett groaned into her mouth and walked her backward off the porch steps without breaking the kiss. His hands stayed buried in her hair, guiding her as they stumbled down the short path toward the street. The music from the party was nothing but a distant thump now. All he could focus on was the way her mouth moved against his, angry and desperate and so fucking good.

His car was parked at the curb. He pressed her back against the driver’s side door. The metal was cool against her bare shoulder blades, a sharp contrast to the heat of her skin. She made a small sound against his lips but didn’t pull away. Instead her hands slid up into his hair, nails scraping his scalp as she kissed him harder. Garrett’s hands dropped to her waist, then lower, gripping the backs of her thighs through the lace skirt. He lifted her easily and she went with it, hooking one leg high around his hip. The red lace rode up as her leg locked around him, the ruffled fabric bunching between them. He pressed in closer, hips pinning her to the car door, the hard line of his body flush against hers.

“Fuck you,” she muttered against his mouth between kisses, voice still shaking with anger.

She kissed him like she was still furious, like every bite of her teeth and every drag of her tongue was both punishment and permission. Garrett’s hand slid up her bare thigh under the lace, fingers digging in as he rocked against her. The velvet top twisted under his other hand where he gripped her waist, the cutouts exposing more skin for him to touch. Her curls were tangled around his fingers, wild and soft and impossible to let go of.

He kissed her deeper, rougher, swallowing the angry little sounds she made. The car door was cold at her back but she was burning everywhere they touched, her leg tight around his waist, her mouth hot and demanding against his, the red outfit shifting and riding up between them with every movement.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she said, even as her hands tightened in his hair and she pulled him back in. “It doesn’t change anything.”

Garrett’s mouth crashed back onto hers, rough and desperate, one hand sliding up her bare thigh under the lace while the other kept her leg locked around his waist. He pressed her harder against the car, the metal creaking faintly behind her back as he kissed her like he was trying to shut her up and answer her all at once.

A low whistle cut through the air.

“Well, well,” Dean’s voice drawled from the porch steps, amused and way too loud. “Look at this. Thought you two were done with each other?”

Garrett pulled back just enough to glare over his shoulder. Dean was leaning against the railing, beer in hand, grinning like an idiot. “Dean,” Garrett said, voice flat and cold. “Fuck off.”

Dean raised both hands in mock surrender, still smirking. “Hey, I’m just saying. If you’re gonna fuck your ex against your car, maybe take it inside? Some of us are trying to party without the free porn.”

Garrett turned back to her. He took her hand, and started walking toward the side of the house. She followed without pulling away, the red lace skirt brushing against her thighs with every step. He couldn’t stop touching her. His free hand slid to the small of her back, fingers spreading wide over the bare skin where the velvet top ended. Then it moved higher, tracing the edge of one of the cutouts, brushing along her waist as they walked.

Halfway across the lawn he stopped, turned her toward him, and kissed the side of her neck, right below her ear. His hand stayed on her waist, thumb stroking the warm skin there like he physically couldn’t make himself let go. She inhaled sharply but didn’t push him away.

They slipped in through the side door, bypassing the loudest part of the party. The bass from inside thumped through the walls as they moved down the short hallway. Garrett’s hand never left her. It slid from her waist to her hip, fingers hooking lightly in the lace skirt for a second before moving back up, brushing the underside of her breast through the velvet. He leaned in again and kissed the curve of her neck, slower this time, mouth open against her skin as they reached the stairs.

She was still tense with anger, shoulders tight, but she kept walking with him, curls brushing his shoulder every time she turned her head slightly. At the top of the stairs he pulled her in again, mouth finding the spot just behind her ear, kissing it once, then again, while his hand slid under the hem of the velvet top to rest against bare skin at her lower back.

By the time they reached his bedroom door, he had her backed against it. His hand was still on her waist, fingers flexing like he needed the contact. He kissed her neck again, then lower, along the line where velvet met skin. She made a quiet, frustrated sound but didn’t stop him.

He pushed the door open behind her and walked her inside, one hand never leaving her body. The second the door clicked shut he had her against it again, mouth on her neck, hands roaming, one in her curls, the other sliding down to grip her hip through the lace skirt, pulling her closer like he still couldn’t get enough of touching her.

She was still mad. He could feel it in the way her fingers dug into his shoulders, in the sharp little breaths she took every time his mouth found a new spot on her neck. But she wasn’t telling him to stop.

And Garrett couldn’t make his hands stay still. Not even for a second.

“This doesn’t fix what you did,” she said quietly, voice tight. But she didn’t push him away.

“I know,” Garrett murmured against her skin. He kissed lower, along the curve of her neck, then the sharp line of her collarbone where the velvet dipped. “Let me try anyway.”

His hands moved to the hem of the top. He lifted it slowly, eyes flicking up to hers for permission she didn’t give with words, just a sharp breath and the way she raised her arms. He peeled the red velvet upward, revealing smooth skin inch by inch. The fabric caught for a second on her breasts before sliding over her head and dropping to the floor. His mouth followed the path it left behind, kissing the center of her chest, then lower, across the soft skin of her stomach. Every new inch of her he uncovered, he touched. His palms skimmed up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts before his mouth replaced them, kissing there too, slow and deliberate.

She made a frustrated sound, one hand sliding into his hair and tugging, not gentle. “Do you think I am pathetic for letting you do this?”

“No,” he answered honestly, voice low against her skin. He dropped to his knees in front of her, hands sliding down to the waistband of the red skirt. “You’re a goddess, I’m blessed.”

He hooked his fingers into the skirt and tugged it down slowly, letting it pool at her ankles, together with her panties. His mouth followed, kissing the newly exposed skin of her hips, then the inside of one thigh as he helped her step out of the skirt. His hands stayed on her legs the entire time, sliding up the backs of her calves, then higher, gripping her thighs like he needed the anchor. He kissed the front of one hip, then the other, then lower, open-mouthed against the soft skin just above where the lace had been.

She was breathing harder now, still angry but not stopping him. Her fingers stayed tight in his hair.

“You’re still an asshole,” she muttered, voice rough.

“I know,” Garrett said again, quieter this time. He rose back up slowly, hands never leaving her body, one sliding up the back of her thigh, the other tracing the curve of her waist as he stood. He kissed her neck again, then her shoulder, then the center of her chest, worshipping every inch he could reach. His mouth moved lower again, across her stomach, slow and reverent, like he was trying to memorize her with his lips.

His hands followed everywhere his mouth went, palms skimming her sides, fingers brushing the undersides of her breasts, then down again to grip her hips. He couldn’t stop touching her. Every time he tried to focus on one spot, his hands wandered to another… to the dip of her waist, the smooth skin of her back, the soft flesh of her thigh.

Garrett kissed her once more, then sank back down to his knees in front of her. His hands slid up the backs of her thighs, gripping firmly as he looked up at her. She was still flushed, still breathing hard, still looking at him like she hadn’t decided whether she wanted to shove him away or pull him closer.

He didn’t wait for permission.

He hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, spreading her open, and dragged his tongue slowly through her folds. She tasted exactly how he remembered, sweet and slick and so fucking good it made his cock throb in his jeans. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he licked her again, slower this time, savoring it.

“Fuck,” he muttered against her, voice rough. “I missed this. Missed how wet you get for me.” Her hand immediately fisted in his hair, tight and unforgiving. He didn’t mind. He wanted the sting. He licked her again, firmer now, circling her clit with the flat of his tongue before sucking it gently between his lips.

“You can stay mad at me,” he said between slow, deliberate licks, voice low and filthy. “Hate me all you want. Just let me eat this pretty pussy until you come on my tongue.”

She made a sharp, angry sound above him, hips twitching despite herself. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling hard. “Shut up,” she breathed, but there was no real heat behind it anymore, just frustration and want.

Garrett smiled against her, then dragged his tongue lower, fucking it inside her once before moving back up to her clit. He kept one hand gripping her thigh, holding her open, while the other slid up to palm her ass, pulling her closer to his mouth. “You’re dripping,” he growled, licking her slow and filthy. “So fucking wet and you’re still trying to act like you don’t want this. Like you don’t want me on my knees for you.”

He sealed his mouth over her clit and sucked, tongue flicking fast and relentless. Her leg over his shoulder trembled. He could feel how close she already was, could taste how much her body wanted this even if her head was still fighting it.

“Come on,” he muttered against her, voice muffled and rough. “Be mad at me all night if you want. Just come on my fucking tongue first. Let me taste how sorry I am.”

His hand on her ass tightened as he pulled her harder against his mouth, licking and sucking like he was trying to devour every inch of her. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. He just kept eating her like he had something to prove, tongue working her clit in tight, filthy circles while two fingers slid inside her without warning, curling deep.

“That’s it,” he rasped when her hips started rocking against his face. “Fuck my tongue. Take what you need. I’m not stopping until you come for me.”

His hands couldn’t stay still. One gripped the back of her thigh hard, fingers digging into soft skin, holding her leg higher over his shoulder so he could get deeper. The other slid up the back of her other leg, palming her ass and pulling her closer to his mouth like he wanted to bury his face in her. His thumb stroked slow circles against the curve of her ass while his tongue worked her clit in tight, relentless strokes.

She made a sharp, frustrated sound above him, her hand fisting tighter in his hair, pulling hard enough to sting. He didn’t stop. If anything, it made him hungrier. He slid two fingers inside her without warning, curling them deep as he sucked on her clit again. Her hips jerked against his face despite herself. He could feel the way her thighs trembled on either side of his head, the way her stomach fluttered every time he licked her just right. He kept his mouth sealed over her clit, tongue flicking fast and filthy while his fingers pumped into her, curling against that spot inside that always made her lose it. He didn’t ease up. His hand on her ass squeezed tighter, pulling her forward so she was practically riding his face. His tongue never stopped moving, licking, sucking, circling, while his fingers worked her in steady, deep strokes.

Garrett felt the exact moment she stopped fighting it.

Her hips rolled forward once, hesitant at first, then again, harder. She started riding his fingers in slow, deliberate strokes, fucking herself on them while his mouth stayed sealed over her clit. The wet sound of it filled the quiet room, filthy and perfect. His fingers were soaked, sliding in and out of her easily as she moved, her walls clenching tight around them every time she sank down.

“That’s it,” he groaned against her, voice low and wrecked. “Ride my fucking fingers. Just like that. Use me.”

He curled them deeper on the next thrust, angling them so they dragged against that spot inside her with every roll of her hips. His tongue never let up, licking and sucking her clit in time with the way she moved, matching her rhythm. His free hand stayed locked on her ass, gripping hard, guiding her, pulling her down onto his fingers and mouth like he wanted her to take everything.

Her hips moved faster now, chasing it. Every time she sank down, his fingers disappeared inside her to the knuckle, and every time she lifted up, they glistened with how wet she was. He could feel her thighs shaking on either side of his head. Her hand was still fisted tight in his hair, tugging hard every time his tongue flicked her clit just right.

Garrett moaned into her, the sound vibrating against her sensitive flesh. He added a third finger without warning, stretching her, and she made a sharp, broken sound above him. He didn’t slow down. His mouth worked her relentlessly while his fingers pumped up into her every time she rode down.

“Come on,” he muttered against her, voice rough and filthy between licks. “Ride them harder. Fuck yourself on my hand while I eat this pussy. You’re so close, I can feel it. You’re clenching so fucking tight around my fingers.” He sucked her clit between his lips again and flicked his tongue fast, relentless, while his fingers curled and thrust in time with her movements. His other hand slid up her back, then down again, gripping her ass and pulling her harder against his face like he couldn’t get enough of her. “Give it to me,” he growled.

Her thighs started shaking hard around his head. Her hips stuttered, losing rhythm for a second before she ground down hard onto his fingers and mouth like she couldn’t help it. A broken, angry sound tore out of her throat as her walls clamped down tight around his fingers, pulsing hard.

He groaned against her clit, voice low and filthy. “Come for me. Fuck, just like that, mama. Come all over my tongue.”

He didn’t let up. He kept his fingers buried deep inside her, curling them against that spot with every clench, while his tongue licked her through it, slow, firm strokes that dragged out every wave. Her hips jerked against his face as she came, riding it out, and he held her there with both hands, one gripping her ass tight, the other still working his fingers inside her.

She was so fucking wet it coated his chin, his wrist, dripping down his hand. He moaned into her like he was the one coming, tongue never stopping as he licked up everything she gave him.

“Goddamn,” he rasped between licks, voice wrecked. “You’re squeezing my fingers so fucking tight. Look at you, soooo mad at me and coming all over my face anyway.”

Her body kept trembling through the aftershocks, thighs quivering against his shoulders. He slowed his fingers but didn’t pull them out, keeping them buried deep as he licked her softer now with gentle strokes over her sensitive clit while she rode out the last pulses. His hand on her ass stayed firm, holding her steady against his mouth like he wasn’t ready to let her go yet.

When her hips finally stopped moving and her breathing turned ragged, he pulled his fingers out slowly and dragged his tongue through her one last time, tasting her release. Then he kissed the inside of her thigh, open-mouthed and lingering, before resting his forehead against her stomach for a second, still breathing hard. His hands didn’t leave her body. One stayed on her ass, the other sliding up the back of her thigh in slow, possessive strokes.

“Still pissed at me?” he asked roughly against her skin, voice low and hoarse. He kissed her stomach, then lower again, like he couldn’t stop. “Or did that take the edge off?"

“Get up,” she muttered, voice rough.

He rose to his feet. The second he was standing, she was on him.

Her hands went straight to the hem of his shirt, yanking it up and over his head with quick, impatient movements. She tossed it somewhere behind her without looking. Her palms slid down his chest, nails dragging lightly over his skin as she reached for his belt. She undid it with sharp tugs, then popped the button of his jeans and shoved them down along with his briefs in one rough motion.

While her hands worked, she looked up at him, eyes still sharp with anger.

“You don’t deserve my mouth on your cock,” she said flatly, voice low and cutting. “Not after what you pulled tonight.”

Garrett’s jaw flexed. He didn’t argue. His hands found her waist automatically, thumbs stroking over her bare skin as she stripped him.“Yeah,” he said quietly, voice rough. “I know that.”

She didn’t reply. She just pushed at his chest until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. He let her guide him down, sitting first before she climbed over him, straddling his lap. The second she was on top, his hands were everywhere again, sliding up her bare back, gripping her hips, then moving higher to cup her breasts as she settled over him.

She braced her hands on his chest and looked down at him, curls falling around her face, still flushed and breathing hard. His cock was hard and trapped between them, pressed against her slick heat, but she didn’t move yet. She just stared at him for a second, like she was deciding what she wanted to do with him.

Garrett’s hands kept moving. One slid down to grip her ass, squeezing, while the other traced up her spine and into her hair. He couldn’t stop touching her. Even now, with her on top and still clearly pissed, his palms kept roaming like he needed the contact to stay sane.

She rolled her hips once dragging her wetness along the length of his cock. A low groan rumbled out of his chest. “You did not tell me if you’re still mad" he asked, voice low and hoarse as his hands tightened on her.

She didn’t answer with words. She just leaned down, kissed him hard, and rolled her hips again. Garrett let her roll her hips once more, feeling the wet heat of her drag along his cock, but the second she started to move again he snapped.

In one fluid motion he gripped her waist tight, flipped them hard, and pinned her beneath him on the bed. The mattress dipped under their weight as her back hit the sheets. Her curls fanned out across the pillow, wild and dark against the white. He followed her down immediately, settling between her spread thighs, one hand braced beside her head while the other slid under her knee and hiked her leg up high around his hip.

He didn’t give her time to catch her breath.

He reached between them, gripped his cock, and dragged the head through her slick folds once, slow, deliberate,nbefore pushing inside in one deep, steady thrust. Her body stretched around him, hot and tight and so fucking wet it made his jaw clench. He bottomed out with a low groan, hips flush against hers, buried to the hilt. “Fuck,” he gritted out, forehead dropping to hers for a second. “You feel so good.”

He didn’t wait. He pulled back and drove into her again, harder this time, setting a deep, relentless rhythm right from the start. His hand stayed under her thigh, keeping her leg hooked high around him so he could fuck her deeper. The other hand slid up her body, gripping her waist, then higher to palm her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple as he moved.

He couldn’t stop touching her. Even as he fucked her, his hands kept roaming, sliding down to grip her hip hard enough to leave marks, then back up to tangle in her curls, tugging her head back so he could kiss her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her jaw. Every thrust pushed her up the bed slightly, the headboard knocking softly against the wall.

She was still glaring up at him, eyes sharp with anger even as her body arched beneath him. Her nails dug into his back, dragging down hard enough to sting.

Garrett groaned at the pain and fucked her harder, hips snapping forward in deep, punishing strokes. The wet sound of him driving into her filled the room, filthy and loud. He could feel how soaked she still was from coming on his tongue, how easily he slid in and out of her.

“You’re still so fucking wet,” he rasped against her ear, voice low and rough. “Came all over my face and you’re still dripping for me.” He thrust deep and stayed there for a second, grinding against her clit. “Keep looking at me like that. Keep being mad. You know what? I don’t care. I’m still gonna fuck you until you can’t think straight.”

Garrett kept her pinned beneath him, one hand gripping the back of her thigh and holding her leg high and open while he fucked into her in deep, heavy strokes. The wet slap of skin filled the room with every thrust. He could feel how tight she still was around him, how she clenched every time he bottomed out.

She was glaring up at him, but her mouth was open, breath coming in sharp gasps. Her hands were on his back, nails digging in hard.

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” she bit out between thrusts, voice strained but sharp. “You don’t get to just flip me over and take whatever you want after what you did.”

Garrett’s jaw flexed. He drove into her harder, grinding deep before pulling back and slamming forward again. His hand slid up from her thigh to wrap around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb stroking the side of her neck. “Yeah?” he rasped, voice low and rough. “Then why’s this pussy so fucking wet for me? Why are you letting me stretch you open like this if you’re still so mad?”

She made a frustrated sound and tried to glare harder, but her hips lifted to meet his next thrust anyway. Her curls were spread across the pillow, sticking to the sweat on her neck. He leaned down and kissed her hard, then pulled back just enough to look at her.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he muttered against her mouth, hips never slowing. “Gonna breed this tight little cunt until it’s dripping with me. You want that? Want me to fuck a load so deep in you that you feel it for days?”

Her eyes flashed with fresh anger even as her walls fluttered around him. She grabbed his jaw, fingers digging in. “Don’t you fucking dare come inside me like you own me,” she snapped, but her voice cracked on the last word when he hit a particularly deep angle. “You don’t get to do that.”

Garrett’s eyes darkened. He shifted his weight, pressing her deeper into the mattress as he fucked her harder, the bed creaking beneath them. His hand left her throat and slid into her hair instead, gripping tight. “Open your mouth,” he ordered, voice low and commanding.

She hesitated for half a second, still glaring, but she parted her lips anyway. He leaned in close, spat directly into her mouth, then kissed her before she could say anything, tongue pushing past her lips like he was claiming that too. When he pulled back, a thin string of spit connected them for a second before it broke. He kept thrusting, deep and relentless, one hand still tangled in her curls while the other slid down to rub tight circles over her clit.

“Keep talking, mama” he growled. “Tell me how much you hate me while I’m buried in you. While I’m about to pump you full.” His hips snapped forward harder. “I’m not pulling out. You’re gonna take every drop.”

She made another angry sound, but her body was arching into him now, chasing every thrust. Her leg hooked higher around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Selfish prick,” she breathed, voice shaky with pleasure and rage. “You don’t deserve to come in me.”

Garrett groaned low and fucked her even harder, sweat-slick skin sliding against hers. His hand in her hair tightened as he leaned down again, mouth brushing her ear. “Too bad,” he rasped. “Because I’m gonna breed this pussy anyway. And you’re gonna come while I do it.”

Her body went loose beneath him in the best way, hips lifting to meet every thrust, thighs spreading wider around his waist, back arching off the bed as she took him deeper. The angry tension in her muscles melted into something raw and desperate. Her nails stopped just digging and started clawing down his back in long, hard lines. A broken moan tore out of her throat, louder than before, and her head tipped back against the pillow, curls spilling everywhere.

“That’s it,” Garrett growled, voice thick and filthy as he fucked into her harder. “Let go. Stop fighting it. Let me fuck this pussy the way it needs.”

He shifted his angle, driving deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside her with every stroke. The wet, obscene sound of him pounding into her filled the room, skin slapping, her slick coating his cock and dripping down between them. He could feel how soaked she was, how her walls fluttered and clenched around him every time he bottomed out.

His hand slid between them, thumb rubbing tight, fast circles over her swollen clit while h e kept thrusting. The other stayed tangled in her hair, holding her head back so he could watch her face as she started to lose it. “I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, low and rough against her ear. “Gonna fill this tight cunt up until it’s overflowing. Pump you so full of cum you’ll feel it leaking out of you for hours. You want that? Want me to breed this pussy?”

She made a choked, angry sound that turned into a moan halfway through. Her legs locked higher around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs as she pulled him in deeper. Her hips were moving on their own now, rolling up to meet every brutal thrust.

“Fuck, Garrett…” she gasped, voice breaking. Her hands gripped his shoulders hard, nails biting into skin. “You’re such a, ah, fucking bastard…”

Her whole body started to shake. Her mouth fell open on a silent cry before a loud, broken moan ripped out of her. Her walls clamped down around him in hard, pulsing waves as she came, thighs trembling, back arching sharply, hips jerking uncontrollably beneath him. Wetness flooded around his cock, soaking him as she rode out the orgasm, still grinding up against him like she couldn’t stop. Garrett groaned low and filthy, fucking her straight through it without slowing down. His hand stayed between them, working her clit as she clenched and fluttered around him.

Garrett’s thrusts turned shorter and rougher as he got closer, his cock swelling inside her. He could feel the pressure building fast at the base of his spine, his balls drawing tight. Every time he bottomed out, her soaked pussy gripped him like a fist, wet and hot and pulsing from her orgasm.

He knew he shouldn’t come inside her.

She’d been furious with him all night. She’d told him he didn’t deserve her mouth, and even though she’d let him fuck her, even though she’d come hard on his tongue and then on his cock, he still remembered the anger in her voice when she said he didn’t get to have all of her. Out of respect, he started to pull back.

His hips drew back slowly, cock sliding halfway out of her, glistening and dripping with her slick. He was right there, one more thrust and he’d be coming.

But she didn’t let him go.

Her legs snapped tighter around his waist in an instant, strong and unyielding. Her heels dug hard into the backs of his thighs as she yanked him forward, forcing his cock back inside her to the hilt in one rough pull. At the same time her hands slid down to his ass, fingers digging in deep as she held him there, refusing to let him pull out.

Garrett groaned, low and broken, forehead dropping against hers.

“Fuck, I’m about to come,” he rasped, voice strained. His hips jerked once, like he was still trying to be good, but she kept him locked deep. “I’m gonna pull out.”

“Don’t" she cut in, voice shaky but firm, almost angry. Her nails bit harder into his ass as she rolled her hips up, grinding him deeper. “I want it. Don’t pull out.”

Garrett’s control snapped.

He slammed back into her hard, burying himself to the root with a filthy, wet sound. Her pussy was so fucking wet, soaked from her orgasm and his pre-cum, creamy and messy around his cock every time he moved. He could feel it coating his balls, dripping down between them as he started fucking her again in short, desperate thrusts. “Shit, you’re really keeping me in,” he groaned against her neck, voice rough and filthy. “You don’t want me to leave, don’t you?”

She made a frustrated, desperate sound and pulled him in even harder with her legs and hands, forcing him as deep as he could go. “Just come,” she gasped, voice breaking as he fucked into her. “I want you to fill me up.”

Garrett’s rhythm turned frantic. He drove into her hard and deep, the wet slap of skin loud and obscene. He could feel every inch of her, the way her walls fluttered and clenched around him, the way her slick coated every inch of his cock, making everything messy and loud. His hand slid under her ass, gripping hard and angling her so he could pound into her even deeper.

“Yeah,” he growled, voice wrecked. “Gonna fill this tight cunt up. Gonna take every drop like a good girl even though you hate me right now?”

“Yes,” she moaned, legs locked tight, hips jerking up to meet every thrust. “Do it. Come in me. I want it, I want all of it.”

Garrett buried himself as deep as he could go and came with a low, guttural groan. His cock pulsed hard inside her, thick ropes of cum flooding her in heavy spurts. He kept grinding through it, shallow and desperate, pushing every drop as far as he could while her walls milked him. The mess was obscene, his cum mixing with hers, leaking out around his cock and dripping down her ass every time he moved.

He didn’t pull out.