wild woman

“My equipment is perfectly fine,” Garrett snaps, glaring at his teammate. “I’m focusing on hockey. We have a championship to win this year, in case you forgot. And my grades actually matter if I want to keep my spot on the roster.”

Logan snorts from his spot next to Dean, running a hand through his dark hair. “Please. You’ve been coasting on a B-minus average since freshman year. This sudden dedication to academia is a smoke screen. You’ve lost your touch.”

“I haven’t lost anything.” Garrett sits up, grabbing the water bottle at his side. He takes a long swig, ignoring the way the cold water does nothing to cool his rising irritation. It’s not that they’re completely wrong. He hasn’t hooked up with anyone lately. But it’s not because he can’t. It’s because he doesn’t want to.

Between the pressure of being captain, the scouts watching his every move on the ice, and the lingering, suffocating weight of his father’s relentless phone calls, Garrett just doesn’t have the energy for meaningless hookups. Phil Graham is a dark cloud that refuses to dissipate, a constant reminder of the bruises he used to hide and the mother he couldn’t save. Her battle with lung cancer took the only good thing out of that house, leaving Garrett alone with a man whose fists spoke louder than words. Garrett pushes the thought down, locking it away where he keeps everything else.

“He’s in a slump,” Tucker adds smoothly, his Southern drawl making the insult sound entirely too polite. He’s leaning against the trunk of a massive oak tree, arms crossed over his chest. “Happens to the best of us, buddy. No shame in it.”

“I am not in a slump,” Garrett says, his voice dangerously low. “It’s completely voluntary.”

“Voluntary celibacy,” Dean says, nodding solemnly. “Right. Sure. Because the captain of the hockey team, the guy who practically had a waiting list outside his bedroom door last spring, just suddenly decided to become a monk.”

“I’m pacing myself.”

“You’re drying up,” Logan counters, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “I bet you couldn’t pull a number right now if your life depended on it.”

Garrett narrows his eyes. “Watch it, Logan.”

“Or what? You’ll glare at me to death?” Logan chuckles. “Admit it. You’ve lost your mojo.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. Pride is a dangerous thing, and Garrett has always had too much of it. It’s what makes him a lethal center on the ice, but it’s also what gets him into stupid situations off it. “I could pull any girl on this campus if I wanted to.”

Silence falls over the small group. Dean stops tossing grapes. Tucker raises an eyebrow. Logan’s grin simply widens into something predatory.

“Any girl?” Dean repeats, the words tasting like a challenge.

“Any. Girl.” Garrett enunciates every syllable, crossing his arms. “I just haven’t felt like it. But if I wanted to, I could have anyone.”

Tucker lets out a low whistle. “Those are fighting words, G.”

“It’s the truth,” Garrett insists, though a small voice in the back of his head is already telling him to shut up. He ignores it. “Name a girl. Any girl at Briar. I’ll prove it.”

“Oh, we’re making a bet out of this?” Dean is practically vibrating with excitement. He sits up straight, his eyes scanning the crowded quad. “This is fantastic. I love bets.”

“What are the stakes?” Logan asks, leaning forward.

Garrett shrugs, feigning a nonchalance he doesn’t entirely feel. “You guys pick the girl. I’ll have her in my bed by the end of the semester.”

“The end of the semester?” Dean balks. “That’s in December. It’s September, man. That gives you three whole months.”

“Quality takes time,” Garrett says smoothly. “Besides, if I’m pulling someone out of my usual demographic, I need time to lay the groundwork. I’m not an animal.”

“Fine. End of the semester,” Logan agrees. “But if you fail … you wax your chest.”

Garrett chokes on his own spit. “What?”

“You heard me,” Logan says, his eyes gleaming. “Full chest wax. At that salon down on Main Street. The one with the windows that face the sidewalk.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Garrett says.

“Why? Are you scared?” Tucker asks, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Thought you could pull anyone, Graham.”

Garrett looks at his three best friends, seeing the collective challenge in their eyes. He’s the captain. He doesn’t back down. “Fine. But if I win, the three of you have to wax yours.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly, extending a hand.

Garrett shakes it, sealing his fate. “Alright. Pick the target.”

The three of them immediately turn their attention to the quad, scanning the throngs of students rushing between classes. It’s peak hour. The pathways are packed with girls in yoga pants and oversized sweatshirts, girls in sundresses clinging to the last days of summer, and girls huddled over their phones.

“What about her?” Dean points to a blonde sitting on a bench, expertly applying lip gloss.

Logan shakes his head. “Too easy. That’s a puck bunny. She’d jump into Garrett’s bed before he even finished his opening line.”

“Fair point,” Dean concedes.

“How about the brunette by the fountain?” Tucker suggests.

Garrett squints. “We hooked up sophomore year. Doesn’t count.”

“Damn it, Garrett, you’ve slept with half the campus,” Logan complains.

“I have not,” Garrett argues, though he knows it’s a losing battle. “Just pick someone.”

They sit in silence for another three minutes, watching the foot traffic. Garrett is starting to think they’re going to give up when a loud thwack echoes across the pavement, followed by a startled gasp.

All four of them turn their heads toward the sound.

Garrett sees you first.

You’re clutching a thick, leather-bound notebook to your chest, your other hand rubbing the center of your forehead. Your hair is half falling out of a messy bun, and you’re wearing an oversized Briar Engineering hoodie that swallows your frame. You’ve just walked face-first into the cast-iron lamppost near the library steps.

“Oh, my bad,” you say, your voice muffled but completely sincere. “Sorry about that.”

You are apologizing. To a lamppost.

Dean bursts out laughing, a loud, barking sound that makes a few passing students turn and stare.

You don’t notice. You don’t even look around to see if anyone saw you. Instead, you drop your hand from your forehead, adjust your heavy-rimmed glasses, and immediately bury your nose back into the notebook, resuming your frantic scribbling as you continue walking down the path. You narrowly miss colliding with a garbage can.

“Who the hell is that?” Logan asks, staring after you in disbelief.

“I have no idea,” Dean says, wiping a tear from his eye. “But she just apologized to an inanimate object.”

Tucker is grinning. “That’s her.”

Garrett snaps his head toward Tucker. “Excuse me?”

“That’s the girl,” Tucker says, pointing a finger in your direction. You’re halfway down the path now, still completely oblivious to the world around you. “That’s your target.”

Garrett stares at you. He takes in the oversized hoodie, the complete lack of spatial awareness, the way you’re muttering to yourself while you write. He doesn’t know your name, but he knows exactly what you are.

You’re a ghost. One of those hyper-focused academics who live in the library and survive on vending machine coffee and sheer panic.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Garrett says, his voice flat.

“He’s absolutely right,” Logan says, catching on immediately. “She’s perfect. Look at her, Garrett. She’s gorgeous.”

Garrett squints. You are turning the corner now, and for a brief second, he catches a glimpse of your profile. Logan isn’t wrong. Underneath the bulky clothes and the distracted demeanor, you are stunning. Striking features, clear skin, and eyes that he can’t quite make out the color of from this distance, but they look intense.

But you are also completely, unequivocally, off the grid.

“She’s an Aerospace major,” Dean says suddenly, snapping his fingers. “I had a general physics elective with her freshman year. She sat in the front row and corrected the professor on day one. She doesn’t go to parties. She doesn’t go to games. I don’t think she even talks to people unless it’s about thermodynamics.”

“You know her name?” Garrett asks, dread pooling in his stomach.

“Nope. Just remember the professor looking like he wanted to cry when she started talking about orbital mechanics.” Dean claps Garrett on the shoulder. “Good luck, buddy.”

“This is insane,” Garrett argues, watching the spot where you disappeared. “She’s not going to talk to me. She probably doesn’t even know what hockey is.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Logan says smugly. “You said any girl. You said you could pull anyone. So … pull her.”

Garrett looks at his friends. They look entirely too pleased with themselves. The trap is perfectly set. If he backs out now, he admits defeat. He admits his slump. He admits that there’s a girl on campus who wouldn’t fall for the Garrett Graham charm.

And then he has to wax his chest.

Garrett exhales a sharp breath, running a hand over his face. He thinks about the playbook. He thinks about the scouts. He thinks about the suffocating pressure of his father’s voice echoing in his head, telling him he’s never quite good enough.

He needs a distraction.

Maybe the girl who apologizes to lampposts is exactly what he needs.

“Fine,” Garrett says, his voice hard with resolve. “Her. I’ll do it.”

“End of the semester,” Logan reminds him, holding up a finger.

“I won’t even need that long,” Garrett lies, leaning back on his elbows. “Consider it done.”

Dean snickers. “I’m booking the wax appointment right now. Just to be safe.”

Garrett ignores him, turning his gaze back to the path where you vanished. He has no idea how he’s going to get your attention. He doesn’t even know where to start. But as he watches the spot where you stood, a strange, unfamiliar flicker of anticipation settles in his chest.

Game on. 

***

It takes Garrett three full days to figure out how to approach you.

Three agonizing days of strategically loitering around the engineering building, looking like an idiot while pretending to check his phone, only to realize he’s hunting in the wrong territory. You don’t hang out on the quad. You don’t grab coffee at the student union. And you definitely don’t go to the campus bars.

He finally accepts the cold, hard truth: you are a creature of the library.

Which is how the captain of the Briar hockey team finds himself on the third floor of the campus library on a Thursday night, navigating a maze of dusty bookshelves and stressed-out undergrads. The air up here smells like old paper, stale espresso, and desperation. It’s entirely foreign territory.

Garrett spots you in the far corner.

You’ve constructed a literal fortress out of textbooks. It’s actually impressive. There’s a towering stack of hardcovers to your left, a barricade of notebooks to your right, and in the center, you’re hunched over a laptop, typing with a furious speed that suggests the fate of the free world depends on your keystrokes. You’re wearing the exact same oversized hoodie you had on when you fought that lamppost, with your hair twisted up in a messy clip.

He stands there for a moment, observing. He’s used to girls noticing him the second he walks into a room. He’s used to the sideways glances, the whispers, the subtle adjustments of hair and posture.

You don’t even blink.

Garrett rolls his shoulders, taking a deep breath. He’s Garrett Graham. He doesn’t get nervous. He thrives under pressure.

He closes the distance between you and pulls out the heavy wooden chair directly across from you. It scrapes against the floor with a loud, obnoxious screech. Several people at nearby tables glare at him.

You don’t. You just keep typing.

Garrett slowly lowers himself into the chair. He props his elbows on the table, leaning forward slightly, waiting for you to acknowledge his presence.

A minute passes.

Then two.

He clears his throat.

Nothing. Not a twitch.

“Okay,” Garrett mutters under his breath. He reaches over and lightly taps the back of your laptop screen.

You finally pause. Slowly, you lower the screen about three inches, just enough to peer over the top of it. Your eyes are deep and piercing, framed by thick lashes and currently narrowed in absolute irritation.

“Can I help you?” Your voice is flat, lacking any recognizable trace of awe or interest.

“Is this seat taken?” Garrett flashes his signature smile. The one that usually results in a phone number within thirty seconds.

You look around the library. “There are roughly forty empty chairs on this floor alone. Three of them are at the table right behind you.”

“I like this one,” Garrett says smoothly. “It has a great view.”

He expects a blush. A giggle. Even an eye roll would be something. Instead, you stare at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, before lifting your laptop screen back up, effectively hiding your face again.

“Suit yourself. Just keep it quiet. I have a fluid dynamics midterm on Monday.”

The typing resumes.

Garrett stares at the silver Apple logo on the back of your computer, his jaw slightly slack. He’s been dismissed. Summarily and completely dismissed. Panic, sharp and unfamiliar, spikes in his chest. This isn’t going according to plan. You’re not supposed to ignore him. You’re supposed to be flustered.

“Fluid dynamics, huh?” Garrett tries again, raising his voice slightly over the clatter of your keys. “Sounds intense.”

“It is,” you reply, not looking up.

“I’m more of a … physical learner, myself.”

“That’s fascinating.” Your tone is drier than the Sahara.

Garrett rubs the back of his neck. His usual playbook is entirely useless here. Flirting isn’t working. Charm is bouncing right off your textbook fortress. He needs an angle. Fast.

“Actually,” Garrett blurts out, the words leaving his mouth before his brain can filter them. “I’ve always had a really deep appreciation for aerospace.”

The typing stops abruptly.

The laptop screen is lowered again. This time, you don’t just peer over it. You push the laptop back entirely, resting your arms on the table and giving him your full, undivided attention. It’s intense enough to make him want to squirm.

“You,” you say slowly, “have a deep appreciation for aerospace.”

“Yep.” Garrett nods firmly. “Huge fan. Always have been.”

You tilt your head, studying him like he’s a particularly confusing equation on a whiteboard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Garrett. Garrett Graham.”

“Well, Garrett Graham. Do you even know what aerospace engineering is?”

“Of course I do,” he scoffs, offended. “It’s … space. And planes. Rockets. Thrust.”

“Thrust,” you repeat, a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow shooting upward.

“Yeah. Aerodynamics and all that.” Garrett is fully committed now. He’s digging a hole, but he’s determined to dig it with confidence. “I actually … I want to be an astronaut.”

The moment the word leaves his lips, Garrett wants to punch himself in the face.

An astronaut. Really? He’s a twenty-two-year-old hockey player majoring in history because it requires the least amount of science. He hasn’t taken a STEM class since his junior year of high school, and he only passed that because his lab partner felt sorry for him.

But he can’t take it back now.

You stare at him. The silence stretches between you, heavy and thick. Garrett braces himself for the rejection. For you to pack up your bags and leave.

Instead, a slow, amused expression begins to pull at the corners of your mouth. You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest.

“An astronaut,” you say, your voice dripping with sweet, lethal sarcasm.

“That’s right.”

“NASA or SpaceX?” You ask, firing the question like a slapshot.

“NASA, obviously,” Garrett counters, leaning into the lie. “Classic. You can’t beat the original.”

“Right. Because nothing says NASA material quite like a Briar University hockey jacket.” You nod toward his chest, where the interlocking BU logo sits over his heart.

Garrett glances down, momentarily cursing his wardrobe choices. “Hey, astronauts need to be in peak physical condition. Hockey is just … cross-training.”

“I see.” You tap a pen against your lower lip, a gesture that immediately draws his attention. “So, let’s look at the facts. You’re Garrett Graham. Captain of the hockey team. You lead the division in scoring, but you also lead the team in penalty minutes.”

Garrett blinks, genuinely surprised. “You follow hockey?”

“I read the campus newspaper,” you correct him. “It’s practically shoved down our throats. So, you spend most of your weekends getting slammed into fiberglass boards by men who weigh over two hundred pounds.”

“It’s a contact sport.”

“It’s a concussion factory,” you deadpan. “You willingly subject yourself to repeated, blunt-force head trauma on a bi-weekly basis. And your GPA … well, considering I’ve never seen you in the science building, I’m going to guess you aren’t exactly pulling straight As in quantum mechanics.”

“My grades are perfectly fine.” It’s a defensive snap, and he hates how quickly you got under his skin.

“I’m sure they are. For history.” You lean forward, resting your chin in your hand. The annoyance from earlier has completely vanished, replaced by a sharp, analytical curiosity. “So, tell me, Garrett. How exactly does your propensity for violence and your complete lack of STEM experience translate to surviving zero gravity and piloting a multi-billion dollar spacecraft?”

Garrett opens his mouth. Closes it. He stares at you, momentarily paralyzed by how effortlessly you just dismantled him.

You aren’t intimidated by him. You aren’t swooning. You’re looking right through the bravado, the captain’s patch, and the reputation, and you’re calling his bluff with ruthless efficiency.

It’s the most attractive thing he’s ever seen.

“I have excellent hand-eye coordination,” Garrett finally says, offering a lopsided grin.

You let out a short, sudden laugh. It’s a bright, genuine sound that cuts through the sterile quiet of the library. It hits Garrett squarely in the chest.

“Hand-eye coordination,” you repeat, shaking your head. “Well, I’m sure NASA will be thrilled to hear that. You can swat away the space debris with your hockey stick.”

“Exactly. See? I bring a unique skill set to the table.”

“You are completely full of shit,” you say, though there’s no real malice in your tone anymore.

“Guilty as charged.” Garrett shrugs, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders. “I don’t want to be an astronaut. I don’t even like flying on commercial planes. The legroom is terrible.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Because you were ignoring me.” Garrett drops the charm, allowing a sliver of honesty to peek through. “And I’m not really used to being ignored.”

You study him for a moment, the amusement fading back into something more cautious. You glance down at the heavy textbook sitting open in front of you, the pages filled with complex equations and diagrams that make Garrett’s head hurt just looking at them.

“I wasn’t ignoring you to be rude,” you say quietly. “I’m just busy. This major isn’t a joke. If I don’t keep my head down, I’ll drown.”

“I get it,” Garrett says, and surprisingly, he does. He knows what pressure feels like. He knows what it’s like to have something you can’t afford to fail at. For you, it’s aerospace. For him, it’s hockey. If he fails, he has to face his father. The thought makes his stomach tighten. “You don’t have time for distractions.”

“No. I don’t.” You look back up at him. “And you, Garrett Graham, look exactly like a distraction.”

“I can be very helpful,” he argues. “I could … quiz you.”

“On fluid dynamics?”

“I can read flashcards. I know the alphabet.”

You smile again, a small, subtle curve of your lips, but it feels like a massive victory. “I don’t use flashcards.”

“Then I’ll just sit here and look pretty while you work.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave. Instead, you reach out and slowly pull your laptop screen back up.

“You have exactly twenty minutes before I pack up,” you tell him from behind the silver Apple logo. “If you breathe too loudly, I’m throwing a textbook at your head.”

“Deal.”

Garrett leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He spends the next twenty minutes in absolute silence, watching you work. He watches the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you’re frustrated. He watches the way you push your glasses up the bridge of your nose. He watches the sheer, undeniable brilliance radiating from you as you tear through your notes.

When your phone alarm vibrates softly on the table, signaling that your twenty minutes are up, you immediately begin stacking your books.

Garrett sits forward, ready to offer to carry them, to walk you home, to do something, but you’re too fast. You shove everything into a worn-out backpack with practiced efficiency.

You stand up, slinging the heavy bag over one shoulder.

“Goodbye, Garrett,” you say.

“I’ll see you around, astronaut,” he replies.

You pause, looking down at him. “It’s Y/N.”

“I know.”

He doesn’t, actually. He hadn’t bothered to ask Dean if he ever figured it out. But he likes the way your name sounds in his head.

You shake your head, turning away. “Good luck with your thrust.”

Garrett watches you walk away, weaving your way through the tables until you disappear down the stairwell. He remains in the chair for a long time, the silence of the library pressing in around him.

He didn’t get your number. He didn’t secure a date. By Dean and Logan’s standards, this interaction was a complete and utter failure.

But as Garrett finally stands up and pushes his chair in, he can’t help but smile. He got you to look at him. He got you to laugh. He got you to admit that he wasn’t completely repulsive.

It’s a small win.

But Garrett is a competitor. He knows that championships aren’t won in a single game. They’re won shift by shift, battle by battle.

He walks out of the library, the cool night air hitting his face.

You are a fortress. You are heavily guarded, entirely focused, and completely unimpressed by everything he usually relies on.

This isn’t going to be easy. It’s going to take time, patience, and a whole lot of effort.

And for the first time in a very long time, Garrett is actually looking forward to it.

***

“What in the actual hell are you doing?”

Garrett doesn’t take his eyes off the television screen. He reaches blindly into the bowl resting on his stomach, grabs a handful of popcorn, and shoves it into his mouth. “I’m conducting research.”

Dean drops his hockey bag by the front door of the off-campus house they share with a heavy thud. He walks into the living room, staring at the screen in utter bewilderment. Logan and Tucker follow close behind, both stopping dead in their tracks.

On the screen, a laugh track blares as a tall, painfully thin guy in a Flash t-shirt says something about string theory.

“You’re watching The Big Bang Theory,” Logan says, his voice flat.

“Episode four, season one,” Garrett confirms, chewing thoughtfully. “I think I’m starting to pick up on the terminology. Bazinga.”

Tucker lets out a loud, wheezing laugh, doubling over. “Oh, my God. He’s broken. Our captain is broken.”

“I’m not broken,” Garrett snaps, pausing the TV. He turns to glare at his three teammates. “I’m adapting. You guys gave me an impossible target. The girl practically speaks a different language. If I’m going to get close to her, I need to understand her people.”

“Her people,” Dean repeats, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “Garrett, she’s an engineering major, not an alien species. And I’m pretty sure watching a ten-year-old sitcom isn’t going to magically teach you thermodynamics.”

“It’s about the culture,” Garrett argues, though he knows he sounds completely ridiculous. He defends his ground anyway. “I need to know how to banter with her. Do you know what a quark is? Because I do now.”

“You are pathetic,” Logan says, walking over and snatching the popcorn bowl right off Garrett’s stomach. “You’re telling me you haven’t even talked to her since the library?”

“I have a strategy.” Garrett sits up, crossing his arms.

“Yeah? What’s the strategy? Quoting Sheldon Cooper until she sleeps with you?” Dean asks, throwing himself onto the adjacent armchair.

“Attrition,” Garrett says, pointing a finger at Dean. “It’s a classic military tactic. You wear the enemy’s defenses down over time. She’s heavily guarded. If I rush in there with cheesy pickup lines, she’s going to shut me down and ignore me until graduation. I have to acclimate her to my presence.”

Tucker snorts, heading for the kitchen. “Acclimate her. Like a feral cat.”

“Exactly,” Garrett says, ignoring the insult. “I’m going to just … be there. Until she gets used to me. Until she expects me.”

“Well, good luck, Spock,” Logan says, tossing a piece of popcorn at Garrett’s head. “Just remember, the clock is ticking.”

Garrett brushes the popcorn off his shirt. The clock is ticking, but he isn’t worried. He has a plan.

***

Phase one of Garrett’s master plan begins the very next evening.

He finds you in your usual spot on the third floor of the library, fortified behind a wall of textbooks. He pulls the chair out across from you, the scrape of the wood cutting through the silence.

You slowly lower your laptop screen. The irritation in your eyes is palpable.

“I thought we established that you are not going to be an astronaut,” you say flatly.

“We did,” Garrett agrees, taking a seat and pulling a totally blank notebook out of his backpack. “I’ve moved on to a new dream. I’m thinking of working on a memoir. Requires a lot of writing. So, I’m here to write.”

You stare at the blank notebook. Then you look at him. “You don’t have a pen.”

“I’m a mental writer.”

You let out a heavy sigh, shaking your head before pulling your screen back up. “Don’t breathe too loud, Graham.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Y/N.”

And that’s all he does. He sits there for two hours, pretending to look at his phone, while actually watching you work.

He does it again two days later. This time, you don’t even lower your screen. You just slide a loose piece of notebook paper across the table toward him without looking up. Written on it in neat, precise handwriting are the words: silence is golden.

He writes back: I’m the quietest guy you know. And slides it back.

A tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you tuck the paper away.

By the end of the second week, Garrett notices a pattern. You are a machine, churning through complex equations and drafting endless schematics, but your fatal flaw is your basic human maintenance. Specifically, you forget to eat.

On a Wednesday night, after watching you rub your temples and wince for the fourth time in an hour, Garrett stands up. He doesn’t say a word. He just walks away.

Twenty minutes later, he returns.

You flinch slightly as a large, steaming paper cup and a brown pastry bag are deposited directly onto your open textbook.

You look from the cup, to the bag, and then up to Garrett as he takes his seat across from you.

“What is this?” You ask, your voice a mix of suspicion and exhaustion.

“Black coffee. Two sugars. And a blueberry muffin from the café downstairs,” Garrett says casually, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been staring at that same page for forty-five minutes. Your blood sugar is crashing. You look like a zombie.”

Your eyes narrow. “I do not look like a zombie.”

“You really do. A cute zombie, but a zombie nonetheless.”

The word slips out before he can stop it, but he doesn’t regret it when he sees a faint pink flush creep up your neck. You look down at the coffee cup, wrapping your hands around the warm cardboard.

“I didn’t ask you to do this,” you say softly.

“I know,” Garrett replies. “Eat the muffin before I throw it at you.”

You finally open the bag, tearing off a piece of the muffin. You take a bite, and he watches your shoulders physically drop an inch as the sugar hits your system. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Just consider it a peace offering.”

“For what?”

“For taking up your oxygen.”

You take a sip of the coffee, closing your eyes for a brief second. “It’s good coffee.”

“I aim to please.”

The next time he comes to the library, he brings a turkey and swiss sandwich. You protest, but you eat the entire thing in under four minutes. The time after that, it’s a pack of peanut butter crackers and a Gatorade.

Slowly, the fortress starts to lower. You stop glaring when he pulls out his chair. You start greeting him when he sits down. Sometimes, when you take a break to rest your eyes, you actually complain to him about your professors.

Garrett listens. He doesn’t understand a word of the orbital mechanics jargon you vent about, but he listens to the tone of your voice, watches the animated way you wave your hands when you’re annoyed, and realizes, with a slight jolt of panic, that he genuinely enjoys your company.

It’s been three weeks. The acclimation phase is complete. It’s time to make a move.

***

It happens on a Monday.

Garrett tracks you down not in the library, but in a small courtyard outside the engineering building. It’s noon, the sun is shining, and you are sitting on a concrete bench with a terrifyingly thick textbook balanced on your knees.

He walks up, casting a shadow over your pages.

You blink, looking up and squinting against the sunlight. “Graham. What are you doing out here? It’s daylight. You’re usually a nocturnal pest.”

“Very funny,” Garrett says, offering a grin. He gestures toward the street. “Come on. Pack it up.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s lunchtime. You need to eat. And I am starving after morning ice time.”

You immediately shake your head, clutching the textbook tighter. “No way. I can’t. I have a lab report due at four, and I’m only halfway through the data analysis. I’m just going to skip lunch.”

“Skipping lunch is bad for cognitive function,” Garrett counters smoothly. “You told me that yourself two days ago when I tried to skip breakfast.”

“That’s different. You’re an athlete. You need calories to smash people into boards.”

“And you need calories to do math that looks like an ancient alien language.” Garrett steps closer, reaching out and gently tapping the cover of your book. “Come on. Just a quick bite. Thirty minutes. You’ll work twice as fast after you get some real food in you.”

“Garrett, I really can’t-”

“Please.” He drops his voice, leaning in just a fraction. He uses the look. The one that works on everyone. But he tempers it, adding a layer of genuine pleading. “I don’t want to eat alone. My teammates are animals and I need civilized company.”

You stare at him, your resolve visibly wavering. You look from his face, to your textbook, and back again. Finally, you let out a dramatic sigh that he’s coming to recognize as your personal white flag.

“Fine. Thirty minutes. Not a second more.”

“Deal.”

Garrett waits as you shove your massive book into your backpack. You stand up, adjusting the strap over your shoulder, and he falls into step beside you.

“There’s a Panera just off campus,” Garrett suggests. “Fast, decent food, and they have that green tea you like.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You noticed I drink green tea?”

“I notice a lot of things,” he says, keeping his tone light.

The walk to the restaurant is surprisingly easy. You don’t talk much, still clearly pre-occupied with your lab report, but it’s a comfortable silence. When you arrive, the lunchtime rush is in full swing, but they manage to find a small booth near the window after ordering.

As the cashier rings them up, you immediately start digging into your backpack for your wallet.

“Don’t bother,” Garrett says, already handing his debit card to the cashier.

Your head snaps up. “What? No. Absolutely not. I’m paying for my own food.”

“I asked you out,” Garrett says, stepping smoothly in front of the card reader to block you physically. “I pay.”

“It’s not a date, Graham,” you hiss, trying to reach around his broad shoulder. “It’s a hostage situation you initiated.”

“Call it what you want. I’m paying.” He shoots the cashier a charming smile. “Just put it all on the card, please.”

You huff in annoyance, your arms crossing tightly over your chest as the receipt prints. “I’m paying you back.”

“You can try,” Garrett says, grabbing the pager and turning to you. “But I’m surprisingly fast for my size.”

You roll your eyes, but the fight drains out of you. You follow him to the booth, sliding into the vinyl seat with a heavy sigh.

Garrett sits across from you, resting his arms on the table. In the bright, natural light of the restaurant, away from the dim fluorescent bulbs of the library, he takes a moment to really look at you. The way your hair catches the light, the faint blush spreading across the bridge of your nose that he hadn’t noticed before. The sheer exhaustion pulling at the corners of your eyes.

“So,” Garrett starts, deciding to drop the playful banter for a moment. “Lab report due at four. Midterm on Thursday. Do you ever actually sleep, or do you just power down like a robot?”

You offer a tired, self-deprecating smile. “Six hours a night. Mostly. It’s just … crunch time right now.”

“It’s always crunch time with you,” Garrett observes. “I’ve never seen anyone study as much as you do. Not even the pre-med guys.”

You trace a pattern on the laminate table top with your fingernail. For a moment, he thinks you’re going to brush off the comment with a sarcastic remark. But instead, you let out a slow breath.

“I don’t really have a choice,” you say quietly.

“Everyone has a choice.”

“Not if I want to stay at Briar.” You look up, your eyes meeting his, stripped of their usual defensive walls. “I’m not here on a hockey scholarship, Garrett. I’m here on a full-ride academic scholarship. The only way I could afford this school.”

Garrett pauses, all the teasing immediately evaporating from his system. He leans forward, his full attention focused entirely on you. “Okay.”

“The terms are strict,” you continue, your voice low. “If my GPA drops below a 3.8, I lose the funding. Instantly. No probation, no second chances. I pack my bags and I go home. Aerospace is one of the hardest programs at this university. If I slip up on one lab report, or bomb one midterm, that 3.8 drops. So … I study.”

Garrett feels a sudden, sharp twist in his gut. All this time, he thought you were just a typical overachiever, obsessed with grades for the sake of being top of the class. He had no idea you were constantly walking a tightrope, with your entire future hanging in the balance.

It makes the crushing pressure he feels from his father seem almost … different. He plays hockey to escape his dad. You do math to secure your survival.

“That’s a hell of a lot of pressure,” he says honestly.

“It is what it is.” You shrug, though the tension in your shoulders betrays the casual movement. “It’s worth it. If I make it through, I get to do exactly what I want for the rest of my life.”

The pager on the table buzzes loudly, startling them both. Garrett jumps up quickly. “I’ll grab the food.”

When he returns with their trays, setting your soup and salad in front of you, he sits back down, his mind racing. The bet with the guys suddenly feels incredibly juvenile. Gross, even. You’re sitting here fighting for your academic life, and he’s treating you like a game to stroke his own ego.

He pushes the thought down. He can’t back out now, but he can at least make sure this isn’t a complete joke.

“So,” Garrett says, opening his sandwich wrapper. “Why aerospace? Out of everything you could have chosen. Why rockets and thrust?” He smirks slightly at the callback to your first conversation.

You roll your eyes, taking a spoonful of your soup. But as you swallow, a genuine, completely unguarded smile breaks across your face. It completely transforms you, wiping away the exhaustion and replacing it with pure, radiant passion.

“I grew up in Cocoa Beach,” you tell him, your voice softening.

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “Florida?”

“Yeah. Right there on the Space Coast. When you live down there, launches are just a thing that happens in the background, you know? You’re playing in the yard, and suddenly the sky lights up and the windows rattle.” You pause, looking past him, lost in a memory. “But the last space shuttle launch. The final one back in 2011. STS-135 Atlantis.”

“You were there?”

“My dad took me out to the beach to watch it,” you say, your eyes practically glowing now. “I was young, just a teen, but I remember it perfectly. There were thousands of people packed onto the sand. And when the countdown hit zero, you didn’t just hear it. You felt it. The ground literally shook beneath my feet. And then this massive, beautiful machine just tore through the sky, defying gravity, heading for the stars.”

Garrett stops chewing his food. He’s completely captivated. Not by the story, but by the way you’re telling it.

“I looked up at that streak of fire in the sky,” you continue, your hands moving as you speak, “and I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I didn’t just want to watch them anymore. I wanted to build the things that go up there. I wanted to understand the math that makes the impossible, possible.”

You suddenly blink, pulling yourself back to the present. You clear your throat, picking up your spoon again, suddenly looking incredibly self-conscious. “Sorry. I’m nerding out. You don’t care about this.”

“Are you kidding me?” Garrett asks, his voice thick with a sincerity that surprises even him. “That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You look at him, searching his face for any sign of mockery. When you find none, you relax slightly against the back of the booth. “It was pretty incredible.”

“I’ll bet.” Garrett takes a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving yours. “So, you’re from Florida. That explains why you look like you’re freezing to death every time the wind blows here.”

You let out a loud laugh, the sound bright and warm. “It is so cold here, Garrett. Unreasonably cold. Why do people live in this state?”

“It builds character,” he jokes. “Besides, it makes for good hockey.”

“Right. Hockey.” You tilt your head, studying him with that same analytical gaze from the library, but the edge is completely gone. It’s softer now. Curious. “So, tell me. Why do you do it? And don’t tell me it’s for the character building.”

Garrett hesitates. He doesn’t talk about hockey in a serious way. He talks about the glory, the hits, the stats. He never talks about the fact that the ice is the only place he feels completely in control. The only place where the ghost of his mother’s illness and the reality of his father’s fists can’t reach him.

He looks at you. You just handed him a piece of your soul, wrapped up in a story about a space shuttle.

“It’s quiet,” Garrett says slowly, the truth slipping out before his defenses can catch it.

Your brow furrows. “Quiet? I’ve seen clips on ESPN. It looks like the exact opposite of quiet.”

“The arena is loud,” Garrett clarifies, leaning forward. “The fans, the sirens, the coaches yelling. But when I’m on the ice … when I have the puck on my stick and I’m moving toward the net … everything else just turns off. The noise goes away. It’s just me, the ice, and the goal. It’s the only time my brain actually shuts up.”

You stare at him, your eyes wide, processing his words. For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The clatter of the busy restaurant seems to fade away, leaving only the charged space between the two of you.

“I get that,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. “That’s how I feel when I finally solve an equation that’s been taking me days. The world just stops for a second.”

Garrett smiles, a slow, genuine smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. He realizes, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that Dean, Logan, and Tucker were wrong.

He didn’t just pull a target. He found someone who actually understands him.

“Eat your soup,” he says softly. “You have a lab report to write.”

You smile back, picking up your spoon. “Yes, Captain.”

Garrett eats the rest of his sandwich, his heart beating a slightly different rhythm in his chest. He knows he has to win this bet. But as he watches you wipe your mouth with a napkin, he realizes he wants to win for entirely different reasons now.

He doesn’t just want you in his bed. He wants you in his life.

***

Garrett feels like an absolute idiot.

He is walking across the bustling Briar University quad on a Thursday afternoon, carrying a bouquet of bright, aggressively cheerful flowers wrapped in brown paper. He’s getting stares. A few whispers. Two girls from his sports sociology seminar actually stop in their tracks and giggle as he walks past.

He ignores all of it, adjusting his grip on the stems. He spent two hours on the internet and visited three different florists in town to find these specific flowers. If Logan, Dean, and Tucker could see him right now, he’d never hear the end of it. The captain of the hockey team, reduced to a lovesick errand boy.

But as he pushes open the heavy glass doors of the engineering building, Garrett realizes he doesn’t actually care.

He checks the schedule you mentioned offhandedly two days ago. You should be getting out of your aerodynamics lecture right about now. He posts up against the tiled wall near the lecture hall doors, crossing his ankles and waiting.

Ten minutes later, the double doors swing open, and a flood of exhausted-looking students pours into the hallway. Garrett scans the crowd until he spots you. You’re wearing your signature oversized Briar hoodie, your hair clipped up, your nose already buried in a planner as you walk.

Garrett steps right into your path.

You stop short, narrowly avoiding a collision with his chest. You blink, looking up from your planner, the familiar flash of annoyance in your hazel eyes instantly softening when you register who it is.

“Graham,” you say, a hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Are you stalking my classes now?”

“Just providing an escort service,” Garrett says casually. He pulls his hand from behind his back and extends the bouquet toward you. “Here.”

You freeze. Your eyes drop to the bright orange, pink, and yellow petals bursting from the paper. You don’t reach for them right away. Instead, you look back up at his face, your expression a mixture of confusion and deep suspicion.

“What is this?” You ask slowly.

“They’re flowers, Y/N. Usually, people give them to other people as a gesture of goodwill.”

“I know they’re flowers,” you say, rolling your eyes, though a faint pink flush is already rising on your cheeks. “But why are you giving them to me? Did you accidentally run over someone’s garden and need to ditch the evidence?”

Garrett laughs, stepping a fraction closer. “Take them.”

Hesitantly, you reach out and take the bouquet. You look down at the blooms, your fingers gently brushing against a bright orange petal. “They’re … really beautiful. What kind are they?”

“Zinnias,” Garrett says.

“Zinnias,” you repeat. You look up at him, waiting for the punchline. “Okay. Is there a joke I’m missing?”

“No joke.” Garrett shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, suddenly feeling entirely too vulnerable. He clears his throat. “I, uh … I read an article online. Well, Wikipedia. But the source cited an actual NASA press release, so I think it checks out.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “NASA?”

“Yeah.” Garrett shifts his weight. “In 2016, astronaut Scott Kelly tweeted a picture of a flower from the International Space Station. It was the first flower to ever bloom entirely in space, in zero gravity.” He nods toward the bouquet in your hands. “It was a Zinnia.”

The hallway around them is noisy, filled with the chatter of students rushing to their next classes, but Garrett barely hears any of it. He is entirely focused on your face.

You look down at the flowers again. Your breath hitches, just slightly, but he catches it. When you look back up at him, your eyes are wide, shining with an emotion he can’t quite decipher. It’s a look of total shock.

“You …” you start, your voice barely a whisper. You clear your throat and try again. “You researched the first flower grown in space?”

“I did.”

“For me?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to buy them for Logan,” Garrett deadpans.

You let out a startled, breathless laugh, clutching the flowers closer to your chest. The walls you constantly keep up — the defenses, the sarcasm, the intense academic focus — seem to crumble right in front of him. You look genuinely touched.

“Garrett,” you say softly. “This is … I don’t even know what to say. This is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Say you’ll go on a date with me,” he counters smoothly, seizing the opening. “A real date. Friday night. Not Panera. Not the library. An actual dinner.”

You bite your lower lip, a habit he’s quickly becoming obsessed with. “I have a fluid dynamics quiz on Monday.”

“You’ve been studying for it since Tuesday. You know the material.” Garrett pulls one hand from his pocket and gently taps the cover of your planner. “Take one night off. Give your brain a rest. Let me take you out.”

You look from him, to the Zinnias, and then back to him. The hesitation in your eyes dissolves, replaced by a warm, definitive spark.

“Okay,” you say.

Garrett’s chest swells with a massive, undeniable sense of victory. “Okay?”

“Yes, Graham. It’s a date.” You tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “What time?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven. Dress nice. I’m taking you somewhere that uses real cloth napkins.”

You laugh again, a sound Garrett wants to bottle up and keep. “I’ll see you at seven.”

***

Friday night arrives, and the energy in the house is chaotic.

Garrett stands in front of the mirror in his bedroom, adjusting the cuffs of a crisp, dark blue button-down shirt. He checks his hair, runs a hand over his jaw to make sure his shave is clean, and grabs his favorite cologne.

The door to his bedroom swings open without a knock.

“Hey, G, are we ordering pizza or-” Dean stops dead in the doorway. His eyes go wide. “Whoa. Look at you.”

Logan and Tucker appear behind Dean a second later, peering into the room.

“Is there a funeral?” Tucker asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“Very funny,” Garrett mutters, grabbing his wallet and keys off the dresser. “I’m going out.”

“With the lamppost girl?” Logan asks, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’re wearing a collar for the lamppost girl? Damn, the strategy must be working.”

Garrett shoots Logan a dark look. “Her name is Y/N. And yeah, I’m taking her to dinner.”

“Where? The dining hall?” Dean teases.

“Osteria.”

The three guys fall completely silent. Osteria is the nicest Italian place in town. It takes a week to get a reservation, and it definitely isn’t cheap.

“You’re taking the bet to Osteria?” Logan asks, his smirk fading into genuine confusion. “Garrett, you just need to get her in bed. You don’t need to buy her a fifty-dollar steak.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. Hearing them call you that suddenly makes his stomach turn. It feels dirty. It feels wrong. The bet was a stupid, arrogant mistake, but the date tonight? The date is real. He wants it to be real.

“I know what I’m doing,” Garrett snaps, pushing past them into the hallway. “Don’t wait up.”

He leaves the house before they can say anything else, his pulse drumming a heavy beat against his ribs.

Twenty minutes later, Garrett pulls his Jeep up to the curb outside your apartment complex. He walks up the exterior stairs to the second floor, his palms actually sweating. He wipes them on his dark jeans before raising a hand to knock on your door.

He waits. He hears footsteps inside, the slide of a deadbolt, and then the door pulls open.

Garrett’s brain instantly flatlines.

You are standing in the doorway, and you look absolutely devastating. The oversized hoodies and messy buns are completely gone. In their place is a sleek, black slip dress that hugs your curves perfectly, the silk material catching the warm porch light. Your hair is down, falling in soft, loose waves over your shoulders. You’re wearing a touch of makeup — dark mascara that makes your eyes pop, and a dark red lip that makes Garrett’s mouth go entirely dry.

You aren’t wearing your glasses.

“Hi,” you say, a nervous, shy smile breaking across your face.

Garrett realizes he hasn’t spoken. He’s just staring. He forces his vocal cords to work. “Hi. Wow. You look … wow.”

You laugh, the sound a little breathless, and step out onto the landing, pulling the door shut behind you. “Is that a good thing, or do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

“It’s a very, very good thing,” Garrett says, his voice dropping an octave. He can’t tear his eyes away from you. You look stunning. You look like the kind of girl who stops traffic. “I feel incredibly underdressed.”

“You look great, Garrett,” you say softly, your eyes raking over his button-down and jeans. You step closer, the faint scent of vanilla and something floral washing over him. “Shall we?”

“Yeah.” Garrett clears his throat, finally finding his brain again. He steps to the side, pressing a light hand against the small of your back to guide you toward the stairs. “My car is right down here.”

The drive to the restaurant is easy, filled with light banter about the horrific traffic on campus and a debate over the local sports radio station playing quietly in the background. But the moment they walk into Osteria, the atmosphere shifts into something more intimate.

The restaurant is dimly lit, smelling of garlic, roasting meats, and expensive wine. The maître d’ leads you to a secluded booth in the back corner.

Once they’re seated, Garrett watches you pick up the menu. The candlelight flickers across your face, highlighting the sharp line of your jaw and the soft curve of your lips. He is genuinely captivated.

“Okay, I stand corrected,” you say, scanning the menu. “They do use real cloth napkins here. And the prices don’t actually have dollar signs next to them. That’s how you know it’s fancy.”

“Don’t worry about the prices,” Garrett says immediately. “Order whatever you want.”

You lower the menu, raising an eyebrow at him. “Are you trying to bribe me, Graham?”

“I’m trying to impress you,” he admits, leaning forward on his elbows.

“You already gave me space flowers,” you point out, a soft smile playing on your lips. “The bar is pretty high.”

“I like a challenge.”

The waiter arrives, and they order. Garrett asks for a bottle of red wine, and you don’t object, even allowing him to pour you a glass when it arrives.

Once the waiter leaves, the quiet intimacy of the booth settles over them again. You take a sip of the wine, your eyes locking onto his.

“So,” you say, tracing the rim of your glass. “Garrett Graham. Captain of the team. Unlikely future astronaut. You know all about my stress, my scholarship, and my deep, abiding love for rockets. But I feel like I barely know anything real about you.”

Garrett shifts slightly in his seat. He’s used to girls asking him about his stats, his NHL chances, or his workout routine. He isn’t used to anyone asking him to be real.

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

“Start with the basics,” you suggest. “Where are you from?”

“In New York. The city, mostly. But my dad moved us out to the suburbs when I was in middle school so I could play for a better youth hockey program.”

“Ah,” you nod slowly. “A hockey family.”

“Something like that.” Garrett takes a long drink of his wine. The familiar, bitter taste of resentment coats his tongue whenever he thinks about his father. He decides to test the waters, offering a piece of the truth he rarely shares. “My dad played in the NHL. Phil Graham. He had a solid career with the Rangers. Made a lot of money. Won a Norris.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Wow. That’s a huge legacy to follow.”

“Yeah. It is.” Garrett stares into his glass. “He’s … intense. To put it mildly. He thinks second place is just the first loser. If I don’t score a hat trick, the game is a failure. If I don’t get drafted in the first round, my career is a bust.”

“That sounds exhausting,” you say softly.

Garrett looks up. There’s no pity in your eyes. Just a quiet, steady understanding. “It is. But it’s the way he is. He trained me to be a machine. No distractions. No emotions. Just the puck and the net.”

“Is that why you act like nothing ever bothers you?” You ask, your tone completely devoid of judgment. “Because you were trained to shut it off?”

Garrett feels a jolt of shock run through him. You see right through him. You always have, from the very first day in the library. You don’t buy the charming, carefree persona he projects to the rest of the world.

“Yeah,” Garrett says, his voice thick. “I guess it is. If I don’t care, he can’t use it against me.”

You reach across the small table. Your fingers lightly brush against his knuckles, a fleeting, electrifying touch that makes Garrett’s breath catch.

“You’re allowed to care, Garrett,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t make you weak.”

He flips his hand over, catching your fingers before you can pull away. He intertwines his fingers with yours, holding your hand on the table. Your skin is soft, warm, and the connection sends a rush of heat straight to his chest. You don’t pull back. You just look at him, your eyes dark and magnetic in the candlelight.

“I’m starting to care about a lot of things,” he says, his voice dropping to a rough murmur.

The waiter returns with their food, forcing you to break apart, but the tension between you only thickens as the meal progresses. The conversation flows effortlessly. You argue playfully about the best sci-fi movies, you mock the pretentious names of the dishes on the menu, and you share stories about their worst college professors.

Garrett realizes, halfway through his steak, that he is having the best night of his life. He isn’t performing. He isn’t trying to be the cool, detached captain. He is just Garrett, and you are looking at him like he’s the only person in the room.

By the time the waiter clears their plates and brings out a slice of tiramisu to share, the air between them is practically humming with electricity.

You take a bite of the dessert, groaning softly as the chocolate and espresso hit your tongue. “Oh, my god. That is incredible.”

Garrett watches the movement of your mouth, his mind suddenly going entirely blank of anything but the intense, overwhelming urge to kiss you.

“Glad you like it,” he manages to say, his voice tight.

“You aren’t having any?” You ask, offering him the fork.

“I’m good,” he says, his eyes locked on your lips. “I’ve got everything I want right here.”

You swallow hard, your breath hitching again. The playful banter fades away, replaced by a heavy, charged silence. You put the fork down, your eyes dropping to his mouth before rising back to his eyes.

Garrett signals for the check, pays quickly, and they step out of the restaurant into the cool, crisp autumn air.

You shiver almost instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. “Okay, the food was amazing, but I officially hate Massachusetts weather.”

Without a word, Garrett shrugs off his suit jacket and steps behind you, draping it over your bare shoulders. The warmth of his body heat transfers to you, and you lean back slightly into his chest, letting out a soft sigh.

“Better?” He asks, his voice rumbling right by your ear.

“Much,” you whisper.

He rests his hands lightly on your shoulders for just a second longer than necessary before guiding you to the Jeep.

The drive back to campus is quiet, but it’s not the comfortable silence of earlier. It’s heavy. It’s loaded with anticipation. The radio plays softly, but Garrett barely registers the song. His hands grip the steering wheel tight, his mind racing.

He wants to keep you. He wants to drag this night out until the sun comes up.

He pulls up to the intersection where he normally turns right to head to your apartment.

The blinker ticks loudly in the quiet cab of the car.

Garrett doesn’t turn the wheel. He hits the brake, sitting at the red light, and looks over at you. You are already looking at him, buried in his suit jacket, your eyes dark and expectant in the shadows of the car.

“I don’t want to take you home yet,” Garrett says, the words spilling out before he can overthink them. He is laying all his cards on the table. No games. No strategies. Just the raw, honest truth. “I don’t want this night to end.”

You hold his gaze, the silence stretching out between you. Garrett’s heart hammers against his ribs. He waits for the rejection. He waits for you to tell him about the fluid dynamics quiz, or the late hour, or the fact that you need to go to sleep.

Instead, you reach out and place your hand gently over his on the center console.

“I don’t want it to end either,” you say softly.

Garrett turns his hand, threading his fingers through yours once again. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Do you … do you want to come back to my place?”

The light turns green.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Yes,” you say. “Take me to your place, Garrett.”

Garrett lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding since he met you. He flips the blinker off, hits the gas, and drives straight through the intersection, heading away from your apartment, and straight toward the house.

***

The drive takes less than ten minutes, but to Garrett, it feels like an eternity. Every time he shifts gears, his knuckles brush against the soft fabric of his suit jacket still draped over your shoulders. The car is completely silent save for the low hum of the engine and the soft rhythm of your breathing.

He pulls into the gravel driveway and cuts the engine. The house is dark. Dean, Logan, and Tucker are out, probably at whatever Friday night mixer is happening on campus. For the first time in his life, Garrett is overwhelmingly grateful for his teammates’ predictable party habits.

“They’re not here,” Garrett says, his voice low in the quiet cab.

“Good,” you murmur, turning your head to look at him. Your eyes catch the faint amber glow of the streetlamp outside. There’s a nervous energy radiating from you, but there’s no hesitation in your voice.

He gets out, walking around the front of the Jeep to open your door. You step down, shivering slightly as the brisk autumn air hits your bare legs, and Garrett instinctively wraps an arm around your waist, pulling your side flush against his chest.

“Let’s get you inside,” he whispers.

He guides you up the porch steps, his keys jingling as he unlocks the front door. The house smells faintly of stale beer and athletic gear, but Garrett barely registers it. He leads you straight past the living room and up the wooden stairs to his bedroom at the end of the hall.

He pushes the door open and reaches for the lamp on his nightstand, bathing the room in a warm, dim light. His room is surprisingly clean — he’d practically scrubbed it top to bottom before the date, just in case.

You step inside, your eyes darting around the space, taking in the framed hockey jerseys, the neatly made bed, the stack of textbooks on his desk. Garrett closes the door behind you, the click of the latch echoing loudly in the quiet room.

The moment the door shuts, the reality of the situation settles over you both. The air is suddenly heavy, thick with anticipation. Garrett stays by the door, his hands in his pockets, watching you. He’s dying to touch you, to close the distance, but he forces himself to stay put.

“Y/N,” he says softly.

You turn to face him, clutching the lapels of his oversized jacket. “Yeah?”

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his gaze locking onto yours. He needs to know. He needs to hear it. “Because we can just hang out. You can borrow a t-shirt and go to sleep. I don’t want you to feel pressured just because I bought you dinner.”

A small, genuine smile breaks across your face. You take a step toward him. Then another. Until you are standing right in front of him, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your body.

“I’m sure, Garrett,” you whisper, tilting your head up. “I want to be here.”

That’s all it takes.

Garrett’s hands come out of his pockets, immediately finding your waist. He pulls you against him, ducking his head, and captures your lips with his.

The kiss is explosive. It’s not slow or tentative. It’s exactly what he’s been craving all night. His mouth opens over yours, his tongue sliding past your lips, tasting the sweet, dark hint of the tiramisu and the intoxicating flavor that is just you. You let out a soft gasp, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders as you kiss him back with a fierce, unexpected intensity.

“Fuck,” Garrett groans against your mouth. His hands slide up your back, gripping the jacket and pulling it off your shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

He steps forward, backing you slowly across the room until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. You tumble back onto the comforter, and Garrett follows you down, bracketing your body with his arms.

He takes a second to just look at you. Your dark hair is fanned out across his pillows, your lips are swollen and slick from his mouth, and the black silk slip dress rides dangerously high on your thighs.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, trailing a line of open-mouthed kisses down the line of your jaw, down the column of your neck. He feels your pulse jumping wildly against his lips.

“Garrett,” you breathe, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Take this off. Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He sits up slightly, grabbing the hem of your slip dress. “Lift your arms.”

You comply, and he pulls the silk over your head, tossing it aside. You are left in a matching set of black lace underwear, and Garrett feels his mouth go completely dry. He traces a finger down the center of your stomach, watching the way your muscles jump and quiver under his touch.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, leaning down to press a hot, wet kiss to your stomach.

Garrett takes his time. He wants to memorize every inch of you. He unhooks your bra, peeling it away, and his mouth immediately replaces the fabric. He circles the tight peak of your nipple with his tongue, sucking gently, and you let out a high, sweet moan that sends a surge of blood straight to his groin.

“You like that, Starshine?” He asks, his voice thick and raspy.

“Yes,” you gasp, your hips arching up off the mattress involuntarily. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He continues to worship your chest, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your lace panties, slowly dragging them down your legs and tossing them onto the floor.

You instinctively try to cross your legs, a sudden flash of vulnerability crossing your face, but Garrett gently catches your knees, pressing them open.

“Don’t hide from me,” he says, his voice a low, commanding rumble. He rests his forearms on your thighs, looking at you. “I want to see you.”

He leans in, pressing his mouth to the soft skin of your inner thigh, right near your center. You jump, your fingers digging into his bedsheets.

“Garrett-”

“Relax,” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me take care of you first.”

He trails his lips higher, his breath ghosting over your slick, swollen folds. The scent of your arousal fills his senses, sweet and completely intoxicating. He traces the delicate seam with the tip of his nose, and then, slowly, he presses his tongue flat and takes a long, slow drag upward.

You scream his name, your entire body bucking off the bed.

“Shh,” he soothes, though he’s smiling against you. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you higher, tilting your hips exactly where he needs them. “I’ve got you.”

He sets a punishing, relentless rhythm. He swirls his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking hard, and then diving two fingers inside you. You are incredibly tight, and so wet his fingers slide in effortlessly. He curls his fingers, hitting that sweet spot inside you with every thrust of his hand, mirroring the flick of his tongue.

“Oh my god,” you sob, thrashing on the pillows. “Garrett. Please. I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, quickening his pace. “Come for me, Y/N. Let me feel it.”

You unravel completely. Your thighs clamp down on his head, your nails ripping into the sheets as a violently intense orgasm tears through your body. You cry out, your core pulsing and clenching frantically around his fingers, milking him of every drop of sanity he has left.

Garrett waits until the last of your tremors subside before he pulls away. He crawls back up your body, his chest heaving, and captures your lips in a devastating kiss, letting you taste your own release on his tongue.

You are completely limp, your eyes half-closed, a dazed, blissful smile on your face.

Garrett pulls back, stripping off his button-down shirt and throwing it across the room. He kicks off his shoes, shoves his jeans and boxers down his legs, and stands by the bed, completely bare.

Your eyes drag down his chest, lingering on the hard planes of his stomach, before dropping lower. Your eyes go wide, a flash of something akin to panic crossing your face for a fraction of a second, but you quickly mask it, biting your lower lip.

Garrett turns, opening the drawer of his nightstand and pulling out a foil packet. He tears it open, quickly rolling the condom down his length, before moving to hover over you.

He settles between your legs, his knees sinking into the mattress. He braces his weight on his forearms, looking down into your flushed face.

“You okay?” He checks, his thumb brushing a stray piece of hair off your forehead.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper, reaching up to run your hands over his broad shoulders. “I want you.”

Garrett groans, the sound completely animalistic. He shifts his hips forward, aligning the blunt head of his cock with your slick opening. He pushes forward, letting himself sink into your heat.

But immediately, he feels resistance. It’s tight. Impossibly tight. And as he pushes another fraction of an inch, your breath hitches sharply, your hands flying to his chest to grip his biceps.

“Ouch,” you gasp, your body tensing completely.

Garrett stops instantly.

Every alarm bell in his head goes off. He freezes, pulling back slightly, his eyes snapping to your face. You are biting your lip, your eyes squeezed shut in obvious discomfort.

He pulls out entirely.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice laced with concern. He looks down, and the sight makes his heart completely stop in his chest.

There is a single, vivid streak of crimson blood on his condom.

Garrett stares at it. The room suddenly starts spinning. The air is sucked entirely out of his lungs.

He looks back up at you. You have opened your eyes, and you are staring at the ceiling, your cheeks burning with a fierce, humiliated blush. You look incredibly small, pulling the edge of the comforter over your chest.

“Y/N,” Garrett repeats, his voice trembling now. “Look at me.”

You slowly turn your head, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Are you … is this your first time?”

The silence that follows is deafening. You pick at a thread on the comforter, your voice incredibly quiet when you finally speak.

“Yes.”

The word hits Garrett like a physical blow to the stomach. A brutal, agonizing hit that leaves him completely winded.

A virgin.

You are a virgin.

And he is about to take your virginity to win a fucking bet.

A wave of nausea washes over him so intensely he actually feels dizzy. The memory of Dean, Logan, and Tucker laughing on the quad violently assaults his brain. You guys pick the girl. I’ll have her in my bed by the end of the semester.

He is a monster. He is worse than his father. His father broke his mother’s body, but Garrett is about to shatter your heart. You, the girl who apologizes to lampposts. The girl who gets starry-eyed talking about space shuttles. The girl who looks at him like he’s actually a good person.

“I’m sorry,” you say suddenly, your voice cracking. “I should have told you. I just … I know you’re super experienced, and I didn’t want you to think I was a total loser or some kind of prude. I just … I’ve never had the time. Or met anyone I wanted to do this with. Until you.”

Your words twist the knife deeper.

“Hey,” Garrett says immediately, forcing the panic down, forcing the crushing guilt into a dark, locked box in the back of his mind. He has to take care of you right now. He can hate himself later. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek, forcing you to look at him. “Do not apologize. Are you crazy? Y/N, you’re not a loser.”

“But you stopped,” you whisper, tears shining in your eyes. “I’m ruining it.”

“You are not ruining anything,” he says fiercely. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m just … I’m honored, baby. I just wish I had known so I could have been gentler. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It only hurt for a second,” you assure him, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. “I promise. Please, Garrett. I want to. I want it to be you.”

God, he wants to throw up. He wants to pull away, put his clothes on, and run out of the room. But looking at your face, so open, so trusting, so incredibly beautiful — he knows that pulling away now would destroy your confidence. It would humiliate you.

He’s in it. He has to finish this. And he vows right then and there, he is going to make it the best experience you’ve ever had.

“Okay,” Garrett whispers, his voice thick with unshed emotion. “Okay. But you have to tell me if it hurts too much. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Garrett settles back between your legs. He reaches down, sliding a hand between your folds, using the slickness of your earlier orgasm to massage you, stretching you gently with two fingers before he tries again. He leans down, capturing your lips, keeping your mouth busy and distracted as he aligns himself once more.

“Take a deep breath,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You inhale sharply, and as you exhale, Garrett pushes forward.

He goes excruciatingly slow. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to drive deep, to bury himself to the hilt, but he fights it. He pushes through the tight, resistant barrier with agonizing patience. You whimper against his mouth, your nails biting into his shoulders, but you don’t tell him to stop.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he praises you, his voice ragged. “You’re doing so good for me. Just relax. Let me in.”

He pushes the rest of the way, finally seating himself completely inside you. You are so tight it takes his breath away, his cock throbbing from the intense pressure. He stays perfectly still, burying his face in your neck, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him.

“Garrett,” you gasp, your arms wrapping tightly around his back. “Wow.”

“You okay?” he pants, pressing a kiss to the pulse point jumping at your throat.

“Yeah. The pain is gone. It just feels … really full.”

“It feels perfect,” he corrects, pulling back slightly to look at your face. The tension has left your features, replaced by a heavy-lidded, glazed look of arousal.

Slowly, carefully, Garrett pulls back, almost to the tip, and drives forward again.

You let out a soft moan, your hips instinctively tilting up to meet him.

That’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins to move, establishing a slow, steady, grounding rhythm. He makes love to you with a reverence he’s never shown anyone in his entire life. He watches your face, memorizing the way your brow furrows when he hits a certain spot, the way your lips part as he drags himself out and slides back in.

He makes sure every thrust counts. He reaches down between your bodies, his thumb finding your slick clit, and begins to rub in circles, matching the pace of his hips.

“Oh!” You cry out, your eyes flying open. “Garrett-”

“I know,” he whispers, kissing you deeply. “Let it go, baby. Come for me again.”

The combination is too much for you. You don’t last long. Your internal muscles clamp down viciously around his cock, triggering a second, violent orgasm. You scream his name, your body arching like a bowstring.

The feeling of you coming around him snaps Garrett’s control entirely. He lets out a guttural groan, driving into you hard, once, twice, three times, before his own climax rips through him. It is blinding. It is the most intense, earth-shattering release he has ever experienced. He empties himself into the condom, his entire body trembling with the force of it.

He collapses on top of you, burying his face in the pillows next to your head, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath.

You wrap your arms around him, your hands tracing soothing patterns up and down his sweaty back.

“That was …” you whisper, sounding completely dazed. “That was incredible.”

Garrett closes his eyes, a profound sense of self-loathing pooling in his gut. “Yeah,” he manages to say.

After a few minutes, Garrett forces himself to move. He rolls off you, pulling the condom off and tossing it in the trash, before grabbing a few tissues from the nightstand. He gently cleans you up, his heart breaking all over again when he sees the faint smear of pink on the white tissue.

He climbs back into bed, pulling the thick comforter up over both of you.

You immediately curl into his side. You rest your head on his chest, right over his heart, and drape an arm across his stomach. You are warm, soft, and smelling like vanilla and sex.

“I really like you, Garrett,” you murmur, your voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m really glad you talked to me in the library.”

Garrett stares up at the ceiling. The shadows in the room seem darker now. Menacing.

“I’m glad too,” he lies, his voice barely a whisper.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, holding you tight as your breathing slows and evens out, signaling that you’ve fallen asleep.

Garrett remains wide awake.

The digital clock on the nightstand flips from 1:00 AM to 1:01 AM.

He just won the bet. He secured his victory. His chest is safe from a wax.

And he has never felt like more of a loser in his entire life.

He is in too deep. This hasn’t been a game to him since the second week in the library. He cares about you. He cares about your stupid equations, and your obsession with space, and the way you apologize to inanimate objects.

He’s falling in love with you.

And when you find out how this started — when you find out that your virginity was the punchline to a joke in the campus quad — it is going to destroy you. And you will never forgive him.

Garrett pulls you a little tighter against his chest, staring into the dark. He knows he has to tell you. He has to confess before someone else does.

But as you let out a soft, contented sigh in your sleep, Garrett knows he’s a coward. Because right now, the thought of losing you hurts far more than the guilt.