wild woman

“M’not seducing,” he mumbles, warm and beer-sweet against the side of her jaw. His hands have found her waist like they were put there at birth and he’s now too drunk to question destiny. “This is romance.”

“This is a concussion waiting to happen.”

He lifts his head at that, offended in the loose, unfocused way of someone whose pupils are doing their best but not their finest work. His curls are a disaster, flattened on one side from wherever Logan had shoved a backwards cap onto him earlier and then stolen it back, and his mouth is shiny from the sloppy kisses he keeps missing by half an inch. “I don’t get concussions. I’m elite.”

“You tried to drink from a bottle of barbecue sauce ten minutes ago.”

“Protein.”

“It was Sweet Baby Ray’s.”

“Baby,” he says, with sudden, devastating sincerity, like he’s just remembered she exists and is furious about how much he likes it. He drops his forehead against hers, close enough that they’re breathing the same dumb, alcohol-warm air, and because they’re practically eye to eye like this, she gets the full force of his ridiculous drunk softness without having to tilt her chin back very far. “You’re so pretty it’s actually pissing me off.”

She bites the inside of her cheek because smiling will only encourage him, and he’s already plenty encouraged, big hands sliding around to her back, dragging her in until her knees knock lightly into his. 

“Sit down,” she tells him, guiding him toward the bed. “Before you compliment me into manslaughter.”

He goes, but only because she goes with him, folding down onto the mattress beside him as he immediately lists sideways and tries to crawl halfway into her lap. It would be less absurd if he weren’t built like someone engineered in a lab to win face-offs and ruin lives. Instead, he’s heavy and clingy and muttering nonsense into her collarbone while she pries off one of his shoes with her heel.

“Dean said I’m embarrassing,” Garrett says, scandalised.

“Dean watched you tell Tucker’s ficus it had nice vibes.”

“Mean plant.”

“You’re done talking.”

He hums, unconvinced, then presses a kiss somewhere near her shoulder, misses, and gets the strap of her top instead. “Stay?”

She smooths his hair back from his forehead, feeling the heat of him, the party still humming through the floorboards downstairs, boys yelling, bass thudding, the whole house alive and messy around them. Garrett’s eyes are half shut now, his cheek mashed against her chest like he’s found the only safe place in Massachusetts.

“Yeah,” she says, quieter, letting her thumb drift over his brow. “I’ll stay.”

His mouth curves, smug even half-asleep. “Knew it.”

She looks down at him, at the golden boy of Briar hockey currently drooling very delicately on her shirt, and huffs a laugh through her nose.

“Romance,” she mutters.

Garrett, already gone, squeezes her once like he agrees.

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