lh43 and op81 defender

it’s the cinnamon and clean laundry that brings him back. on the quiet nights, before the heavy silence of the present takes over, you can still trace the timeline of you and john logan.

two kids who didn't know a single thing about the world, but decided, instantly, that they knew everything about each other.

by the time you both walked across the stage at eighteen to grab your high school diplomas, you weren’t just a couple—you were a package deal.

logan was woven so deeply into the fabric of your family that his presence felt as permanent as the oak tree in the front yard.

“logan! look what i made!"

the memory is so sharp it almost stings. your little sister soleil had been five then—a tiny, chaotic blur of mismatched socks and sticky fingers.

anyone else would have patted her on the head and gone back to their phone, but logan had dropped straight to his knees on your mom’s kitchen floor, completely ignoring the grass stains on his jeans.

he had taken the lopsided paper crown she held out and placed it solemnly on his dark hair.

"for me, princess sol? i’m honored," he had said, his signature smirk softening into something so incredibly gentle it made your chest ache. he had spent the next hour letting a five-year-old boss him around the backyard, playing "royal knight" without a single complaint. he had loved your family. he had loved you.

"are you thinking about him?"

the quiet voice snaps you back. you blink, the golden memory evaporating, replaced by the cool, dim light of the kitchen.

you turn to find soleil standing in the doorway. she’s ten now—taller but she still has those same observant eyes.

"nope just... thinking," you say, offering a tight smile as you lean against the counter.

soleil walks over, hopping onto the barstool logan used to claim as his own. she traces a small scratch on the wooden counter. "do you think logan still plays hockey?" she asks quietly. "he promised he would teach me how to ice skate when i got bigger. he hasn't called in a long time."

the words twist like a knife. because how do you explain to a ten-year-old that sometimes, the boy who wore paper crowns in your backyard grows up, leaves for college, and becomes someone you only know through headlines and hearsay?

"yeah, sol," you whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat. "he still plays."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

it was 1:57 am. at this hour, the world was supposed to be asleep.

instead you were standing in aisle fourteen, frozen in place, staring at the glass doors of the ice cream section.

the cold air leaked through the rubber seals, dusting your bare shins with a chill that made you shiver.

you looked down at yourself, suddenly, painfully aware of exactly how you looked: a pair of wrinkled pajama shorts featuring a faded print of patrick star, a fleece sweatshirt, and a pair of cheap flip-flops that made a loud, pathetic slap against the linoleum with every step you took.

your fingers hovered over a carton of cookie dough ice cream—the exact same brand, the exact same flavor, that had once been the cure-all for every bad day you had ever had.

you had been back in this town for exactly three weeks of summer break, operating like a ghost.

you stayed inside during the day, took long scenic routes to avoid the familiar blocks, and only went out when you knew the streets would be empty.

you had managed to avoid him for two whole years. two years of passing through the same suburban grid without once crossing paths.

until tonight.

squeak.

the sharp sound of rubber soles on polished linoleum broke the quiet.

it wasn't the slow, heavy drag of a tired employee pushing a stocking cart.

it was a firm, rhythmic stride. a stride you could recognize with your eyes closed, even after twenty-four months of silence.

"i knew one day, i would find you here."

the voice didn't just startle you; it felt like a physical blow to the chest. it was deeper than you remembered, carrying the low, scratchy gravel of someone who spent his winters yelling over the roar of stadium crowds at briar university.

but the cadence—the soft, trailing way he ended his sentences—was exactly the same.

your breath hitching, your lungs freezing over. you slowly turned around, your hand still pressed flat against the cold glass of the freezer door, your flip-flops squeaking slightly.

standing at the end of the aisle, leaning with an agonizingly casual grace against a shopping cart, was john logan.

he was massive.

the boy who used to fit perfectly against your side in your parents' basement had completely filled out.

the grueling, relentless training schedule of briar's varsity hockey team had carved him into something formidable—his shoulders were impossibly broad beneath a dark charcoal hoodie, his jawline littered with stubble sharp enough to look dangerous.

his dark hair was slightly damp and messy, falling over his forehead in a way that made him look like he had just stepped out of a locker room.

but it was his eyes that anchored you to the spot.

they were a deep, intense brown—the color of warm whiskey, of dark espresso, of things that were thick and warm and rich and incredibly hard to forget. right now, those brown eyes were narrowed, tracking the rapid rise and fall of your chest with a quiet, guarded intensity.

"logan," you whispered. the name felt heavy, like a stone rolling off your tongue.

"hey," he said. his voice was soft, but there was a distinct, cool distance to it. his lips didn't curve into the easy grin you were once so used to. instead, his mouth remained a straight, hard line. "still craving cookie dough at ungodly hours?"

the silence that followed was suffocating. the air between you was dense with two years of unread texts, a blocked phone number, and a driveway screaming match that had ended with you driving away in tears.

you looked at him, and against your will, the faces of every single guy you had met on the west coast flashed behind your eyelids.

there was the polite pre-med guy from your sophomore year who bought you expensive dinners and spoke in a tone so perfectly measured it made you feel completely hollow.

there was the golden-boy surfer who tried to teach you how to ride the waves, whose laugh was loud and easy, but whose eyes never actually saw you when you spoke.

there were others—half-hearted dates, empty conversations over cheap drinks, guys who tried to touch your waist or hold your hand in crowded bars.

but none of them were john logan.

none of them possessed that fierce, protective intensity.

not a single one of them knew how to make you laugh until your ribs ached, or how to silence your worst anxieties with a single, heavy look.

he was the gold standard.

you had spent twenty-four months trying to find his ghost in other men, only to realize that nobody could ever measure up to the boy who had broken your heart.

he had ruined you for anyone else, and the sheer unfairness of it tasted like poison on your tongue.

what you didn't know—what you couldn't possibly know from the quiet, agonizing distance you had kept—was that you had done the exact same thing to him.

at briar, logan was a star.

he was a handsome, charming varsity athlete, and the girls on campus made it ridiculously easy.

but to the absolute dismay and relentless teasing of his teammates, especially dean, logan had practically lived like a monk for the last two years.

he didn't bring girls back to the house.

he didn't do the mindless, easy hookups that the rest of the team treated like breathing.

every time a girl tried to flirt with him at a party, every time someone leaned in to kiss him in a dark corner of a crowded bar, he found himself pulling back.

he was holding out for you.

as stupid and as unrealistic as it sounded to him, he couldn't shake you.

and it made him furious.

he was angry at you for blocking him, angry at you for leaving, but most of all, he was deeply annoyed because you had ruined him for anyone else.

he couldn't find a single girl who was just like you, and he hated how much power you still held over his heart without even trying.

logan took a slow, deliberate step forward, the wheels of his cart squeaking in protest. his brown eyes scanned your face, noting the way you winced, the way your fingers tightened on your sweatshirt.

seeing him step closer was like falling backward through a rip in time.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"logan, stop it! put me down, people are looking!"

your laughter echoed through the empty bakery section of this very store, bright and breathless. it was 12:14 am on a tuesday, three weeks before graduation.

logan had dragged you out of bed because you had a craving, and he never, ever said no to you.

"let them look," logan grinned, his chest vibrating against yours as he lifted you easily by the waist, spinning you around. he didn't care about the bored cashier or the fact that you both had ap exams in twelve hours.

he set you down slowly, his large hands sliding under your jacket to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him.

his face dipped into the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss right below your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

when he pulled back, his eyes were crinkled at the corners, filled with a terrifyingly pure, unshakeable affection.

"you're stuck with me forever, you know that, right?" he murmured, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your hip. "west coast, east coast, i don't care. i'll fly out every single weekend. we're going to make this work. i'm not letting you go."

you had kind of believed him then. you had pressed your forehead against his chest, inhaling the scent of his skin, believing that the two of you were invincible.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"you're staring," logan's rough voice broke the memory, shattering it into a thousand sharp, jagged pieces.

you blinked, cold reality rushing back in.

he was standing barely three feet away from you now.

the warmth from the flashback evaporated, replaced by the bitter, icy draft of the freezer aisle.

you pulled the sleeves of your sweatshirt over your hands, shifting your weight in your flip-flops, wishing desperately that the cold floor would just open up and swallow you.

"i didn't think you would be in town," you managed to say, your voice tighter this time. you clutched the tub of cookie dough icecream to your chest, a pathetic, freezing shield. "you usually stay at briar for summer training."

"i came back for a couple of weeks to see some family," he said, his voice flat, his posture guarded. he crossed his arms over his broad chest, creating a physical barrier between you. "but i see you're still running on the same schedule. some habits die hard, i guess."

there was no shouting, no explosive anger, but the wall he had built was high and thick.

he wasn't the boy who used to tease you mercilessly; he was a man who had been deeply hurt, and he was keeping his guard up.

"logan, we were going to different sides of the country," you whispered, the old defense mechanism kicking in, though it felt incredibly weak now. "we would have grown to hate each other. i did what i thought was best."

"i never cared about where you were going," logan corrected quietly, his brown eyes locking onto yours with a heavy, simmering sadness. "i was proud of you. i wanted you to go to that school. what broke me was that you didn't even want to try. you just decided we were over before we even packed our bags. you decided for the both of us, blocked my number, and left. you made me feel like those years we spent together weren't even worth a shot the second things got a little complicated."

"that's not true," you said, a tear threatening to spill over your eyelashes. "it broke my heart, logan. and i... i still care. i heard about your mom."

the words hung in the cold, sterile air between you. the mention of his mother's battle with alcohol—a shadow that had hovered over his entire household and left him and his younger sibling, jules, carrying weight they were far too young to bear—made the silence turn razor-sharp.

you remembered the late-night phone calls where he would whisper to you from the hallway, exhausted and terrified, while you tried to comfort him from three miles away. you weren’t sure how to do it over three thousand miles away.

logan froze. his jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.

"what about her?" he asked, his voice suddenly dangerously quiet.

"i heard she's in rehab again," you murmured, taking a small, tentative step forward. your chest ached for him, the instinct to comfort him still so deeply ingrained in your bones. "i'm so sorry, logan. i know how hard it is on you. and on jules. i really—"

"don't," he quickly cut you off.

for a split second, the hard line of his jaw softens. his dark eyes flicker down, then rise to search yours with a sudden, aching vulnerability. his mouth opens, a name hovering on the very tip of his tongue. he wants to ask if soleil still makes her infamous paper crowns.

he wants to ask if she misses him. if you missed him.

but the moment passes as quickly as it came. the shutter slams down behind his eyes, the heavy wall of his anger sliding back into place. he isn't going to give you the satisfaction of knowing how much of your world he still yearns for.

a short, humorless scoff escaped his lips—a sound so hollow and bitter it made you flinch. he shook his head, looking down at the linoleum floor before raising his brown eyes back to yours, entirely guarded.

"don't act like you care now," he said, the words dripping with a quiet, devastating resentment. "if you actually cared, you wouldn't have kept me blocked. you would have reached out a long time ago when everything was falling apart. everyone else did. but you? you were too busy pretending we never happened."

he didn't know.

he had no idea that his private instagram account had been a brick wall you stared at on your loneliest nights, desperate for a glimpse of his face.

he didn't know that you had spent the last two years quietly keeping up with his life through the back door—how you had found his teammate and friend, dean di laurentis, on social media because his profile was public, zooming in on the background of his photos just to make sure logan was okay.

but you were so incredibly tired of the silence.

you were tired of the walls, tired of the assumption that you had just walked away unscathed while he bled out.

you weren't going to let this be another night where you both walked away harboring a quiet, misunderstood resentment.

you weren't going to let him believe a lie just to protect your pride.

"i blocked you because if i didn't, i would have begged you to come to california," you said, your voice cracking, but the words came out fast, desperate, and completely unfiltered. "i blocked you because every time my phone buzzed, i hoped it was you, and it was killing me. i didn't pretend we never happened, logan. i spent the last two years completely miserable."

logan flinched, his posture stiffening as he stared at you. his mouth parted slightly, the scoff dying on his lips.

"what?" he whispered.

"i didn't reach out because i thought you hated me," you pleaded, tears finally spilling over, hot against your cold cheeks.

"i thought i had ruined everything," you said, your voice cracking as you finally forced yourself to meet his eyes. "and i was terrified of hearing you tell me that you had moved on."

you took a sharp, shallow breath, looking down at your hands as if the memory alone had weight. "i sat in my dorm room and cried for hours when i heard about your mom. because i knew how much you and jules were hurting, and i hated myself for not being able to call you." you let out a bitter, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "but i didn't think i had the right to anymore. i didn't do this because it was easy."

logan didn't move, but the tension between you pulled taut, almost vibrating.

"and if you want to know the absolute worst part?" you took a step closer, the raw honesty of it stripping away whatever pride you had left. "i've tried to date. i've gone out with guys who were perfectly nice, guys who did everything right. and i couldn't stand any of them. because none of them were you."

you stopped just inches from him, your chest heaving. "you set the bar so high that i can't even look at anyone else without wishing they had your eyes, or your laugh, or the way you used to hold my hand." reaching out, your fingers hovered near his jacket before you pulled them back, curling them into a tight fist. "you ruined me, logan. so don't you dare stand there and tell me i didn't care."

the silence that followed was entirely different now. it wasn't heavy with awkwardness anymore; it was electric, thick with a truth that had been buried for two long years.

then, a loud, agonizingly slow squeal of wheels broke the high-stakes emotional gravity.

a tired-looking teenage employee pushing a towering, uncoordinated stack of blue plastic crates stopped dead at the end of the aisle.

he looked at your tear-stained face, looked at logan's defensive frame, and then looked down at the carton of cookie dough ice cream.

he blinked slowly, let out a soul-weary, minimum-wage sigh, and silently began pulling his cart backward, retreating into the canned goods section like a crab disappearing into the sand.

you let out a wet, breathless sound that was half-sob, half-gasp, hastily wiping your nose with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. "great. we're the 2 am grocery store circus."

logan's jaw worked, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath. for a fraction of a second, the tiniest, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile tugged at the very corner of his mouth, softening the hard edge of his face.

"well," his voice was quiet, the rough edge still there but momentarily lighter. "to be fair, you are having a life-altering breakdown in neon pink flip-flops and patrick star pajama shorts."

"they're comfortable," you mumbled, looking down at your toes, a faint blush warming your cheeks despite the cold.

he laughed softly but as quickly as the lighthearted beat came, it evaporated, swallowed by the cold, heavy reality of the last two years.

the silence returned, sober and demanding. logan took a slow, heavy step toward you, the distance between you evaporating until you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

he raised his hand, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered just inches from your wet cheek, hesitating.

his hand lingered in the air, his knuckles barely brushing your cheekbone as he looked at you, utterly torn.

“Good?” Tucker’s eyebrows raise as he awaits his friend’s reply, “I hope?”

Logan’s brow lace together as he snarls, “You hope? That shit is delicious, Tuck!”

Tucker smiles, “Thank you. Really, dude. Thanks.” He turns to his phone, scrolling through his Spotify before he looks back up to John, “What’re you thinking?”

Logan’s eyes shift over to where you and Allie dance, “Whatever keeps those two dancing. I haven’t seen this kind of entertainment since Dean and Graham went streaking on the ice sophomore year.”

“What have I missed?” Dean’s wide hands playfully slap down onto Tuck’s shoulders, scanning the room before his gaze quickly falls back to his friends, “Busy night, huh?”

John Logan nods as he braces his hands on the kitchen island, “Damn right, Di Laurentis. Packed house, yet again.”

“I haven’t seen this many people in our house since fall semester. I’m just happy no one’s called the cops.. Coach would kill us,” Tucker slightly shakes his head before stress eating an hor d'oeuvre. “Maybe we should shut things down? Call it a night? The house is definitely beyond capacity.”

“Hell no!” Dean protests, rubbing his hands together as he walks around the island and towards the crowd. “Let's ride things out and see where the night takes us, huh?”

“Whatever you say, man,” Logan’s eyes remain on where you continue to dance. A ridiculous smile spreads across his face as he sees you and Allie start to scream hearing the beginning notes of some Charlie XCX song.

“You know you can go talk to her, right?” Dean says as he nods towards the living room. “Just because she’s our physical therapist doesn’t mean you can’t converse with her. We’re all adults here.”

John’s forehead creases as his eyes shift back to his friends, “I thought Garret said she has a fiance?”

“Nah, man.. I haven’t seen a ring on her finger,” Dean’s brows raise as he eyes Logan. “She’d have a ring on her finger right now if she were engaged.” All three men stare, trying to scope out an engagement ring on your finger.

“What the hell are you guys looking at?” Jules says, startling the hockey players. 

Logan turns towards Dean, looking embarrassed as he looks down at his sibling. He shrugs, slightly shaking his head, unable to find the words to say.

“Alright, Fifth Line. What’s the deal with Stretch?” Dean leans towards Jules. “Why did she leave MU?”

Jules inhales with a hiss, “She actually got fired from Minnesota.”

“There’s no way she got fired,” Beau interjects as he saunters up behind the boys. “She puts up with all of us idiots daily, and then puts up with you idiots too. I dare say she might be a saint. No one fires a saint.” He takes a sip of his beer.

“She has to be a saint to have put up with the assholes at Minnesota,” Dean shakes his head. “So pretentious and entitled.”

“Wait,” Tuck sounds concerned as he pulls out his phone. “We play Minnesota tomorrow, do we not?” He scrolls and clicks on the screen before laying his phone down on the countertop. 

ROUND THREE: BRIAR HAWKS V MINNESOTA FROST 6 PM

“Shit,” they all collectively curse before directing their attention to where you and Allie dance.

Jules blinks before making a face, “Well, that’s not gonna be good.”

“Yeah, it’ll probably be super awkward,” Tucker puts his phone back into his pocket. 

Jules' head shakes, “It’s not as simple as her just ‘getting fired’. She got fired after accusing three MU hockey players of sexual assault... I thought this was known news.”

The guys turn towards Jules immediately, shocked and disgusted at hearing what you had endured. 

“What?” Logan’s voice is flat, his nostrils flair as he grips the liquor bottle in his hand.

“Yeah,” Jules takes another sip of their drink. “Her case didn't even make it to court, which is insane because of what she accused them of doing to her.” Their eyes roll before glancing over to you, “At least she’s made friends here already. She seems like a great addition.”

“She is,” Tucker says as he mixes ingredients in a bowl. “She fixed my hamstring! She clearly has a gift.”

Dean’s eyes are locked in on the dance floor, “Minnesota will have to face us if they fuck with Stretch.”

“Wait, what happened with the hockey players?” Logan asks as he opens the bottle of liquor and pours it into a shot glass before tossing the liquid into his mouth. 

“Absolutely fucking nothing,” Jules pulls out their phone and scrolls before pointing at the screen. “The accused are actually Minnesota’s starting line.”

The men all share the same primal look before Dean says, “Guess we’re wrecking Minnesota tomorrow.” 

“You’re damn right,” Logan agrees before taking another shot. He watches you dance around, carefree and happy. His stomach ties in knots thinking of what you had been through. 

You can’t help but to feel like you’re being watched as you start to scan the room, still dancing around Allie. Your line of vision lands on the kitchen where a small group of athletes stand awkwardly behind the kitchen island; each of the men stare off into different parts of the room. Jules smiles and waves before taking another sip of their drink.

You wave back, confused before turning back to Allie. “What is that about?” You ask, breathless as you continue to dance along to the rhythm of the loud music. “That was weird, right?”

Her brown eyes shift over to the kitchen before falling quickly to the ground, “I- uh.. Y-you know them- there’s no telling.”

Your brows lace together seeing Allie’s apprehension, “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, “Nothing, nothing. I think the crowd might be getting to be too much.” You notice her eyes shifting over to the kitchen island again, her gaze lingering before ultimately falling back to the carpeted floor, “Maybe I’ve just drank too much.”

“I’m sure Tuck would be more than happy to feed you,” You motion towards the kitchen. “C’mon, let's get you sober.”

As the two of you push through the crowd, Hannah and Garrett descend the stairs, looping around the foyer to the kitchen and running into you and Allie at the island. 

“Holy shit at this crowd,” Hannah says loudly over the bumping music.

“How have you guys managed?” Garrett asks.

“Alcohol, Graham. Alcohol,” Dean teases, taking a shot before he turns away from the group and heads towards the dance floor. “In fact, I’m about to be managing even better.”

“So, were you helping tutor Garrett?” Allie teases as she gives Hannah a hip bump.

Hannah smiles widely, blushing as she bumps her hip back at Allie, “Oh, shut up.”

Garrett’s hand wraps around Hannah’s waist as he plants a gentle kiss on the back of her head, “I’m gonna take the trash out real quick, okay?”

“Okay,” She nods as she turns her head towards her boyfriend, kissing him sweetly before turning back towards you and Allie. 

“You guys are adorable,” you smile. 

“Thanks,” she peeks over her shoulder, watching her boyfriend head out towards the trashbin outside. “He’s pretty great. I’m lucky.”

“Han,” Allie says, her brown eyes darting towards the staircase. “Bathroom trip?”

“Of course,” Hannah replies before she looks at you, “Bathroom trips are for the girlies only. Would you like to join?”

“I’m actually good,” you flash them both a smile. “I’m honored to have been invited though. Next time!” 

“Fine,” Allie says. “You’ll be missed.”

“However will you pee without me?” You tease.

“I’ll hold her hand, don’t worry,” Hannah jokes. “Be right back!”

“Good luck!” You say before turning towards the countertop where most of the hockey players stood, bumping right into Logan’s chest. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” 

“No need to apologize,” he shakes his head, his warm eyes gaze down at you. Beau accidentally backs into you as a group of puck bunnies make their way through the house, pushing you back into John’s chest. “Are you good?” he gulps at your nearness.

“Feeling a tad squished,” your chest presses firmly against the man towering over you, “And very short.”

Logan nods, “You are quite short.” 

“Hey!” You give him a sassy look. “Maybe you’re just insanely tall?”

John’s face is only inches from yours as he says, “You know, I just realized I never thanked you for fixing my neck a few weeks ago. That thing was killer and you magically made it go away.”

God, he smelled so good.

“Thanks, Logan.”

“No, ma’am. Thank you,” he licks his bottom lip before smiling at you again. 

“I am so sorry, Stretch,” Beau turns, dusting you off and giving you room to breathe again. “It was a little cramped there for a bit. Sorry about almost squeezing you to death.”

“It’s okay, Beau,” you reply, feeling like you should be standing on a step stool as you stand sandwiched between the two athletes. “Would you guys want to do a shot with me? Hannah and Allie aren’t here and I don’t like drinking alone. It’s okay if not.”

“Hell yes!” Beau grabs three shot glasses and nods at Logan, “Three shots, good sir.”

“Gladly,” John bows, smiling widely as he fills the small cups with liquor. You each grab your respective glass.

“Cheers to our incredible physical therapist,” Beau says as he holds his shot glass up.

“No, no, no,” you raise your glass. “Cheers to the Hawks being undefeated this semester!”

“To Stretch!” Dean yells from across the living room, holding up an invisible glass as he dances behind a beautiful redhead. 

“When did he get so plastered and who allowed it?” You turn to both boys. “Who was on Dean watch?”

The guys look at each other and then to you. 

“It was Tuck,” Beau says quickly, shrugging.

“Oh, no no no, Maxwell, you two aren’t pinning this on Tucker, because he has been graciously hosting all of us. You-,” you point at Beau. “-were on duty tonight. Weren’t you?”

“I can try to wrangle him in,” Beau says before abruptly knocking back his shot and stretching his neck from shoulder to shoulder. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck!” You yell over the music as Beau shimmies his way into the crowd.

Logan’s laugh grabs your attention. 

“What’s so funny?” you ask, still holding your full shot glass.

“Nothing, really. There’s just never a dull moment. Hasn’t been one since I’ve gotten to Briar U,” He watches his friends before directing his brown eyes at you. “We still need to take these shots!”

“Oh, shit!” You hold your glass up to the man. “Cheers to you, John Logan.”

“No, ma’am,” he touches his glass to yours. “Cheers to you. We’re lucky to have you.”

“You are always so sweet to me, John. Thank you,” you nod before taking your shot, shaking your head as warmness spreads through your stomach. 

“You’re easy to be sweet to, Stretch,” his cheeks hurt from smiling as he throws the shot into his mouth, hissing before placing the glass back onto the island countertop.

“Looks like Beau has successfully corralled Dean,” you nod towards the two men wrestling on the living room floor, grunting and laughing as they each take turns overpowering the other. “I guess?”

“This is normal behavior, so I say Beau’s wrangling of Dean was a success. Now to get Dean to go to sleep..” John laughs as he watches Beau get Dean into a playful chokehold.

“How are you feeling about tomorrow’s game?”

His question makes your heart race.

“I- uh, I think you guys will do well if you all stop drinking,” you tease, though your voice is laced with melancholy. “No, really. I think you guys will easily win. Your line of defense is too strong to lose.”

John’s eyes look sad as he stares down at you.

“What?” Your brows furrow. “Did I say something?”

“No, no,” he shakes his head. “I.. uh-I was asking because Jules kind of told us why you left MU.” He shakes his head at his sudden word vomit. “But- but, it's not a big deal, I swear.”

Your heart sinks into your stomach. “What? Oh god.. You guys know?”

John is at a loss for words, swallowing hard before he clears his throat.

“Oh my god,” you feel lightheaded from the rush of anxiety washing over you. Faint ringing silences the noises from the party around you. “I-uh, I have to go.”

You feel like you’re outside of your body as your feet begin towards the front door of the house. John quickly follows as you head out of the house and start down the sidewalk, not even walking in the direction of your room.

Your feet pick up the pace as you begin to run, hoping to escape the shame and embarrassment you felt as hot tears run down your face.

Logan runs after you, his long legs catching up with you as his large hands reach out to grab your arm. “Hey, hey-” he coos, bringing you both to a halt. “Hey, look at me. Please.”

You blink back tears as you stare at the ground. “You guys weren’t supposed to find out.. no one was. Coach Jensen said the news would never get out,” you shake your head. “I told him you’d all find out eventually and that you’ll think differently of me.. Maybe even hate me. Or-or maybe you’d be uncomfortable to be around me if you knew.”

“You thought we would hate you after finding out three grown men sexually assaulted you?” He lets out an exhausted scoff. “You should have been worried that we would kill the assholes that hurt you after we found out what happened.”

Finally, your saddened gaze meets John’s deep eyes. The tears streaming down your face shine under the streetlamp, breaking Logan’s heart as he swallows down his building rage, not wanting his defensiveness to scare you.

He points in the direction of the stadium, “If any of those motherfuckers even look your way tomorrow I will personally beat the shit out of each one of them.” His lips press together as he exhales slowly, shaking a bit as his fingers rake through his locks. “Look.. No one is ever hurting you again. None of us will allow that shit.. Especially me.”

“I don’t know what to say,” you murmur, staring at the beautiful man in front of you. “I-I was so scared for you guys to find out why I had to leave Minnesota. Especially you..”

“Me?” He’s taken aback, brows furrowing as he blinks. “Why?”

“Who wants to be with a girl who got raped by three different guys?”

“I’m sorry, what? They raped you?” John starts seeing red as he begins to pace. “And no one believed you?”

“People would rather not believe me than believe their star hockey players are monsters,” you try to relax your aching jaw from clenching your teeth so tightly. “I should have never come forward. I probably should have just stopped being a physical therapist after everything happened.”

Logan stops pacing, “You were right in coming forward. I believe you. We all believe you.”

Your voice is small as you say, “I’m scared to see them tomorrow.”

“You can be scared, that’s valid,” he locks eyes with you again. “But you need to know, no one will hurt you while I’m around. I swear on my life.”

“You don’t think differently of me?” You ask, confused by his protectiveness after finding out your deepest shame. 

“Hell no,” he says, stepping closer to you. “If anything, it makes me even more protective of you than I was before.”

“You wanted to protect me before?” You choke in disbelief that John Logan even thought of you outside of being the hockey team’s physical therapist.

“Yeah, I did.. And I still do,” his chest rises and falls as he looks down at you, his fingertips brushing against yours before his hand wraps around your shaking palm. “You are an incredible woman.”

You instinctively stretch out onto your tippy toes and plant a chaste kiss on Logan’s stubbly cheek. “Thank you, Johnny,” you whisper. “Thanks for believing in me.”

His cheeks flush as he nods, his hand reaches out to wipe the tears from your face. His voice is so kind as he whispers, “You’re welcome, Stretch.”

You look away bashfully just as John’s warm lips meet your cheek, shocking you as you turn back to him, blinking wildly as a gleeful smile spreads across your face, “Thank you.”

“For what?” He looks confused. You point to your cheek, blushing. “Are you thanking me for kissing you on the cheek?” He smiles, “I’ll do it again.”

His free hand gently cups your face as he slowly leans down and lovingly kisses your cheek before moving to your opposite cheek, tenderly kissing your flesh and sending butterflies rushing through your gut. 

He stands a little straighter, your cheek remains cradled in his large hand as he says, “Let me take you home. I’ll even come get you tomorrow before morning skate so I can take you to get brunch at Malone’s before my pre-game nap.”

You laugh, “You take a pre-game nap?”

“Yes ma’am. They’re glorious, and greatly encouraged by Coach,” he smiles. “You’re more than welcome to join me in whatever you feel comfortable doing. I do happen to have an incredibly comfortable blow up mattress I can sleep on, so you can take my bed if you decide to partake in nap time at the hockey house.”

You can feel your cheeks heating up as you reply, “I’ll have to consider that. I guess we’ll just see where the day takes us, Logan.”

“Whatever you do tomorrow, please don’t be alone,” he sounds like he’s pleading. “You need to stick with me and the boys, or Hannah and Allie tomorrow since those assholes will be around town.

The anxiety from early comes creeping in as your heart starts to race.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Hey, look at me.. Please.”

Your wary eyes scan up to meet his deep gaze. 

“Remember that I am right here, always. You need me at 3 am? Call me. You want me to go egg the hotel where MU is staying? Say less, let's go right now.”

You smile weakly at John, “You’re too sweet to me.” 

“I’m serious. Please.. If you need anything or feel scared.. Anything.. Just, please- please promise me that you’ll call me so I can be here for you,” he pleads. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. I need you to know that I’m here for you.”

“I promise, I will,” you nod. “Walk me home?”

“Okay, Stretch,” his thumb strokes the apple of your cheek before he motions towards the Hawk House. “Lets get out of here.”

———

Friendships weren’t much different. You were always the one to organise, to text first, to check in.  

Over time, you’d learnt how to shrink yourself to fit into the narrow personality that others allowed you.

The worst part of it was, despite it all, you still had hope. You still clung to the idea that if you just tried a little bit harder, performed a little better, or needed a little less, you’d finally be chosen.

♬ So, I'm patient, you're learning, pretend it's not hurting, oh (Oh) / They say it's a virtue to not let good love slip away ('Way) ♬

The problem with learning to survive on crumbs, was that it meant that it was all too easy to convince yourself that the scraps you were given was plentiful. You told yourself that you couldn’t let him slip away. You forced yourself to believe that this was what real love was supposed to feel like.

When your ex showed up hours late to your birthday dinner, you were quick to make excuses. ‘I’m his first real girlfriend,’ you reminded yourself. ‘He just needs time to learn how this works.’

Sometimes, your compliant façade would break. You’d send a quick, desperate text.

A ‘Hey, where are you?’ whenever he was late without telling you.

A ‘Please answer the call.’ When he’d take days to respond to your texts.

A ‘Do you still love me?’ when he’d be silent for too long.

A ‘Please don’t leave.’ When he’d question why you’re questioning his ‘love’ for you.

Somehow, you always ended up apologising. He was trying, and you were just being ungrateful.

♬ All that I want is to know undoubtedly / That you just have eyes for me / Could you make it clear? ♬

Everything you thought you knew changed when you began dating Dean. You realised that you had never really been loved before.

As old wounds constantly resurfaced, sudden realisations would hit you. You couldn’t recall a time where you’d had to ask him to show you affection, his hand would easily, absentmindedly, find yours whenever you were together. Compliments and affirmations simply rolled off of his tongue before you could even open your mouth to question.

Hald of the time, his affection would be given so freely that you felt like you were imagining it. You quickly discovered that, despite the playboy persona he presented, you never had to compete for a thing. You never had to fight for his gaze, even with half the campus throwing themselves at him.

Slowly, and cautiously, you were learning to accept it. But the thing about old wounds was that they loved rearing their ugly head.

It was Friday night, and Dean had promised weeks ago that this evening belonged to you. A quiet movie night, just the two of you. A rare luxury given his hockey schedule.

You were humming softly, packing your overnight bag, when your phone buzzed on the mattress.

Dean: hey babe. Dean: mind if we swing by the park for an hour before the movie? the guys are throwing a bonfire to celebrate the win

It felt like such a silly, trivial, thing to be upset over. It was just an hour. But, in your experience, an hour never actually meant an hour, time would fly, the crowd would grow, and the next thing you knew, the sun would be rising. You truly did like his hockey teammates, but this wasn’t the evening you were promised, nor the one you wanted.

Every muscle in your body locked up. An all too familiar, suffocating ache bloomed beneath your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs. Panic ran through your mind. If you asked him to stay, you’d be the needy girlfriend. If you complained, he would think you were suffocating him. So, you just swallowed it.

With trembling fingers, you typed your reply.

You: no problem. you should go and have fun.

The screen instantly lit up with an incoming call from Dean. as you stared at the screen, you let it ring out, terrified he would detect the threat of tears in your voice.  

When you didn’t answer, Dean texted you.

Dean: why don't you want to come with? Dean: it’ll be fun Dean: the guys would love to see you too

The problem with surviving on crumbs for so long is that you knew how to pretend like you weren’t hungry.

You: honestly, i'm kind of tired anyway. you earnt the win, go celebrate :) You: see you tomorrow

You didn’t wait to see if he replied. You set your phone face-down on the nightstand, walked into the living room, opened your laptop, and started the movie alone in the quiet room.

♬ So, I'm cool and forgiving, I'll take what you're giving, oh (Ooh) / But nothing's quite enough, when I know that to get it, I begged / Yeah, to get it, I begged ♬

You sat cross-legged on the sofa, tears hot and biting against your eyes. Dean was incredible, you knew that. But that couldn’t stop the dark, poisonous thought in your mind. ‘Does he only like me because I never ask for anything? if I asked him to chose me over his teammates, would he?’

Even just the thought of having to plead for Dean’s attention hurt worse than anything you’d been through before. You couldn’t slip back into that agonising and humiliating cycle of pleading for undivided attention. You couldn’t do it again, especially not with Dean.

A sudden knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts.

Wiping your face quickly, your heart hammered against your ribs as you stood and walked over to the door. You took a deep breath and plastered on a smile before swinging it open. Dean was standing on the threshold, looking slightly winded, as if he had run up the stairs.

“Dean?” You said, voice dripping with confusion. “What are you doing here?”

Dean stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and made a beeline for the sofa.

“Your texts were weird, then I called you twice and you didn’t answer.” He sat down on the sofa and patted his lap. “Come here.”

Without argument, you walk over and settle on his lap, sitting sideways across his legs.

His hands immediately settle on your waist, rubbing circles there. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you laughed nervously. Dean didn’t laugh.

“Talk to me, please.”

You turned your head to look at him, he was looking up at you, pleading with his eyes. The intensity was too much, so you looked over at the wall. “You didn’t need to come here. I told you, I’m fine.”

“Stop saying that,” Dean pleaded, he turned your head to look at him again. His eyes searched yours, desperate to find the answers to your thoughts. “You can trust me with the truth.”

“I was just... I was really looking forward to tonight, Dean,” you confessed, throat burning and your voice trembling with an anxiety you couldn't suppress as a tear finally spilled over. “We haven't had a night just for us in weeks, and when you asked to go to the bonfire, it just… it felt like I was being shoved to the side again. I didn't want to be the needy, demanding girlfriend who ruins your fun...”

You braced yourself for the inevitable shift in his expression. You waited for the flash of irritation, to be told you were overreacting. You braced yourself to plead your case.

“Again?” Dean asked.

You blinked, the breath catching in your throat. You didn’t think to choose your words carefully; you weren’t used to being listened to in the way that Dean did.  

“Not you,” you clarified, “I just... I just meant that...”

You didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Would he think you were pathetic if he knew the truth?

“People have made you feel this way before? Enough that it’s had this effect on you?”

Dean looked at you, but not with the pity you were expecting. You shrug in response because nodding would make it too real.

His arms tightened around you.

“I’m so sorry I made you feel this way, sweetheart,” he said, he kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “I wasn’t even thinking, I just got caught up with team stuff, but that’s a lousy excuse.”

It was almost too much for your nervous system to process. The lack of conflict felt foreign.

You broke then; it was like the dam holding back years of tears broke. Dean just held you, strong, steady, and supportive like he always was.

Later, when you’d finally settled and you were watching the movie that you’d planned, he pulled you back to look into your eyes.  

“Let me make this incredibly clear to you right now. You are my priority,” he said, voice steady but intense. “If you want me here, I am here. You never have to shrink yourself for me, and you never, ever have to hide how you feel.”

Looking into Dean’s devoted eyes, you finally realised that with him, you didn't have to fight to be seen. With Dean, you were effortlessly chosen.

it was your choice, you reminded yourself, repeating the mantra that had kept you upright for the last twelve weeks. you chose to walk out of his room. you chose not to call.

"he's not your father," your roommate and best friend, trinity, had argued just the night before.

she had been pacing the worn linoleum floor of your shared campus apartment, her eyes tracking you with a mix of fierce worry and frustration while you sat on the bathroom floor, throwing up into a plastic trash can.

"dean is a lot of things. he's a flirt, he's loud, he's a massive distraction, and he lives in a house that smells like stale beer and hockey sweat. but he isn't a monster. you have to tell him, or i swear to god i'm going to find tucker at the rink and have him do it for you." she sighed as you shook your head.

you knew trinity meant well.

you really, truly did.

she was the one who bought you saltine crackers at two in the morning, the one who held your hair back, and the one who looked up single-mother grant programs on her laptop when you were too exhausted to think.

she wasn't trying to force your hand out of malice; she just hated seeing you carry an entire universe on your shoulders when there was a perfectly capable guy who helped put it there.

but trinity didn't have your history.

she hadn't grown up listening to the bitter, cautionary tales of a mother who got pregnant at a college party by a boy (your father) who vanished into thin air the second the test turned pink.

she hadn't seen the quiet, exhausting toll of a woman working two jobs just to buy school supplies, always reminding her daughter that boys with bright smiles and big reputations were nothing but a beautiful trap.

to you, dean di laurentis was the ultimate manifestation of that danger.

he was briar university's golden boy, a hockey legacy with a jawline carved by the gods and an easy, effortless charm that made everyone in his orbit feel like the center of the universe.

he possessed a reputation for a rotating door of admirers that preceded him everywhere he went, from the campus coffee shops to the crowded lecture halls.

you had been one of those quiet admirers for semesters, harboring a private, desperate crush from the safety of the upper student section at the arena.

you were a psychology major, someone who spent her days analyzing behavior and defense mechanisms, yet you couldn't analyze yourself out of the way your chest tightened every time he took the ice.

then came a party in early november.

emboldened by a little too much vodka and the sheer, infectious electricity of the team's victory, you had actually pursued him.

you hadn't just watched from the corner this time; you had walked right up to him at the kitchen island, matched his easy, arrogant banter with a sharp wit he hadn't expected, and when the chance arose to leave the noise behind and go up to his room, you took it.

and god, he had been wonderful.

that was the part that terrified you the most.

he wasn't the careless, selfish playboy you had braced yourself for; he was attentive and entirely intoxicating.

he had asked you questions, looked at you like he actually wanted to hear the answers, and held you like you were something fragile and precious.

but when you woke up the next morning wrapped in his sheets, the freezing weight of reality had set in.

the morning sun filtered through his blinds, illuminating the hockey medals on his dresser and the stray red plastic cups on the floor.

you were just a tuesday night after a massive win.

to save yourself the humiliation of a polite, dismissive text three days later, you had gathered your clothes from the floor, slipped your shoes on, and walked out of his life before he even stirred.

three weeks later, the morning sickness had started.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"patient 114?" a nurse called out, holding an electronic chart and looking around the waiting room with an expressionless, practiced gaze.

you swallowed the lump in your throat, stood up completely alone, and smoothed down the front of your sweater.

you walked past the couple, feeling the immense, crushing gravity of a secret that was growing bigger by the second.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the briar u campus was experiencing an unseasonably warm spring afternoon two months later.

winter had finally cracked, leaving the quad packed with students lounging on blankets, tossing frisbees, and desperately trying to absorb enough vitamin d to survive the final stretch of the semester.

you sat under the deep, cool shade of a massive oak tree near the psychology building. you were wearing a loose dress—a highly tactical choice. at five months, you couldn't hide the changes with just oversized hoodies and clever posture anymore. the dress camouflaged the distinct, rounded curve of your belly perfectly, as long as you remained sitting down with your knees pulled slightly toward your chest.

you opened your heavy developmental psychology textbook, trying to focus on a chapter about early childhood attachment styles, but the heat and the persistent, dull ache in your lower back were making your eyes heavy.

your mind kept wondering how you were going to afford a crib and how you were going to explain to a child one day why their father was just a face on a hockey trading card.

more than anything, you were determined to continue your studies.

you hadn't spent years maintaining a high gpa just to drop out.

you were going to graduate from briar, baby or no baby.

your due date was calculated for mid-august, right before the fall semester began.

it was going to be a logistical nightmare, juggling a newborn and upper-level psychology seminars, but you were already mapping out a rigid study schedule in your planner.

you would survive it.

you had to.

a loud, booming laugh echoed across the lawn, instantly making your chest tighten so fast you lost your breath.

you looked up from the pages.

a dozen yards away, the hockey team was walking back from an afternoon workout at the campus gym.

they were a loud, boisterous pack, trailing duffel bags over their shoulders and laughing at some inside joke.

at the very center of the group was dean.

his damp hair was pushed back from his forehead, his gray briar athletics t-shirt clinging to his chest, and that trademark, effortless smile was polished across his face as he joked with garrett graham.

your hand moved automatically to your stomach, protectively covering the life growing inside you.

you pulled your massive textbook higher up against your chest, freezing like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck.

please don't look over here. please just keep walking to the dining hall.

dean was laughing, his shoulders shaking as garrett gestured wildly, but as his eyes scanned the quad, his gaze inadvertently drifted toward the shade of your tree.

you looked down instantly, staring so hard at a paragraph on cognitive dissonance that the black ink blurred into meaningless lines.

dean paused mid-stride.

his brow furrowed, his sneakers digging into the soft grass.

the easy, permanent smile faltered as a sharp, incredibly vivid memory flashed through his mind.

the specific, soft scent of your skin, the quiet, grounding confidence you had shown when you walked up to him at the party, and the sudden, confusing sting of disappointment he had

felt when he woke up to a cold, empty bed.

he had looked for you for weeks after that night.

he had asked around, looked through social media, but briar was a massive university, and you had intentionally made yourself a ghost.

"hey, dean, you coming or what? the burrito place fills up fast on thursdays," tucker called out, noticing his friend had suddenly dropped back from the group.

"yeah. go ahead, man. i'll catch up with you guys in a minute," dean muttered, his eyes locked entirely on the girl under the oak tree.

he started walking across the grass.

every step he took felt like a countdown to an explosion you couldn't prevent.

you saw his shadow fall over your open textbook, blocking out the filtered sunlight, before you finally forced yourself to look up.

"hey," dean said. his voice was softer than it usually was, completely stripped of the loud, easy bravado he carried around his teammates.

he rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous, his fingers twitching against his duffel bag strap. "it's... you. right? from my place, a few months ago? you kind of vanished into thin air."

"dean. hi," you managed to choke out. your heart was hammering against your ribs so violently you were certain he could see it through your clothes.

your palms were slick with sweat against the cardboard cover of your book. "yeah. i—i have a class to get to, actually—"

terrified of what he might see if he looked too closely at your posture, you scrambled to gather your things.

but your balance was off, your center of gravity completely shifted by the pregnancy.

your coordination failed, and the heavy psychology textbook slipped from your fingers, hitting the grass with a dull thud.

papers and highlighters tumbled out.

you instinctively reached down to grab it, but the physical restriction of your five-month belly made the movement clumsy.

as you bent over, the fabric of your dress pulled tight across your torso, outlining the unmistakable and beautifully rounded curve of your stomach.

dean bent down at the exact same time to grab the book for you, his large hand reaching for the cover, but his movements froze entirely.

from his angle, right at eye level with your lap, there was no hiding it.

the truth was standing between you, loud and undeniable.

dean's eyes widened, the blue of his irises bright with absolute shock.

his mind, usually so quick with a joke or a strategic play on the ice, ground to a screeching, chaotic halt.

he looked from your stomach, up to your terrified face, and back down again.

the timeline crashed into his head like a brutal body check against the boards. late fall. the championship party. five months ago. the night she left.

"is that..." dean's voice cracked, losing all of its usual suave composure. he dropped the textbook entirely back into the grass, his hands hovering in the air between you as if he were afraid to touch reality, his fingers trembling slightly. "wait. hold on. is that mine?"

panic, cold and sharp as ice water, flooded your veins.

the judgment of the campus, the ghost of your mother's past, the terrifying fear of him laughing or calling you a liar—it all hit you at once, blinding your senses.

you grabbed your tote bag, shoving the loose highlighters inside with trembling hands, and pushed past him, your boots skidding on the dirt.

"i have to go, dean. just leave it alone."

"hey, wait. please. stop." dean scrambled after you, his long, athletic strides easily catching up before you could even reach the paved pathway.

he didn't grab you roughly, but he placed a gentle, pleading hand on your forearm, just enough to anchor you, his grip warm and remarkably steady despite his shock.

when you spun around to face him, you had tears blurring your vision, the quad spinning around you.

dean looked entirely breathless, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as he stared at you. there was immense shock in his eyes, yes, but beneath it, moving in like a tidal wave, was an intense, unexpected expression of sheer protectiveness.

"please don't run away again," dean whispered, his gaze dropping down to the curve of your dress, then right back up into your tear-filled eyes. "just... talk to me. please. you don't have to run."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

an hour later, you were sitting in the farthest corner booth of a quiet, dim, off-campus diner that was usually empty between the lunch and dinner rushes.

the jukebox in the corner was dark, and the only sound was the low sizzle of the kitchen grill behind the counter.

dean had bought you a grilled cheese sandwich and a massive, condensation-covered glass of milk.

he hadn't forced you to say a word since he had guided you into his car. he just sat across from you, his large frame filling the vinyl booth, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, his hands clasped tightly on the table.

"why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly, breaking the long silence.

his fingers traced the ring of water left by his glass on the tabletop. "i've been racking my brain for the last hour trying to figure out if i did something wrong that night. what did i do? did i hurt you? did i make you feel like i wouldn't care? did i say something stupid?"

"no," you said, your voice cracking as you looked out the window at the passing traffic.

your fingers tore off a tiny piece of the sandwich crust, though your stomach was too twisted to eat. "you were great, dean. it wasn't you. it was... everything else. it was me."

"it's obviously not just you," he said gently, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demanded honesty. "help me understand. please. because waking up to an empty room was bad enough, but finding out you've been carrying this around for five months by yourself? that hurts."

and then, because the weight of the last twenty weeks was simply too heavy for your shoulders to bear anymore, the dam broke.

the psychological walls you had meticulously built up over years crumbled into dust.

you told him everything.

you told him about your mother.

you told him about growing up in a tiny house where every bill was a crisis, listening to the story of a popular college athlete who had promised your mother the world under the red solo cup lights of a fraternity house, only to pack his bags and transfer schools the second the word baby was spoken.

you told him about the terrifying statistics of single-parent households you read in your text books, the deep-seated fear of being a burden, and the agonizing weight of those clinic appointments where you sat alone in a sea of happy, supportive couples.

"i looked at them, dean," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your nose. "i sat there every month, watching these guys hold their wives' hands, carrying their bags, looking at the sonogram photos like they'd just won the lottery. and i was just... patient 114. i didn't want to see the look on your face if you thought i was trying to trap you. i didn't want to see you walk away like he did."

dean listened to every single word, his body perfectly still.

his jaw clenched tighter and tighter with every sentence that left your mouth, not with anger directed at you, but with a profound, simmering fury at the ghost of the man who had raised you to believe that all men were cowards.

his chest rose and fell heavily.

when you finished, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, dean didn't hesitate.

he reached across the table, his arm bridging the distance between your separate worlds, and took your hand in his.

his palm was rough from hockey sticks, warm, and incredibly solid.

"i am not him," dean said, his voice dropping an octave, completely fierce and steady. there was no hesitation in his eyes, no panic, no calculation. "i don't care about my reputation. i don't care that we're still in college. this is my kid, too. and more importantly, it's you. i'm not going anywhere. do you hear me? i am right here."

you looked down at his large hand covering yours, desperately wanting to believe the warmth of it, but the old survival instincts were hard to kill.

"dean, you don't have to pretend for my sake. you have a life. you have scouts coming to games, you have a professional career ahead of you, you have your friends—"

"hey," he interrupted gently, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of your hand, mimicking the gesture you had envied in the waiting room months ago. "let's make a deal. no pressure. i know i have a lot to prove to you. just let me be your friend. let me carry your bags. let me take you to the doctor. let me show you that you don't have to do this alone anymore."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

true to his word, dean shifted his entire universe within forty-eight hours.

the transformation was nothing short of a statistical anomaly to anyone who knew him.

the guy who used to sleep until noon on days off and survive on cold pizza and protein shakes was suddenly standing outside your dorm building at 9:00 am.

he would be waiting in his idling car, the passenger seat already stocked with saltine crackers and pre-packaged ginger ale because he had spent the previous night reading medical forums about morning sickness trends in the second and third trimesters.

at first, it was kind of awkward.

you were protective of your routine, used to relying only on yourself and trinity but dean was persistent in the most gentle way possible.

he became your shadow on campus.

he would meet you outside your difficult seminars, completely unbothered by the lingering stares and whispers of his teammates or the girls who used to follow him around the quad.

he would silently take your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulders, slinging it over his own massive arm alongside his hockey gear, and walk at your slower, deliberate pace without a single complaint.

"you know people are talking, right?" you asked him one afternoon as you walked toward the library, your hand resting on the small of your aching back.

"let them talk," dean said, shrug of his shoulders easy and unbothered. "they're just jealous i get to hang out with the smartest girl on campus. besides, tucker tried to ask me about it yesterday, and i told him if he didn't shut his mouth i would chuck him into the net during practice. he hasn't brought it up since."

you couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, the sound surprising even yourself.

dean looked down at you, his eyes softening at the sound, a faint spark in his gaze that made your stomach do a completely different kind of flip.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by the sixth month, your apartment had become a secondary storage unit. dean had told his parents. you had been terrified of that phone call, expecting high-society rejection, but his mother had apparently gone into full grandmother mode within thirty seconds.

huge boxes began arriving weekly—baby blankets, organic cotton onesies, a high-tech stroller, and specialized maternity pillows.

but the most significant change was inside dean's shared house. he had cleaned out the small spare room on the first floor, moving out old fitness equipment and broken hockey sticks.

in its place, he had moved in a massive, incredibly plush velvet rocking chair.

"what is this?" you asked, standing in the doorway of the room during a saturday visit where he had insisted on making you lunch.

"it's a glider," dean said proudly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel as he stood behind you. "i read that the movement helps with lower back pain during the third trimester.

and, you know... just in case you ever want to visit and your back hurts, you have a place that's yours."

you looked at the chair, then at the hockey star who had bought it, feeling the cold, icy edges of your old trauma melting away a little bit more every day.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the true turning point came during the eighth-month ultrasound appointment.

the clinic waiting room looked exactly the same as it had during your first trimester—same low hum, same couples holding hands.

but this time, the space felt completely different. you weren't hiding under an oversized sweater, and you weren't staring at a frayed thread.

you were sitting next to dean. his large frame was crammed into the small plastic waiting room chair, his knees nearly touching his chin, but he didn't look impatient at all.

he was reading a pamphlet on newborn sleep cycles with a level of concentration usually reserved for analyzing a rival team's defensive plays.

"patient 114—sorry, i mean, by your last name?" the nurse called out, correcting herself with a warm smile as she recognized you.

you stood up, and before you could even reach for your purse, dean was already on his feet, grabbing your coat and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder.

he extended his free hand to you, his fingers open, waiting.

you hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding your hand into his, letting his warmth steady you as you walked down the narrow hallway.

the ultrasound room was dim, the monitor glowing with a soft blue light.

you laid back on the paper-covered table, pulling up your shirt to expose the massive, high, tight curve of your eight-month belly.

dean sat in the chair right next to your head, his eyes wide as the technician squeezed the cold, clear gel onto your skin.

he didn't look away for a second, his grip on your hand tightening as the technician pressed the transducer against your stomach.

at first, there was only static—a rushing, hollow sound of fluids and movement. then, with a slight adjustment of the plastic wand, the audio cleared, and a loud, rhythmic sound filled the small room.

thump-thump, thump-thump.

"there we go," the technician said gently, pointing a finger at the grainy, gray-and-white screen. "there's a strong heartbeat. looks like baby is growing right on schedule."

you looked over at dean, expecting him to look overwhelmed by the sheer finality of the sound.

instead, you found him staring at the monitor with thick, silent tears streaming straight down his cheeks.

his jaw was slightly slack, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips as he stared at the little flickering shape on the screen.

"that's... that's our baby," he whispered, his voice thick and raspy with an emotion so raw it made your own eyes well up with tears.

he leaned over the edge of the table, completely unbothered by the technician's presence, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles, his forehead resting against your hand for a long moment. "look at that, sweetheart. we made a little athlete. listen to that pace."

in that exact moment, the final, stubborn, defensive walls around your heart—the ones built by your mother's warnings, the ones built by years of watching men walk away from hard things—completely crumbled into nothing.

you realized that trinity had been right from the very start. dean wasn't your father.

he was entirely, undeniably his own man.

and he was already a father.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by the time your ninth month arrived, the unseasonably warm spring had turned into the suffocating heat of late summer.

walking across the campus pavement felt like trekking through a desert, and your ankles had reached a level of swelling that made shoes feel like instruments of torture.

the platonic friendship dean had insisted on maintaining had grown desperately fragile over the last few weeks—not because it was failing, but because the sheer, undeniable gravity of the romantic tension between you had become too loud to ignore.

every touch lingered a second too long; every look held a weight that had nothing to do with doctor's appointments or crib instructions.

one evening, a thunderstorm was rolling in over the campus, the sky a bruised purple color that brought a temporary coolness to the air.

you were sitting on the plush sofa in dean's living room, surrounded by a mountain of freshly washed baby clothes that needed to be sorted into bins.

dean's teammates were away for the weekend, leaving the house uncharacteristically quiet, save for the low rumble of thunder outside.

dean was sitting on the hardwood floor right by your feet, a bottle of lavender lotion in his hand.

he had your bare, swollen left foot resting on his knee, his large, calloused thumbs working in slow, rhythmic circles across your arch with a level of focus that made your heart ache.

"dean?" you said softly, breaking the steady sound of the rain against the windowpane.

"yeah, sweetheart?" he murmured, his gaze remaining down on his hands, his thumbs never stopping their steady, soothing pressure.

"why are you doing all of this?" you asked. the question had been sitting on your tongue for weeks, a final, lingering piece of uncertainty that needed to be aired out. "the baby isn't even here yet. you've spent every weekend for months building furniture, reading parenting manuals, handling my moods, and taking care of me. you didn't have to go this far just to prove you're a good guy. you proved that a long time ago."

dean stopped his movements.

his hands remained cupped around your foot for a long, silent moment while the thunder rolled outside the house.

slowly, deliberately, he let go of your foot and shifted his weight, rising until he was kneeling on the floor right in front of you, his face level with yours.

he reached up, his hands large and incredibly warm as he placed them gently on either side of your face, his thumbs wiping away the sudden, familiar spike of anxiety in your eyes.

"you really are a psychology student, aren't you? always trying to find the hidden motive," he said, a soft, incredibly tender smile breaking across his lips—a smile that was completely devoid of his usual arrogance, leaving only the raw truth underneath. "i stopped doing this just for the baby a long time ago."

your breath hitched in your throat, your fingers tightening against the fabric of the baby blanket in your lap. "dean..."

"i love this kid, yeah. i would do anything for them," he confessed, his blue eyes burning into yours with absolute, unshakable certainty. "but i fell completely, totally in love with you. i love how fierce you are. i love how hard you tried to protect this baby from the world, even when you were terrified. i love the way you laugh when you think i'm being an idiot. i don't want to just be a great co-parent, and i don't want to just be the guy who carries your backpack. i want the whole thing. i want you."

your tears, warm and entirely relieving, spilled over your eyelashes, wetting his thumbs.

for the first time in your entire life, the ghost of your mother's past was entirely gone, vanished into the air like smoke.

there was no trap here.

there was only the beautiful, terrifying, certain reality of the man kneeling in front of you.

"took you long enough to finally say it," you whispered, a watery, breathless smile breaking through your tears.

dean let out a low, rough laugh as he leaned up the remaining few inches to press his lips against yours.

the kiss was sweet, slow, and full of a million quiet promises he had already spent the last four months keeping.

it tasted like rain and lavender lotion and home.

his fingers slid through your hair, holding you close, while his other hand moved down, flattening completely against the large, warm curve of your belly, feeling the faint, rhythmic kick of the life you had created together.

when he finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.

"we're going to be completely fine," dean whispered against your skin, his voice a fierce, unbreakable vow meant for both you and the little heartbeat inside you. "the three of us. i promise you. i'm right here."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the rhythmic click of a ballpoint pen was the loudest sound in the massive, tiered lecture hall.

you sat in the middle row of your advanced cognitive psychology seminar, your notebook laid out flat on the folding desk, your hand flying across the page to copy down the professor's slides on memory retrieval mechanisms.

beside your desk, tucked safely into the wide aisle, sat a heavy car seat wrapped in a soft navy blanket.

inside, just thirteen weeks old, rowan di laurentis was dead to the world.

his tiny fists were curled up next to his cheeks, a soft, rhythmic whistle puffing past his parted lips with every breath.

when the professor paused to switch slides, you glanced down, your heart swelling with a fierce, possessive warmth.

rowan had been born right on schedule in mid-august, and while the rest of your class spent the last week of summer partying, you and dean had been operating on two-hour sleep cycles, mastering the art of the swaddle, and staring at this tiny boy like he held the secrets to the universe.

some of your classmates had looked surprised to see you walk in three months after college had began with a stroller, but you had just offered them a polite, unbothered smile.

you were going to be a psychologist and rowan wasn't a reason to stop—he was the reason to run faster.

you dipped your hand down, gently brushing your index finger against rowan's minuscule knuckles.

his tiny hand instinctively locked around your finger, holding on tight even in his sleep.

you smiled, unhooked your finger, and went right back to typing your notes.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

across campus, the atmosphere was entirely different.

coach jensen's whistle blew, a sharp, piercing sound that sent the players scattering toward the benches for a two-minute hydration break.

dean skated hard over to the boards, his chest heaving under his heavy briar jersey, his face flushed red from the intense cardio drill. but he didn't reach for his water bottle first.

instead, he skated right toward the end of the team bench where a familiar, high-tech stroller was parked just behind the safety plexiglass, safely out of the way of any stray pucks.

trinity was sitting on the bench next to it, typing on her phone, fulfilling her promised shift of baby duty while she studied for her own classes.

dean ripped his heavy padded gloves off with his teeth, dropping them onto the ice, and leaned over the boards.

rowan was awake now, wearing a miniature, custom-made briar hockey jersey over his onesie, his massive brown eyes staring up at the bright stadium lights.

"how's my little winger doing?" dean breathed, his voice dripping with an absurd, high-pitched softness that made garrett graham laugh from three feet away.

dean reached over the plexiglass, his hand gently resting against rowan's tiny chest, his thumb stroking the soft cotton of the jersey. "you being good for auntie trinity? you watching daddy's skating form?"

rowan let out a tiny, erratic gurgle, kicking one foot up.

"he's been perfect," trinity said, looking up from her phone with a smirk. "a lot better behaved than you usually are during practice, di laurentis. now drink some water before jensen screams at you."

"yeah, yeah," dean grinned, finally grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swig. he looked back down at his son, a fierce, determined spark in his blue eyes.

balancing division one hockey and fatherhood was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he had never felt more alive.

he was going to give his kid the world, and he was going to do it right alongside you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

later that evening, the winter heat finally broke as dusk settled over the town.

dean's black suv pulled into the gravel driveway of a small, neat house on the edge of the university district.

the porch light was already on, casting a warm, golden glow over the front steps.

dean hopped out of the driver's seat, walking around to your side to open the door before you could even reach for the handle.

he offered you his hand, pulling you up gently, his fingers lingering against your palm before he turned to unbuckle rowan's car seat from the back.

you walked up the steps together, the familiar scent of garlic and homemade pasta sauce drifting through the screen door long before you even knocked.

before your knuckles could even touch the wood, the door swung open.

your mother stood there, her apron tied around her waist, her eyes instantly bypassing the two of you to lock onto the plastic car seat in dean's hand.

a massive, radiant smile broke across her face, smoothing away the lines of a lifetime of hard work.

"there's my grandson," she beamed, her arms already reaching out as she stepped onto the porch.

dean smiled, handing the car seat over with a practiced ease that showed just how natural this had become for him.

"hi, mom. he slept the whole ride over." you smiled as your mother carried the seat inside, cooing at the sleeping baby.

you and dean stood on the porch for a quiet second.

dean looped his arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head as you both watched your mother unbuckle her grandson through the front window.

there was no ghost of the past in this house anymore.

there was no fear of a running man or a broken promise.

there was only the smell of a warm dinner, a grandmother's laughter, and the solid, heavy weight of the man who had promised to stay—and meant every single word.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the dining room of your childhood home was small, but tonight it felt entirely full. the air was thick with the rich, comforting scent of your mother's signature marinara sauce, a recipe that had historically been reserved only for birthdays or the rare moments when a budget stretch allowed for a celebration.

dean was sitting at the worn wooden table, a space that had only ever known the quiet presence of two women.

his massive, athletic frame practically engulfed the modest chair, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow against the floral wallpaper.

yet, he looked completely at ease.

he had rolled up the sleeves of his cotton blue shirt, exposing his forearms as he expertly navigated a massive bowl of spaghetti, passing it to your mother with a respectful, easy smile.

"seriously, alisha, this is incredible," dean said, calling your mother by her first name just as she had insisted he do three visits ago. "if you ever want to open a restaurant near campus, the entire hockey team would probably fund it. tucker survives entirely on frozen burritos and sheer willpower. he would cry if he tasted this."

a sound of genuine, lighthearted laughter escaping her lips as she leaned over to scoop another portion onto his plate. "don't flatter a woman, dean. but please, eat up. god knows you burn enough calories on that ice rink."

you watched them from across the table, your fork twirling slowly in your pasta.

a strange, dizzying wave of emotion hit your chest.

for twenty-one years, this room had been a fortress of caution.

it was the place where you sat while your mother meticulously balanced checkbooks, reminding you that reliance on anyone else was a vulnerability.

it was where you learned to be fiercely independent, wrapped in the protective armor of her warnings.

and now, briar university's golden boy was sitting in the center of it, arguing playfully with her about whether garlic bread should be baked or broiled.

from the corner of the room, a soft, low grunt came from the portable bassinet.

rowan was waking up, his tiny limbs stretching beneath his blanket.

before you could even set your fork down, dean's hand was already moving.

he caught your eye across the table, offering a reassuring nod.

"i got him, sweetheart. finish your dinner," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone he reserved just for you.

you watched as he stood up, his tall frame moving with a practiced, gentle fluidity as he navigated the tight space between the table and the bassinet.

he reached down, his hands completely cradling rowan's tiny torso as he lifted him out.

rowan let out a tiny, soft squeak, his little face puckering before he settled instantly against dean's chest, his small head tucking perfectly into the crook of his father's neck.

dean walked back to the table, shifting rowan effortlessly to one arm while he picked up his fork with the other, completely unfazed by the logistics of eating one-handed.

your mother stopped eating.

she watched dean—watched the way his thumb absentmindedly traced small circles on the back of rowan's custom jersey, the way his eyes constantly flicked down to check on the baby's breathing, the way he didn't even hesitate to put his own comfort second.

when she looked back at you, her eyes were bright with a quiet, profound sheen of tears.

she didn't say anything out loud but she didn't need to.

the unspoken apology and the sheer validation of your choices was entirely written in the soft smile she gave you across the table.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by eleven o'clock, the drive back to the campus apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the car tires against the asphalt and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a fast-asleep baby in the backseat.

the apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.

trinity was out for the weekend, leaving the small living space peaceful.

dean carried rowan inside, the car seat clicking quietly as he set it on the floor, while you carried the diaper bag and the heavy tote containing your psychology textbooks.

you dropped the bags by the kitchen counter, a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion finally settling into your limbs.

finals week was creeping up, the stack of case studies you needed to analyze was growing, and your body was still recovering from the monumental task of bringing a human into the world.

you leaned against the counter, closing your eyes for just a second.

two warm hands slipped around your waist from behind, a familiar, solid chest pressing into your back.

dean buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

"hey," he whispered, his lips brushing against your jawline. "go take a hot shower. i'll handle the nighttime bath and get him down in his crib."

"dean, you have a 6:00 am video review session" you protested softly, turning around in his embrace to look up into his tired, beautiful blue eyes. "you spent three hours on the ice today. let me do it."

"absolutely not," dean smiled, a faint, stubborn dimple appearing in his cheek.

"we're a team, remember? you aced your seminar quiz today, you took ten pages of notes, and you didn't complain once when rowan spit up on your favorite sweater earlier. let me take the night shift, sweetheart. go relax."

you stared at him, the old, defensive instinct to say 'i can do it myself' rising to your throat out of sheer habit. but looking at the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze, you let it go.

you let the breath out of your lungs, your forehead coming to rest against his chest, right over the steady, pounding rhythm of his heart.

"thank you," you breathed into his shirt.

"anytime," he murmured, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the crown of your head before stepping back and picking up the sleeping bundle from the floor.

half an hour later, you stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a plush robe, your skin warm and smelling of vanilla soap.

the apartment was silent.

you padded softly down the short hallway toward rowan's small nursery.

the dim, amber light of the moon-shaped nightlight illuminated the room.

dean was sitting in the massive velvet glider he had proudly bought months ago.

rowan was freshly changed, wrapped tightly in a swaddle blanket, fast asleep against his father's bare chest.

dean was rocking back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his hand completely cupping the back of rowan's head.

he wasn't asleep.

he was staring down at his son, his expression so fierce, so intensely protective, it took your breath away.

in his lap, balanced precariously on the armrest of the chair, was his hockey playbook, his eyes flicking between the diagrams of defensive strategies and the tiny, perfect face of the boy in his arms.

he was balancing it all. the pressure of the scouts, the demanding expectations of his legacy, the exhaustion of college life—he was holding it all in his hands, and he wasn't letting a single piece drop.

you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

dean looked up at the sound of your breathing, his eyes softening instantly as he caught sight of you. he didn't speak, not wanting to break the fragile silence of the nursery, but he extended his free hand toward you, his fingers open.

you walked across the small room, sliding your hand into his warm palm.

dean pulled you down gently until you were sitting on the wide armrest of the glider beside him.

he leaned his head against your hip, his grip on your hand tightening into a silent, unbreakable vow.

you looked down at the two of them.

the future was going to be chaotic.

there would be exams to study for while rocking a crying infant; there would be away games where you would have to manage the nighttime routine alone and there would be endless loops of exhaustion.

but as the glider rocked gently in the quiet apartment, the absolute certainty of his warmth against your skin told you everything you needed to know.

the pattern was broken.

Fairy tales had been thrust into your life as a young girl since before you could walk, you knew all the lyrics to every Disney princess song by the time you were six. 

By your tenth birthday, you had a book made that had every single wish and want that you had for your future boyfriend. 

Your parents swore that if your second love for running hadn’t come into your life. You would have lived each day to dream. 

By the time that you were 18, you had experienced twelve new kisses, three boyfriends, one of whom was a sexual partner too. 

You had nothing against any of them, but when each one ended, you never seemed that phased, as if you knew it was going to end.

It was because you knew that you hadn’t met your person. 

Or at least that was the case until Garrett Graham came into your life.

You'd met at a hockey party, argued over a game of beer pong, and kissed in the kitchen an hour later. Garrett Graham had smiled against your lips and you laughed at everyone else who swore that he was going to be the boy to break your heart.

With every anniversary or milestone that you two have reached. You swore that they were all wrong and that you and Garrett were truly meant to be. 

Your friends joked that he was your very own Noah Calhoun, as the man was practically a shadow of himself if you weren’t around. 

He showed up to every track meet with flowers as he sat right next to your parents, cheering you on while you ran down the finishing straight. And if your parents couldn’t make it, then Garrett gave them the world’s longest play-by-play afterwards. 

The two of you were perfect together. By the end of sophomore year, the boys joked that your wedding would happen before you both graduated. Tucker had these long thoughts about how he’d design your wedding cake. While Dean and Logan argued over who would be the officiant of the wedding.

You never told either boy, but you knew that it would actually be Beau who filled that slot. 

Most days when you had downtime, you spent them sitting on the boys’ couch. Most of the time, you were attempting to do work or edit your training schedule. Before, it was Garrett who would try to distract you. 

Smothering you in kisses or pulling you into his arms as he shut your laptop. But now, it was Dean looking over your shoulder to see what you were working on or Tucker offering you a snack. Occasionally, you even got an appearance from Logan, who taught you the basics of mechanical work. 

And that day seemed no different “sorry babe, I can’t do our date tonight.” Garrett leaned over the couch as he pressed a kiss on your cheek. 

You held back a sigh as you turned your head to face him “why is that?” You asked as you frowned, a little upset, actually, “Hannah rescheduled our tutoring session.” 

Dean awkwardly sat next to you as you forced yourself to smile, “tell her I say hi!” The blonde swore in that moment that you were squeezing your laptop so hard you might almost break it. 

Garrett nodded before he left for the door without a second thought “okay so am I just like a fucking idiot or does everyone else see that?” 

Logan nodded from the kitchen, “third time this week now?” And that was what almost made it official.

You got up as you shook your head “I am going to go throw myself off of a cliff before I hit him.” You announced to the boys who all frowned “just talk to him seriously.” 

You knew Tucker came from a good place, which is why you didn’t tell him how wrong he was “we have just found a way to stop fighting with each other-” you sighed as you looked to the front door where Garrett left from. 

The truth was that for the past three weeks, the two of you couldn’t go a few minutes without fighting. 

The topics varied. 

Sometimes, Garrett felt like you didn’t care that he was stressed with being captain. Other times, you felt like the little time left in your schedules should be used on each other. 

And when it got particularly bad, you actually stopped keeping track of what seemed to set the two of you off. 

This date night that Garrett kept bailing on was meant to be the real proof that the two of you had turned a page. 

That the rough that you had been dealing with was just weeds in a garden, not rot within the house. 

Dean clicked his tongue “bit hard to fight him when he keeps on seeing her instead.” She was Hannah Wells. 

You met her a few times in passing, the girl complimented your pace and you always loved the way that she was so friendly at Malone’s.

She had started tutoring Garrett in philosophy a few weeks ago and was Garrett’s newest excuse for why he was too busy for you. 

Training, film review, school, tutoring, if there was an excuse to get out of seeing you, you had heard it. 

At the beginning, you really didn’t mind, you knew he was busy because he had all of these responsibilities. 

But a responsibility is telling your girlfriend that you need to reschedule your anniversary date, hours in advance. Not when you were sat at the restaurant, a glass of wine in and the waiter actually ended up giving it to you on the house as he felt bad. 

For every excuse that he gave you, you found another help make his case. 

And by now you were starting to get a little more than just irritated “I am going to bid you boys farewell and hope that you are having more sex than your captain before I say anything else!” You shoved your laptop in your bag as Logan frowned when Dean laughed.

He stopped what he was working on in the kitchen as he came out to face you before you left “you know, girlfriend or not, we are your friend too.” Dean and Tucker nodded at his words. 

It made you softly smile “love you, boys.” You kissed your fingers before you waved them goodbye. 

As you left the house, your nose scrunched, because that place stopped feeling like Garrett’s. In fact, it was starting to feel a whole load like there was a river between the two of you that neither one was ready or willing to cross.

Garrett called out your name when he saw you.

You didn’t turn right away.

That was new for you. Normally, you’d turn instantly, instinctively, like muscle memory. Like gravity.

But this time, your body lagged behind your pride and even your brain as you contemplated ditching the heels you were in to break into a sprint.

He caught up quickly anyway.

Athletic stride, slightly out of breath, like he’d been running through excuses before he even got to you.

When he stepped into your line of sight, you finally looked at him.

And something in your chest tightened at how normal he looked. Like he hadn’t just not shown up to one of the most important nights you’d had planned in weeks “I got held up,” he said immediately.

Not an apology.

Not yet.

Just the explanation he must’ve rehearsed on the way here.

You blinked once, “you didn’t come.” He looked at how gorgeous you looked that night. 

You’d never tell him that you bought the dress specifically for that night.

His mouth opened, then closed again. Like he’d expected you to argue with him instead of just stating it plainly, “I tried,” he said, softer “coach pulled me in after practice and I lost track of time. Then film ran longer than it should’ve and-”

You nodded slowly, cutting through it without raising your voice “I sat there for an hour without anything from you.”That stopped him.

Properly stopped him.

Because now it wasn’t a scheduling issue or a misunderstanding or something messy he could rearrange into something forgivable.

It was just time“I know,” he said, rubbing a hand through his hair, frustrated at himself more than anything else now.

Garret sighed as he rubbed his face with his hand “I should have called or texted or.” Then list stopped when he noticed how you frowned 

You weren’t interested in an excuse, especially not from him tonight “you should’ve come,” you interrupted quietly as you knew Coach Jensen would never force the guys to stay for review.

Silence settled between you.

Not the loud kind. Not the angry kind.

The kind that felt like it had been building for weeks and finally found somewhere to land.

You looked past him for a second, at the path behind him, at the restaurant district lights in the distance “I kept telling myself it was fine,” you said, almost to yourself. 

You pushed your hair up behind your head “that I just needed to be understanding this week.” A big game was coming up against another highly ranked team

Your fingers tightened slightly around your phone “but I’m starting to feel like I’m always the one making space for you.”His jaw flexed. He looked like he wanted to interrupt, but didn’t.

That was the worst part.

Not denial.

Not defensiveness.

Just him listening like he knew he didn’t have a clean answer, “I really didn’t mean for tonight to go like this.” And that was the problem. 

Because Garrett never meant for anything to ever go like this.

Yet somehow it always did “I know,” you replied.

And you did.

That was what made it worse.

Because even as you stood there, remembering how embarrassed you felt when you left the restaurant alone. Your throat tightened, but your voice stayed steady “I just wish you were there tonight.” You felt stupid for keeping things to yourself; you wanted Garrett to act like things actually mattered. 

That landed differently.

He stepped closer, slower this time, like he was afraid of pushing you further away “I’m here now,” he said, wishing that it was enough.

A young couple exited one of the buildings behind Garrett with their hands locked into each others and grins on their faces. 

The boy leaned over to say something that made the girl laugh and you knew exactly how that felt. 

Because Garrett used to be like that with you.

You could feel it in the way you weren’t reaching for him. In the way he wasn’t touching you yet either.

Like both of you were suddenly aware that something fragile had been stretched too far “I don’t want this to become normal,” you said, making the boy clench his teeth.

His eyes snapped to yours at that.

“What?”

“This,” you clarified, gesturing slightly between you “you not being there. Me convincing myself it’s okay.”

His expression tightened “I promise that it won’t,” he said immediately. Too fast. Too certain.

You shook your head once “please don’t promise me that if you don’t mean it.” That hit him harder than anything else you’d said.

Because you were right.

He couldn’t say he’d give you the world if he only planned on showing you one town. 

He stepped closer again, but slower now, more careful “I messed this up,” he said honestly “I did. And I hate that I did it tonight of all nights.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Really looked.

Not at the hockey player everyone talked about.

Not at the captain people relied on.

Just at the boy who was standing there like he didn’t know how to fix something he couldn’t outwork.

The same boy who told you during your freshman year that he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have you “I don’t need you to hate it,” you said softly. “I just need you to show up.”

That time, he didn’t argue.

He just nodded once, like he was taking the weight of it fully.

Then he stepped forward, and you didn’t resist it.

But you didn’t fully lean in either.

His arms wrapped around you anyway, steadying you like he could physically hold together something he was scared he was losing.

After a moment, he shifted slightly, and you felt his hand rest at the back of your head.

And then he pressed a kiss there.

Just quiet.

Like a promise, he didn’t know how else to say out loud.

When he pulled back slightly, his voice was low “I’ll make it up to you,” he announced as he hooked his fingers under your chin. 

Garrett wanted to tell you that you looked gorgeous, but somehow the words never left his lips “I’ll make it up to you properly.” And as you nodded, Garrett let his jacket hang on your shoulders before the two of you walked back to your dorm.

By the time that drunken Shakespeare had come and gone, it was official that everyone knew something was going on between the two of you. 

The IT couple of Briar U had cracked, because they weren’t as perfect as everyone had started to believe. 

You tried to ignore the rumours about Hannah and Garrett, but you knew you were just an idiot. 

It had been days since the two of you had spoken, almost a month since Garrett sent you a good morning or goodnight text. 

The boys kept their promise as they continued to check up on you. In the first two weeks, it was because they really did miss you. But by now they were worried. 

It was the fact that there was no real end in sight because Garrett still spoke about being your boyfriend, when he seemed to remember your existence. 

And you still let your eyes settle on the door, as you waited for your Garrett to walk back in.

For him to tell you that he was so sorry for the way he had you feeling like it was your fault.

It had been weeks of you swearing that you were fine. 

And that should have been something that the boys listened to, but they knew you better than that. 

You had been going on late-night runs every day, and each time you wanted to stop you couldn’t.

The two of you had texted occasionally, throughout the time apart. But you hadn’t see the boy in person. 

It wasn’t even vocalised between the two of you that there was something wrong. 

And that was what left your runs to be the longest ones you ever did. 

Because somehow, your anger drove your feet.

Further and harder than you ever thought was possible.

The quiet and clear sky somehow managed to soothe your mind. 

And on this particular night, it seemed that Garrett had the same idea when he stood outside of the library. 

He was in the middle of a tutoring session, and he craved the break he got from the solitude. 

So when he saw you running, part of him thought that he would have ducked to go back inside. 

But instead, his feet drove him directly into your path “hey,” he nodded as you pulled your AirPod out of your ear.

You cocked your head “hi.” You pursed your lips together, a little surprised that he was talking to you. 

It had probably been over a month since Garrett initiated a conversation with you in person. 

You crossed your arms as you waited for him to talk “how are you?” The small talk between the two of you felt weird.

And you had to admit that you weren’t a fan of it “I’m glad to hear you still remember how to talk to me.” Your words were honest, and it was what hurt. 

Garrett scoffed, “of course I know how to talk to you.” The look you gave him said otherwise. 

“Yeah but can you look at me for more than five minutes?”

The boy pinched the bridge of his nose “what are you playing at?” He looked up at the sky, making you almost laugh.

You felt tired, actually, you felt exhausted “when you got onto that stage with her, you didn’t even look at me.” You weren’t accusing him about anything. 

You knew that Garrett would never cross a line with Hannah. But it was getting hard to make your heart hear it in the same way your brain did.

Garrent let out a harsh sigh, unsure of wht he was having this fight with you again “you know I love you,” if you weren’t paying attention, you would have sworn that he was actually asking you a question. 

Your chest ached as you fiddled with the ring on your finger. It had been one that Garrett gave you for your 20th birthday “but are you in love with me?” Silence followed, and that was the true nail in the coffin.

Of course he did, his brain almost short-circuited at the absurdity of the question, “what’s that supposed to mean?” His hands landed on his hips as he grew defensive.

You sighed as you paused your run time on your watch “look I don’t want to fight tonight.” You announced as you watched the boy scoff. 

The hockey player frowned, “don’t push me away like this.” He pleaded as he shook his head. 

Tears welled in your eyes “I am holding on for dear life Gar,” you had felt like you were barely able to keep your head above water for weeks now and you hated it. 

You hated that you cared so much for someone who felt like they were pushing you away. 

But you hated more that Garrett could check out of the relationship that made you feel like you were in a fairytale. 

That he could stand in front of you like every time he made up an excuse to not see you, wasn’t killing your confidence every time “I need you like you are the best reason that I have each day to smile.” The words pressed into his chest as he couldn’t remember the last time that he made you smile, “but I need you to need me back!” 

Silence loomed over the two of you. 

And that somehow hurt the most. 

Not that you didn’t think that Garrett no longer cared, but that he couldn’t even try to offer an argument to you.

You pressed your hands against the sides of your head “why won’t you just let me all the way in!” The question came as Garrett backed away. 

Throughout the years he always found the perfect excuse to not have you meet his dad. It seemed that everyone in his circle knew his father but you “of course I let you in I love you!” Garrett argued back as you shook your head. 

It was a topic that you knew came with baggage “I know your comfort meals.” You found out after your first fight when Garrett begged Tucker to help him make it for you “I know that your favourite movie to watch is a chick flick.” 

The edges of his mouth curved upward as he smiled “but I don’t know what scares you in this world.” Your voice broke “or why you love hockey.” 

“Or why you’ve met my whole family and your dad doesn’t even know that I exist.”

It cut deep as Garrett always envied how sweet and loving your parents were, they looked at you like you were the best thing since sliced bread. 

Garrett reached for your hand but you pulled away “I am so tired of feeling sad.” You shook your head as tears openly streamed down your face now. 

You sniffled harshly, “god I’d rather feel nothing at all than have to go through one more fucking moment of whatever this is.” Your heart felt lighter as you spoke, getting the thoughts you so desperately needed to let go of out of your mind. 

The boy shoved his hands into his pockets “what am I meant to do about that?” He rolled his eyes, feeling like this was another fight. 

But instead, you merely sighed, “I don’t know anymore, Gar.” You chewed at the inside of your cheek to try to convince your mind that this wasn’t the thing that was hurting.

You used the back of your hand to wipe the snot coming from your nose “y’know, I really thought that in this break we’ve had for the last week that you would come back first.” You actually laughed at that, cursing yourself for how clearly foolish you had been. 

He stayed quiet “that you would come back and tell me that you realised there was no one else you could be with but me,” Garrett watched as you looked away, Hannah had started walking towards the two of you. 

You couldn’t even fault the girl as she sent you a comforting smile, stopping in her tracks when she saw that you had been crying “I wanted you to tell me that you would rather be alone than live one second in this place without me.” Venom laced your words even if you didn’t mean for it to happen. 

Garrett sighed as he raked his fingers through his curls “I never meant to hurt you,” his words should have provided you with some comfort. 

They should have made you realise that this wasn’t your fault “but you did Garrett.” You shrugged as you somehow were left feeling worse. 

You stepped back as he stepped forward, as the cold autumn breeze brushed around campus, it was clear much like how the seasons were changing from fall to winter, that there was an end between the two of you too. 

Still you hoped that Garrett would find a way to fight. 

And still you ended up disappointed “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed,”  Garrett knew that when things were going well he was a part of the reason why you were on cloud nine. 

But when he was gone, he was the reason why you were sad. Even if it was an event for you, his lack of presence would be the thing your brain lingered on. 

Part of you wanted to tell him that he was your dream in human form. 

But that part had been hurt one too many times by him to speak, “and I’m sorry I wasn’t a girl worth loving.” In that moment, your words captured everything that you had been feeling for weeks. 

Garrett watched as you turned around, not bothering to put your AirPod back into your ear as you carried on the rest of your run. 

He clenched his hands as he knew he couldn’t go after you. Yes Garrett loved you, but he wasn’t sure how he was meant to treat you with the value that you deserved.

You were the one who reminded Garrett how to laugh in rooms where he was meant to be quiet. How the worst days could be made better by simply talking to you, because somehow you always knew what to say to put his mind at ease. 

The boy never spoke to Phil about you because you were a light in his world that his dad worked so hard to keep dark. 

So when he watched you leave, Garrett didn’t know what to do, because part of him wanted to run after you. 

But there was a quieter part that knew you deserved the right to leave him and the shitshow that was his world. Because that was what he always assumed would happen anyway, so that was why he never let you in fully. 

Because at least once you left you wouldn’t pity him if you didn’t know his full story “you should go back inside, it’s cold out here.” Hannah’s voice was kind, but Garrett didn’t let his eyes fall from where you ran to. 

“I’m good.”

You pull another card from the stack, forcing yourself to slow down. One question. That’s all.

“Okay…” you whisper.

Your eyes scan the card once more before the answer finally clicks.

“Alright.”

A win. Small, sure. But hey, it’s something. A smile tugs at your lips, real enough to crack the pressure that’s been building all night.

For a second, it feels manageable—like maybe you can actually get through this one card, then the next, then the next.

Your shoulders loosen just a fraction, tension easing as you let out another breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Your phone buzzes on the mattress, and you look down at it, a text message from Coach about ice time and a delayed start throwing you off your schedule, and off your game for the moment.

The quiet stretches for a beat, the soft rustle of paper the only sound as your fingers hover over the next card, hesitating.

You grab it and flip it over, looking down at it, letting your eyes shut when you see a word you know you know. I mean, how could you not know this shit?

The doorknob twists.

Your head snaps toward the sound, wide eyes meeting Garrett’s the second he steps inside—fresh from the shower, damp hair pushed back messily from his forehead, a few strands still clinging to his temples.

He’s in a loose gray t-shirt that hangs just right over his shoulders, dark shorts slung low on his hips. His skin still looks dewy, a little flushed, like he hasn’t been out of the locker room long.

“Baby?” he chuckles, lifting an eyebrow in your direction. “You okay?”

“Mhmm… Yeah.” You laugh weakly. “M’trying to study. I’m done. I’m just—I’m fucked.” The cards slip from your fingers, fluttering down to the comforter.

“You’re not fucked,” he sighs. “Didn’t hear my name gettin’ screamed outside your door now, did I?”

Your lips pull to the side, fighting off a smile, heat blooming in your cheeks as he crawls onto the bed.

“Plus, you’re fully clothed, pretty,” he mumbles, tilting in when he gets close enough, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Fuckin’ hate that for me.”

You giggle, turning into him a little more, feeling him smile into your skin, your body instantly sinking, hoping he’ll crawl the rest of the way on top and pin you underneath him.

“Where are you goin’, huh?” he asks, his voice deep and warm against your neck.

“I wanna be done,” you whisper, tugging at the front of his shirt, seeing the space between you. A dark trail of hair and deep v-lines disappear below his shorts, his skin tanned and tight.

“Don’t wanna work anymore, huh? Why are you bein’ such a baby?” he teases.

“Am not.”

“Are too,” he snickers. As you continue your childish back-and-forth, the stubble on his cheek scrapes lightly over your soft skin. “Let me help you.”

“Not with this,” you pout. Studying isn’t what you want from him. Right now, you just want him.

“Think I can help you with somethin’ else?” He grabs your face, squishing your cheeks, kissing you tenderly.

“I know you can,” you whisper.

“You using me for my body right now?” he teases, and you nod. “Thank you.” You giggle at his response, nails slipping around to rake up the broad expanse of his back. “But it’s not gonna work.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause we have a test tomorrow.”

“Forgive me for wanting my boyfriend.”

“Stop,” he rasps with a warm laugh, letting his head fall heavy against your shoulder. “You’re just bein’ a brat. Shit’s not gonna work with me.”

“Whatever,” you mumble.

“Whatever, huh?” he asks as his rough finger slides a little further up your thigh, tracing under the hem of your shorts, making your hips shift. “So sensitive, baby.”

“Garrett…”

“Just sayin’,” he whispers.

You slap your hands against the bed as he crashes down beside you. He scoops up a few neon cards, his grin widening as his big arm wraps behind your back, palm settling beside your hip.

He kisses your cheek, and you roll your eyes, rearranging the little stack in your hands.

“For the record, Graham. A distraction would have been preferred,” you whisper, leaning into him, that scowl playing on your lips, jerking away when he tickles you. “Enough,” you scold, grabbing his wrist.

“Just gotta get you out of your head, baby,” he hums before his attention gets pulled away.

Your phone vibrates on the mattress—a notification from a freshman player he recognizes flashes across the screen. Garrett grabs it off the bed, setting it aside before you can check it.

“I need to answer that.”

“Bullshit, you don’t.” He gives you a side eye. “See how attentive you were a minute ago? You got this. Just gotta focus on what’s happening right here.”

“Mhmm,” you hum bitterly. He reaches out, fingers wrapping around your jaw to turn you toward him.

“Studying isn’t half-bad with me, I promise.” His plush lips meet yours, kissing you deeply, chuckling into the kiss when you chase his lips, not wanting to stop. "Ready?"

“No,” you whisper, sucking in a breath when his hand comes and rests on your upper thigh, squeezing down, making your thigh draw in, chills crawling up your spine. “Don’t you have class?”

“Not for a bit,” he answers. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”

Garrett’s arm hooks around your waist, drawing you closer in his lap as you split his legs. You lean back into his broad chest, and he snuggles close, breathing you in for a moment.

“How hard can this class be, baby? We got this,” he mumbles against your skin, foregoing the annoying reality that most things come naturally to him. But he means it, the words sounding so earnest you can’t help but sigh.

“Alright,” you whisper, flipping the first card in the deck.

He peers over your shoulder, lips resting on your skin, thumbs tracing along your bare thighs as you think. Your phone vibrates again, and his big arms wrap around your waist, fast holding you in place.

“Don’t,” he stops you before you can start.

His arms soften when he feels you do the same, a hand coming up to draw you in, kissing you, soft and slow.

You relax, concentrating on his lips—how they feel against yours, soft and sweet. The warmth of his body surrounds you, guiding you to relax a little more against him.

“Focus, baby.”

You shut your eyes, trying your best to clear your mind and settle into the task.

“Opsimath,” you whisper.

“Mhmm,” he hums, the utterance buzzing against your skin. “Remember in class last week… Opsē sounds like…”

You think for a beat, recalling that term from the week prior, the scratchy chalk scraping against the board as he broke down the term, Garrett sneaking into the class late with two coffees in hand while the professor had his back turned. He smiled at you, handing you the drink, asking you what he missed.

“Sounds like ‘oopsie,’” you whisper. “You say that when you’re late.”

“And, manthanein, means…” he asks.

“To learn—because you learn in math class.” He growls with delight, making you smile. “Someone who starts learning late in life.” The words breathe out of you, and the tension you were holding in your shoulders falls.

“Exactly.” Garrett slides the next card to the front of the stack, holding it out in front of the two of you. “Go ahead,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your shoulder as you settle against him again.

You study it for a second, your eyebrows pinching together before the answer slowly starts piecing itself together in your head.

“Metacognition,” you whisper. “Thinking about your own thinking.”

“There it is,” he smiles warmly.

You feel his hand squeeze your thigh, your body melting back against his chest before he reaches for another card.

The next one comes quicker. Then the next. Then the next. By the fourth, you’re answering before he can even finish reading the definition, your confidence building a little more every time he smiles.

“Told you,” he chuckles. “You know more than you think you do.”

You grin to yourself, a little proud now. “Maybe.”

“Not maybe,” he assures, thumb tracing another lazy path across your thigh while you search through the stack. Your eyes flick toward the nightstand when your phone chirps.

The rough pad of his thumb drifts just high enough to make your leg twitch beneath his hand. “Garrett,” you laugh, your body drawing in, before you wiggle away.

“What?” he asks, looking back at you like he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. “Just gettin’ my girl back on track.”

“Well, knock it off,” you grumble, snuggling back into him a little more.

“Stop bein’ bad, and I’ll think about it.”

“I’m not being bad.”

“I mean, you got this shit in the bag,” he gestures lazily to the cards. “Focus game needs a little work.” A crooked smile pulls at his lips as he presses another kiss just below your ear. “And, you’re cute when you’re all jumpy.”

“I’m trying to study.”

“And you’re doin’ a damn good job, aren’t you?” he praises, and the knot that’s been sitting in your chest all evening doesn’t feel nearly as tight anymore.

You’re still nervous about tomorrow, but the words aren’t swimming together anymore. They’re actually sticking.

Garrett hands you another card, and you answer it almost immediately.

“Atta baby,” he praises.

“Rewards?” you ask, turning just enough to catch the sparkle in his eye. “Do I get a reward for that one?”

His eyebrows lift and a smirk curls on his lips. “A reward?”

“Mhmm,” you hum.

“What kinda reward are we negotiatin’ for here?”

You pretend to think about it for a second, tapping the corner of the flashcard against your chin while your eyes drift over him. A little smile pulls at your lips before you look back at him.

“Maybe, just maybe… I already know what I want. And so do you.”

Garrett lets out a quiet laugh, already shaking his head. “You are such a slut for me.”

“You thanked me for using you for your body, Garrett Graham. I think we both know who the slut is.”

“Valid.”

“I’ve had a stressful day, baby,” you sigh. “A stressful week.”

He smiles, softer this time. “I know.” His fingers brush over your hip before nudging the next flashcard toward you. “You’ve got eight cards left, baby.”

“That’s too many.”

“So needy,” he chuckles, settling another flashcard into your hand. “C’mon, pretty. Eight more.”

You study it for a second, chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek before the answer comes to you with more confidence than the last one.

“Schema,” you answer quietly. “Mental framework that helps organize information.”

Garrett glances down at the back of the card before a smile spreads across his face.

“See?” he hums, giving your hip a proud little squeeze. “All in your head for what?”

“Thank you,” you whisper, tilting toward him as he moves closer, kissing you softly. His nose brushes against yours, breathing softly with you.

“Take off your shirt.”

"Huh?" you ask as your cheeks warm up—heart working a little faster. It's a request you've heard from him a million times, unexpected at this moment.

“You heard me,” he mumbles, warm and deep. “Take. It. Off.”

You reach for the bottom of your top, pulling it over your head, tossing it to the side.

Garrett looks over your shoulder, his hold around you tightening as his lips press against your bare shoulder, a quiet hum of approval vibrating against your skin.

“Fuck me,” he sighs, taking you in for a second, pushing out a deep breath behind you. “Baby.” His voice comes out needy, that strict program he was running since you tried to slip underneath him the first time seemingly crumbling away.

He strips off his shirt as well, big hands landing heavy on your legs with a playful clap, making your thighs draw together, but he pulls you open, smiling against your skin.

His palms rub and squeeze the inside of your thighs, your bare back pressing against his chest when you tilt closer. He breathes you in again, your soft body and sweet perfume smelling like heaven compared to the locker room he’d left before he got to your place.

The heat of his body wraps around you, the chill of his chain pressing against your spine. Garrett’s fingers drift higher, teasing the sensitive skin between your thigh and your panties with one hand, taking that top card off the stack with the other.

“Keep going,” he mumbles. “Doing so fuckin’ good for me.”

The next one doesn’t come quite as easily. Your eyebrows knit together while your eyes move over the word again, trying to pin it to a memory or a moment from class.

Garrett stays quiet, letting you work through it before he finally tips his head against yours.

“What do I tell you when I’m coming over?” he breathes, turning into you, making your chest tighten when his thumb moves higher, tracing over the lace between your thighs before he continues. “And I’m runnin’ late, but I fucking need you.” The words scrape past his lips, making your body tingle.

“You tell me you’re gonna take a shortcut.”

“Mhmm,” he hums, chuckling when he feels how wet you are—the subtle rock of your hips when he presses a little harder.

“A mental shortcut,” you whisper, turning your chin toward him, his gaze falling to your lips as he waits for the rest. “That helps you make decisions.”

“Heuristic,” he whispers, the corners of his lips tipping upward. “You didn’t need me. You got this shit.”

His hands slide to the band of your shorts, easing them down, nodding toward you to keep going. He groans as the material works down your thighs, leaving you in nothing but a bra and panties.

You shift over onto your hands and knees, already expecting him to take off his shorts too, and he chuckles, eyes locked on you as he tugs them over his hips, watching with a smile as you drag them down the rest of his strong thighs.

He adjusts slightly on your bed, looking back at you on your hands and knees. “Co’mere, baby,” he murmurs, and you settle on top of his lap, resting your body on top of him.

His long, thick cock is trapped in cotton still, the swell of it stretching the material. He presses the stack of cards into your hand. His palms instantly find their place on your ass, grabbing two fistfuls of skin.

"Six more cards and not a lot of clothes left, baby? What are we gonna do about that?" he asks.

“I’m sure you can think of other rewards, Garrett Graham,” you whisper. He reaches up, fingers tangling in your hair to pull you to his mouth.

He kisses you deeply, tongue sliding between your lips instantly—hips rocking with the tempo of your kiss. “Got a few ideas,” he murmurs. “Think you can get them all right for me?”

His smile pulls along your lips when you whisper yes, his hand still gripping your hair, the other kneading your ass, coaching each drag of your hips on top.

He pulls back from the kiss reluctantly, tapping against the bed for a flashcard. “Neuroplasticity,” he mumbles, licking his lips as his eyes fall to your lace-covered tits, knowing exactly where he’s going next.

“Hockey rink in my mind,” you whisper. “This is the one I had locked in.”

“Yeah?” he asks, his hands drifting up your spine. “Tell me more.”

“Every time I step on the ice, I’m running drills, skatin’ the same route; it gets easier.”

“Mhmm,” he hums, his head tipping back against the headboard as his fingers pinch the clasp of your bra, waiting for the term.

“Neuroplasticity… your brain adapts because you keep practicing.”

Your bra falls away as he chuckles proudly, pulling you in as he lowers his lips, mouth wrapping around your nipple as his hand squeezes your breast in his big palm, the other slapping your ass.

Your head lulls back and his tongue flicks across your bud, letting you go with a pop, kissing up the curve of your breast, along your collarbone.

His tongue slides along your skin, making you shiver and throb, the man catching the necklace at your neck, snagging the metal between his teeth, the white gold chain connecting the two of you.

The dainty G charm slips from between his teeth, glinting as it falls back against your skin before he speaks. “How come you never take this off, pretty?”

You look down at it, smiling to yourself, remembering that night. “Because you gave it to me.”

“If some other guy got you this, it’d just be another necklace.” You nod slowly as he scowls playfully at the mere suggestion of it—the scenario that he painted for you. “It means somethin’. That’s why your brain remembers it.”

“Semantic encoding,” you say. “I remember it by what it means, not just what it looks like.”

His big arm wraps tight around you, hugging you close, as he lets out a deep breath. “That’s my girl,” he whispers, his strong, bare chest pushing flush to yours. “Knew you could do it.”

He grabs your waist, lifting you until you're standing on top of your bed. His hands settle behind your thighs, drawing you closer, peeling the panties down your skin as you look back at him.

Garrett wraps his fingers around the band of his boxer briefs, tugging them down his thighs, his cock swinging free, slapping against his tanned skin as he pushes out a breath.

He wraps his fist around his dick, stroking slowly before looking up at you. “Next one?”

His hold on the back of your thigh keeps you close, the other one working itself at a steady pace. He’s got the next vocab word memorized—held on the tip of his tongue.

His palm runs up the back of your leg, breath catching in his chest. Your hand rests on the wall above your headboard, keeping you balanced.

“Mine disappears when I’m around you,” he mumbles, dipping in to press a kiss against your thigh, lips lingering, the warmth of his breathing against your skin making your pussy throb.

“Self-control?” you whisper.

“Exactly.”

“Executive function,” you answer. “Planning, focus, and self-control.” He smiles and nods, humming out praise as he lifts your leg, foot resting on the wooden frame.

You gasp, a hand flying down to grab him, twisting in his curls as he kisses your clit. Your hips jostle, but his arms flex, forcing you to stay right where he wants you, moaning when you tug at his strands in sensitivity.

He laps at your slit like he’s starved, hand jerking his dick, getting off on the taste and the pathetic sounds that cry past your lips with each drag and twirl of his tongue.

“Baby, fuck,” he hums into your pussy, the wet sounds of his working you over filling the room as the band in your belly tightens, your leg keeping you standing on the mattress, muscles trembling.

Your knees buckle as his lips lock down on your clit, sucking hard, making your eyes screw shut. “Garrett—Garrett, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper breathlessly, and he slaps your ass in response, drawing you as close as he can get you.

“Fuck!” You squeal when he dips his tongue in your entrance, the sensation sending you tumbling over the edge, your body fluttering around him as he works you through each wave of your orgasm, tongue-fucking you with no plans to stop until you soften completely.

Your body practically melts into his lap—his lips quickly finding yours. He grabs your hand, guiding you to his stiff cock between you, wrapping your hand around his length, stroking with you for a moment.

“How was that?” he asks softly, handing over control.

“So fucking good,” you whisper, feeling his lips curl into a smile at your words.

“Don’t peek,” he chuckles breathily against your mouth, peering away just enough to check the last three cards. “Fuck, baby. These are easy.”

“Are they?” you ask, running a line of spit down to the head of his cock, your fist moving easily through the wet, making his eyebrows tug together.

“Better get ‘em right,” he smiles, his eyes falling a little hazier.

“I will,” you whisper, feeling a little more confident now.

“Next one. Studying with me is way, way better,” he mumbles as his hands rest on your hips. “And you sure as hell aren’t doin’ this.”

“Transfer-appropriate…” Your words trail away a little bit when you see his breathing getting a little quicker, your touch on his dick feeling a little too good.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, nodding to you, his jaw clenching a little tighter. “Wanna cum inside you but you gotta get it right.”

“…Processing?” you whisper, and he stops your hand, the other coming up to grip your cheeks between his fingers, kissing you deeply. “Practicing it the way I'll actually have to use it.”

“I’m so fucking proud of you, you know that?” he sighs.

“Yeah?” you ask as you rise on your knees.

“Mhmm,” he breathes, holding his dick straight, tracing it along your soaked slit as you hover over him.

Your lips fall open when he pulls you down, the thick head of his cock stretching you wide, soothing the ache. He pulls you lower, your wet pussy sliding down each stiff inch until there’s no space left between you.

He looks back at you, sitting with it for a moment, feeling the wet mess he made squeeze around him—how perfect his hands fit, gripping your curves to keep you sat.

Garrett draws in a heavy breath before he speaks. “Two more, baby.”

“Fucking finally,” you mutter, and he snickers.

“What, you’re not enjoying this?” he asks smugly, your wetness dripping down him.

“Of course I am,” you whisper.

“Remember that away game I had last weekend? I got back to the hotel, and it was dark and quiet. All I could think about was this… and I texted you and told you. And what did you say to me?”

“…I want you so bad.”

“And?” he mumbles.

“I’m wet,” you sigh, the corners of his mouth tilting into a smirk as his cock moves inside you, just enough for you to feel it.

“And what did I say?”

“Show me,” you answer, remembering the picture you sent him seconds later.

“Of course I did,” he mumbles, and your eyes fall, your brain going a little fuzzy when he starts rubbing slow circles on your clit with his thumb.

“Dual coding theory,” you smile with him as his touch on you grows quicker.

Your heart rate starts to climb, that orgasm that just claimed you minutes ago still simmering.

“Elaborative rehearsal,” the last card in the stack leaves your lips without being prompted at all, the only one you didn’t discuss—the definition literally all encompassed in this moment. Garrett’s forehead falls against yours, waiting for you to finish, just as desperate as you. “Connecting new things to what I already know—”

You gasp and squeal out his name, your body flung to your back, Garrett pinning you underneath him before you can even ask if you’re right.

Your eyes go wide, and your jaw drops as he slams into you in one hard thrust, your hands wrapping around him, nails sinking into his back.

He lets out a deep, drawn-out groan, pulling out just enough to see the wetness slicked all over his length, the thick tip of his dick making you gasp when he pushes in again.

“Yes, baby,” Garrett growls against your lips, feeling your body squeeze around him, fucking into you at a punishing pace, your pussy gripping him with each filthy stroke.

You tremble beneath him, sliding higher up the mattress with each rough snap of his hips, the headboard thumping against the wall as the bed creaks below.

The room fills with the sounds of pleasure—the wet slap of skin against yours, his name leaving your lips in a choked cry, quiet praise humming past his lips into yours.

His hand slides down to grab your hip, hard enough to leave a bruise, his other palm resting by your head, gripping the sheet.

You pull him closer, locking your legs around his hips, forcing him deeper. Your eyes roll back in your head as he hits the perfect spot inside you.

“Feels too fuckin’ good,” he mutters, his forehead falling to yours as his hips stutter.

Your walls clench around him, and he gasps against your lips, his pace quickening until your back lifts off the bed.

“Yes—yes,” you cry out, and he buries his face in your neck, teeth gritted as he cums with you, burying himself deep inside you with a strangled moan, thick ropes of his climax filling you as your name drips from his mouth in a fucked-out sigh.

He collapses on top, snuggling into you, the air around you hot and sticky. Both of you are laughing dizzily, his lips moving against yours in soft, breathless kisses.

“We’re celebrating when you ace this shit tomorrow,” he smiles against the corner of your mouth.

“Pretty confident in me, Garrett Graham,” you whisper.

“Of course I am,” he whispers.

“What if I get an A?”

“You know you will,” he hums into a kiss, sucking off your bottom lip. “You gonna ask about another reward?”

You giggle below him, and he laughs, pushing out a satisfied sound when your nails slide down his strong back.

“Well, shit.” He lets out a soft sigh. “It’s gonna need to be pretty good, huh?”

“Mhmm,” you mumble.

He smiles against your mouth, chuckling like the plan just clicked. “Guess you’re gonna have to ace it and find out, huh?”

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