:)

If he were anything like Dean, he would've approached you already and figured out your deal.

Why did you smile politely when partygoers pushed past you?

He watched as a dude fully grabbed your hip. Your body jolted at his touch, and he could read your lips as the word sorry left them.

Sorry.

To the guy who'd touched you.

Your eyes lit up when a tall redheaded girl in an impossibly short black dress approached you. She stood in stark contrast to your mom jeans and light pink tube top.

Your friend, Garrett assumed.

She leaned down to whisper something into your ear. Your face fell for only a moment before you nodded.

He was almost sure your response was:

"Okay, that's fine."

He understood your disappointment moments later when Dean made his appearance, shirtless and drunk off his ass. He swept up your redheaded friend and started carrying her toward the back hallway.

Garrett had no excuse for not approaching you now.

If you were waiting for your friend to finish hooking up with Dean, you'd be waiting a long while.

Garrett took a swig from the one beer he was allowing himself on a night before a game.

Unfortunately, someone else had the same idea.

He recognized the guy immediately. Tall. Lanky. One of Beau's fraternity brothers. A senior on the swim team.

Mark.

Or Mateo.

Probably not Michael.

Whatever his name was, he wanted to fuck you.

Curious, Garrett decided to keep his distance. He watched from across the room as he approached the speaker blasting '80s rock music. He grabbed Logan's phone from the table and changed the song, all while keeping one eye on you.

It was almost offensive how forward the guy was being.

He had a hand on your shoulder, and he was standing so close that you were forced to tilt your head back to look at him.

"Yeah... we talked upstairs. Remember?"

You politely shook your head.

"I don't think it was me."

Your voice was sweet.

Garrett could tell that much.

Wanting to hear more of the conversation, he lowered the volume of the music.

"I know I'm so fucking drunk right now, but we ran into each other outside the bathroom. I remember. You're so hot I know I'd remember you. You don't want to kiss me again?"

He grabbed your hand.

"Uhm, no, thank you. B-but... I really don't... uhm—"

The guy started pulling.

And your feet followed.

Your eyes were panicked, but your body moved anyway.

Jesus Christ.

He wasn't getting the hint.

It didn't help that you still had that polite smile on your face.

Fuck.

Were you seriously so polite that you were going to let this idiot drag you away even though you'd clearly never met him before?

Absolutely fucking not.

Garrett's feet moved before his brain really registered what he was doing.

He shoved himself between you and Swim Team Whatever-His-Name-Was and forced your hands apart.

He wasn't trying to embarrass the guy.

He shoved his shoulder just hard enough to make him stumble.

"She said no."

"What the fuck?"

Bold and clearly running on liquid courage, the guy took a step toward Garrett.

The standoff lasted all of three seconds.

Then recognition dawned.

Because Garrett Graham was standing in front of him.

"Are you dumb?" Garrett asked. "Can't you tell she doesn't want to talk to you?"

The guy gritted his teeth.

"I was just..." He looked at you. Then back at Garrett. "She's all yours, man."

And just like that, he stumbled away in search of another vulnerable girl.

Your eyes looked just as panicked when Garrett turned back toward you.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to cause a scene."

Garrett savored the chance to finally look at you up close.

Your makeup was soft. A light dusting of blush colored your cheeks. Your lips were glossy and glittered faintly under the kitchen lights.

Your hair was pulled back with a floral headband.

Worst of all, you smelled like lavender and vanilla.

Garrett stepped closer.

Shielding you from the crowd.

Blocking you in until your back met the kitchen counter.

He wasn't sure how subtle it was when he leaned closer just to breathe you in.

"I know it's your party..." you whispered.

Your voice trailed off.

You stared up at him as if he were a wolf and you were prey.

Honestly?

The comparison wasn't far off.

If Garrett had to compare you to an animal, it would be a baby deer.

Wide-eyed, nervous and completely unaware of how vulnerable you were.

"You're..."

"Garrett," he finished for you. "What's your name?"

"Y/N."

The answer came out almost too quickly.

Too trusting.

Y/N.

It bounced around inside his head while his imagination immediately started building a picture of who you were.

A picture he already suspected he'd be thinking about later tonight.

"You're not really sorry, right?" he asked. "Because that asshole was the one trying to trick you into hooking up with him."

"I don't think he was..."

Garrett stared.

You genuinely seemed to be considering it.

As if you'd only just realized the guy had been hitting on you.

"I think he was just confused."

All Garrett really knew about you was your name.

But he'd already decided you were perfect.

Seriously lacking in street smarts.

But perfect nonetheless.

His jaw ticked.

He regretted not putting the guy through the floor.

"I think he's lucky I'm a nice guy."

You completely missed the meaning behind that statement.

He could tell because you immediately replied:

"Your house is really nice too. Thank you for having me. I mean, you didn't really invite me. Dean invited my roommate, but—"

You stopped yourself.

Realizing you were rambling.

"I mean, it's a good party."

Garrett grinned.

"Thank you. Your roommate is the redhead?"

You nodded.

"She just disappeared with Dean."

"Is she your ride?"

Garrett planted a hand on either side of you.

Close enough to feel your breathing change.

Close enough to know he was overwhelming your senses.

"Yeah. I was just gonna wait for her to... you know. Get done."

"You might be waiting a while."

Your mouth parted.

Then closed.

Had that possibility genuinely not occurred to you?

"Well, that's okay." Your smile was small. "If it gets too late, I can call someone. There's this guy in my Instructional Tech class who said he'd give me a ride if I ever needed one."

Garrett's brows immediately knitted together.

"A random guy in your class?"

"He's not random. We have class together."

"Have you ever hung out with him outside of class?"

"Well, no. But he's nice. And I can't really afford an Uber all the way back to my apartment."

Another guy who wanted to fuck you.

And you had absolutely no idea.

Garrett was beginning to notice a pattern.

He was already starting to hate the idea of letting you leave this house and return to your own devices.

"Your friend kinda sucks for bringing you here and then abandoning you."

The words came out before he could stop them.

Instantly, he regretted it.

Your face fell.

"I-I wanted to come."

"You like parties?"

"I like parties."

You practically struggled to force the words out.

A terrible lie.

Your discomfort was written all over your face.

"And she's a good friend."

"Hmm."

Garrett pushed away from the counter, finally giving you room to breathe.

"There's a good chance they're going to fuck all night, Y/N. If you want to crash here, there's a spare bedroom. If not, I can drive you home. I've only had one beer."

"You don't have to do that, Garrett. It's so out of the way. I'll find a ride."

Say my name again.

Please.

"You're adorable, you know that?"

You smiled immediately.

Embarrassed.

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Never," Garrett replied sincerely. "Let me drive you home."

Because an adorable little bunny like you wasn't getting into a car with some random loser from class.

"I..."

You pressed your lips together under the weight of his stare.

Had you ever told anyone no before?

"I should check in with my friend first—"

Garrett's hand found the small of your back.

"Sure."

He guided you toward the hallway.

"If my predictions are correct, they're probably in the laundry room."

Not a single word of protest left your mouth.

The irony of the situation dawned on him. He didn’t want someone else to take advantage of you, and yet he was practically doing the same, but Garrett was nothing like the guys who only wanted to fuck you. He actually had substance that backed up his bravado. Everyone at Briar knew that, and Garrett was watching as you came to the same revelation. Hockey captain. Six-foot-whatever. He was someone not to be fucked with. Maybe that’s why your body relaxed under his touch, and you let him lead you to the end of the downstairs hallway. 

Garrett would bet a million dollars that his best friend Dean was fucking your red-headed friend with the door wide open. He pushed you ahead of him, his other hand finding the other side of your hip, holding you as you peeked into the doorway. As if you’d seen a ghost, Garrett watches as your hands slap against your own eyes. 

Garrett couldn’t hold back the deep rumbling in his throat as he laughed. He took his own peek and found your red-headed friend bent over the running dryer as Dean pounded into her from behind. You turned around quickly, practically pressing your face into his chest, “Oh my goodness. Why did they leave the door open?”

“As you can see, your friend is occupied. Are you ready to go now, princess?” Garrett grabbed you by your chin, forcing your frightened eyes to look up at his. 

You nodded, long eyelashes batting up at him. He takes another mental picture for later. He imagined his cock down your throat, that same look of fear and wonder in your eyes. He clears his throat, pushing the lewd thought out of his mind, “Then let’s get you home.” 

Your apartment building might as well have been condemned.

It was a rude thought born from privilege, but Garrett couldn't suppress the uneasy feeling creeping up the back of his neck.

Of course you lived on the worst side of town.

During the twenty-minute drive, he'd learned how you'd ended up at Briar and, subsequently, at the hockey house.

You'd transferred in January and had been forced to find housing at the last minute.

That's how you'd met Paige, the redheaded puck bunny.

Apparently, she was renting out her couch and charging you half the rent.

“It pulls out.”

“What?”

“The couch.” You glanced over at him. “I'm not just sleeping on her couch. It pulls out and turns into a bed.”

Garrett shot you an incredulous look, taking his eyes off the road for a second.

“Where do you keep all your shit?”

“We turned the coat closet into my personal closet.” You smiled proudly. “It's actually more convenient than you'd think. And I don't have that much stuff anyway.”

You paused before adding softly,

“The important thing is that I'm here. You have no idea how long I've wanted to go to school here.”

Your eyes were bright and hopeful, standing in sharp contrast to the darkness outside the Jeep.

“And you're an education major?”

“Yeah.” You answered quickly, pleased that he'd remembered. “Elementary education.”

“That's cool.”

Garrett pulled into a parking space in front of your building and shifted the Jeep into park. The engine died and silence crept inside the vehicle. 

He tucked his keys into the pocket of his sweatpants before leaning across the center console and unclipping your seatbelt.

His face ended up a little closer to yours than necessary.

“I'll walk you up.”

“You don't have to, really.” You offered him a small smile. “This is already too much.”

Too much.

The phrase irritated him more than it should have.

Was basic kindness really that foreign to you?

“I'm a gentleman, princess. Of course I have to.”

You laughed softly.

“Paige talks all the time about how hockey players are the exact opposite of gentlemen.”

Your roommate is an idiot, princess.

“Then let me prove her wrong.”

The words came out low and certain.

Garrett realized, as he climbed out of the Jeep and rounded the front of the vehicle to open your door, that he'd never meant anything more.

“Oh, I get it now. This is the same girl from the party.”

Garrett watched as Dean dug into the huge pile of food on his plate. The dining hall was bustling at lunchtime, and the conversation his friends were having was almost loud enough to cloud his thoughts of you.

Almost.

Until Dean brought up Garrett's new favorite subject.

You.

“Maybe you can invite her friend over again tomorrow since Tuck has people coming over?”

“Who’s her friend?” Dean asked, and Garrett stared back at him, forcing his gaze to remain steady to prevent his eyes from rolling.

“The redhead? Kinda moans like a goat?”

Dean’s lips pulled into a mischievous smile.

“Ah, I see. Freaky Paige. She said her roommate was, like, a super religious virgin and then something else about her growing up in a cult. Which kinda tracks. She just stood there alone smiling at everyone the whole night.”

“What the fuck? Y/N did not. And Paige is full of shit.”

Dean chuckled.

“It doesn’t matter. Paige said that was the last time we were hooking up because she’s getting back with her boyfriend.”

Your roommate really sucks, Bunny.

“Here’s your opportunity, G,” Logan spoke up, abandoning whatever conversation he'd been having with Tucker. He jerked his head toward one of the double doors.

You walked through alone, your hair thrown up in a high ponytail and a pink backpack slung over your shoulder. Although you weren’t smiling, you looked happy, and Garrett could only assume you’d just gotten out of class.

You headed toward the salad bar.

Garrett stood immediately.

He patted Logan on the back in gratitude before making his way over to you.

Your eyes widened in surprise before quickly brightening with unmistakable joy.

You were happy to see him.

“Hey,” he said, even though there was so much more on his mind.

You almost forgot you were filling your tray.

“Hi. How are you?”

“Good.”

Amazing, actually. More like it, now that you’re here.

“What about you?”

“I’m really good. I love Mondays. No afternoon classes.”

“So you’re free the rest of the day?”

Your lips parted in surprise.

You glanced down nervously as you added more toppings to your salad. Garrett followed alongside you.

“Well, yeah. I was gonna do some homework and then... start a new book.”

Jesus.

He even found the idea of you reading alone in your apartment adorable.

“I, uh, wanted to get your number. Totally forgot to ask when I dropped you off the other night.”

“My number?”

“For chauffeuring reasons, of course. Don’t want you getting stranded and having to call Instructional Tech Guy.”

That made you giggle.

“Really?”

“Really.”

You reached the end of the salad bar and started toward the register.

Garrett grabbed the tray from your hands.

“Let me get this.”

“I-I have dining dollars, Garrett. You don’t have to—”

“Save ’em.”

He’d do any small thing he could to take care of you.

At least until he figured out how to have all of you.

Garrett could practically feel his friends’ stares as he carried your tray away and abandoned them completely.

They knew this was more than him trying to score.

Girls threw themselves at Garrett.

In all his years at Briar, he’d never had to chase one.

“Let me see your phone.”

Garrett was already reaching for it before it was halfway out of your pocket.

Your lock screen was a collage of pink aesthetic photos and an orange cat.

“You have a cat?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s Mouse. I’ve had him since middle school, but it didn’t feel right bringing him here. Taking him away from his home.”

“He’s cute,” Garrett commented as he held the phone in front of your face and unlocked it. “Hey, are you religious?”

You blinked up at him.

Up.

Because Garrett was sitting beside you and was still massive even while seated.

“No. Uhm, not really. Wh-why do you ask?”

Stupid, freaky Paige.

“I was, uh, just wondering where you’re from.”

Garrett quickly learned you were from a small town in upstate New York.

From what he gathered, your home life was far from cultish. Nothing toxic.

You just seemed sheltered.

An only child.

He took the opportunity to enter his number into your phone and send himself a text.

“I’m serious about calling me if you need a ride somewhere.”

“You make it seem like Briar is a scary place. Everyone I’ve met is very nice. Including you.”

“I’m flattered, princess. And I agree that most people are nice. But this place has freaks and weirdos, and I’d prefer it if you weren’t anywhere near them.”

He was entitled.

What did it matter what he wanted for you?

He didn’t own you.

He’d met you two nights ago.

And yet you didn’t argue.

Almost as if you already trusted him.

“I’m working to save up enough money for a car, so hopefully I won’t have to bother you or Paige.”

“Where do you work?”

The question came out a little too quickly.

Garrett reminded himself he might scare you off if he didn’t pace himself.

And you did look a little nervous.

But you were an open book.

“I always work game days at the campus bookstore, so I’ve never gone to a game. And then I nanny during the week.”

“Well, if you’re free tonight, let me take you out.”

“Take me out?”

“To dinner.”

“Oh.”

You stared at him, eyes wide and beautiful.

“Why?”

“Why dinner?”

“A dinner date?”

“Yeah.”

“As friends?”

“The opposite, actually.”

Your lips parted, then closed again.

Garrett watched as you intentionally took a deep breath.

In through your nose.

Out through your mouth.

“I’m really trying to keep up here, Garrett.”

Too much.

Too fast.

He was pretty sure that’s what you wanted to say.

You just didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

“Hey. Relax, okay?”

His tone softened immediately.

The deep quality of his voice remained, but there was something undeniably gentle underneath it.

“It’s not a big deal. Just dinner. If you want, you could come over to my place and we could order something. Watch a movie.”

Another deep breath.

“Uhm... and then what?”

And then he’d probably kiss you. And touch you as much as he could before you became a bundle of nerves. So you weren’t completely innocent. Part of you, deep down, knew what dinner and a movie often lead to. 

“There’s nothing to be nervous about. I like you, Y/N.”

“I like you too. I mean, I think you’re nice and...”

“And...?” Garrett prompted.

“Handsome.”

You winced as soon as the word left your mouth.

Not because you didn’t mean it.

Because you were worried it was the wrong thing to say.

“I’m sorry. If I’m being honest, I haven’t really been on a date since high school. And I’m a little confused that, out of all the boys at Briar, you—”

Garrett immediately shook his head.

“Are you questioning my taste?”

“Of course not!” you whisper-shouted.

“You’re pretty. You’re sweet. And I haven’t met anyone like you.”

His gaze settled on yours.

“I’d like to keep seeing you. So, I’m gonna drop you off at your apartment. You can read your book and do your homework. Then I’ll come back tonight and pick you up for our date.”

“Are you sure?”

Garrett gave you a look that was just stern enough to make you squirm.

“Okay, okay. That sounds... good.”

You waited until his expression softened before taking another breath.

“Now finish your lunch, baby.”

You nodded quickly and picked up your fork, finally beginning to eat.

dividers by @/strangergraphics

pls reblog with your thoughts to be added to my off campus taglist :)

Dean Di Laurentis, who had never been her boyfriend, which was a legal technicality he clung to with the same lazy confidence he seemed to apply to everything else in his life.

Dean had been a mistake with good hair and a trust fund. A mistake with a grin. A mistake that had lasted a few times longer than it should have because he was pretty and shameless and very good at looking at a girl like he had personally invented bad decisions and would be thrilled to walk her through the beginner course.

But Dean wasn't a girlfriend kind of guy. Dean was Six Flags. You rode the ride, screamed once or twice, maybe bought the photo after, and then got off.

She knew that. She had known that then, technically.

Dean had a way of appearing in her life at the least dignified possible moments looking pleased with himself, and she had a way of refusing to let him be pleased without penalty.

Like the time she found him coming out of a women’s bathroom stall at Malone’s with a girl in a denim skirt. She had been washing her hands at the sink, glanced up in the mirror, taken in his flushed face, his rumpled shirt, the girl fixing her hair behind him, and said, “Hi, whore,” with the flat calm of someone greeting a neighbour at the mailbox.

Dean, because shame had never successfully attached itself to his nervous system, had only chuckled and leaned one shoulder against the stall door. “Hey.”

That was the whole thing. Mostly joking. Mostly old bruised pride dressed up in insults because that was easier than admitting he had maybe gotten under her skin for a minute and then left muddy footprints on his way back out.

Garrett wasn't supposed to be part of that. Garrett had happened after a party, which was already a bad sign because nothing good ever began at two in the morning in a hockey house kitchen with tequila and Dean singing the wrong words to a song everybody else knew. 

It had been loud and hot and stupid, the whole house sticky with beer and laughter and bodies pressed into doorways. She had ended up outside on the back steps because the kitchen had started spinning, and Garrett had come out five minutes later with two waters and an expression that suggested he was trying very hard not to ask whether she was going to puke on his sneakers.

He had sat down beside her instead.

Garrett had looked at her sideways when she laughed at one of his jokes, and something in his face had changed. Garrett’s face was a practiced thing, mostly grin and charm and captain-boy confidence, but this had slipped underneath it. A quiet little interest. A flicker. Like he had found something he wanted to pay attention to and was already annoyed about it.

Then, later, in the upstairs hallway, she had been trying to find the bathroom and he had been trying to find Logan, because Logan had stolen his phone to send a voice note to Coach that began with “hypothetically, if a man loved hockey but hated cardio,” and somehow Garrett’s hand had ended up on her waist. Warm through her shirt. Steadying her when someone shoved past in the hall.

“Careful,” he had said, close to her ear.

She had turned her head, too drunk to be clever and too annoyed by how good he smelled to be normal. “I’m always careful.”

Garrett’s eyes had dropped to her mouth for half a second, then lifted again with that awful amused heat. “Uh huh.”

The first kiss had been an accident. His room had been closer than the bathroom. His door had shut behind them. His mouth had been warm and confident and so immediately, horribly good that she had pulled back after ten seconds just to stare at him like that might make the situation less offensive.

Garrett had grinned down at her, lips a little swollen already, one hand still at her waist. “What?”

“You kiss like you know you’re good at it.”

He’d shrugged. “I am good at it.”

“That’s a disgusting thing to say.”

“Wasn’t really a denial, though.”

She had meant to hate that. Truly. She had tried. 

The first time they almost got caught, she was riding him with her hands braced on his chest and Garrett’s mouth at her throat, and the only thought in her head was a soft, stunned, repeated oh that seemed to have lost all connection to language.

His room was too warm despite the window cracked open behind the desk, the cold night air barely managing to move through the heat they had made under the sheets. The lamp was off. Some blue-white spill from the streetlight outside cut through the blinds in thin, broken lines over the wall and across Garrett’s shoulder. 

His chain had slipped sideways against his collarbone. His hair was a wreck from her fingers. His mouth was open against her neck, kissing up under her jaw with the kind of lazy, devastating precision that made her thighs shake around him before she could stop them.

“Garrett,” she breathed, and then immediately louder, because his hands had shifted to her hips and guided her down harder. “Oh my God.”

His hand flew up before the sound had fully escaped, palm covering her mouth, his other hand tightening at her waist. “Jesus, baby,” he said, voice low and rough and entirely too amused for a man currently participating in the same crime. “You trying to get me murdered?”

She made a muffled noise against his hand that was meant to be a curse and came out humiliatingly close to a whimper. Garrett’s grin flashed in the dark, teeth catching briefly, eyes bright and smug and so pleased with himself she nearly hated him. Nearly. 

It was hard to maintain moral outrage when his thumb was pressed lightly against her cheek and his hips were still moving, slow and deep and mean in the way only a man with a scoreboard in his soul could be mean.

“There we go,” he murmured, kissing the side of her jaw while his palm stayed over her mouth. “Can’t be announcing it to the whole house, right?”

She glared down at him, or tried to. It probably lost some effect when her eyes fluttered halfway shut because he lifted his hips again and hit exactly the wrong place, which was to say exactly the right one.

Garrett laughed under his breath, quiet and filthy with satisfaction. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

She bit the inside of his palm.

His brows shot up. “Oh, we’re biting now?”

She nodded against his hand with as much dignity as a girl could manage while naked on top of him and very actively losing a fight against her own volume.

“Cool,” he whispered. “Very healthy. Super mature.”

She would have laughed if she had any air left. Instead her body gave her away again, a soft, trapped sound catching under his palm as he sat up suddenly, changing the angle and dragging her with him until she was pressed chest-to-chest with him, knees bracketing his hips, his mouth at her ear.

“Shh,” he said, but the edge of laughter in it ruined the authority. 

He was enjoying this too much. Enjoying her like this, messy and desperate and trying very hard to be quiet because if anybody found out she was in Garrett Graham’s room, in Garrett Graham’s bed, after Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of the semester behaving like her eventual return to his mattress was a scheduling issue rather than a question, the whole house would become unbearable overnight.

Then the hallway floor creaked. Both of them froze. Him still inside her, both still overheated, still breathing too hard into the tiny space between them. Garrett’s hand stayed clamped gently over her mouth. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. His eyes lifted toward the door, and in the blue-dark she watched every cocky line in his face vanish into immediate, sharp focus.

Outside, Logan’s voice drifted close enough to curdle the air. “Yo– Dean. Is that who I think it is in there?”

Her stomach dropped so fast it was almost physical. Garrett’s eyes snapped back to hers.

For one suspended, insane second, they only stared at each other. She could feel his heartbeat hard against her chest. Could feel where they were still joined, which her body had the absolutely perverse audacity to notice in detail despite the fact that John Logan was currently holding a one-man investigation outside the door. Garrett’s hand loosened slightly over her mouth. Her lips parted against his palm. He held his finger up to his own lips, and she had nodded quickly.

He reached blindly toward the bedside table with one hand, the motion chaotic and deeply unathletic for a man who made a living looking graceful under pressure.

His fingers knocked something over. A bottle cap, maybe. His watch. A textbook hit the floor with a soft thud. She bit down on a laugh before it could get out, which was dangerous because laughter at that moment felt like shaking a soda bottle with the cap still on.

Garrett found his phone at last, thumb flying over the screen. For half a second there was nothing. Then the speaker on his dresser exploded to life with Cherry Pie so loud the whole room seemed to jump.

She slapped both hands over her own mouth now, eyes wide, shoulders shaking immediately with silent laughter. Garrett stared at the ceiling like he could not believe this was the solution his brain had selected and was, worse, proud of himself anyway.

In the hallway, Logan went silent. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh shit– sorry, G! Guess not!”

A second later Dean’s voice, farther away and deeply suspicious, called, “What?”

“Nothin’, man,” Logan said, still laughing. “Keep walking.”

Footsteps retreated. The music kept blaring. Garrett turned it down with the ferocious speed of a man who had made his point and no longer wanted Warrant narrating his sex life. The second the volume dropped, she folded forward into Garrett’s shoulder and started laughing for real, breathless and helpless, her whole body shaking against his.

Garrett’s arms closed around her automatically. Then he started laughing too, quiet and disbelieving into her hair. “Fuck.”

She lifted her head, face hot, eyes watering, and whispered, “Cherry Pie?”

“It was the first thing that came up.”

“You panic-played Cherry Pie?”

He huffed out a laugh. “It worked.”

“That’s not the same as being good.”

“It worked,” he repeated, grinning now, smugness returning by the inch because survival had restored him. His hands slid to her hips again, warm and possessive and much too confident. “And for the record, if Logan thinks you’re in Dean’s room right now, I might throw myself out the window.”

She pressed her lips together, trying and failing not to smile. “Jealous?”

Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”

The word landed low in her stomach. Warm and bright and stupid. She leaned down and kissed him before he could see too much of it on her face, and he kissed her back still smiling, still breathing laughter into her mouth, both of them a little shaky now for a different reason.

“Too close,” she murmured against him.

“Yeah,” Garrett said, one hand coming up to the back of her neck, holding her there. “Maybe stop trying to wake the neighbours.”

“You’re the one playing stripper music at full volume.”

“Because you’re loud.”

“Because you’re annoying.”

His grin was all teeth in the dark. “Baby, just before? That wasn't an annoyed sound.”

She shoved at his chest, and he fell back on the mattress easily, gesturing for her to come closer with two fingers. The stupid warmth of it made her go quiet in a way that was much more dangerous than the moaning had been.

The second time they almost got caught, she was drunk enough that focusing on standing upright had become a full-body project.

The house belonged to some guy from one of Dean’s classes, or maybe one of Logan’s, or maybe no one knew and they had all simply agreed to occupy it until dawn. It smelled like beer, perfume, damp coats, and the kind of carpet that had seen too much and forgiven nothing.

She stood in the upstairs hallway with one shoulder against the wall, phone in hand, trying to read the same text from Garrett for the third time.

Garrett: You good?

It was a simple question. Easy. Very Garrett, actually. Casual on the surface, but sent because he had been watching her across the room ten minutes ago with that narrowed captain look he got whenever she reached the stage of drunk where her smile became too slow and her balance became hypothetical.

She typed, yes.

Then deleted it because the letters looked suspicious.

Then typed, yed.

Then stared at that for a long time.

Beside her, a cluster of girls in tiny tops and hockey-adjacent enthusiasm had been having one of those conversations that floated around the party like perfume: who was hot, who was overrated, who was secretly huge, who had commitment issues so severe they should probably be peer-reviewed. 

She ignored it for as long as she could because she had bigger concerns, namely that if the bathroom door did not open in the next thirty seconds she was going to have to start making decisions about where else she could throw up.

Then one of them said Garrett’s name. Her eyes lifted off her phone before she could stop them.

The girl speaking was blonde, glossy in a way that seemed expensive even if nothing she was wearing necessarily was, with a little white top and the high, pleased expression of someone enjoying the sound of her own anecdote. 

“No, I’m serious,” she was saying, one hand pressed to her chest like she was giving testimony. “Last night was the best night ever. Like, Garrett knows what he’s doing. He made me come, like, three times.”

The hallway did a small, drunken tilt.

The problem wasn't even jealousy at first, not properly. The problem was logistics. Garrett had been in her room last night. Garrett had been in her bed last night, sprawled diagonally like he owned both the mattress and several surrounding counties, one arm hooked around her waist while she tried to sleep and he mumbled something into her hair about setting an alarm for practice. 

Garrett had stolen half her blanket and then looked offended when she kicked him in the shin. Garrett had kissed the back of her shoulder at five in the morning before climbing out of bed, half-dressed in the dark, whispering, “Go back to sleep, baby,” like he had any right to sound that soft before sunrise.

So unless Garrett had discovered cloning between midnight and breakfast, the blonde girl was lying.

The girl noticed her staring, because drunken staring was rarely subtle and this particular stare had been delivered with the blank intensity of a haunted doll.

The blonde’s smile faltered into something confused but still sweet, which was somehow worse. “Um… hi, babe. You okay?”

Another girl beside her leaned in slightly, brows lifting. “Did you need some water?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her phone was still in her hand, Garrett’s unanswered text glowing uselessly against her palm.

“You weren’t with Garrett last night,” she said.

The sentence came out too clear. Too certain. Sober-sounding, even, which was deeply unfair given the fact that her inner ear was currently behaving like a loose shopping trolley.

The blonde blinked. “What?”

“You weren’t with Garrett last night.” She frowned, genuinely trying to make the pieces fit and failing so hard that social caution had gone missing in the wreckage. “Why are you lying?”

The air around the bathroom line shifted. A couple of girls looked over. Someone’s mouth dropped open a tiny bit. The blonde’s face did that quick, ugly thing people’s faces did when embarrassment arrived and pride immediately tried to tackle it before it spread.

“And how would you know?” she asked, voice sharpening with a laugh around the edges. “Are you, like, his secretary?”

Her drunk brain, slow but not entirely dead, caught up with the fact that she was standing in a hallway full of girls, defending Garrett Graham’s whereabouts during the exact hours he had spent in her bed, while actively participating in a secret that depended on not doing that.

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. The blonde’s brows rose.

“I– uh.” She looked down at her phone like it might offer legal counsel. Garrett’s text still sat there, accusatory and simple. “Never mind. Actually.”

Then she stepped out of the bathroom line. There was a slight shoulder bump with the wall and a near-collision with a guy carrying two beers, but she made it away from the girls and around the corner with most of her dignity still technically attached. 

Her heart was thudding stupidly hard for a hallway interaction, heat crawling up her throat and into her cheeks. Not jealousy, she told herself. She was just offended by misinformation. Academically. On principle. People should not be allowed to lie.

Her phone buzzed again as she reached the top of the stairs.

Garrett: Seriously. Where are you?

She stared at it for a second, then typed, need bathroom.

Then, after a pause, added, girls are liars.

His response came almost immediately.

Garrett: What

She squinted at the screen.

Garrett: Baby where are you

The baby landed warm even through the alcohol, which was annoying. She looked back over her shoulder toward the hallway, where the bathroom line and the blonde and the whole stupid conversation still existed. Then she started down the stairs, one hand on the railing, the phone clutched in the other, already scanning the crowd below for Garrett’s dark curls and the broad, familiar shape of him.

She found him near the kitchen archway, and he was already looking for her. He caught sight of her halfway down the stairs, and his face shifted at once, amusement and concern colliding so fast that neither won cleanly. He moved through the crowd before she even reached the bottom, one hand lifting to her elbow as she stepped off the last stair.

“Hey,” he said, ducking close so she could hear him. “You okay?”

She looked up at him very seriously. “You were in my room last night.”

Garrett paused. His eyes moved over her face, then over the stairs behind her, then back down. “Yeah.”

“Like the whole night.”

His mouth twitched. “Most of it, yeah.”

“So that girl is a liar.”

A slow understanding dawned across his face. Then, because he was Garrett and therefore terrible, he started to smile. “What girl?”

She jabbed a finger somewhere upward. “The blonde. She said you made her come three times.”

His brows jumped. “Did I?”

“Garrett.”

“What? I feel like I’d remember.”

She crossed her arms. “She was lying.”

“Sounds like it.”

“She looked me in the face and lied.”

Garrett’s hand slid from her elbow to her waist, steadying her when she swayed half an inch in outrage. “You say anything?”

She stared at him.

His eyes narrowed, still smiling but sharper now. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Baby,” he whispered.

“I said she wasn’t with you last night.”

Garrett closed his eyes for one second. Just one. When he opened them again, he looked like he was fighting for his life against laughter. “Right.”

“She asked how I knew.”

“Okay.”

“And then I left.”

“Good call.”

“I almost said because you were with me.”

His grin did something helpless then, softer under the smugness, like the idea pleased him before he had time to make it a joke. “Yeah?”

She frowned at him. “Don’t look happy. I nearly compromised the mission.”

“The mission?”

“Our secrecy mission.”

“Our secrecy mission isn’t going great if you’re interrogating women in bathroom lines about my location.”

“She started it.”

“Sure.”

“She did,” she whined, dragging the second word out.

“I believe you.” He didn’t, not entirely. Or maybe he did and was simply enjoying himself too much to be decent about it. His hand squeezed once at her waist, warm and grounding. “You still need to pee?”

Her face fell. “Yes.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched again. “Come on. There’s a bathroom downstairs.”

“You know that?”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re a slut.”

“I’m helpful.” He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, voice dropping into that low teasing register that made her stomach flip despite the fact that she was seconds away from becoming a medical emergency. “And for the record, next time I make you come three times, I’m expecting a better cover story than that.”

She turned her head slowly to glare at him. Garrett looked deeply pleased with himself.

The third time they almost got caught, she was in the hockey house kitchen at three in the morning wearing Garrett’s t-shirt with absolutely no plan.

It was after a loss, which meant the whole house had gone strange and heavy by midnight. The kind of subdued where the TV stayed on without anyone really watching it and the boys drank beer not to party but to have something to do with their hands.

Garrett had barely spoken when he came out of the locker room earlier, jaw tight, lip split, a bruise already blooming near his cheekbone, that restless, furious energy still moving under his skin like the game had not fully let go of him.

She hadn’t been supposed to come over. That was the rule. One of the rules. There were several now, apparently, all of them made by two people with a strong shared interest in pretending they had control over anything. 

No arriving together. No leaving together. No obvious texts when the guys were around. No sitting too close at parties. No looking at each other for too long in kitchens, which was quickly becoming the hardest one because Garrett Graham had a deeply inconvenient face and an even more inconvenient habit of watching her mouth when she was trying to speak.

And definitely no sneaking into his room after midnight through the window like a raccoon because he’d lost a hockey game and she wanted to crawl into bed with him.

So, naturally, she had done exactly that. Garrett’s window wasn't as easy to access as she had expected it to be. 

She had nearly died twice, scraped her knee on the siding, and whispered, “This is so stupid,” to herself with feeling before finally pushing the window up and tumbling into his room with all the grace of a bag of laundry.

Garrett had been lying on his bed in the dark, shirtless, one arm over his face. He hadn’t even startled properly. He had just shifted the arm enough to look at her, eyes bleary and bruised with exhaustion, and said, “Baby, what the fuck.”

“I’m being supportive.”

“You broke into my room.”

“I prefer… entered creatively.”

He had stared at her for another second, then lifted the edge of the blanket.

For all the jokes, all the swagger, all the please-don’t-call-this-what-it-is of him, he made room for her too easily. Like his body knew before the rest of him had finished filing objections. She crawled in beside him, careful of his ribs and the angry bruise darkening along one side of his stomach, and he rolled toward her with a wince he tried to hide and a hand that found her hip immediately under the blanket.

“Hi,” he had murmured after a while, lips brushing her hair.

She had smiled into his chest. “Hi.”

Now, hours later, she woke up with her mouth dry enough to qualify as an emergency and Garrett’s arm heavy across her middle.

The room was dark and cold around the edges, the cracked window letting in a thin stream of winter air that made the discarded clothes on the floor look like shadows. Garrett was dead asleep behind her, breathing rough through his nose, body warm and heavy and completely gone in the way only athletes after a bad game seemed capable of being. 

One of his hands was tucked under the hem of the shirt she’d stolen off his floor. She swallowed once. Painfully. Then again. Still bad.

She shifted carefully. Garrett grunted and tightened his arm, which would have been sweet if it had not also trapped her in a dehydrated prison.

“Baby,” she whispered.

Nothing.

“Garrett.”

A deeper grunt this time. His face pressed into the back of her neck.

“Baby,” she tried again, softer. “Can you get me water?”

Garrett’s answer was a long, sleep-mangled sound that might have been English in a previous life. She waited. 

“Garrett. Please. I’m really thirsty.”

“No,” he mumbled into her hair.

She turned her head as much as she could. “No?”

“M’sleep.”

“You’re talking.”

“Sleep talking.”

She groaned softly. “You’re the worst.”

“Mm.”

She lay there for another thirty seconds, hoping thirst might pass. It did not. Eventually she eased his arm off her waist inch by inch, freezing every time he made a noise, and rolled over to look at him properly.

The sight softened her irritation before she could defend against it. His face was turned toward her on the pillow, hair falling messily over his forehead, lashes low against his cheek. The split in his lip had dried dark at one corner. The bruise near his ribs looked ugly, even in the low light. Another mark curved along his stomach where he’d been slammed into the boards hard enough that the crowd had made a single collective ooooh.

He wasn't getting up. She sighed and climbed out of bed.

The floorboards were cold under her bare feet. Garrett’s t-shirt hit high on her thighs, soft and oversized and smelling like detergent and him. She paused at the door, listening. The house had finally gone mostly quiet. No TV. No shouting. No Dean wandering around half-drunk asking philosophical questions about hot girls and mortality. Only the hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional tick of the heating.

She slipped into the hall and padded down the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the wall because the dark made everything look unfamiliar. The kitchen waited at the bottom, dim and blue with moonlight through the window over the sink. Someone had left a pizza box open on the counter. There were three empty beer bottles near the stove and a hoodie slung over one of the chairs. The house smelled like stale chips, laundry, and the faint metallic cold of nighttime.

She found a glass in the cabinet after opening the wrong one twice, filled it at the sink, and drank half of it in one go with her eyes closed.

Then the light snapped on. She spun around so fast water sloshed over her hand.

Tucker stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, one hand still on the light switch, hair flattened on one side from sleep. He blinked at her. She blinked back.

For one full second, neither of them moved.

Then Tucker looked at the oversized shirt. Her bare legs. The glass in her hand. The stairs behind her.

“Well,” he said slowly. “Shit.”

Her stomach dropped.

“No,” she said immediately. “Please don’t–”

Tucker rubbed one hand over his face, looking more tired than scandalised. “Damn. I owe Logan ten bucks.”

That derailed her panic so thoroughly that she stared at him. “What?”

He gave her a sympathetic look that somehow made everything worse. “I can’t believe you slept with him again.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. The silence that followed wasn't her best work.

Tucker’s brows lifted. “Dean? Obviously?”

Oh.

The relief arrived so hard it nearly made her dizzy, followed immediately by the horrible understanding that she now had to let Tucker think she had climbed out of Dean’s bed at three in the morning. Her brain, which had been half-asleep and mostly water-focused three minutes ago, scrambled for purchase.

“Right,” she said, too quickly. “Yeah. Dean. Obviously.”

Tucker’s expression softened in a way that made guilt stab straight through the middle of her chest. “Oh. Uh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“No, it’s–” She swallowed, clutching the glass with both hands. God bless darkness. God bless Tucker being half-asleep. God bless the fact that Dean’s entire personality was plausible cover for almost any bad decision within a thirty-foot radius. “Please don’t say anything.”

Tucker frowned. “I won’t.”

“No, seriously. Please.” She made her eyes wide because she could, because she had been underestimated by men before and did occasionally enjoy the practical benefits. “It’s so embarrassing. I wasn’t going to. I don’t even know why I– God.” She looked down, shook her head, and gave a small, miserable laugh that deserved an award from whatever committee evaluated female deception in shared kitchens. “Please don’t tell Logan. Or anyone. Especially Dean. Actually, fuck, especially Dean.”

Tucker, who possessed the inconvenient decency of a man who hated watching people feel bad, visibly faltered. “Hey. No, yeah. Totally. Your secret’s safe with me.”

She nodded, still performing devastated shame with one hand wrapped around a stolen water glass. “Thank you.”

“Do you… need anything?”

The kindness almost killed her. “No. I’m good. Just water.”

“Okay.”

Another awkward beat passed. Then Tucker stepped aside from the doorway with the solemn discomfort of someone allowing a ghost to pass through. “Night.”

“Night,” she whispered, and scurried toward the stairs with the glass held carefully against her chest.

She didn’t breathe properly until Garrett’s door shut behind her.

He was still asleep when she climbed back into bed. Useless. Beautiful, bruised, useless man. She set the glass on his nightstand and stared at him for a second in the dark, still buzzing with adrenaline. Then she smacked his shoulder.

Garrett flinched awake with a strangled noise, eyes half-opening. “What– fuck– what?”

“Tucker caught me downstairs.”

That woke him a little more. “What?”

“He thinks I slept with Dean.”

Garrett went very still. Then his face did something fascinating in the dark. Sleep disappeared. Pain disappeared. Every exhausted, post-game softness sharpened into offended disbelief. “He thinks you what?”

“I had to go with it!”

“You had to?”

“Yes, Garrett, because the alternative was saying actually I’m sneaking out of Garrett’s room after cuddling with him because we’re both very normal and secretive and weird.”

He pushed himself up on one elbow, immediately winced, then tried to pretend he hadn’t. “Why the fuck would he think Dean?”

“Because of Dean!”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s kind of the whole answer.” She climbed back under the blanket, still whispering harshly. “You wouldn’t get me water.”

“I was asleep.”

“So I went downstairs and got caught and had to improvise.”

Garrett stared at her, jaw working. Even bruised and half-dead, he managed to look jealous in a way that made her want to laugh and kiss him and maybe shove him a little. “Tucker thinks you left Dean’s room wearing my shirt?”

“I don’t think he was doing t-shirt analysis at three in the morning.”

Garrett dropped back against the pillow with a quiet, pained groan, one hand dragging over his face. “Great.”

She settled beside him, taking a long, triumphant sip of water. “Your fault.”

“My fault?”

“Yes.”

“For being asleep after getting hit, like, forty times tonight,” he said, eyes wide in the dark. Then he groaned. “Fuckin’– Dean?”

She smiled despite herself. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.” He was very obviously jealous. His arm came around her waist and tugged her closer with enough care not to hurt himself but enough insistence to make the point. “I just don’t love Tucker thinking you’re sneaking out of Dean’s bed.”

“Technically, he thinks I’m sneaking out of Dean’s bed and deeply ashamed.”

Garrett made a noise of disgust. “Jesus.”

She pressed her face into his shoulder to hide her smile. “Poor Tucker was very sweet.”

“I don’t want to hear about sweet Tucker right now.”

“You’re so easy.”

“I’m injured.”

“You’re possessive.”

He was quiet for half a second. Then, low against her hair, “Maybe don’t make me hear Dean’s name when you’re in my bed.”

She lifted her head. In the dark, Garrett’s expression was harder to read, but she could feel him looking at her. Could feel the tension under the joke, under the jealousy, under the secret they kept pretending was only fun because fun was easier than looking directly at whatever else had started living between them.

“Okay,” she whispered.

His hand moved under the shirt, warm at her back. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She nudged her nose against his jaw, soft. “No Dean.”

His breath left him slowly. “Good.”

“You still should’ve gotten me water.”

“Go to sleep.”

“You’re mean.”

“You broke into my room.”

“You let me in.”

“Mm,” Garrett murmured, already pulling her closer, careful around his ribs, his mouth brushing her forehead. “I know.”

The fourth time they almost got caught, Garrett took her on a date three towns over and still somehow managed to know someone there.

It was a cute restaurant. Cute in a way that made both of them a little awkward for the first ten minutes because hooking up in secret at parties and sneaking through windows had not prepared either of them for menus with seasonal specials and candles in little glass holders. 

The place sat on a narrow street with string lights outside and fogged windows and a hostess who smiled at Garrett for two seconds too long before noticing the girl beside him and recalibrating. Garrett noticed the recalibration. His mouth twitched as they followed the hostess toward a booth in the back.

“Don’t,” she muttered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

She crossed her arms. “You were about to.”

“I was gonna say the soup smells good.”

“You were not.”

Garrett laughed, warm and low, and slid into the booth beside her instead of across from her without asking. They were far enough from Briar that no one should have known them, tucked into the back corner of a restaurant full of older couples and small groups and a table of women laughing over wine near the bar.

It made the whole thing feel suspended, like they’d stepped out of the rules for a few hours and could sit too close without having to perform distance for anyone.

His thigh pressed against hers under the table. Their shoulders brushed every time one of them moved. Garrett kept stealing fries off her plate even though he’d ordered his own, and she kept pretending to be offended while pushing the plate half an inch closer because dignity had left with the appetizer.

At some point his hand found hers on the booth seat between them. His fingers sliding over hers, playing with them idly while he told her about a freshman on the team who had tried to tape his stick with what Logan called the confidence of a man raised by wolves.

She laughed into her drink, and Garrett looked at her in a way that made the restaurant feel suddenly much smaller.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“No, you’re doing the face.”

His thumb moved over her knuckles. “Just like hearing you laugh.”

That shut her up immediately. Garrett’s eyes flickered over her face, and she hated him for noticing the way the words landed. Hated him more for softening instead of making a joke out of it. For a second they just sat there, fingers tangled on the seat between them, candlelight catching along the edge of his jaw and the chain at his throat, his knee warm against hers.

Then she looked down at the table because she had limits. “That was gross.”

“Yeah?”

“You should be embarrassed.”

He sucked at his teeth gently. “I’m not.”

“No. I know. That’s one of your worst qualities.”

He grinned and lifted her hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. “Top five, maybe.”

She was smiling despite herself, leaning in closer, when a voice came from the side of the booth.

“Graham?”

Garrett’s hand froze around hers. A tiny, immediate stillness that went through him faster than any expression on his face could catch. His smile stayed in place when he looked up, but she felt the change in his body first. The slight tightening at his shoulder. The way his hand shifted off hers and came to rest on his own thigh. The casual posture assembling itself a second too late to be real.

A guy stood at the end of the booth, tall and broad, with the unmistakable haircut of a hockey player and a jacket with Eastwood stitched over the chest. Recognition hit Garrett’s face, then something flatter underneath it.

“Parker,” Garrett said, easy enough if you weren’t pressed against him and listening to the mechanics of the lie. “What’s up, man?”

The Eastwood player grinned and held out a hand. Garrett slid out of the booth halfway to shake it, and she sank approximately two inches lower in the seat.

Which was stupid. Very stupid. If she wanted to avoid notice, shrinking into the booth like a child hiding from a substitute teacher wasn't a subtle approach. But the whole night had gone bright and hot behind her ears. She took an intense interest in the remaining fries on her plate and prayed for invisibility.

No such luck. Parker’s eyes flicked to her with polite curiosity. The interest of someone who had stumbled into a scene and wanted to know the category. Date? Hookup? Cousin? Hostage?

Garrett, because his life was apparently a sport in all directions, stood in front of the booth with one hand settling briefly on his hip before moving up to scratch along his jaw.

Nervous.

She noticed it instantly. Garrett Graham didn’t usually look nervous. He looked cocky, amused, focused, pissed off, hungry, occasionally concussed, but not nervous. Yet there he was, smiling and doing all the tiny, useless things his body did when he wanted to seem casual too badly: thumb brushing under his nose, hand dragging through his curls, weight shifting onto one foot and then back again.

“What are you doing out here?” Parker asked.

Garrett shrugged. “Dinner.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Parker laughed, looking around. “Didn’t expect to see you this far out.”

“Had to get off campus for a minute.”

The sentence was true enough to pass. It made something soft and stupid open in her chest, because Garrett had wanted to get off campus with her. Not to hook up quickly before someone knocked. Not to drag her upstairs at a party. Dinner. A booth. His fingers playing with hers beside the cushion. The whole quiet normal shape of it.

Parker’s gaze flicked to her again. Garrett saw it and shifted half a step, not blocking her, but angling himself between the attention and her face in a way that made her want to press her forehead to the table.

“This is–” Garrett started, and then stopped.

Her heart gave one hard kick, because there was no good ending there. This is my friend sounded insane. This is the girl I’m sleeping with sounded worse. This is the girl Dean hooked up with and now I am secretly, catastrophically gone for sounded accurate but logistically challenging.

So Garrett, genius athlete, captain of the Briar men’s hockey team, man with a GPA that proved his brain did occasionally participate, did the only thing available. He smiled wider and said, “We’re just eating.”

She closed her eyes.

Parker blinked once, then, mercifully, either understood enough to leave it alone or decided he didn’t care. “Cool, cool. Good to see you, bro.” He clapped Garrett once on the shoulder. “See you on the ice.”

Garrett’s grin sharpened into something more familiar. “Looking forward to it.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

They did the aggressive male handshake thing again, all knuckles and shoulder tension and mutual threat disguised as friendliness, then Parker left toward the bar.

Garrett stood for one second after he was gone, watching him go. Then he slid back into the booth beside her, and both of them sat completely still.

She stared at the table. Garrett stared straight ahead. Then, at exactly the same time, they both exhaled.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Garrett said. “That was– yeah.”

She turned her head slowly. “We’re just eating?”

His jaw tightened. “I panicked. What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know, Garrett. Fuck.”

His hand found hers again, but this time under the table, fingers lacing through hers with a little more urgency than before. “Too close?”

She looked down at their joined hands. His thumb was moving over hers, once, twice, like he was calming himself as much as her. “Way too close.”

“Yeah.”

“And you were nervous.”

He scoffed and shook his head once. “I wasn't nervous.”

“You scratched your jaw like nine times.”

“My jaw itched.”

Her eyebrows raised. “And your nose?”

“Itched too,” he shrugged. 

“And your hair?”

“Whole body’s falling apart, apparently.”

She huffed a laugh, and his hand tightened around hers. When she looked up, he was watching her with that softer thing again. The thing that kept sneaking in around the edges of their jokes and making them both go quiet.

“Hey,” he said, lower. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making it weird.”

“It is weird.”

“Yeah.” His mouth pulled at one corner. “But I like this weird.”

The warmth hit so hard she had to look away toward the candle. “You can’t say stuff like that after calling me an eating companion.”

“I didn’t call you that.”

“You kinda did.”

Garrett laughed, then leaned in and kissed her temple because out of town meant he could do that. Could sit beside her in a booth and kiss her hair and hold her hand under the table and look at her like the secret was starting to bother him not because he wanted out of it, but because he wanted out of the hiding part.

She let herself lean into him for half a second. Just half. 

The fifth time, the time they were finally caught, she didn’t think at all, and that was probably why it happened.

Afterward, she would be able to admit there had been options. Reasonable options. Normal options. She could have waited outside the locker room like other people did. She could have texted him. She could have asked Logan if Garrett was okay, which would have been embarrassing but survivable. 

She could have done any number of things that didn’t involve slipping past the edge of the crowd after the game and walking straight into the tunnel like she had a right to be there.

But Garrett had been wrong all night. He had played well in flashes because Garrett Graham could probably play well during a natural disaster if someone gave him skates and a reason. But there had been something jagged in him from the first period. 

Too sharp on the checks. Too quick to shove back. Mouthguard hanging between his teeth while he stared down some Eastwood winger with a look on his face that made her hands go cold around the railing.

He got sent off twice. Once for roughing, once for a fight that started so fast the crowd seemed to notice it only after Garrett already had a fist tangled in someone’s jersey. The second time, even Coach looked furious in that controlled way that made grown men behave like children caught setting fires.

She watched Garrett in the box with his jaw clenched and blood bright at the corner of his mouth, his chest rising hard under the pads, eyes fixed somewhere across the ice but not really on it.

Logan skated by once and said something. Garrett didn’t smile. Didn’t chirp back. Didn’t do any of the things he usually did to make violence look like part of the game and not something older moving through him.

So after the final buzzer, after Briar won, despite Garrett trying to personally fistfight the entire opposing roster, after the crowd started spilling into the aisles and everyone around her buzzed with post-game noise, she moved.

The tunnel was colder than the stands, all concrete and rubber matting and the damp, metallic smell of hockey gear. Voices echoed from the locker room ahead, overlapping male noise and equipment hitting benches and someone laughing too loudly in that exhausted post-adrenaline way.

She slipped past a staff member who was too busy looking at a clipboard to care, turned the corner, and found Garrett standing alone near the wall.

He was still in most of his gear. Helmet off. Gloves gone. Hair damp and flattened at the sides, curls sticking up where he had run his hands through them. His head hung forward, both palms braced on his knees like he was trying to breathe the game out of himself and failing. Blood had dried at his lip again. His jaw worked once. Twice. The tendons in his neck stood out under the harsh tunnel light.

Her chest tightened so fast it hurt. “Garrett.”

His head snapped up. The second he saw her, everything in his face changed. He came back by inches, like her voice had reached into whatever ugly room he was in and opened a door.

“Hi,” he said, breathless, already straightening. Then again, rougher, like the first one had not been enough. “Hey.”

She closed the space before either of them had time to remember they weren’t supposed to do this where people could walk by. 

“Hey.” Her hands went to his face immediately, careful around the split lip, thumbs brushing at the damp edges of his cheeks. “You good? What happened?”

Garrett let out a breath, eyes closing. His hands came up to cover hers for one second, pressing them harder to his face like he needed the contact more than he wanted to admit. “M’fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

His chest was still moving hard, the pads making him look even bigger, all post-game heat and sweat and the raw leftover violence of whatever had been eating at him on the ice. She slid one hand up into his hair, fingers pushing through the damp curls at his temple. His exhale shook.

“You alright?” she asked again, softer now.

He nodded, but it was a bad nod. A nod made out of stubbornness and breath and the fact that he had no idea what to do with her looking at him like this in a tunnel. His jaw shifted. His eyes opened, finding hers, and whatever he saw there made his whole face pull tight for half a second.

“Baby,” he murmured.

That did it. Here, in the tunnel, with the locker room noise around the corner and blood on his mouth and his breathing still rough from whatever fight he had nearly brought home from the ice, the word hit somewhere deeper.

She rose onto her toes and kissed him. It was meant to be small, it really was. A check-in. A reassurance. A brief press of her mouth to his.

Garrett made a low sound the second her lips touched his, and then his arms were around her waist, pulling her in properly, pads and all, crushing the space between them like he’d been waiting the whole night for something solid enough to hold.

The kiss turned immediately. His mouth opened under hers, hungry and rough and not careful enough at first, then careful all at once when she brushed his split lip and he hissed softly into her mouth.

She pulled back half an inch. “Sorry.”

“Don’t care,” he said, and kissed her again.

Everything from the game poured into it. The hits. The fights. The awful, tight look in his eyes from the penalty box. Her hands cold on the railing. The secret they’d been carrying around like something light when it had gotten heavier every time he looked at her across a room and didn’t come closer. Garrett’s fingers dug into her waist. Hers stayed in his hair, tugging lightly. He kissed like he was trying to get back into his own body through her mouth. And she let him.

Then someone behind them said, “Ohhhh shit.”

They broke apart so fast it was almost violent. Logan stood ten feet away with a towel slung around his neck, hair wet, mouth open in the kind of delighted grin usually reserved for a successful prank or Tucker injuring himself in a deeply avoidable way. 

His eyes moved from Garrett’s arms around her waist, to her hands still caught in Garrett’s hair, to Garrett’s swollen mouth, and then back again. For one second, no one spoke.

Garrett’s arms didn’t leave her waist. She noticed that through the panic, through the sudden rush of heat to her face, through the knowledge that the entire delicate architecture of their secrecy had just been bodychecked into open air by John Logan and his shit-eating grin.

Garrett kept holding her.

Logan’s grin widened. “Was comin’ to check on the captain, but… shit.” He lifted both hands, backing away already, eyes bright with the kind of joy that meant the locker room was about to become a crime scene. “Guess he’s alright.”

“Logan,” Garrett said, low warning.

Logan only pointed at him, walking backward. “Nope. No. Don’t Logan me. You have been weird as fuck for weeks, man.”

Her stomach dropped and flipped at the same time.

Garrett’s jaw tightened. “Don’t–”

But Logan had already turned toward the locker room, voice rising with unholy glee. “You’ll never fucking guess what I just saw!”

The sound that came from the locker room was immediate. A burst of voices. Dean’s laugh cutting through first, bright and vicious. Tucker saying something too low to catch. Someone yelling, “What?” and Logan answering with, “Graham!” in the tone of a man unveiling evidence at trial.

She closed her eyes. Garrett dropped his forehead to hers.

For a second, neither of them moved. His breath was warm against her mouth, still uneven. Her hands had slipped from his hair to the sides of his neck. His gear pressed awkwardly against her chest. 

Somewhere around the corner, the locker room erupted again, Dean’s voice now unmistakable. “No fucking way!”

Garrett exhaled, eyes closing. “Fuck.”

She huffed, because there was nothing else to do. A laugh, almost. A sigh. The sound of a girl watching the secret blow up and realising, somewhere under the horror, that she wasn't as upset as she should be.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Fuck.”

His hands flexed at her waist. He didn’t move back.

This was the moment he could step away. Where he could put space between them and run a hand through his hair and say something easy, something Garrett-shaped and evasive, something that made the kiss look smaller than it was. 

He could make it a joke before anyone else did. He could hide behind Logan’s big mouth and Dean’s inevitable commentary and the whole familiar machinery of the hockey house turning one private thing into public entertainment.

Instead he stayed with his forehead against hers, breathing hard, thumbs pressing into her waist through her coat.

Then Dean appeared around the corner, because the universe couldn’t let them have more than three seconds without sending in a rich boy with terrible timing. 

He leaned one shoulder against the wall, grinning like Christmas had come early and wearing only half his gear. Logan popped up behind him, still delighted. Tucker stood a few steps back with his arms folded, looking resigned and not remotely surprised.

Dean’s eyes flicked over the two of them, still pressed together, Garrett’s hands still on her waist. His grin turned wicked. “Well, well, well.”

She groaned. “Don’t.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Dean said, hand over his heart. “I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

“I absolutely will,” he corrected. His eyes slid to Garrett, bright with evil. “Graham. Buddy. Pal. Teammate. You’ve been sneaking around with my ex?”

“She’s not your ex,” Garrett said immediately.

Dean’s grin widened. “Oh, interesting. Strong feelings from the captain.”

“She’s not,” Garrett repeated, jaw tightening.

She shouldn’t have enjoyed that. She did anyway.

Dean’s gaze moved to her, faux-wounded. “I thought we had something beautiful.”

“You were sleeping with six other girls while sleeping with me. You’re a pig.”

Logan made a strangled sound. Tucker’s mouth twitched.

Dean pointed at her. “See? This is why I missed you.”

Garrett’s hand tightened at her waist. “Dean.”

“Oh, relax.” Dean lifted both hands, but he was still grinning. “I’m not poaching. I have respect.”

Logan leaned around Dean, eyes shining. “So how long?”

“Nope,” Garrett said.

“How long?” Logan repeated, louder.

She looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at her. For one brief, stupid second they both seemed to consider lying. It was a beautiful instinct, really. Loyal to the end. Completely useless now that Garrett’s mouth was visibly swollen from kissing her and his hands had still not left her body.

“Three weeks,” she said.

Garrett’s head snapped toward her.

“What?” she said. “He was going to keep asking.”

Logan’s mouth dropped open. Dean shouted, “Three weeks?” Tucker just closed his eyes, nodding once to himself.

“I knew something was up,” Tucker said.

Garrett looked at him sharply. “You did not.”

Tucker opened his eyes. “She came downstairs for water in your shirt and let me think she’d slept with Dean.”

Dean turned slowly. “I’m sorry, what?”

She winced. “That was strategic.”

“You were in my house,” Dean said, pointing at himself, “using me as a slutty decoy?”

“Yes.”

Dean looked moved. “Honoured.”

Garrett made a sound under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”

Logan clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Come on. Let the lovebirds emotionally process before Coach catches Garrett making out in a tunnel like a freshman.”

Garrett finally looked over. “Dude.”

“What? That was supportive.”

Dean pointed at her as Logan started dragging him backward. “We’re talking later. I have questions. Boundary-respecting questions, but questions.”

“No, we’re not,” she called back.

“We absolutely are.”

Tucker gave her a small, sympathetic nod as he turned. “Congratulations. And good luck.”

“Thanks,” she said, because honestly that seemed appropriate.

The three of them disappeared back toward the locker room, taking the noise with them in pieces. Logan already yelling something that sounded like, “Three weeks, boys!” Dean making wounded noises. Tucker telling someone to put on pants.

Garrett laughed, low and real, and the sound loosened the last tight thing still sitting under her ribs. She looked up at him, at the bruise on his cheek and the split in his mouth and the ridiculous, beautiful, inconvenient boy who had somehow gone from secret bad idea to the person she walked into tunnels for without thinking.

“So,” she said, brushing her thumb carefully under the cut at his lip. “Guess we’re blown.”

His grin came back slowly, cocky at the edges and warm all the way through. “Yeah.”

“And you still have to explain why you were trying to fight half of Eastwood tonight.”

The grin faded by a fraction, but he didn’t look away. “Later?”

She studied him for a second, then nodded. “Later.”

His arms tightened. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Then Garrett kissed her again, because being exposed to the entire hockey house hadn’t cured him of bad timing. She kissed him back anyway, smiling into it when the locker room erupted once more at whatever Logan had just announced.

This time, when Garrett’s hand slid openly to the small of her back and held her there, neither of them moved away.

The only redeeming quality of this date is honestly the fact that you won't have to pay for the food and wine you've had. This restaurant is not one you'll usually choose, it's not your style, too fancy and grand for your liking. Your date is… well let's just say you highly doubt there will be a second date.

"So you say you went to where for college?" He asks after finishing a rant about the latest crypto he invested in.

"Oh, I went to Briar!" You perk up a little at him finally showing some kind of interest into you "In Massachusetts, I-"

Of course, he cuts you off "Yeah, I know of Briar, it has one of the best hockey programs in the country, it was one of my options but I felt Michigan calling out for me more"

"Oh yeah, you play hockey right? I have friends who do too" You comment.

He scoffs "You do, don't you? Well sweetheart I'm in the AHL right now, I bet your friends have heard of me, I'm NHL bound any day now"

"Oh really?" You ask with a raised eyebrow, you don't tell him about your two friends breaking records with the Bruins right now "Are you playing here in Boston?"

"No no, I'm with the Islanders" He says, you quickly comb through your hockey knowledge, remembering Garret say something about how the Islanders were bottom three teams in the AHL right now but you choose to keep the information to yourself for now "Just in town visiting some friends and having dates with beautiful women apparently"

"Got lots of those?" You tease jokingly but his reply comes serious.

"A few, not a great dating pool around here honestly" He shrugs "It's just a thing of our generation, women trying too hard to prove something" You give him a slow nod curious to see where this horrible point of him goes "Like just yesterday I was out with this girl who kept arguing with me about how she wouldn't quit her job as a doctor even if she was dating an athlete like me with a packed schedule so she could take care of the kids"

"That's…" You don't even know what to say and thankfully (?) you don't have to say anything because he's not done.

"Like, you have to understand one thing about me honey, I already have a brutal schedule with hockey right now but as soon as I make it to the NHL it's gonna get worse" He shrugs "I need a woman who understands that. There's too few of them around now and I think that's the reason current legends like Graham stay single"

"Garret?" You ask.

"Oh you know of him? Yeah, total beast on the ice"

You nod "I went to college with him"

Your date laughs "Oh I bet you were running around behind him for a bit of attention huh?"

"Uh not exactly" You can't wait to be done with this date.

"Oh come on honey, it's Garret Graham, legend, if not for his hockey skills then for his legacy, his dad was a beast too, really look up Phil Graham" You're not going to lie that hearing him fanboy over one of your best friends is kinda funny, but the guy is annoying to no end so you start thinking of exiting strategies "I'm already on my way up there with him" He's not, you hadn't even heard his name until now and you like to think you are somewhat well versed in the hockey world "Someday you'll be bragging about having gone on a date with me"

You're still thinking about a good excuse to leave the date when the restaurant door opens, you look that way because anything is better than the douche in front of you and you see him, your best friend, Garrett Graham, he notices you too and smiles warmly.

"Holy shit" You hear your date gasp "It's Garret Graham, and he's looking this way, I bet he recognized me from our last game against Boston"

And no matter how much of an asshole this guy is you still can't find it in yourself to break his heart so you plan on letting him believe that's the reason Garret looked your way, but your friend has other plans because he approaches your table, attention solely on you as he leans down to pull you into a warm hug and kissing the side of your head on his way up.

"Hey Tink! What are you doing here?" He asks, the nickname he gave you years ago flowing out, your date, who still hasn't been aknowledged stares in absolute shock.

"Hi Gar, I'm uh… dinner" You motion to the guy sitting in front of you and Garret finally turns his way.

"Oh hey man" He greets with a nod and his attention is back on you "You gonna introduce me to your friend?"

"This is Dave" You don't have to say anything else, Garrett has always been an expert in reading you, he already clocked how this date is going.

"Well, nice to meet you Dave" His words are polite but there's none of the warmth he's had towards you "I'm just here for a quick meeting with my agent, but why don't you wait at the bar for me when you're done here? 15 minutes top?" You nod and he leans down to kiss your forehead again "I'll open up a tab and have your drink waiting for when you're ready" Then he turns to Dave and says "Nice to meet you Gabe" And he leaves.

You fight a chuckle and see his shoulders shaking as he walks away.

A little later, Garrett's turning on the engine of his Jeep, a newer model of the one he had back in college, but before he pulls out of the parking lot he speaks "I just don't know why you insist on going out with those idiots when I'm right here"

"What and miss Dave's NHL debut?" You joke but you know he's right and you're not sure why you're still going out on pointless dates "I heard Bridgeport might have a chance at the playoffs this season, I might get a WAG jacket"

"He's in the AHL?" Garret makes a face, you nod with a laugh "Tink, the chances of Bridgeport making it to the playoffs are lower than Dean being able to recreate Tuck's chicken pot pie recipe successfuly" You burst out laughing remembering the time you had to call the fire department because Tucker was away visiting his mom in Texas and Dean insisted he just had to have chicken pot pie.

"Holy shit I'd forgotten about that" You wipe tears out of your eyes "The firefighters looked so disappointed when Dean asked if he could still eat the food"

Garett looks at you with a wide smile and loving stare "Do you think the WAGs will give me a discount for the fee because we're halfway through the season already?" His question could be taken as a joke, but you know him and you know he's being earnest "Or will they charge me a late fee? What size jacket do you wear? And you can't get mad at me for not knowing, you always end up stealing mine anyways but I don't think you want a Garrett sized WAG jacket"

"G, don't panic." Are the first words out of your mouth when you call your brother. This of course has the opposite effect. In the background, you can hear Garrett hastily quieting the others.

 "What happened? Are you hurt? Where are you?"

"I'm fine. I'm not hurt, but I'm—"

"Are you alone?"

"Yes, but—"

"Are you somewhere safe?"

"Garrett, if you let me speak, I could tell you that I'm fine." You sigh, a hand coming up to run through your hair. "I think my car battery died. I'm somewhere on the side of the road in Arlington."

A beat of silence. You can kind of hear the chatter from the other line, the absurd overlap of four, twenty-something-year-old, hockey players, discussing what's happening. Then, somewhere in the background, you hear someone — you don't even have to guess who, you could pinpoint him in any hectic frenzy— say "G, is she okay?"

Garrett ignores him, "What do you mean you think the battery is dead?"

"I mean I was driving back to campus when my lights started flickering and the next thing I know everything in my car is off."

"While you were driving?"

"Yes. What was unclear from the story?" You say bluntly.

"Holy shit, Y/N, did you get into an accident—"

"Relax, Gar. As I said, I managed to pull off to the side. I was the only person on the road. The point is, there's no one around to jump my shit and everything is closed."

"Okay, Okay. I can be there in like, twenty minutes—"

"Thought you were meeting with that philosophy tutor at 9— it's 8:48." You hear him let out a frustrated huff.

"I can cancel—"

"No. You can't, Garrett. Cancelling twelve minutes before a session is fucked up and you need the help." Another pause. You can practically hear him deflating.

"I'll send Logan."

Garrett hangs up before you can protest.

You stare at your phone for a second, then at the road, then at your phone again. Arlington is dead quiet this time of night, just streetlights and the distant sound of the city somewhere behind you. You lean back against the car and try not to think about the fact that John Logan is currently getting in his truck to come and look at your now sad, broken down wrangler.

Which you of course fail at.

Your phone buzzes.

John Logan flashes across the screen and you take one full second to compose yourself before answering.

"I'm in Arlington. Somewhere off Mass Ave, like in the suburbs somewhere? I can send my location—"

"Hello to you too."

You close your eyes. "Hi. I'm about a mile past the intersection off Mass Ave, pulled over by the—"

"Are you alright?"

It's a simple question. One that shouldn't make you lose your breath the way it is right now.

"I'm fine."

"G said you were on the road when the battery died?"

"Yeah." You try to brush off the obvious concern in his voice.

"Must have been scary. Are you alright?" He asks once more. Perceptive as always. There's a pause, but you can hear what sounds like the start of Logan's car. You dodge his question by just staying silent.

"Sit tight. I'm twenty minutes out."

You nod, though he obviously can't see. "Okay. See you soon."

You hear his car before you see it.

The low rumble of his engine cuts through the quiet of Arlington like it owns the street, headlights sweeping around the corner and finding you immediately. You straighten up, cross your arms, and do your best to school your expression. It's just Logan. He's just being a good friend and doing your brother a favor. His car pulls up right in front of yours and he kills the engine, hopping out of the car with both of his hands in his jacket pockets.

He doesn't say anything yet, just looks you over, and then the car.

"Get the hood?"

You furrow your eyebrows. "What?"

"Can you pop the hood?"

"Oh. Yeah, sorry." You mumble, walking to the front of the car where the latches of the hood are, and pop them open. You get the center hook, and Logan is there to put the prop rod up.

You take a step away from the car, giving Logan space. He pulls his phone out,turns on the flashlight, and takes a look at the battery inside. You lean against the driver's side door and watch him work, which feels awkward, so you look at the street instead. Then at your nails. Then back at him because there is genuinely nothing else to look at.

"When's the last time you replaced the battery?" He asks, not looking away from it.

"Um. I don't know."

He does look up at that. Just briefly.

"Garrett bought it used for me about two years ago."

"…So never, then?"

"So never." You pause, approaching his side and peering into the hood as well.

"Is that bad?"

The look he gives you is somewhere between amused and pained. "Yeah."

"Cool." You pull your cardigan around yourself just a bit tighter. "So it's my fault."

"That's not at all what I said—"

"It was implied."

"I implied that your battery was old." He turns to you. "That's not your fault. It's just what it is. Do you have jumper cables?"

"Do I look like I own jumper cables?"

"You look like a car owner, which means you should have jumper cables."

You open your mouth to argue, but close it. He is right. He tosses you the keys to his car, which you narrowly drop.

"Cables are in the trunk."

You take a deep breath, and walk towards his car trying to compose yourself. You can't help just how undone you feel around him. Like all sense of composure ceases being. When you open the trunk of his car, you get a waft of the air inside. It, much to your surprise, doesn't smell like sweaty hockey gear, but like Logan himself. A rich cedar with citrusy undertones to balance it. You locate the cables quickly, which means you have no reason to keep standing there, breathing him in. You grab the cables, and with a little more force than necessary, slam the trunk closed.

When you get back to the Wrangler he's crouched by the front again, looking at something on his phone, and he glances up when he hears you coming. You hold the cables out and he stands, taking them from you.

"Thanks," he says.

"Yep," you say.

Very normal. Totally fine.

"Okay." He holds the cables out toward you instead of the car. "Come here."

You blink. "I don't need to—"

"You should know how to do this." He says it simply, like it's obvious, like he's not just voluntarily extending the amount of time you have to stand next to him in the dark. "Come on."

You oblige.

He walks you through what needs to be done patiently. No condecension in his tone. You imagine if this is how he talks to the freshman boys on the hockey team…or if this is the tone he takes up when talking someone through it.

Pushing that thought to the back of your brain where you hopefully never find it again, he holds the cables out to you. One red and one black clamp.

"Two hands. Don't let these touch. Get into the habit of it." You nod, but reach for the cables with one hand, to which he pulls them out of your reach and shoots you a deadpan look. You shake your head in an attempt to get your mind back.

"Sorry." You take them with two hands, and he continues to talk about how the cables work.

"Red to dead first." He nods toward your battery. "Always."

You crouch down next to him and clip it where he points. "Red to dead," you repeat.

"Then red to donor." He reaches past you to attach the other end to his own battery, and for approximately one second his arm is right there and you are very focused on the cable. "Then black to donor."

"Black to donor."

"Last one goes on bare metal. Not the dead battery." He guides your hand — just barely, just enough — to a bolt on the engine block. "Ground it here."

You clip it.

He doesn't move his hand immediately.

"Why not to the battery?" you ask, because you are super interested in the car, and not the fact that he's so close to you right now. Definitely not that.

"Sparks," he says. "Dead batteries can off-gas hydrogen. You don't want a spark near that."

"Oh." You look at the cables, then at him, which is a mistake because he is still right there. "That's probably important to know."

"That's why I'm telling you. Now, we wait a few minutes before I start my car."

He leans against the front of the Wrangler, arms crossed, looking out at the empty street. Not at you. You mirror him without thinking about it. Leaning against the hood next to him, not close enough to be something, just next to him. The streetlight above you is doing that orange late-night thing where everything looks a little warmer than it actually is.

It's quiet for a moment.

"You doing okay out here? You know, before I got here."

"It was fine."

"I'm sure it was. But that's not what I asked." He turns his head to look at you.

You look at the road. A car passes at the far end of the street, headlights sweeping briefly over the pavement, and then it's quiet again.

"It was a little scary," you admit. "When everything shut off. The car kept rolling and all I wanted to do was get out."

He nods. Doesn't make it a big deal, doesn't say I knew it or you should have said so. Just nods, like he's filing it away somewhere careful.

"You called Garrett right away?"

"Immediately."

The corner of his mouth moves. "Good."

You look at him. "You're not going to tell me I should have roadside assistance or something?"

"Do you have roadside assistance?"

"No."

"Then there's no point in telling you that now." He looks back at the street. "Now you know you should have it."

You almost smile. "Yeah. Okay."

~

"Okay." Logan pushes off the hood. "Let's try it."

He gets in his car first and you get in yours, and when he starts his engine you can feel it faintly through the steering wheel from the cables still connecting you. You wait the way he told you to. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute. Then you turn the key.

The Wrangler shudders, clicks, and then —

Catches.

The dash lights up all at once and the radio comes back on mid-song and you let out a breath you have been holding since 8:48pm.

You get back out. Logan is already unclipping the cables in the right order, black from ground, black from donor, red from donor, red from dead, staring at the way his hands look wrapped around each clamp

"You're good," he says, coiling the cables back up.

"Thank you." It comes out quieter than you mean it to. "Really. You didn't have to—"

"Garrett asked me to."

"Right." You nod, a pang of embarassment filling your chest. Right. This was a favor for his best friend— your brother. Nothing more. "Still."

He looks at you for a second, then holds out the cables. "Keep these in the car."

"What about you? I can just buy some online when I get home."

"Really? Are you actually going to?" He tilts his head skeptically.

Unfortunately, he is correct in his assumption that you will likely forget. You sigh, but take them, fingers lightly brushing his as you pull the cables away.

"I'll follow you home," he says, and then he's walking back to his car before you can tell him he doesn't have to.

You watch his headlights in the rearview mirror the whole way home.

It's a twenty three minute drive back to campus, and you are aware of him for every single one of them. Every turn signal, every stop light, the way he stays exactly two car lengths behind you like he's done this before. You turn the stereo up just a little bit louder in an attempt to drown out any more thoughts of him from your brain, which of course, fails miserably.

You pull into your complex and he pulls in behind you. You were half hoping he'd just — flash his lights and keep going, waving you off into your dorm room. Instead, he parks.

You meet him just outside of the entrance to the dorm hall, pulling your jacket just a bit tighter around your shoulders.

"Thanks again." you say again.

"It's fine."

"I know…but thank you. I really appreciate it, Logan."

Something shifts in his expression. Just briefly, just enough that you notice and then immediately question whether you imagined it.

"…Call Triple A in the morning. They can come replace your battery." You nod obediently, and he tilts his head towards you just a little bit.

"Get some sleep," he says.

You nod. "Yeah."

He doesn't move for exactly one second too long.

You watch him walk off into the darkness of the parking lot. You keep standing there even after you hear his car start, and even after the sound of his engine fades out down the street. Finally, you scan your ID and let yourself into the building taking a deep breath once you're inside.

Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”

The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.

Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.

Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.

Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.

You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”

He smiled politely, “Hey…”

“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.

Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.

You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.

Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”

You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.

You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”

He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.

You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.

You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.

He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.

Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.

“Cash or card?” He asked.

You held up your metal black credit card.

Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.

“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.

He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”

You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“

Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.

He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.

+

A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.

He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.

“Hi, Logan!”

“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”

You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.

Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“

“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.

He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.

“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.

As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”

People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.

“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.

You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.

“Did you win?” You asked.

He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.

“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.

You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”

Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.

“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.

You smiled shyly and said, “You…”

His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.

He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”

“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.

He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.

You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.

He smiled at that.

He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.

“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.

“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.

“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.

“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.

Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”

His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”

Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”

Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”

Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”

His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.

+

Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.

By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.

But now he was noticing a pattern.

So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.

But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.

“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”

You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“

“No, she doesn’t.”

You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.

His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.

Yet, you did.

Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.

Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.

Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.

“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”

“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”

“You do?” You asked.

He nodded, “I do.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.

He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”

You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”

He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.

-------------♥︎-----------

The sliding glass door didn’t click open like before; it practically rattled in its frame as Garrett shoved past Logan to head back inside. But the moment Garrett took three steps into the kitchen, he froze completely in his tracks. Everyone had cleared out of the kitchen, and the stove was off.

"Oh, shit..." Garrett muttered, his voice dropping into a harsh, stunned whisper.

Logan stood outside, still reeling from the emotional beating Garrett had just handed him, and he quickly turned - feeling like the conversation wasn't done - he went after Garrett, back inside to try to talk to him - to explain himself. He wanted to tell Garrett all of it. He felt trapped in his feelings for you that he had put away two school years ago - he wanted to tell Garrett what had happened between the both of you two years ago. He needed him to know the full story of you and him.

He denied the thought that there could be the possibility of you in any of his lifetimes.

He stepped up to sliding door frame, "Fuck. Okay, Garret, wait. It isn't-" Through the pane, the entire kitchen came into focus.

Standing just past the kitchen counter, adjacent to the the glass sliding door, Grace was standing without words.

She was wearing Logan's tan Carhartt coat that was three times too oversized, half unzipped and had her keys with a pink and silver gemmed land yard dangling loosely from her soft, paralyzed hands. Grace's steel blue-grey eyes were welling up with tears as she stood there in shock. She placed her hand to the side of counter to steady her. Almost like she needed to catch her breath.

No one else was left on the main floor. The front door of the hockey house was never locked and Grace had let herself in like usual, thinking that everyone would be here for Briar family dinner - instead she heard Garrett and Logan yelling at each other in the backyard.

“Every three m-months?” Grace’s voice trembled. She spoke in a terrifyingly quiet whisper as she stepped back, ignoring Garrett's presence entirely. Grace’s eyes were wide, glossy, and fixed on Logan for a just a second.

“You still...you still keep her dates in your calendar?”

He looked up at her. She distanced herself almost instinctively, looking everywhere else on the ground, in a timid, anxious panic - anywhere except in Logan's eyes. There was just silence in the house now. Garrett stood there, feeling guilt in his tightened chest for how this all unfolded and having any part of it at all. He shouldn't have said anything.

The blood completely drained from Logan’s face. He looked at Grace, with sorry eyes, "No, Grace. It wasn't-it's not like that-" He pressed his hands in an exasperated tension against his temples. "I can explain-" Logan stammered, his voice thin and panicked. He stepped forward, his hands reaching forwards, palms out, pleading. Garrett tried to soften the blow of the situation, "Grace." He looked at them both. "I was just bullshitting - it's not Logan's fault. I shouldn't have brought it up," he tried to ease the pain he felt for Grace as they stood in the kitchen.

"It d-doesn't mean anything," Logan whispered so quietly he could barely hear himself.

The words felt heavy, toxic, and dangerously familiar the second they left his mouth. It doesn't mean anything. She had heard him say that before about you - and she tried to ignore it in the past. Her friends had said that guys and girls couldn't be just friends - but not her John Logan, she thought. She believed him every time when he said he said you were like his family - she knew he had care for you - but she tried to convince herself that he didn't have feelings for you like that - even though her gut cautioned her otherwise.

Grace shut her eyes painfully. She barely had the strength to choke out the words but she had to know. "Do you still...love her, Logan?"

The question was so gentle, so entirely devoid of malice, a soft, earnest plea for an answer she had overthought countlessly in her mind the last few months. She already knew his answer and that it paralyzed him.

Logan stood entirely frozen, his mouth opening and closing. He was speechless. He wanted to deny it. He wanted to fight for his relationship with Grace. She was so kind to him. Even when he was a being some kind of evil in this moment. He didn't mean for this happen - he never meant to hurt her. But with Garrett staring at him, watching this all unfold from the side, and the absolute raw betrayal written across Grace’s face, he let out a silent breath, without any words left to say. He couldn't lie to himself anymore.

He looked to the ground, guilt in his eyes - knowing how much Grace didn't deserve this, without being able to look her in the eyes at all. His silence was the loudest sound in the room.

"It's okay, I'm-it's fine-" she barely let out, her voice strained. She turned and gently unzipped his coat, slipping out of the oversized structured fabric and silently place it on the counter avoiding his eyes entirely.

Grace closed her eyes shut for a brief second, feeling lightheaded suddenly.

Logan took a desperate step forward like muscle memory, his hand reaching out to touch her arm. "I'm sorry, I...I never meant to hurt you."

The moment his fingers brushed the air near her, Grace flinched.

It wasn't just a slight pull-back. It was a physical, instinctive reflex. She took two, frantic steps backward, her sneakers shuffling loudly against the kitchen floor as she put distance between them. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, not in anger, but as a shield, wrapping around herself as if she were freezing.

She looked at him with glassy eyes, her breath coming in shallow. "Please don't," trembling with pain in her voice. The sight of her backing away from him like he was something dangerous scared Logan himself. He froze in his tracks, his hand hovering uselessly in the empty space between them.

Logan choked out painfully, his voice cracking, "I swear to God, I never wanted to hurt you."

"It's okay. I-I know," with an agonizingly quiet finality, Grace heightened her pace to be as far away from Logan as quick as her small frame could bring her and exited through the front door of the hockey house, with the door shutting. The noise of the car starting in the driveway and tires retreating on the gravel.

Logan stood silently staring into nothing at all, disassociating - almost out of body. Garrett watched him from the edge of room. Just a half hour ago, they had been screaming in each other's faces, fueled by a bitter, territorial rage. But seeing Logan like this—shattered, small, and completely dissociated—the anger drained out of Garrett entirely the moment he saw Grace standing in the kitchen at all.

Months ago, when Garrett had lost his absolute mind and had his own violent, breaking-point outburst on the ice, Logan had been the one to grab him, hold him down, and pull him back. So he would do the same for his brother in this moment.

Garrett didn't hesitate. He reached out and wrapped his arms around Logan in a firm, heavy, grounding embrace - with a profound, sorrowful regret for the part he had played in this unraveling.

Logan didn't move. He was completely frozen, his arms hanging limp by his side, his face buried stiffly against Garrett’s shoulder. But Garrett didn't let go. He just held Logan, locking his arms around his friend, anchoring Logan.

-------♥︎--------

The tires of Logan’s truck tore into the gravel of the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust as he braked hard into his usual spot. He cut the engine, but the sudden silence inside the truck did absolutely nothing to calm the suffocating frustration vibrating in his chest. Shoving his way out, he slammed the truck door shut behind him with a heavy, metallic bang that echoed across the yard.

He stormed up the porch steps and pushed through the front door of the hockey house, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

Walking straight into the kitchen, he dropped his keys onto the granite island. They hit the surface with a sharp, loud clatter—not thrown, but heavy enough to instantly kill the casual chatter in the room.

"Whoa, everything alright, dude?" Tucker asked, pausing with a wooden spoon in hand.

The kitchen was warm, smelling of garlic and simmering marinara sauce. Garrett was standing by the stove, while Dean leaned against the counter, a glass of water in hand. The calm, familial atmosphere of the room felt completely at odds with the frantic, wounded energy radiating off Logan.

"Why the hell is she being like that?!" Logan burst out, running a hand over his face and through his hair in pure frustration. He began to pace a short, tense line between the fridge and the island, his shoulders tightly coiled.

Garrett set down the knife he was using to chop vegetables, exchanging a heavy, knowing look with Dean before looking up. An underlying edge of irritation was already creeping into Garrett's expression. "You found y/n?"

"Yeah, I found her. She was sitting at Malone's by herself," Logan said, his voice cracking slightly with a mix of disbelief and a sharp, defensive edge. "And she was just so cold, man. I skipped the second half of practice for her. I literally went to her usual library spot, went to Havenport lounge, her usual spots - because she wouldn't answer her phone, and when I finally get there, she barely even looked at me."

“And you two - won’t tell me shit.” He pointed at Hannah and Allie, who widened their eyes but stayed silent. “Is there something wrong - is her dad contacting her again or something?” 

Everyone was silent. 

Hannah felt so bad for Logan, it’s like an elephant in the room that everyone sees but him. She reached out her hand to comfort him, “No, Logan. Her dad isn’t, it’s just that we don’t even know what to tell you,” she sighed. 

"What do you mean? She told me to leave her alone," Logan said, the words clearly stinging him deeper than he wanted to admit. He looked over at Garrett, his eyes wide with a desperate, furious confusion. "Like I was a total stranger. She refused to come to dinner. I don't get it. What the hell did I do? Why is she completely freezing me out?"

Garrett gripped the edge of the stove, an annoyed, incredibly tense breath escaping his nose. He looked at Logan— he thought Logan was being a total idiot, entirely blind to the way you loved him, and even more blind to his own buried feelings for you. Sure he was with Grace but he doesn’t act like this for anyone else other than you. There’s no one he’s this worried about or thinks about more than you. 

But Garrett wasn’t trying to betray you.

"Maybe she just wants to be by herself. She will figure it out herself, just leave her alone and let her cool off." He continued prepping. 

"Leave her alone?" Logan repeated, looking at Garrett like he'd lost his mind. "She's my best friend, Garrett. I'm not just going to let her treat me like garbage and walk away.”

Garrett let out a harsh, cynical breath, shaking his head as he picked up a towel to wipe his hands. He looked at Logan, completely exasperated by his roommate's sheer density. "Look, just drop it for tonight. I'll text her. I'll talk to her later and check in."

The words hit Logan like a physical slap.

A sharp, ugly wave of jealousy and indignation flared up in his chest, making him look at Garrett with narrow, peeved eyes. "You'll talk to her?" Logan scoffed, his voice dripping with sudden bitterness. "What makes you think she’s going to answer you?"

Garrett just stared at him. He thought Logan was acting childish. 

It felt like a direct blow to his ego, a territorial instinct kicking in before he could even stop it. The idea that Garrett thought he could get through to you more than him was insulting.

"I know her better than anyone in this house, Garrett," Logan muttered, his jaw tight as he stared his captain down. "I know her better than you. If she’s pissed off, she talks to me. She always talks to me."

"Yeah, well, clearly not today," Dean said under his breath from the counter, taking a slow sip of his water.

Garrett put down the knife he was using to chop the vegetables for Tucker’s dish. “Alright, outside Logan,” everyone stared. 

————————

He stormed out to the porch through the heavy glass door and Logan followed him immediately, the sliding door shutting behind them with a sharp click, cutting off the warmth of the kitchen and the watchful eyes of Allie, Hannah, Dean and Tucker. 

Logan was fuming. “What? Did you guys fuck? Is that what everyone’s not telling me? You going to tell me you guys hooked up or something and she’s avoiding us all together or she’s feeling ashamed to tell me?” Logan asks in an accusatory tone, grasping at straws—making things up because he has absolutely no idea.

Garrett snapped to look at him, the irritation on his face had hardened into something much heavier. “You fucking serious right now?!”

He took a step forward, invading Logan's space. "You think this is about me and her having some cheap hookup? You think she’d freeze all of us out over that?"

He let out a harsh, humorless laugh that cut right through the chilly night air.

"I’d never do that to Hannah.” Garrett said, poking a firm finger into Logan’s chest. "Use that pretty fucking brain of yours. She’s hiding because of you. Because while you've been busy playing this oblivious, protective guy best friend routine and making up wild theories, you’re blind to her feelings - don’t act like you don’t know." Garrett scoffed.

Logan blinked, he was silent because he couldn’t lie that he didn’t have an idea of what Garrett was talking about. Logan knew how he used to feel about you, when he first met you - he wanted you, he had been trying so desperately to ignore any of those feelings since he thought you’d never want to settle for him.

Garrett stood in front of Logan, the height difference wasn't much, but right now, Garrett looked massive, fueled by a protective fury he’d been suppressing every silent smoke sesh you and him had and he had to watch you be so down. He looked at Logan—really looked at him—at the genuine confusion and desperation in his friend's eyes, and felt a wave of pure exhaustion.

"You really don't get it, do you?" Garrett said softly. "You are so blinded by your own need to keep her by your side that you refuse to see what you're doing to her."

"Doing to her? I'm not doing anything to her!" Logan defended, his voice cracking slightly. "I care about her. That’s it. I care about her, and I want to make sure she’s okay."

"And what about Grace, Logan?"

The mention of the name hung in the air like a sudden drop in temperature. Logan stiffened, his mouth opening slightly before closing again.

"Grace has nothing to do with this," Logan said, though the conviction had leaked out of his voice, replaced by a defensive edge.

Garrett took a step forward, invading Logan’s space, his eyes boring into him.

"You sure about that?" Garrett challenged, a lethal edge slicing through his tone.

He’s going to lay it all out there. This had to stop. “Logan, does Grace know you text Allie and Hannah to make sure y/n gets home safe from her evening class? Does Grace know that you sat in your car with y/n three weeks ago after your brother told you your mom went back to rehab? Does Grace know you’ve been fixing y/n’s dad’s car for free every three months and telling him not to talk to her - without telling her? Does she know you write in every single one of y/n’s finals in your calendar - just so you can wish her good luck?”

Logan flinched as if he’d been physically struck. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The blood drained from his face, leaving him pale under the porch light. He opened his hands, closing them into fists, looking suddenly small.

"How... how do you know about…th?" Logan whispered.

"Because I’m not a fucking idiot." Garrett hissed, stepping even closer, his finger hovering inches from Logan's chest. 

"You have a girlfriend, Logan. But you liked y/n the moment you met her. You had feelings for her, you said that. Don’t even lie to me right now."

"It's not like that. I’m over her, I told you. I don’t- Gar, it’s not-“ Logan stammered, his eyes darting away, looking wildly around the empty yard as if looking for an escape. "I'm just... I'm just trying to be a good guy. Her dad's transmission was shot, he couldn't afford—"

"Fuck off man!" Garrett roared, the sudden volume making Logan jump. "Stop lying to yourself. You string her along. Constantly. You know you do. You keep pulling her back in. Every time she takes a step away, you show up with a toolbox, or a text message, or a 'good luck' call, reminding her exactly what she can't have.”

Logan opened his mouth to defend himself, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. He looked down at the extra key on his keychain—the one that fit y/n's front door, the one he’d had for two years after you had an anaphylactic allergic reaction - Logan had demanded you hand over the spare keys just in case anything ever were to happen and never given back. Logan had only told Garrett about his feelings for you two years ago - but you weren’t ready for anything then. So he moved on, and you both were hooking up with other people. You’d never want him, he thought. 

"You want to talk about how you're just 'being a good guy'?" Garrett asked, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet rhythm. 

“Logan, I’ve never seen you be so worried about literally anyone else. You always think about her, you think to get her an extra coffee or cookie when we go to Lucky’s with Hannah, you drop anything to drive her, you skip practice because you needed to find her to ease your mind, and when anything is ever wrong in your life the only person you want to talk about that stuff is - is with y/n. Don’t you think that’s odd and I don’t know, Logan? Fucking insane? considering you have a girlfriend?”

Logan flinched, his jaw tightening so hard a vein throbbed at his temple. "She’s like-my family. She knows me, I know her. We talk about these hard things okay? It’s just what we do, I mean, what we did. And sure I-I did want to be with her, but that was before. It’s done now."

“Yeah okay. Keep lying to yourself bud. Are you done playing house with two different girls Logan? Or you’re not ready to face yourself yet?” Garrett spat. He’d always defend you. A hundred fucking life times - he’d defend you. You were his family. And he was fucking sick and tired of you crying because of John Logan.

“You love Grace? Sure. Fine. Then go be with Grace - but you have to let y/n go. Stop stringing her along. It’s killing her,” he scolded Logan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a few days since the party and you made it your sole mission to avoid John Logan at all costs. You couldn't face him. It was embarrassing enough that he didn't want you, let alone the fact that all of your friends knew about your feelings - except him. You'd think that spending so much time with someone you cared about would make him have some sort of feelings towards you, but he's so oblivious it hurt.

So, you did what you’ve always done when things get too serious or too heavy: you pulled the disappearing act. It was a coping mechanism you inherited from your dad. He’d taught you, without ever saying a word, that if a problem gets too loud, you just walk out of the room until it goes quiet. If you don't let anyone in on what’s actually going on with you, they can't see you breaking. You avoid, you ghost, you bury it.

You can't help but compare yourself to her. The worst part was that she was absolutely, undeniably magnificent.

She was a walking, talking Euro-summer princess—all sun-kissed skin, linen dresses, and effortless grace. When she laughed, it sounded like wind chimes and sunshine. When she looked at Logan, her eyes lit up, and when Logan looked back at her, his entire rugged, hockey-player posture softened. You wanted to hate her. God, you tried to find a flaw, just a tiny crack in the porcelain, so you could justify the bitter ache in your chest.

But she was lovely. She was sweet to you. Grace Ivers was sweet to everyone.

And that just made the guilt you felt feel like a disease.

After watching Logan press a soft, lingering kiss to Grace’s temple at a party on Friday night, something inside you finally snapped. You couldn't do it anymore. You vowed to yourself to not be in any way associated with your feelings for john logan. Grace didn’t deserve it. You had to push him away.

Starting Saturday morning, you were unreachable.

By Sunday, your phone was blowing up with notifications. Logan texted you multiple times.

{John Logan 🤠🚙🎠} Saturday @ 3:27pm: hey, want to go play pool with gar later tonight?

{John Logan 🤠🚙🎠} Saturday @ 3:52 pm: Garrett said he could pick you up

{John Logan 🤠🚙🎠} Saturday @ 5:19 pm: everything okay?

---- Silence from your side. No response. ----

{John Logan 🤠🚙🎠} Sunday @ 9:41 am:

my phone reminded me your final is tomorrow. Good luck 🤞

---- No answer. ----

{John Logan 🤠🚙🎠} @ 7:09pm :

dude, what’s going on? let me know where you are okay. Why is your location off?

———————-

On Monday, he tried calling. It had gone to voicemail after 3 rings. You knew he had gone to Allie and Hannah to ask where the hell you were, but you had already sworn them to secrecy. They didn't budge, though you knew they hated being caught in the middle.

Then came Tuesday afternoon, and the group chat blew up.

briar fam 🏒🎸❄️🍕🍻 -- groupchat

Garrett: Yo, who is down for dinner tonight? Tacos at our place? We have practice till 8. It’s firm review day so it’ll go over.

Tucker: we live together Gar so yeah

Hannah: meee!! :)

Allie: Dean and I are in.

Garrett: @[y/n]? Garrett: Hellooo??

Logan: She’s not answering her texts.

Garrett: @[y/n], I know you’re seeing these. Stop being a brat.

Garrett: Seriously, it’s been four days. Don't make me come hunt you down. I know where you live. You're acting weird. Answer your phone.

The texts stopped coming after that.

You locked your screen, shoving the phone face-down on the wooden table. A heavy sigh escaped your lips as you stared at your laptop screen.

You were sitting in a corner booth at Malone’s. During the night, it was a loud, sticky-floored college bar, but during the day and early evening, it transformed into a cozy, dimly lit haven for students. It smelled like roasted coffee beans and old wood. It was the perfect place to hide. You had two coffees already, you were so tired.

Most importantly, it was Tuesday night. The Briar hockey team had a mandatory late-night practice and film review right now. Logan was safe behind a sheet of ice on the other side of campus. He couldn’t look at you with those perceptive, stormy eyes. Your heart could finally just rest, tucked away in the dark where it belonged.

You took a sip of your lukewarm coffee, trying to focus on your ethics essay.

Ding!🛎️

The front door of Malone’s opened, letting in a gust of chilly evening air. You didn’t look up. Students came and went constantly.

Suddenly, a heavy, leather Briar hockey duffel bag dropped onto the bench across from you.

Your breath hitched. Your eyes flew up.

There he was. John Logan. He was wearing his blue team hoodie, his dark hair still damp from the post-practice shower, smelling faintly of ice, mint, and that distinct, intoxicating scent that belonged entirely to him. He didn’t look angry; he looked exhausted, frantic, and entirely too focused on you.

"You're supposed to be at practice," you whispered, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

"Skipped the film review," Logan said, his voice a low, rough rumble. He slid into the booth, effectively trapping you in your corner. "Garrett said you weren't answering. Hannah and Allie are the worst liars when I asked about you. But I knew you’d be right here."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, forcing you to look at him.

"I know you. You can’t hide from me."

"I'm not hiding," you lied, pulling your cardigan tighter around your shoulders, retreating into yourself. "I've just been busy. I'm studying." You gesture to the pile of papers and books on the table.

"Bullshit." Logan’s eyes narrowed, scanning your face, reading the exhaustion in the dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your jaw. He knew you too well. That was the terrifying part. He could read your shifts in weather better than anyone else. "You've been totally ghosting me since Friday. Did I do something? Did someone say something to you? Did something happen with your dad?”

The genuine concern in his voice was a physical ache in your chest. He was totally, completely oblivious. He thought he was being a good best friend. He had no idea that every time he checked on you, he was tearing the wound wide open.

"Logan, seriously, it’s fine. I’m just stressed," you said, your voice cracking slightly. You began packing your notebook into your bag, your hands shaking. "I have to go—"

"Hey. No...stop." Logan reached across the table and caught your wrist. His grip wasn't tight, but it was firm, warm, and entirely grounding.

A jolt of electricity zapped straight to your core. You froze, staring down at his broad hand wrapped around your wrist. You pulled your hand away and you couldn’t look him in the eye.

"Just talk… to me," he pleaded softly, he pulled his hand away.. "You always do this. Whenever something is wrong, you shut down and run away. You've been doing it since I've known you. But you don't have to do it with me. Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just let me in."

I can't let you in, you thought wildly, the tears burning the backs of your eyes. Because if I let you in, you’ll see that I’m drowning in you. You’ll see that every time you talk about Grace, it kills me. And I can’t ruin your happiness.

"I can't," you said blankly. The loss of his touch felt like ice. Why did he have to do that?

Logan looked at you, a pained, utterly confused expression crossing his handsome face. He wanted to help, he wanted to be your anchor, but he didn't realize he was the storm.

"Why?" he whispered.

You looked away, staring out the window of Malone’s into the dark Tuesday night, wrapping your arms around yourself to keep from falling apart. "Because some things can't be fixed, Logan. Just... let it go. Please. It’s nothing. You can’t fix it. It’s also not your business,” you said, your tone biting and sharp, a defensive wall thrown up to force him away.

Logan blinked, looking like he’d just taken a hard hit to the chest. “Uh—okay. What does that even mean? Your business is my business...isn't it?”

He was so confused. It was written all over his face—the furrow of his brow, the slight parting of his lips, the utter helplessness in his gray eyes. He legitimately didn't get it. To him, you were his person, the one who was supposed to be by his side through everything. He didn't know that his proximity was suffocating you.

Since you wouldn’t budge, he tried to pivot - he faked a small smile and changed the subject “Okayy, come on, how much longer are you studying?” Logan sighed, shifting in the booth and trying to steer things back to normal. “Everyone’s coming over for dinner after film review ends. Which I skipped by the way!” He made a point to poke at the fact that he did that for you. It annoyed you.

You just stared at him. You didn't blink, didn't nod, didn't offer a single word. You just let the heavy, tense silence stretch between you, hoping the vacuum of it would finally force him to get up and leave.

Instead, Logan just sighed again, a sound full of stubborn resignation.

“I’ll drive us over. I can wait,” he said softly.

He didn’t push anymore. "Okay then." He didn't demand an explanation for your attitude or throw a tantrum. Instead, he unzipped his heavy duffel bag, reached inside, and pulled out his own laptop. He set it on the wooden table, opened the screen, and plugged in his phone to charge.

He was staying, apparently.

“What are you doing?” you asked blatantly. “What’s it look like? You’re studying, so I’m studying too. You won’t leave so I’m not leaving yet either.” He said it so matter a fact, he didn’t look at you - he just stated it like it was completely obvious.

You ignored him. You didn’t respond. You just stared back down at your notes.

He was bothering you. That’s what he was doing. He was sitting right across from you, taking up all the air in the booth, his broad shoulders practically filling your entire line of sight. Every time he shifted, his knee brushed yours under the cramped table, sending a sickening, beautiful jolt of adrenaline straight to your heart.

You stared down at your ethics essay, but the words blurred into a meaningless jumble of black ink. You could hear the faint, steady click-clack of him typing. You could smell the lingering scent of his body wash.

He was trying to be your protector, your steady ground, completely oblivious to the fact that his presence was a beautiful, agonizing torture. And you were trapped, forced to sit in the quiet ache of your own making, watching the boy you loved wait for a version of you that you couldn't afford to be anymore.

He peeked up at you above the eye line of his laptop a few times. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his gaze—heavy, observant, and completely annoying. Every time his eyes flicked toward you, it felt like he was picking at a scab you were desperately trying to keep covered.

Finally, the pressure in your chest became too much to bear.

“Can you just leave, Logan? I’m not going to dinner.”

Logan lowered his laptop screen a fraction of an inch, his brow furrowing. “What? Why? I don’t get it. Whats happening? You get into a fight with Garrett or something?”

“I said—I’m not going.” The lid on your emotions finally blew right off. “Why do you have to be so fucking annoying?”

The words sliced through the quiet hum of Malone’s like a knife.

As soon as they left your mouth, the air in the booth turned to ice. You had never talked to him like that. Ever. Even in your worst moods, Logan was always the one exception, the person you treated with absolute softness.

The immediate flash of hurt in his gray eyes made your stomach drop. Instantly, guilt flooded your features, washing away the anger. You hadn't meant to snap like that. You didn’t want to hurt him—you just wanted to push him far enough away so he couldn’t see how badly you were hurting.

“Sorry, I shouldn't have sai-” you whispered, looking down at your hands, your voice thick and trembling. “I... I just don’t feel like going today, okay? I need to study.”

Logan didn't snap back. He didn't get angry. He just slowly closed his laptop, the quiet thud of the screen sounding like a gavel dropping. He stared at you, really stared at you, looking past the defensive wall, past the harsh words, straight into the raw vulnerability you were trying so hard to hide.

"Hey," he said, his voice dropping into a register so quiet and gentle it made your throat ache. "Look at me."

You forced your eyes up to meet his. You didn’t cry. You wouldn’t. The prickle of hot tears burned behind your eyelids, but you swallowed them down, locking your jaw so tight it ached. You weren’t letting him in. If you let even one tear slip, the whole dam would break, and he’d see every single messy, pathetic piece of your shattered heart.

“I can drive us over,” he repeated, his voice laced with a desperate kind of patience.

“Honestly, I’d rather walk," you said under your breath.

Logan scoffed, a bitter, disbelieving sound. “Jesus, [y/n]. God forbid you actually want to… I don’t know—talk to me?”

The patience evaporated, replaced by the raw frustration of a guy who had reached his absolute limit. He began stuffing his laptop back into his duffel bag, his movements jerky and aggressive. He zipped the bag with a sharp, loud snap.

“I don’t know what your damage is,” he said, slinging the heavy strap over his shoulder. He stood up from the booth, towering over you, looking down with a mixture of hurt and anger. “But you’d never speak to me like that. So either someone’s like possessed my best friend or some bizarre shit, or you, for reasons that are unknown to me, suddenly hate me?" He stares at you. You say nothing back.

He looks around at Malone's. Just confused as hell, "...I don’t even know which is worse, honestly.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, looking suddenly exhausted. “But figure it out. You know I’m tired too, okay? Garrett’s right about you being a brat sometimes. I skipped film review to come here, specifically to find you. Because I was worried about you.”

The word worried twisted the knife even deeper. He was worried about you as a friend. He was losing sleep over you as a friend. And it was infuriating how much he didn’t get it.

You leaned back against the vinyl booth, coldness masking the agony inside you.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” you said, your voice flat, devoid of the warmth he was used to. “Do you want me to thank you, Logan?”

Logan flinched as if you’d slapped him. The anger in his eyes hardened into something cold and distant, a look he usually reserved for opponents on the ice, never for you. He stared at you for three long, agonizing seconds.

“No --,” he snapped, his voice was sharp. “I don’t want you to thank me, y/n. I just wanted to check in on you. But clearly, you’re too busy pushing everyone away.”

He grabbed his duffle off the booth seat with a strong force that almost startled you. He was about to leave, and he stopped, "You know you can talk to me. Whatever it is, we'd figure it out." He voice trailed off, he sounded like he was in pain and he almost reached out to place his hand on your arm, but he stopped himself. Then he walked out of Malone’s. Guess he learned that one from his dad too. The heavy glass door swinging shut behind him with a dull thud with the bell dinging again.

The silence he left in his wake was deafening. You sat completely still in the corner booth, staring at the empty seat across from you. The scent of him still lingered in the air, mocking you. Your hands were shaking so badly you had to fist them into your cardigan.

You had won. You had successfully pushed him away. You had protected your secret.

Hot tears brim up to your eyes, "Of course I like you, Logan. You’re a good guy." You thought in your head. It’s better this way, the further you were away from him is the further you are from being hurt by him not loving you - it kills you either way.

Out of the roughly 15,000 men at the school, 300 being athletes, 30 of them on the hockey team, and she had to fall for the one guy she absolutely could not have feelings for. Out of every guy in the school, out of every team, she had to have feelings for Garrett Graham. Her best friend's boyfriend. Hannah’s well deserved happy ending. 

It started small, laughing at his jokes a second too long. Watching him without realizing. Noticing things like how he always held Hannah’s hand like it was automatic, like it was easy. That’s what made it worse, it was easy for them. 

So y/n made rules, very strict rules: Don't be alone with Garrett, don’t stare at Garrett.

Rules she broke every single day.

The more she tried not to think about him, the more her brain insisted on betraying her. Which was how she ended up pacing her dorm room at 10:30 at night while Allie sat cross-legged on her bed like a therapist who had not consented to this job.

“I’m telling you,” Allie said slowly, “this is total avoidance behaviour.”

“I’m not avoiding anything,” Y/n snapped, “I don’t even like Garrett like that.”

Allie gave her a look.

Y/n added quickly, “He’s Hannah’s boyfriend. Obviously I don’t like him like that.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Y/n grabbed her water bottle like it could physically defend her from this conversation. “This is insane. Even if I did like anyone I’m too busy for a relationship. I have midterms. I have—”

“You have a crush,” Allie said simply.

“I do not—”

“And Logan has a crush on Hannah.”

That stopped her. The room went quiet in a way that felt like something clicking into place, whether she wanted it to or not.

Y/n exhaled sharply. “That’s unfortunate for him.”

“It’s unfortunate for both of you when you’re both suffering in silence like idiots.”

“I’m not suffering,” Y/n muttered.

Allie raised an eyebrow. 

Y/n stared at the ceiling for a long moment. “…Okay, fine. Slightly suffering.”

“Thank you.”

The problem wasn’t just the feelings. It was the situation. Hannah and Garrett were solid. Happy. Loudly in love in a way that made it impossible to ignore. No matter how bad you wanted too. And John Logan, he was not her problem. John Logan was never her problem. John Logan had loud opinions, hockey arrogance, and the most irritatingly observant person she had ever met.

And yet. 

Allie stood up. “Talk to him.”

“I am not talking to John Logan.”

“You literally might be the only two people on campus who haven’t acknowledged this dynamic.”

“There is no dynamic.”

Allie rolled her eyes, “You’re both exhausting”. Then she left Y/n alone with her thoughts, which was honestly worse.

She didn’t plan to go to Logan’s room. It just… happened, like her feet had given up waiting for her brain to catch up. She knocked once, then immediately questioned every life choice she had ever made. The door swung open, Logan looked at her like she had interrupted something important.

“What did you do?” he asked immediately. 

“Hi to you too.” Y/n didn’t even hesitate before walking past him into the room like she belonged there. “I might have implied to Allie that we’re seeing each other.” 

Logan closed the door slowly, like if he moved too fast reality would break and he’d get arrested by consequence itself. “Why would you do that?”

“Because we both have crushes on people we shouldn't and this is easier than admitting anything. I’m pretty sure it’s an avoidance technique.”

That made him pause. A beat. Then, flatly: “Right.” Logan stared at her for a long second, like he was trying to decide if she was a prank or a threat. Then he laughed, once, sharp, disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

“Probably.” she sighed, “but, you're the one who agreed to talk to me alone at night.”

“I didn’t agree to anything. You showed up in my room.”

“Yeah, but you didn't ask me to leave. That sounds like consent-adjacent language.”

“Don’t use legal terms you don’t understand.”

She dropped onto his bed like it had personally invited her. “Anyway, it’s fine. We just keep it going for a bit and they’ll leave us alone.”

Silence stretched, then Logan exhaled, like he was stepping off a cliff he’d already decided he was too tired to climb back up from. “Fine.”

She hesitated. “You’re actually agreeing?”

“I’m agreeing under one condition.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes. “Of course you are.”

“Don’t fall in love with me while pretending to date me.”

That should’ve been her first warning. “Obviously…. What makes you think I would?" 

Logan leaned back against his desk, completely calm in a way that made her suspicious. Y/n stared at him for a long moment.

“Okay,” she said finally, dragging the word out like she was stepping into traffic. “New rules.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “We didn’t have rules”

“Of course we did. Now we have new ones.”

He gestured for her to continue.

She pointed between them. “Rule one: we agree on what we’re telling people before we start… whatever this is.”

“Fair.”

“Rule two: no improv. We discuss things”

“That’s going to be hard for me.”

“Of course it will be.” She rolled her eyes.

He nodded slowly. “And?”

Y/n hesitated, then added, “Rule three: if we’re going to sell this, we need to stop acting like we hate each other.”

Logan tilted his head. “Do we hate each other?”

She opened her mouth. Paused. “...I’m currently undecided.”

That got a quiet laugh out of him. “Alright,” he said. “So what’s the story?”

Y/n leaned back in the chair, thinking. “People already think I’m into Garrett. So we flip it.”

Logan frowned. “Flip it how?”

“We make it obvious I’m not interested in him anymore.”

“And I’m your distraction?”

She looked at him. “You’re my cover.”

Then Logan nodded slowly. “And Hannah?”

Y/n hesitated for half a second too long.

Logan noticed, of course he did. Then he said, quieter, “We keep it separate.”

“Yeah,” she agreed quickly. “Separate.”

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t as sharp this time. Logan pushed off the desk. “So. We’re selling a fake relationship to shut people up about real feelings we don’t want to deal with.”

Y/n pointed at him. “Don’t make it sound like that.”

“That’s what it is.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You already agreed.”

“I’m aware.”

A pause. Then Logan stepped closer—not enough to crowd her, just enough to make her look up at him.

“So,” he said, voice lighter again, “what’s our public image?”

Y/n studied him for a moment. Then, slowly: “We act like you’re obsessed with me.”

Logan’s mouth twitched. “That’s believable.”

“And I tolerate you.”

“Even more believable.”

“And we make everyone else uncomfortable enough to stop asking questions.”

Logan nodded once. “That part I can do.”

Y/n stood up, finally feeling the weird, shaky edge of what they were doing settle into something structured.

“Good,” she said. “Because starting tomorrow, we’re in a relationship.”

Logan looked at her like that sentence meant something entirely different than she intended. Then he smirked. “Yeah,” he said. “We are.”

The next week was hell. And also, unfortunately, a little fun. They didn’t tell anyone at first. There was no announcement, no official “we are now fake dating” press release. It was just… something they started doing. Like a habit they couldn’t explain and didn’t bother correcting. A hand at her waist in the hallway—casual, like it belonged there. Logan steering her through crowds without asking. A glance held just a second too long when someone said his name. Y/n laughing at something he said that wasn’t even that funny, because the way he was looking at her made it impossible not to. And people noticed, of course they did.

It started small. 

Dean was the first to notice it, he stopped mid-step in the living room, eyes bouncing between them as Logan handed Y/n her coffee without looking away from her face.

“Did I miss something,” Dean said slowly, “or are you two suddenly… tolerable to each other?”

Y/n choked on her drink.

Logan didn’t even blink. “We’ve always been tolerable.”

“No,” Tucker cut in immediately, squinting like he was trying to solve a crime. “This feels weird.”

“It’s called growth,” Y/n said too quickly.

“It’s called suspicious,” Tucker corrected.

Logan leaned back against the counter, arm brushing Y/n’s in a way that felt far too intentional for something that was supposed to be “just acting.” “You guys are weirdly invested in our relationship.”

Dean pointed at them. “You just said ‘our relationship’ like it’s normal.”

“It is normal,” Logan said.

Y/n nodded a little too fast. “Extremely normal.”

No one believed them. Which, unfortunately, was the goal.

The first real test came in the hallway outside Y/n’s lecture. She was mid-sentence, complaining about her professor, when Logan appeared behind her without warning and slid his hand to her waist like it had always been there. Her brain stalled, not her body, though, because that part reacted instantly. Because Logan was close—too close for someone who was technically just a fake boyfriend. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him through her hoodie. Close enough that if she turned her head slightly, her mouth would be inches from his jaw.

“You’re late,” she said, but it came out weaker than intended.

“Am I?” he replied, glancing down at her like he was amused that she thought she could be in charge of anything here.

“Yes.”

“Then I guess you should’ve left without me.”

“I don’t need you to walk me to class.”

His hand tightened slightly at her waist—not possessive, just… anchoring.

“I know,” he said simply. “But you like it.”

That should’ve been said lightly. It wasn’t. Y/n looked up at him too quickly. Logan’s expression didn’t change. But his eyes did something subtle—something that made her forget what she was about to say.

“You’re getting cocky,” she muttered.

“I’ve always been cocky.”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Because the answer was: like you know exactly what you’re doing to me right now.

Instead, she said, “Like people are watching.”

At that, Logan glanced around the hallway. A few students were definitely watching.

Good.

He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping just enough to feel like it belonged only to her.

“Let them.”

Y/n’s pulse jumped, traitorously. Then Logan stepped back like nothing had happened, hand sliding from her waist slowly—deliberately—before he gestured toward her classroom.

“After you.”

She walked past him on autopilot, fully aware of two things: 

One, everyone had definitely noticed.

Two, Logan had absolutely enjoyed that more than necessary.

By midweek, it had gotten worse. And by worse, she meant: Logan had stopped pretending there was a line at all. He’d started sitting closer. Standing closer. Looking at her like he was constantly in the middle of deciding something he hadn’t told her about.

And Y/n—infuriatingly—was reacting. Not loudly or obviously, but enough.

Enough that when Logan brushed his thumb over her knuckles during a group study session, she forgot what she was saying mid-sentence.

Enough that when he leaned down behind her to grab her textbook and his chest pressed lightly against her back, she sat completely still until he moved away.

Enough that Allie, watching from across the room, slowly closed her laptop and said, “Yeah, this is fake my ass.”

Y/n nearly threw a pen at her.

The worst moment came on a Thursday night. They were alone in Logan’s room again—something that was starting to happen far too often to still feel accidental. Y/n was sitting on the edge of his bed, pretending to read while Logan paced in front of her like a problem that refused to sit still.

“We need consistency,” he said.

“In what?”

“In how we act in front of people.”

Y/n didn’t look up. “We’re already consistent.”

“No,” Logan said. “Sometimes you avoid me. Sometimes you look like you want to argue. Sometimes you look like—” He stopped.

Y/n finally glanced up. “Like what?”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly. “Like you’re not pretending.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and sharp.

Y/n closed her book slowly. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

Logan didn’t answer right away, he stopped pacing and turned toward her.

“Is it?”

That did something to her stomach.

She hated that it did.

“It’s a fake relationship,” she said carefully. “We’re supposed to be convincing.”

Logan nodded slowly. “Right,” he said.

But he didn’t sound convinced, he stepped closer to her until he stopped just in front of her.

“You know what the problem is?” he asked quietly.

Y/n swallowed. “What.”

“You’re good at this.”

“Good at what?”

“Pretending,” he said.

Her heart kicked once, hard.

“That’s not a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

That didn’t annoy her like it should have, Instead, she stood up slowly, forcing space between them that she immediately regretted.

“Maybe you’re just bad at it,” she said.

Logan’s eyes flicked down to her mouth for half a second, then back up.

“Maybe I stopped trying.”

The air changed, not dramatically, but enough that she felt it everywhere. 

“Logan,” she warned softly.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Don’t what?”

She didn't answer, she couldn't. There were too many possible endings to that sentence. Logan stepped closer again anyway, slower this time. Giving her every chance to stop him. She didn't move away though. That was her mistake, or maybe it wasn't. 

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

Y/n exhaled, shaky. “You’re supposed to be pretending.”

“I know.”

Another step closer.

“I am pretending,” he added. His hand came up—not touching her yet. Just hovering near her waist like he remembered exactly where it usually went. “And you’re not making it easy.”

That made her laugh once, breathless. “That’s your excuse?”

“No,” he said. “That’s the problem.” Then his hand finally settled at her waist again. Like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there.

Y/n’s voice came out softer than she meant it to.

“This is a bad idea.”

Logan’s expression flickered—something honest breaking through the control.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them fixed it.

Instead, Logan leaned in just slightly—not enough to kiss her, not yet—but enough that she could feel the shift in everything unsaid between them.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured, “we’re going to have to convince them harder.”

Y/n let out a shaky breath. “Harder?”

His thumb brushed lightly against her side. “Yeah,” he said. “Because I don’t think anyone believes us anymore.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“Especially not me.”

And that was the moment Y/n realized the lie wasn’t what was getting dangerous anymore. It was how easily it was starting to feel like the truth.

It wasn’t until a Friday night party at the hockey house that everything shattered. Y/n had lost track of Logan somewhere between music and bodies and the kind of laughter that made everything feel blurry. Then she saw him.

On the balcony.

With Hannah.

Her stomach dropped so fast it felt like falling. She couldn’t hear them, but she saw enough.

Logan’s hands in his pockets. Hannah laughed softly. The kind of moment that didn’t belong to anyone else.

Y/n turned away before she could think, she only made it two steps before a hand caught her wrist. Not harsh, but certain she wasn't going to run away. She turned, Logan.

“Hey,” he said over the noise. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” she said quickly. “I just—forgot something.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

He studied her face. Too closely. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing.”

“Running.”

Y/n scoffed. “I don’t run.”

Logan raised an eyebrow.

She sighed. “Fine. Avoiding.”

His grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go. “It’s not what you think.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That made her pause, the noise of the party faded a little, like the world had decided to give them a pocket of silence.

Y/n swallowed. “You were with her.”

“I was talking to her.”

“That’s worse,” she muttered before she could stop herself.

Logan blinked. Then something shifted in his expression. “…You think I like her.”

Y/n didn’t answer fast enough.

That was answer enough.

Logan let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You really think I’ve been doing all of this for Hannah?”

“I don’t know what to think,” she said honestly.

A pause.

Then Logan stepped closer.

“You think I’ve been doing this because I want someone else?”

Her breath caught slightly. “We’re not actually dating.”

His eyes flicked down to her mouth for half a second before snapping back up.

“No,” he said quietly. “We’re not.”

Then, softer: “But I didn’t start this to get closer to her.”

Y/n’s voice barely worked. “Then why?”

Logan hesitated.

For the first time since she had met him, he looked unsure, “Because you were easier to think about than her.”

Silence hit like a wave.

Y/n stared at him. “That makes no sense.”

“It does,” he said. “You just don’t want it to.”

Her heart was doing something deeply offensive.

“This was about me?” she whispered.

Logan exhaled like he was giving up. “At some point, yeah.”

That was the moment everything tilted.

Because suddenly she wasn’t thinking about Garrett anymore, she wasn’t thinking about Hannah, she was thinking about Logan’s hand still on her wrist.

Thinking about how he hadn’t let go, how close he was, how she wanted him this close.

“…This is a bad idea,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, probably.” Logan agreed.

Neither of them moved.

Then Y/n, barely audible:

“We’re still fake dating.”

That made him pause.

Then he smiled, small and real.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, finally looking up at him properly. “But you’re doing it wrong.”

“Oh?”

“You forgot the part where you’re supposed to kiss me in front of people.”

Logan’s expression shifted—something softer breaking through the sarcasm.

“Is that so.”

Y/n nodded once. “Commitment, right?”

For a second, he didn’t move.

Then he leaned in.

Slow.

Like he was giving her every chance to stop him.

She didn’t.

The kiss wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just real in a way their fake relationship had never been.

When they pulled back, Logan rested his forehead lightly against hers.

“So,” he murmured. “Still think I like Hannah?”

Y/n let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“No,” she admitted.

A pause.

“I think you like me.”

Logan smiled against her.

“Finally,” he said. “Took you long enough.”

And for the first time, Y/n’s story didn’t feel cursed.

It felt like it was finally hers.

________________ The music in the hockey house was way too fucking loud, the laughter too easy, and the air just a little too warm. It was a typical Friday night house party where there were so many people you literally didn't know except for your friends even though the guys lived here. There was yelling, beer pong, people making out and it was just a messy. Classic Friday night around here. You were over it though.

I sat on the arm of the couch, a half-empty solo cup in my hand, watching the room. My eyes, entirely against my own willpower, kept drifting to the kitchen counter.

To Logan.

Everyone called him Logan, but to me, the name always felt different in my mouth. It wasn’t a sharp syllable thrown across a crowded room; it was a quiet rhythm. I loved the way it sounded when I said it, loved the stupid, effortless way he’d look up and grin whenever I used it. I had been in love with him for months, a slow-burning ache that I kept tucked away behind easy banter and casual shoulder bumps.

But tonight, the ache was sharp.

Grace was standing next to him. She said something, her hand resting lightly on his forearm, and Logan threw his head back, laughing that rich, infectious laugh that usually made my chest ache. Tonight, it just made it tight. He looked down at her, his expression softening in a way that had nothing to do with friendship. He reached up, his fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

It was a tiny gesture. She had every right.

It was completely devastating.

I forced a swallow of my drink, the burning liquid doing nothing to wash down the lump in my throat. I knew Grace was amazing. I liked her. Everyone did. That was the worst part—you couldn’t even be mad at her. But watching the way Logan’s gaze lingered on her face, the way his body naturally leaned into her space... it felt like watching a door quietly click shut right in front of me.

"You're going to burn a hole right through his jacket if you keep staring like that."

The quiet, low voice right beside me made me jump. I spilled a few drops of my drink onto my hand.

Garrett was standing there, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He wasn't looking at Logan and Grace; he was looking straight at me.

Garrett was like a brother to me. He was the anchor of our chaotic group—the guy who noticed when someone’s drink was empty, when someone was too quiet, or, in this case, when someone's heart was breaking in real-time. He was entirely too observant for my own good.

"I-I'm not staring," I lied, my voice a little too high, a little too quick. I wiped my wet hand on my jeans. "Just... zoning out. Tired."

Garrett didn't say anything right away. He just stepped closer, shifting his weight so he blocked my view of the kitchen counter. It was a small, protective movement, shielding me from the exact thing that was hurting.

"Yeah," Garrett said softly, his eyes full of a quiet, heavy sympathy that made me want to cry. "You look terrible. Have you been sleeping at all?"

I swallowed hard, looking down at my shoes. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to me," Garrett murmured, bumping his shoulder against mine. "Because I know you. And I know how you say his name."

A breathy, humorless laugh escaped my lips. I looked up at Garrett, my eyes stinging. "I really thought I was hiding it better."

"You're okay," he lied gently, offering a small, sad smile. "Come on. Let's go out on the balcony and get some air. It's fucking suffocating in here."

I glanced past Garrett's broad shoulders one last time. Logan was still talking to Grace, his hand now resting casually on the small of her back. He looked happy. He looked completely oblivious.

"Yeah," I whispered, letting Garrett guide me away from the noise and into the cool, quiet night. "Okay."

The cool night air hit my skin, making me shiver instantly. I grabbed a stray hoodie off the back of the kitchen chair on our way out—judging by the faint scent of laundry detergent and old spice, it belonged to one of the guys—and threw it over my tiny tank top and short skirt. It engulfed me, the hem reaching nearly to the bottom of my skirt, but it was exactly the shield I needed.

Garrett pulled open the heavy glass door, and we stepped out onto the porch. The chatter of the party instantly muffled into a low, thumping hum.

We sank into the two faded wooden deck chairs in the corner. The ones you'd see at overnight camp. Some of the boys stole it from somewhere - you don't even really know where. They're mismatched but they're your favourite. You pulled out a pack, tapping a cigarette loose and offering it to him first before lighting your own. He took a long, slow drag, the orange cherry glowing in the dark, before letting out a quiet puff of smoke. He’d only take a few hits tonight; he had a brutal practice tomorrow, and he never messed with his lungs before a training day. It was just a ritual to give his hands something to do. To give me some company. You tap the ashes on the little tray on the ground.

I took a drag of my own, staring out at the dark backyard, letting the silence stretch between us until the tightness in my chest loosened just a fraction.

“She’s literally perfect,” I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. I let out a breathless, self-deprecating laugh, shaking my head. “Even I love her so much. I'd be in love with her too, seriously. That's the worst part.”

Garrett didn’t interrupt, he rolled his eyes slightly. Grace was whatever to him, don't get him wrong - he liked her, he was fine with her around - he just hated how down you get because of some idiot oblivious guy to your feelings. He just exhaled another small puff of smoke, watching me intently.

"She's kind, she's funny, she's gorgeous," I continued, pulling the oversized sleeves of the hoodie down over my hands. "Grace is perfect—and I know that. I can't even be mad at him because his taste is flawless." You slurred your words as you sipped your drink again.

It sucked. It sucked so entirely, because Logan and I weren't just standard friends—we were best friends. For over a year, I had fought so hard to prove the stereotype wrong. I wanted so badly to be the living proof that a guy and a girl could be fiercely loyal, incredibly close, and completely platonic. I had prided myself on it. I had built a wall of "just friends" logic around us, telling myself that what we had was rarer and better than a stupid crush.

But somewhere along the line, the foundation had cracked. And while I was busy trying to prove a point to the world, I went and fell completely, irreversibly in love with him.

"You tried really hard," Garrett said quietly, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. He flicked a bit of ash over the railing. "To keep it just friends. I watched you do it."

"I failed miserably," I whispered, leaning my head back against the cold plastic of the chair.

"What? The fuck. You didn't fail," Garrett countered softly, bumping his sneaker against mine. "You just humaned, rules-be-damned. You can't logic your way out of how you feel about Logan. Especially not when he's... well, Logan."

I looked over at Garrett, grateful for the dark masking the hot tears threatening to spill over my lashes. "What am I supposed to do now?"

Garrett took his last puff, stubbing the cigarette out entirely against the wooden arm rest before tossing it in the tray. He looked at me, his expression fiercely protective. "Y/N -seriously. Fuck him - who cares, Logan is my best friend but he's also an idiot. We sit out here, you wear that giant hoodie, and get to be sad." You sighed and gave a slight smile to him making fun of Logan for the sake of making you feel better. Garrett was a protector - you knew that. "For the record-" he said quickly, "You're the prize okay. Stop this self deprecating bullshit. State champ cheerleader, miss top of your class, makes us stop at the side of the road to help stray cats get to safety even when you make me fucking late to things. He's a loser for not seeing you but expects you to be there for him. Seriously pisses me off," Garrett spat. He gets annoyed at Logan because it's almost like he uses you. "Just drop it, it's okay," you say as you take another hit. You didn't want him to get worked up anymore or else he'll actually might go fight him or something.

Garret was right. He always was when it came to reading people, and right now, his quiet solidarity was exactly the anchor I needed.

We sat out there for a while, the initial heavy silence giving way to a comfortable, familiar rhythm. We split a couple of beers, the cold aluminum freezing my hands inside the giant sleeves of the hoodie. I smoked, and Garrett just leaned back, keeping me company and occasionally knocking his sneaker against mine to remind me he was there. Slowly, the tight knot in my chest began to loosen, replaced by the easy, comforting warmth of a friendship that didn't require me to pretend.

The heavy glass door slid open again, letting out a brief burst of the party’s bass before it clicked shut.

"Oh, look at this. The secret patio smoking society," Tucker’s voice boomed, completely shattering the quiet.

"And they didn't invite us. How cruel," Dean teased, shaking his head with mock offense as he stepped out right behind him.

Tucker was already holding two fresh cans of beer, and Dean had a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand. Without asking, Tucker practically threw himself into the empty space between our chairs, dropping onto the deck floor and leaning his back against my legs. Dean grabbed a plastic crate from the corner, flipped it upside down, and claimed it as his throne with a satisfied sigh.

"Give me a hit of that," Dean said, nodding toward my cigarette. I handed it over, watching him take a drag before passing it back.

"What are you guys even doing out here? It's freezing," Tucker muttered, though he made absolutely no move to go back inside. Instead, he reached up and yanked the oversized hood of my jacket down over my eyes, laughing when I shoved his hand away.

"Getting away from your loud mouth, mostly," Garrett replied smoothly, a faint, genuine smirk finally touching his lips.

"Hey, my mouth is a national treasure," Tucker shot back, cracking open a beer and handing it up to me. "Drink. You look like you're drowning in that hoodie. Whose is that anyway? Is that Wellsy's?"

"Think it's mine, actually," Dean said, squinting at the faded logo in the dark. "Keep it. It looks better on you anyway."

Sitting there, surrounded by them, a sudden wave of fierce affection washed over me. The sharp, bitter ache in my chest from earlier didn't magically disappear, but it dulled into something manageable. Logan was inside, falling for Grace, and my heart was still a little broken about it—there was no denying that. But looking at Garrett, Tucker, and Dean, I realized I wasn't alone.

We were a little family. A messy, loud, fiercely loyal family built on hockey road trips, shared apartments, and unsaid understandings. They were my boys, and I was their girl. Logan was a part of this family too, but tonight, these three were holding the perimeter for me, keeping the cold at bay without even realizing they were doing it.

I took the beer from Tucker, took a long sip, and laughed out loud at some stupid joke Dean made about their coach. Out here on the porch, wrapped in a friend's oversized hoodie with my brothers around me, I knew I was going to be okay.

It really was the most beautiful, unspoken thing about them.

As the night wore on and the beer cans started piling up on the deck floor, it hit me with a sudden, warm wave of clarity. They all knew.

It wasn't just Garrett. Tucker might have acted like a loud, oblivious golden retriever, and Dean might have been focused on his pizza, but they weren't stupid. They had seen the way I looked at Logan when he wasn't paying attention. They had noticed how my voice softened when I called his name, and they had absolutely noticed the quiet, devastating shift in my posture the second Grace walked into the room tonight.

But the incredible thing about these boys was that they never made me feel pathetic for it. There were no pitying glances, no awkward silences, and absolutely no unsolicited advice. In total, fierce solidarity, they completely locked it down. They drew a protective line around me, ensuring that whatever heartbreak I was nursing stayed out here on the dark porch, completely safe from the rest of the party.

"Hey," Tucker said, nudging my shin with his elbow from where he was sitting on the floor. "You're getting that look on your face again. The 'I'm thinking too hard' look. Stop it."

"I'm not thinking too hard," I laughed, reaching down to shove his shoulder.

"She is," Dean pointed out, blowing a smoke ring into the crisp air. "She's definitely doing the deep-dive brain thing. Don't make me go inside and get the karaoke mic to distract you, because I will, and it will be terrible for everyone involved."

"Jeez, please don't," Garrett murmured, a rare, relaxed grin breaking across his face. "None of us deserve to hear your rendition of Shania Twain again."

"It's a crowd-pleaser and you know it, Gar," Dean shot back, gesturing with his beer.

I looked at the three of them, my heart swelling so much it almost eclipsed the ache from earlier. They were actively keeping the vibe light, throwing up a shield of stupid jokes and easy banter so I wouldn't drown in my own head. They knew Logan was inside with Grace right now. They knew he was probably holding her hand or leaning in close to hear her over the music. But out here, they made sure none of that existed. Out here, I was just their girl, wrapped in Dean’s oversized hoodie, being looked after by the best brothers anyone could ask for.

"Thanks, guys," I said softly, the words slipping out before I could think better of it.

Tucker looked up at me over his shoulder, his expression uncharacteristically soft for a split second before his usual grin returned. He reached up, taking a sip of his beer. "For what? Being incredibly handsome? You're welcome."

"For being tolerable," Garrett corrected smoothly, giving my shoe another gentle tap with his own.

“Anything else I should know before the shift gets underway?” you asked Dana, looking up from your notebook.

“New RN shadowing me today but that shouldn’t impact you…oh! Our senior resident who was on medical leave is back today too. That’ll certainly cause some waves” Dana said with a huffed laugh and shake of her head.

“Why would someone taking medical leave make waves?” 

Dana shifted her full focus, assessing you intently for a moment. “He was away for addiction treatment, said some pretty nasty things to staff before accepting help. Actually…can you keep an eye on him? I’ll introduce you two, I know you worked in substance abuse before this. Better to have both of us checking in than just me, especially with the little lost lamb starting today.”

“Sure that works, should I know what was said and to who or?” you questioned, unsure if it would be helpful or harmful information to have. 

Dana opened her mouth to answer just as Lena called out “The prodigal son returns!” 

You’d been leaning against the desk but turned to take in the new arrival, your eyes widening as they met Frank’s. Shit. 

You half listened to Frank, Dr. Langdon, catch up with the two charge nurses before Dana wrapped an arm around your shoulder and introduced you to him.

“Good to meet you Brenner, always glad to have another social worker on board” Frank greeted, lips thinned out in a forced smile. 

You nodded without adding anything, earning looks from Dana and Lena. “Can we maybe chat on your way to rounds? Get to know each other a bit?” you offered and he nodded. You quickly fell into step beside him, an awkward silence stretching.

“Thanks for um…not mentioning we know each other back there” Frank finally offered, his bright blue eyes briefly meeting yours before turning away again. 

“It’s no one’s business, I’m glad to see you’re still clean and doing well. Things are going okay?”

He nodded, “Yup, went to intensive outpatient now regular meetings, I mean… you know the drill” he shrugged pausing a few steps from where the other doctors congregated. 

“Well, look this doesn’t have to be weird” you offered. “I was just an intern who sat in on groups, I didn’t directly counsel you or anything.”

He chuckled softly, meeting your gaze again, “Sure but I’d say you had some pointed insights from time to time.”

This time you dropped your gaze first, nodding in agreement. “What happened stays between us, it wouldn’t be appropriate for anyone to know how we met before this. I promise.” 

Frank opened his mouth to reply but Dr. Shen called for him. You two stared at each other another moment before he nodded and departed, leaving you to reflect that Dana didn’t know half the waves that were crashing today. 

***

Frank tried his best to lock in on Dr. Shen but his brain was moving in a hundred different directions. Normally, his ADHD helped him at work but the difficulty focusing, overwhelming nerves from being back, and unexpectedly finding out you were an ED social worker at the Pitt was a lot to process. 

He forced himself to close his eyes for a brief second and take a full breath, trying to rely on the skills he’d learned over the last ten months. 

“You’re here!” a voice rang out and his eyes flew open to meet Mel’s eager gaze as she awkwardly patted his shoulders rather than give him a hug.

“In the flesh, good to see you Dr. King” he smiled genuinely. A moment later, Dr. Santos emerged from around a corner and the tension rose in the room significantly. She simply nodded at him before turning into another room to deal with a patient. 

Frank began to step towards the man in the bed but stopped abruptly as Robby approached. “Dr. King, could you actually take over this case for Dr. Langdon? He’s going to be helping Donny out in triage.” 

“Triage?” he questioned before he could stop himself and everyone’s attention whipped to him.

“I can do chairs with–” Mel began but Robby cut her off with a shake of his head. 

“Nope, please take this patient so that Dr. Langdon can start the day on triage” Robby repeated, breezing by without a look back. Mel uncertainly faced Frank so he just nodded towards the patient.

“It's fine Mel, I’ll see you later in the shift.”

He turned to follow Robby without waiting for a reply, “Robby?” 

“Yes, Dr. Langdon?” he questioned, eyes focused on another task rather than Frank. 

“I think I could really be of better use back here rather than out in chairs.” 

“It’s fine, we’re used to covering for you back here anyway.” 

Frank sighed, his temper flaring. “I’d hate to think this was punishment for…”

He trailed off as Robby’s furious gaze finally rose to meet his. Frank was briefly transported to the ambulance bay ten months ago, all of the shitty things he’d yelled at Robby ringing in his ears. “You’re right, I’ll head out there now. I was actually hoping we could talk so I could–”

“Not now, later” Robby dismissed him, turning and leaving the hallway abruptly. Frank sighed, scrubbing a head down his face as he rocked on his feet slightly. He had so many people to make amends to and didn’t know where to begin. 

“The thing is Frank, amends aren't about you. They’re for the person receiving the apology, not the one completing the steps.”

Your voice from September rang through his mind and he shook his head before turning to find Donny. Now was not the time to go even further down memory lane. 

***

You watched the various encounters Frank had along his way to the waiting room, trying to gain an understanding of who Frank had been before you met him as a social work intern in the final month of your placement. Santos was nearby completing chartwork when Mel eagerly bound over to you both. 

“Dr. Langdon is finally back!” Mel cheered again, settling at the desk on Trinity’s other side. 

“He sure is,” Santos replied flatly, not looking up from her tablet. 

“What’s the story there?” you asked innocently and didn’t miss the flash of hurt that crossed Trinity’s face. 

“Oh Dr. Langdon is the best,” Mel replied enthusiastically. “He had to um…take a medical leave to deal with an issue but I’m so happy he’s back.” 

“That’s great” you replied to Mel, who nodded in agreement before buzzing off to another patient’s room. “You okay, Trin?”

She sighed, finally looking away from her tablet to meet your concerned gaze. “It’s complicated and if he got the care he needed then good for him but I want nothing to do with him.”

“What actually happened?” you whispered, sliding your chair closer to hers. 

She sighed, clearly debating how much to share. “Dr. Langdon has some addiction issues which he left to seek treatment for.” 

You frowned, taking in her ire. “It’s good he got help though.” She nodded before trying to turn her attention away from you. “I don’t understand, you don’t have any of these feelings about Cassie and she also has a history with substance abuse. Hell, she had legal issues until a few months ago and you love working with her.” 

“Yeah, well Cassie didn’t steal pills from a patient and then treat me like shit for realizing what she’d been doing,” Santos replied angrily, surging to her feet. 

You quickly grabbed her wrist, gently pulling her back down to her chair. “Hey, I’m not taking sides here, okay? I just…Frank is a wild card since I’ve known you all six months now and I wanted to understand what to keep an eye out for. So thank you, seriously. For what it’s worth, you’re an amazing doctor–whatever he said to you back then was just him projecting onto you. I’m here if you need me, okay?” 

She assessed your face, searching for proof of your honesty. She sighed, “I’m sorry I snapped, it's just, being right about Dr. Langdon made a lot of staff around here resent me. Him being back is just…I thought I had more time, you know?”

You opened your mouth to respond but Perlah breezed by, urgently grabbing Santos away to discuss their pediatric case. You mulled over what Trinity had shared, debating your next move. You stood, making sure to connect with all the patients the night shift social worker had handed off to you half an hour ago. Luckily, they were all stable so you breezed through introductions before beginning your search for Robby.

You found him about to enter your section of the ED before he quickly stopped, pivoting back around. Your brows furrowed until you saw Frank determinedly making his way towards Robby.

“Even if I somehow get cleared to go back, my mentor he just…he’ll never forgive me. He trusted me implicitly and I purposefully used that to get away with shit.”

Your memory flashed to a group session from mid-September, when Frank finally began to open up instead of projecting, blaming, and avoiding taking responsibility. The first time you actually felt like you could get through to him somehow. 

You sighed standing and following Robby’s path, pausing on the corner when you saw them having a tense discussion. You didn’t want to interrupt or eavesdrop so you waited until Frank frustratedly turned back to chairs before softly calling out, “Dr. Robby?”

He turned to you and his face was full of fraught emotions: anger, sadness, hurt. “What’s up?”

“Can I talk to you in the staff room for a minute? I’m sorry, I know you’re busy but–”

“Hey, kid, you never have to be sorry. Let’s go and I can grab another coffee.”

***

Frank watched as you approached Robby, eyes wide and sympathetic, before Robby gently grabbed your shoulders, pivoting you towards the breakroom. He really hoped that it wasn't about him but suspected it was. You’d promised not to say anything but he knew how the ED worked–everyone in everyone’s business. 

He made his way back to triage, going through a few patients before returning to Louie who he thought would be a good person to begin amends with. He was shocked at how quickly the man accepted the apology, and was about to say how grateful he was when your voice rang out behind him.

“Louie! How are you today?” You asked and he turned to see a beaming smile take over your face. He forcibly ignored the flutter it brought to his chest, focusing instead on how happy Louie was to see you.

“Shrink, how’s it going?” he asked jovially and you laughed, shaking your head. 

“You know I’m not your shrink, right Louie? You’d have to get some actual treatment for that.” 

“I know but my nickname for you really stuck, huh? Heard Robby call you it the other day too.” 

You nodded, pulling up another chair to sit beside him. The earthy, calming scent that radiated off your skin tried to send him back to months ago but he forced himself to stay here in the moment. “Fair enough. But seriously, what’s going on?” 

Louie nodded towards Frank so he quickly explained what needed to be done. “You know this is a temporary fix, right? The best way to stop this from recurring is to–”

“Get sober, stay healthy long enough to get on the transplant list, and maintain a healthy recovery” he responded and you sighed, nodding in agreement. “I know you have to come tell me that every time I visit y’all here. But I have to remind you that–”

“You’re not a quitter, I know, Louie” you smiled softly at the man, real care in your eyes. “And you’re right, I do have to come say all of that but I also do because I care about you and I want you to care about you too. You deserve that, you know?” 

“I don’t know about that but I do know you’re one of the good ones” Louie replied, gently tapping the top of your hand with his own affectionately. “How about this? If I ever want to quit, you’re the first person I talk to, alright?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal there” you smiled, squeezing his hand before excusing yourself to see another patient. 

“I swear man, if anyone’s gonna get me to put down the bottle, it’s that woman” Louie said to Frank, shaking his head in fondness and annoyance. 

“I don’t blame you, my man. Let me get you back to the team for that drain, alright?” 

***

“Hey, can we talk for a minute?” Frank asked from behind you.

“Of course, let me close out this note. Want to talk out in the bay? I could use the fresh air.”

“Yeah, sure, sounds good.”

As you finished typing your note, you noticed the way he rocked from toe to heel, eyes constantly scanning the ED. You knew about Frank’s ADHD but this seemed to be more than just that. “Okay, lead the way.” 

“So um…I have a favor to ask” Frank began as soon as you were outside. 

“Already?” you replied, half joking. 

He forced a laugh you knew was fake and felt your stomach tighten anxiously. “Could you um…maybe put in a good word to Robby for me?” 

You tilted your head in confusion. “How would I do that without mentioning our history? I’ve only ‘known’ you for half a shift” you replied with air quotes. 

“I mean, he can know. Once he’s forgiven me, everyone else will follow suit and I can just really dive back in where I left off here.” 

You paused for a moment, taking in Frank’s intensity, the way he was almost manic trying to convince you to follow his plan. “No.”

You turned to leave and he quickly stepped in front of you. “No?” 

“No, Frank, I think that’s a terrible idea on multiple fronts actually.” 

He scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re treating me like you did when I first got into rehab.”

“Well you’re acting like it” you snapped, eyes blazing. “I mean really, Frank, after what you said can you blame Robby for wanting some space?”

“Wait a minute, were you asking around about me?” he asked, voice rising. 

“Of course I was! You of all people should know the social worker is here for staff as much as patients and your return is causing a lot of upheaval.”

“Upheaval, really?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Look, I did what I had to do to get back here. I did the rehab, the IOP, the counseling, the NA meetings. My life was upturned for almost a year and I’ve earned my way back here!”

“No one’s saying you haven’t Frank! But you hurt people and you have to actually acknowledge that.”

“I already started amends” he replied and you chuckled darkly.

“What with Louie?” Your cold response stopped him in his tracks. “One thing I know about you, Frank, is you are a very, very bright man. So, you know the steps but you don’t understand them. You’re acting like a med student, following the letter of the 12 steps law instead of reflecting on the actual goal of them.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Come on, this is day one shit. Impact over intent. Do you think it helped Louie to learn what you did? Did those amends make him feel better or was it a way for you to say you’re doing what you’re supposed to? I mean, really he said you needed the pills more than him so it was fine and you didn’t even correct him!”

“So what you’ve been skulking around all day eavesdropping and gossiping about me?” 

“Jesus, Frank” you replied, squeezing your eyes shut in frustration as you took a deep breath. “Louie is also my patient, I hung back at the curtain to let you finish your little amends bullshit. And I’m not gossiping about you, I’m supporting the people you hurt while you’re actively trying to manipulate me into vouching for you so you can just skirt past the hard shit!” 

“That’s bullshit, the last ten months have been hard for me. I didn't skirt through anything!”

“How do you think they were for Robby? Or Santos? When we first met, your goal was to stop, and these are your words, ‘being so self-centered you hurt people around you.’ Well what the fuck do you think all this is?”

His blues eyes were bright with fury as he shook his head at you but, beneath that, you saw real pain too. “Stop therapizing me.”

“You can’t have it both ways. You can’t ask me to vouch for you as a social worker and then dismiss me when you don’t like what I have to say.” 

He held your gaze but you refused to back down. He finally shook his head, scoffed, and stormed back into the ED. 

***

“I guess my number one goal, other than getting clean obviously, is to um…really work on myself. I know I can be self-centered. I know that can hurt people around me even when I don’t realize it. And the last few months…I’ve caused a lot of hurt.” Frank said during his second week in rehab. His withdrawals had just let up and the havoc he’d wreaked on his life was catching up with him.

“That’s where amends come in but that’s quite far down the line, Frank. That’s a great goal though, to want to consider others before yourself” the lead counselor responded. 

“Exactly, I just really want to get through these steps and get back into work and make sure everyone knows I’m a changed man.”

“If I may?” You tended to be quiet, only adding insights occasionally but they always seemed to land with the other patients so he nodded. “The thing is Frank, amends aren't about you. It’s for the person receiving the apology, not the one completing their steps.”

“I know and I genuinely want to make amends, earn people’s forgiveness.” 

You shook your head and he was taken aback at the disapproval. You looked a few years younger than him but somehow seemed far wiser than he could ever hope to be. “You said you want to make sure people know you’ve changed or for them to forgive you. Those things are out of your control and not really the point. I hope, for everyone’s sake, that happens for you. But amends is about atonement–considering how your words will impact people, doing your best to truly apologize without ever expecting anything in return. To simply acknowledge the pain you caused.” 

“Sure, sure, that makes sense” he responded but he couldn’t fully wrap his mind around it. What was the point of all this if he never got back anyone’s respect? If he put his medical career on hold and no one ever forgave him? 

Days had passed since he’d last spoken to you and he’d felt frozen ever since, unsure what his next move should be. He couldn’t believe he was grappling with those same questions and concepts from so early on in rehab. Why wasn’t he getting this right?

He sighed, checking the clock, grateful to see it was the final hour of his shift on a Friday. He felt like he needed the weekend to regroup. But as he watched you accept a hug from an elderly patient being discharged home, he did know one thing–he needed to apologize to you before the weekend. Once the woman and her family had shuffled away, he made his way to you. “Hey, can we talk outside quick?”

“Sure” you replied, forcing a fake smile that physically pained him to witness. 

“I wanted to um apologize to you” he started, crossing his arms so he could hide his shaking hands at his sides. 

“For what?” 

“For not listening to you ten months ago” he offered and you finally met his gaze fully. “You were right Monday and you were right then I just…I so badly want to get my life back to normal. I want to go back to being Robby’s favorite and being put up for fellowships and to feeling confident and sure of myself. And when I asked you to vouch for me, I put my own desires before your comfortability or the feelings of anyone I actually owe an apology to. So, thank you for checking me and I’m sorry I raised my voice at you. I hope we can move past this but understand if me crossing that line was too much to forgive.” 

A long pause took hold and Frank fought every instinct in his body to say more or fidget or bounce on his toes. And, to his shock, he was rewarded by you pulling him into a hug. It took a moment for his brain to catch up but he happily wrapped his arms around your shoulders, resting his chin on the top of your head. 

“I’m really proud of you, Frank” he thought he heard you mumble into his chest but he wasn’t certain if that was happening now or just in his memory from nine months earlier.

***

“I’m really proud of you, Frank” you’d whispered as you stepped back from the embrace you’d tentatively pulled him into. 

“Thanks, that means a lot” he replied honestly, smiling down at you, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m going to miss seeing you every day in groups but I know you’ll do amazing things once you get your license.”

You ducked your head shyly but nodded your thanks. “You only have a couple of weeks left here and then we’d be saying goodbye anyways.” 

Your eyes rose to his and the sweet moment skirted into the tension that had been brewing the last month. The too long eye contact, the not so casual brush of your hand along his shoulder as you moved past him. He was married and you knew better. But you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes dipped down to your mouth. You couldn’t pull back your hands as they tentatively landed on either side of his ribcage. 

“This is a really bad idea” you whispered, taking a step closer. 

“Agreed” he breathed out, standing stiller than you’d ever seen him, both of you afraid to break the spell of this moment. You took a deep breath before leaning up and placing a peck to his cheek, your lips lingering there a moment before removing yourself from his hold, your hands dropping to your sides. 

“Glad we’re on the same page then” you’d joked sadly, turning away from him. 

From the way Frank had frozen, you suspected the same memory was replaying through his mind so you cautiously moved away. “I really am, I can only imagine how difficult it is for you to come back to the Pitt and sort through everything.”

“Thanks, yeah, I’m um…really grateful you’re here. I mean, I don’t want to be inappropriate or rely on you too much but it’s nice to have someone here that knows me from rehab, that wasn’t here when I self-destructed.” (you know?)

You nodded, squeezing his hand briefly and the cold metal of his wedding band made you drop it immediately. “How’s um, your family doing with everything?”

“Oh well actually…I’m living alone right now, Abby and I separated pretty shortly after I left rehab.” 

“But…” you trailed off, motioning to his hand. 

“Yeah um, could you not mention that to anyone? I just don’t want people to start asking questions about my marriage when I’m already playing catch up and stirring the pot by existing here.” 

“Sure, yeah of course. You’re still seeing your kids though, right?” 

His face broke into a genuine smile as he nodded, “Yeah, they spend every other weekend with me. The other weekend I’m doing my outpatient therapy. I want things to be steady for them, you know? It’s been…it’s been hard on them but the last couple months have been easier with this routine we have set. I miss them a ton though.”

“Yeah, I bet.” 

“Can I ask you a question that’s not totally appropriate?” he asked, eyes searching yours.

“Sure” you breathed out, butterflies filling your stomach. 

“Did I totally make up the closeness and feelings we developed over that month when I was in rehab?” he asked quietly. He looked so vulnerable in that moment, like he couldn’t stop himself from asking even though he was scared of the answer.

“No, you didn’t” you admitted, equally quiet. It had been wildly inappropriate–you knew that. Sure, you were a student and he wasn’t your actual clinical patient but it still sidestepped an ethical boundary. And now, you two working together and having this hidden history didn’t seem to make pursuing those feelings any more practical. 

“Could I maybe make you dinner tomorrow night, then?” 

“Will you be wearing that ring?” 

He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head. “No, definitely not. I’m serious, we’re working through the divorce and I only wear it when I’m in the Pitt. Ask Dana, she caught me without it the other day and I had to bullshit that it must have fallen off in my car.” 

You laughed at that, knowing with total certainty that Dana had not bought his lie. “Then yeah, I’ll give you my number and you can text me the place and time.”

***

Frank had forgotten how stressful and shitty dating was. He’d been with Abby since his freshman year of college and his nerves were fraying as he waited for your arrival. So, he threw himself into making the one dish he’d mastered since becoming a single man–lasagna. Easy, fairly cheap, filling, and pretty delicious if he didn’t get too distracted during the final cheese broil step. 

The oven dinged just as the door bell rang and he cursed softly as he quickly turned off the oven, darted to the front door, pulled it open as he called out “Meet me in the kitchen!” over his shoulder before frantically pulling the tray out. 

He heard your quiet laughter before he saw you enter the kitchen, having paused to take off your shoes and hang up your coat in the hall closet. “How’s it going, chef?”

“Please don’t insult actual chefs by calling me that” he quipped and you chuckled, easily settling in at the small table in the kitchen’s corner. “I also don’t want you to get your hopes up too high about my cooking.”

“Wow, you really know how to woo a girl, huh Frank?” 

He laughed as he brought the tray over. “I really don’t but I’m trying my best.”

“Well that’s all I can ask, I suppose. I mean, it looks edible” you stated, inspecting the lasagna before picking which piece you want. As you took a bite you rolled your eyes and he felt his heart drop to his stomach.

“What?”

“How typical, you play up how shitty a cook you are so the solid food tastes like it should have a Michelin star.” 

He threw his head back in laughter, finally plating a slice for himself. “It’s a total ADHD crapshoot if I’ll burn the cheese or not.”

“Ah, that explains the warm welcome at the door.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, I figured you’d appreciate it in the long run when I served edible food.”

“Oh trust me, you have my gratitude” you teased while taking a bite of the side salad. “Have you always been into cooking?” 

“God no it’s only been recently that I’ve had to” he explained but then felt embarrassed for admitting that he, a grown man, didn’t learn to cook until he was going through a divorce.

“Oh so it’s a side effect of losing your trad wife” you stated with sympathetic eyes.

“...you’re fucking with me, right?” 

“Of course I am” you cackled and he felt his face flush as he took another bite so he didn’t have to respond immediately.

“Fair enough I suppose” he sighed. 

“You two were college sweethearts, right?” you asked tentatively. 

“Yup, met during welcome week freshman year.”

“Damn” you replied softly. 

“Damn indeed” he agreed, not sure how deep he wanted to dive into the subject. Was it weird to talk about your soon to be ex-wife on a first date? He felt like it must be but you’d brought her up.

“I don’t think I ever mentioned to you I was engaged before” you offered quietly and his eyes shot back up to yours. 

 “No you definitely didn’t.”

“I figured it’s fair to share some of my shit since I know so much of yours. Even the playing field and all that” you shrugged, smiling but it didn’t reach your eyes. “I was with him for like five years and we were three months out from the wedding when a girl DMed me on Instagram asking how I knew Matt.”

“Shiiiiit” he breathed out. “When did that happen?”

“Mmm a little over a year ago now. It fucking sucked but was definitely for the best.” 

He nodded sympathetically as you both finished your plates. “I can’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to cheat on you.”

He watched as you ducked your head, fidgeting with your fingers in your lap before finally looking up at him. “Well, some people are just shitty, you know?” 

“Shitty and blind and stupid if he thought he could do better than you.” 

“Frank!” You replied, genuinely laughing. 

“What?! I’m being serious! If you showed me a picture of this guy I guarantee you I wouldn’t even believe that he’d manage to bag you in the first place.” 

“First of all, there’s no way I have a picture of him on my phone anymore and secondly, even if I did, we are not going down that particular rabbit hole” you chuckled, standing to grab his plate.

“Jeez, what are you doing? There’s no way you’re cleaning up dinner.”

“You cooked!” 

“Yeah and? I’m hosting and not a caveman.” 

You sighed dramatically before handing over the plates which he took to the sink. “I insist on drying.”

“Fine, deal” he relented, shaking his head at you. A peaceful silence fell as they fell into a rhythm of washing, handing dinnerware off, and Frank pointing out where something went in the tiny kitchen. 

“I like your place, it’s cozy” you offered, hopping on the counter as he dried off his hands. 

“That’s a very kind of way of saying my home is small but at least clean.”

“Oh my gosh” you rolled your eyes and he couldn’t fight the grin that spread across his face. He couldn’t get enough of teasing you. “It is not! It’s in a nice neighborhood, it’s clean but lived in, you’re one dude, how much space do you really need?” 

“I suppose that’s fair,” he mumbled. “There’s no way I can renew here though, I only have one bedroom for both kids and it won’t be long until that’s not going to fly with them.” 

You nodded in understanding. “How old are they again?”

“Tanner is four and Hannah is about to be three.” 

“I feel like one bedroom is fine for at least a few more years, no? My sister and I shared a room fulltime until she turned ten.” 

“I know it’s just…never mind, I don’t want to, like, bring up my home life when we’re having a nice time together.”

“Frank” you said sternly and he looked up at you. “I know what dating you comes with, which…actually must be unappealing now that I’ve said it out loud. It’d be much easier for you to date someone new.” 

“I don’t want to date anyone else,” he said instinctually. 

“That’s sweet, but really? Is this your first date since you two separated?” When he nodded you continued. “And you’ve been with Abby since you were like 18. Why do you want to jump right back into a relationship?” 

“Well it is our first date, I don’t have any delusions we’ll marry within the week or anything” he replied and you snorted. “But seriously, no I don’t know what my life will look like six months from now. But I do know that I never stopped thinking about you after your internship ended. And I know that I feel really lucky that you’re here now, even giving me a chance when, like you said, you know what comes with hypothetically being with me.” 

“You’re right, I’m sorry” you offered and he slowly approached, placing a hand on either side of your hips, bracketing you onto the counter. 

“What’s this really about?” 

“Don’t therapize me” you argued weakly and he shrugged, throwing you a grin. 

“I’m learning from the best.” 

“Oh fuck off, Frank” you laughed, playfully shoving his shoulder. “I guess it’s just…I don’t know. My ex definitely did a number on me which is part of it. But I also know how important this time is for someone in recovery. I don’t want to be a lifeboat when you actually are better off with someone else.” 

“Can you let me make that decision?” 

You sighed, meeting his gaze before nodding. “There are a million reasons this could blow up in our faces.” 

“It could affect our work life,” he agreed.

“You could end up wanting to reconcile with Abby.”

“You might realize you don’t want to date someone less than a year into their recovery.” 

“I could make your recovery harder.” 

“You may get sick of me.” 

“You may end up not as interested as you think you are.” 

As you two spit out hypotheticals, he knew the banter was deeper than that–that really, you were both sharing your fears with one another before moving any further. “So, with all that in mind, do you want to call it quits after one date?” 

You studied his face for a long moment and he let you see all of his emotions–his fears, his insecurities, his desire for you. “No I don’t but I do have one stipulation” you said quietly, leaning down so your faces were mere inches apart. 

“Anything” he agreed without thinking, desperate to finally kiss you. 

“Nothing romantic happens until you retire your wedding ring for good, the Pitt included.” 

He sighed deeply, hanging his head as he processed your words. “That’s fair but it scares the shit out of me that everyone will notice and ask questions and gossip.” 

“Well, once you’re ready to face that you know where to find me” you offered simply and he simply nodded as you slipped off his counter. “Thanks for dinner, Frankie, I had a really good time. Maybe next weekend you don’t have your kids we can go out?” 

“Really?” he asked, surprised. 

“Really. Regardless of if you pony up, I enjoy your company. So yeah, let’s hang out next time we’re both off and free.” 

***

Three months out of the Pitt did Robby a lot of good yet walking back in for his first shift was like slipping into an old pair of jeans–familiar and worn in, if slightly less comfortable than sweatpants. 

It had been a busy day but that hadn’t stopped him from noticing how often Frank sought you out. How every spare moment he was at your side, running his mouth about something. You didn’t look upset but there was no way you were being anything but polite.

“Kid!” he called as you emerged from a room, Frank a step behind. “Chat with me?”

“Sure boss” you replied, smiling, as you followed him out to the ambulance bay. Fall had descended on Pittsburgh but the crisp air was a welcome reprieve from the sterile air of the ED. “What’s up?”

“If Frank is bothering you, I'm happy to step in.” 

He registered the surprise that crossed your face but was taken aback when it flickered into annoyance. “Why do you think Dr. Langdon is bothering me?”

He scoffed out a laugh, running a hand through his beard. “Kid, he’s following you around like a puppy dog, how could that not be annoying?”

A long moment stretched between you and Robby’s mind scrambled to figure out what he was missing. He’d felt protective of you since your first day in the Pitt and that sense of duty had never wavered. He thought he knew you pretty well so what had he missed while he was gone? 

“Look, I know you two have history and it’s valid you don’t want to be around Frank.”

“That’s not–”

“But” you cut him off, sharp gaze flicking up to his own, “Frank is my friend.”

“Look, kid, I’m sure he spun a nice version of what happened–”

“Robby, Jesus Christ” you laughed coldly, shaking your head. “You’re not listening to me.” 

“Okay, okay I’m sorry…continue.” 

Her gaze assessed him before she nodded. “No one else knows this but I have his permission to tell you. Frank was a patient at my final internship, at the substance abuse rehabilitation center. I know everything that happened before he went for treatment. I know what he said to you, and Santos, and that he was stealing pills. But he’s worked really, really hard to get himself back on his feet and he’s a good guy.”

Robby couldn’t help the scoff that left his mouth which earned him a glare. “He betrayed my trust, he betrayed his Hippocratic Oath.”

“Yes, he did.” 

“He hasn’t even bothered to apologize to me!” 

“Oh don’t bullshit me Robinavitch, you avoided him like the plague the one shift you two shared before your sabbatical. You didn’t give him the chance and he, respectfully, is following your lead and giving you space.” 

Robby crossed his arms, shaking his head. “I just don’t want to see you hurt, that’s all.” 

“I know and appreciate that” you replied, squeezing Robby’s shoulder briefly. “But right now, he’s trying and he’s making progress. Santos agreed to talk to him after this shift.” 

Robby blew out a surprised breath. “Really?”

“Really. So, please, just think about having an actual conversation with him when you’re ready? I can’t promise you won’t still be pissed or want nothing to do with him but I think you owe it to yourself, and to him, to talk.” 

He sighed as he heard sirens approaching, finally nodding his head in agreement. “Fine, I’ll think it over kid but no promises.” 

Robby quickled moved away from you before he could say the real reason he’d been avoiding Frank: his firm belief that he was equally, if not more, responsible than Langdon for what he’d allowed to happen in his ED. 

***

Trinity didn’t give a shit about what Frank had to say. But, she respected the 12 steps process and its importance to someone’s recovery. More so, she respected that his behavior had changed since he came back. He approached her early on and when she declined to talk to him, he moved along while still being professional. He never spoke down to her and he stopped himself from reacting when she pushed his buttons or snapped at him just to get a rise from him. He was trying, so she guessed she could too.  

“Hey” she heard him greet her before he stepped into view.

“Hey” she offered but nothing more, arms crossed over her chest. 

“Fair enough” he replied, mostly to himself. “So, I want to start off by saying I’m not expecting you to forgive me or for us to be friendly or anything. I just want to acknowledge that I was an asshole to you and you can do with that what you will.”

She nodded her agreement so he continued. “Your first day here, you easily saw past a mask that I had been meticulously building for months. You saw me for who I was in that moment and it scared the shit out of me. So I lashed out and I spoke down to you and I actively campaigned to get you out of the Pitt. And I’m sorry for that. I wouldn’t admit it to myself then but you’re an excellent doctor. Sure, you made mistakes and had issues with chain of command but you care about the patients and you’re quick to learn. It was my job to nourish that, not squash it, so I’m sorry for what I said. You deserve to be here and I had no right to say otherwise. I was wrong and I was a real dick to you so I apologize.”

She weighed his words, taking in the sincerity that was apparent in them. “Fine, you’re forgiven but if I so much as see you look at a med student or newer resident the wrong way I will destroy you, got it?” 

“Got it” he agreed, and for the first time since his apology began his eyes left her face. She followed his gaze to see you walking out of the ED, turning the opposite way of them to go home. 

“What is up with you two?” 

“What? Nothing.” 

She rolled her eyes, hopping off the pillar she’d been sitting on. “Look, she’s an amazing person and I honestly have no idea what she’d see you in, no offense.”

“Um, offense very much taken.”

“But I see that you two are close. You treat her well and she lights up when you’re together. So, figure out whatever the fuck is going on and get your head out of your ass, Langdon.”

“But Abby…”

“Dude you don’t have your ring right now and I’ve noticed when you come in early it’s not on either. My point stands, get your shit together and don’t fucking hurt her. She’s way too good for you.”

“I know she is.”

“Good” she replied, saluting him before turning on her heel and walking away. 

***

“I have to run outside for a quick call but good luck with Robby, okay?” you encouraged Frank a few weeks later, giving his hand a quick squeeze. 

“Sure, yeah, thanks” he replied, mind churning a mile a minute. Robby had finally agreed to have a conversation and he didn’t want to fuck it up more, if that was even possible. He watched you pull out your phone as you wandered towards the ambulance bay, turning away only when he heard Robby’s voice rounding the other corner.

“Frank, ready when you are” Robby called and Langdon followed his former mentor into the staff room. 

As the door closed behind them, Robby turned with his arms crossed towards Frank. 

“Okay so um…where to start?” Frank said, releasing the deep breath he’d been holding for months. “I’m sorry for what I said to you after the mass shooting. It was a low fucking blow and classic addict deflection, so I’m sorry I kicked you while you were down. Beyond that, I know I betrayed your trust well before that. You put a lot of faith in me, as well as time and energy, and I let you down. I know I can’t make up for that but I deeply apologize for the harm I caused. I promise I am doing everything in my power to make up for it and ensure nothing like that happens ever again.” 

“That it? Okay, apology received, let's eto back to work” Robby replied curtly, turning to leave the room.

“What do you mean that’s it?” Frank snapped. He knew Robby didn’t owe him forgiveness but the brushoff stung. 

“I think it’s better than me saying what I actually want to.”

“No, it’s not. Look, I know I fucked up, okay? But we’re adults can’t we have a conversation? Say what you need to say, it can’t be worse than your silent disdain.” 

“Fine, if you insist,” Robby sighed, facing Frank again. “You betrayed your Hippocratic Oath. You illegally stole medication intended for a patient. Those are unforgivable actions.”

“I know,” Frank said quietly. “But you also gave me an avenue back into the Pitt, so why are you treating me so shittily when I’ve done what you told me?”

“So what, you think I’m going back on my word?” Robby scoffed, rolling his eyes as he scrubbed his hands down his face. “I trusted you, Frank! I wanted you to run this ED with me one day and instead you let this place destroy you and you tried to drag me down with you.”

“I am not destroyed!” Frank replied angrily. “I made mistakes and I’m atoning for them. You’re the only one who isn’t letting me step back into my role here and holding this grudge.” 

“That is bullshit and you know it, Frank.”

Dana’s voice cut through their bickering over the intercom: “Code brown ambulance bay!” Robby was still going on and on but Frank only heard the ringing in his ears–had something happened to you?

“Shut the fuck up!” he yelled and Robby did, shock evident on his face. “Look, I said my piece and you can do with it what you will, okay? Brenner went out for air right before we came in here so I need to go see if she’s that code brown. Are you coming or not?” 

“Lead the way” Robby said, snapping into attending mode. Frank’s terror must have been apparent because he felt Robby give his shoulder a squeeze before running ahead to the charge station to see what Dana knew. 

Frank’s eyes scanned the ED hoping beyond hope that you’d emerge from somewhere else, totally unscathed. How could he have been so stupid? He’d wasted so much time worrying about Pitt gossips instead of just being with you. He’d nearly convinced himself his hopes were a fantasy when, miraculously, you emerged from a room two doors down from the ambulance bay. 

The relief that coursed through him was palpable, the adrenaline still pumping as he made his way to you in sure strides. 

“Whitaker!” he called, drawing the student’s attention from his work station along Frank’s pathway. “Consider this a down payment on your own place so you can escape Santos’ pussy palace, alright?” 

Before Whitaker could sputter out a response, Frank was slamming his wedding band onto Dennis’ desk without missing a step. When he was within a few feet of you, your eyes widened at the sight of him. 

“Holy shit, Frankie, are you okay? You look–” 

He cut you off by crashing his lips into yours, one hand gripping your hips to pull you closer, the other cupping your cheek. He felt you melt into him for a moment before your muscles tensed. 

“Frank, we had a deal, you can’t just…” you trailed off as you shakily brought your hand up to grip the one on your face–his ring-less left hand. 

“Yeah, we did and I’m cashing in if that’s okay with you?”

Your only reply was to throw your arms around his neck to pull him back to you. Frank was glued to the spot as your mouths explored each other, months of pent up tension slowly bleeding into wherever your skin touched his. He would have stayed there forever if not for Louie’s voice ringing out from nearby. “Shrink and the doc?!” 

You quickly pulled away just as Frank took a step back, the heat rising quickly to his cheeks as he realized the whole ED was watching. He tried to ignore the look of smug satisfaction on Dana’s face only to be met with the eager shock on Mel’s. He didn’t even bother looking in Santos’ direction, sure he’d find some biting comment. 

“Everyone, back to work” Robby commanded, quiet but firm, as he emerged from central command. “You two, staff room.” 

Frank felt his heart sink–he could handle Robby holding a grudge against him but if the older man even thought about causing you trouble…

As the door swung quietly behind him, Robby turned to face you two. “One, that never happens in the ED again, understood?”

“Understood” yours and Frank’s voices chorused together.

“Two, you talk to HR at the end of this shift.”

“Understood.” 

“Frank” Robby began, sharp gaze turning towards him. “You are forgiven on the condition you treat her like the treasure she is, got it?”

“Got it” Frank breathed out in relief. Robby held his gaze for a moment longer before nodding at you both and leaving the room. 

“What happened? You looked terrified and I know for a fact your stubborn ass had that ring on before your talk with Robby.”

“Where the hell did you go?” he asked, eyes searching for injuries he logically knew weren’t there. “They called a code brown coming in from the ambulance bay I thought…”

“You thought what?”

“I thought something awful had happened to you and I was sick to my stomach. And then, I was furious with myself for wasting so much time worrying what the gaggle of gossips would say.”

“Well, they’ll definitely be saying lots of things now” you quipped, amusement evident in your eyes. “Where’d your ring end up?”

“It’s funding Whitaker’s escape from Santos and Garcia’s love nest.”

You cackled, shaking your head fondly, as you leaned your forehead on his chest. His hands instinctually rose to meet your hips as he dropped a kiss to the top of your head. 

“So are we doing this?” you questioned quietly. 

“If we aren’t, I sure stirred the pot for nothing” he sighed and you chuckled, looking at him. 

“We’re off in an hour, we’ll head up to HR then?” 

“Obviously, it’s the most romantic date option for any new couple.” 

“How did it end up working out?” Victoria asks, finally getting her own emotions in check.

“We’re great coworkers now, but it was one of the most embarrassing days of my life,” you admit, walking up to the nurse’s station. 

“Is he here today?” Victoria asks, looking around the ED trying to figure out who’s married. 

“He is,” you sigh, avoiding looking in Langdon’s direction. “He’s in South twelve right now.”

Javadi whips around to see who could be the person to knock you off your bearings. “Langdon?” she asks in complete shock, she imagined it would be someone more like you- someone nicer. 

“It was like in one of those cheesy romance novels, it was like the whole world disappeared and there was only him. He was a second year resident at the time.”

Just talking about it transports you back to two years ago, getting lost in his baby blue eyes. He seemed to take a special liking to you, he was always having you work alongside him, pulling you away from other residents when he had a more interesting case he wanted you to experience. 

Within the first month of you being in the Pitt it was like you and Langdon were attached at the hip. When he could see you slowing down during one of your many twelve hour shifts, he would slip you little snacks like granola bars or cheese crackers. If you had down time you were grabbing coffees or water for the two of you from the break room. The way you were with him caused Perlah and Princess to gossip about the two of you. And it didn’t stop with them, when no one else was around even Dana and Robby would talk about the way the two of you act around each other. 

With each passing day your feelings for Frank grew stronger and deeper. You spent pretty much every waking minute thinking about him, anytime you could let your mind drift it would slip back to thoughts of him. It didn't help that you would grab late night dinners to decompress after pretty much every shift, and spending your days texting one another about anything and everything. 

Even with all of that time spent together, you had no idea he had a girlfriend- and a serious one at that. If you had known you never would have dreamed of asking him out, of thinking you had even a sliver of a chance with him. One fateful day two months into your rounds, you asked him to go to the Carnegie Science Center with you on your day off. His face immediately changed from the carefree smile that Princess swears he reserves just for you, to a cold hard stare. You can still feel the white hot embarrassment washing over you to this day. You were so embarrassed, and to make matters worse you had just spit the question out at the nurses station right in front of Dana, wanting to- needing to- ask Frank before you lost your nerve. So you got rejected right there in the middle of the ED in front of your charge nurse, the same nurse who told you two weeks later that he had gotten engaged over the weekend.  

“At least I waited two months before asking mine out,” you tease Javadi. 

“Dr. (Y/L/N),” you and the first year resident beside you freeze at the unmistakable voice. “Can I get your opinion on a patient in North four?”

“Yes,” your voice squeaks a little, once again feeling the embarrassment you felt around him two years ago. “But, I’m bringing Dr. Javadi, she could use the experience.”

“Okay…”he furrows his brows at you, confused by your reaction to him. 

Javadi watches Langdon and you, how the two of you move in sync, no trace of the awkwardness she’ll no doubt have with Mateo going forward. She doesn’t know how she didn’t see it before, the little looks you two give each other as you work, wordlessly communicating your thoughts to each other. He may have rejected you years ago, but he still clearly cares about you and values your opinion. 

The remaining hours of your shifts slip by; Javadi, Langdon, and you being separated and thrown together multiple times throughout. She watches you two, observes the way you take care of each other. 

“Cute, aren’t they?” Dana asks Javadi once she returns from her CT scan. “Been wondering when they’ll get together. The whole department’s got a bet going if you want to get in on it.”

“Isn’t he married?” Javadi asks, confused. Afterall, you said he had an engagement ring for his girlfriend. 

“No, he couldn’t go through with the wedding,” Dana gestures toward where you and Frank are leaning against the other side of the nurse’s station, giggling over the cups of freshly brewed coffee you just made. 

Your moment is cut short by the announcement of the shooting at Pitt Fest, everyone is scrambling trying to set up the ED before the first ambulance arrives. You work through the carnage, compartmentalizing everything you see, so you don’t break down in the middle of the chaos. There’s blood everywhere and you’ve changed your gown at least two times. You’ve lost Frank in the frey, which is to be expected, but hard nonetheless when he’s your lifeline. Slowly but surely everyone works as a well oiled machine and save everyone that you can. 

Once it’s all over and your body no longer has to run on autopilot, you're faced with the reality of what just happened. The blood smeared across the floor reminding you of the teenager, with her whole life in front of her, that you couldn’t save. Tears start to collect on your lashline standing in the middle of the emergency department, watching all of the fluids get mopped up so the ED  can be opened back up to the public like nothing just happened. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Frank appears out of nowhere, pulling you tightly into his chest. “We just need to hand off our patients to the night crew and then we can go home.”

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” you grip onto his scrubs.

“I know,” he whispers, kissing the crown of your head without a thought. “You can come over to my place, I’ll make us some dinner, and we can watch a movie. I’ll even let you put on one of those trashy rom coms you love so much.”

“Thank you Frank,” you bury your head into his neck, taking a deep breath and putting your game face back on. 

“I love you,” Frank says out of nowhere, still holding onto you.

“I love you,too, my Utah,” you smile at him before heading off to find a resident to hand your cases off to. Frank and you will have to address your confessions when your emotions have calmed and the adrenaline has worn off.

The thing about Triage Floor 3 —entombed three levels beneath the Virealian Defense Commission, sealed behind three layers of biometric locks, and one very cranky security guard — is that fear loses its edge.

Not necessarily because it disappears, but because it’s everywhere.

You are forced to acclimate. The screaming blends into the architecture. The red flicker of emergency lights stops registering. Another coded lockdown, another body hitting tile, another soldier stumbling in with eyes like fractured glass, whispering about things they were never meant to survive. 

You’ve seen it all. Done it all. Stitched psy-links out of bone. Peeled neural dampeners from panicked nervous systems. Closed wounds in silence because names were dangerous and curiosity was lethal.

But the High Commander’s private medical suite isn’t part of that system. It exists outside of it.

You got the call at 2:03 a.m., clipped and contextless: “Langdon. Hurt. Needs you.”

No details. No vitals. Could be a nosebleed. Could be a crater where his stomach used to be. With him, there was no scale. Only consequences.

Last you heard (through Victoria who heard through her mom who heard through a man with an uncle who talked too much), he was overseeing compliance at the Institute. The island with the locked airspace and the rumors about corners bending the wrong way. Psychic prisons. Extradimensional anomalies. Experimental drugs. Aliens.

You don’t know what is real up there. You just know that now he was injured, and the machine that feared nothing had decided you were necessary.

You push the door expecting… well. Something that fits the word you just used, injured.

The antiseptic sting of an active emergency, maybe. The beep of vitals, the metallic clatter of instruments, some sign that he is, in fact, mortal. A grunt, a wince, blood on the floor.

Instead, he’s standing.

Standing in the center of the suite. Boots still laced, standard-issue pants stained black around the seams. A war god between skirmishes who didn’t see the point in resting.

The only break in uniformity is the swatch of gauze stuck haphazardly to his side, already peeling loose at one corner. The blood beneath it is dark and dense, staining the fabric slowly, richly, like overripe fruit crushed under careful pressure. 

“Okay,” you blurt. “You need to sit. You should probably sit. Like now. Preferably. Please.”

“I’m fine.”

You don’t even look up as you snap on gloves, the latex squeaking in protest as if it, too, disagrees.

“You’re not. You’re not even close to fine. Fine is on the opposite coast. Fine sent its regrets and asked not to be contacted again.” You’re already crossing the room, shoes clicking on a flourished little beat as you stomp across the floor. Click, click, click. You point to the exam cot, which suddenly looks way too small, too civilian, too soft to hold whatever this man is made of. “Sit.”

After a beat, he moves. Not quickly, nothing about him is ever quick, but with the reluctant inevitability of someone who’s calculated the cost of resistance and found it lacking.

Arguing with you, apparently, would be a worse injury than the one actively leaking. 

He sits, stiff-backed and silent, and you have to actively stop yourself from saying thank you like he just held a door or passed you a pen. You swallow it. Professionalism. Growth!

“Shirt?” you add, sweetly.

He raises his arms without protest this time. 

You ease the fabric upward, careful not to drag cotton across damaged skin. It clings anyway, blood-damp and sweat-soaked, sticking at the edges before finally coming off. 

The moment he’s bare feels wrong somehow, like you’ve crossed into a space few are allowed to see. 

The dimmed lights strip him down to truth: bruises scattered along his side, muscle tight with restrained force, scars old enough to have faded beside newer, angrier marks. A very distracting vein. Hair in… inconveniently correct places.

You try your best not to look impressed by the sheer anatomy of him all.

Medical, you remind yourself firmly. You are being so medical right now.

“If you’re finished gawking,” he says, all ice and condescension and not a single hint of mercy, “I’d prefer to stop bleeding sometime tonight.”

Shit. You inhale through your nose. Mentally cram every indecent observation into a vault labeled INAPPROPRIATE (all caps necessary), slam it shut, and reach for competence.

“I’m assessing,” you correct him. “Very different from gawking.”

You reach for the gauze and peel it back with a little too much enthusiasm. Not enough to hurt, (obviously, you’re not a monster) but just enough to remind yourself that you are in control here and not, say, his ridiculous v-line or the way he keeps talking like a Bond villain.

The bandage comes away with an ugly sound. 

The wound isn’t catastrophic, but it’s longer than you expected, clean-edged, split through skin and subcutaneous tissue with a precision that suggests intention. 

It’s still bleeding, not gushing, just a steady, patient weep that tells you the vessel damage is shallow but persistent.

He doesn’t react. Not even a twitch. You’ve never met a man who could make pain look like indifference.

“You always this rough with patients,” he mutters, like he’s testing the words against you to see if they spark, less question, more provocation.

“Only the difficult ones,” you reply with fake sugar laced under your tongue.

You hope to give him a cavity.

He exhales through his nose, something like that might qualify as a laugh in some distant, forgotten lifetime.

“Then I’ll do my best,” he says, voice low, “to remain a challenge.”

You do not respond to that. You simply… decide not to. You practice the kind of selective ignorance usually reserved for hearing your alarm go off.

You do not ask him to repeat it slower and meaner just to confirm whether it actually sounded like flirtation or if your brain has finally rotted from too many late nights and too much proximity to powerful men with voices like that. 

You marshal every hormone-fueled neuron in your body and shove them into the only safe direction left: sterile, medically approved motion. 

You reach for fresh gauze and press it to his side, fingers splayed. Pressure. That’s what this needs. Five full minutes. Maybe six.

This is easier than managing him. Easier than wondering why it’s always you, why he always ends up here under your care.

You focus on the medicine, because medicine is honest, and men like him are not.

“Can you tell me how you got this?” you ask, keeping a neutral tone, like your curiosity isn’t rapid and personal and about 70% unrelated to actual triage protocol. “It helps with treatment,” you add, because technically it does and technically you’re not just nosy, just thorough. Responsible. A paragon of care. “Mechanism of injury, I mean. Like… was it a blade, shrapnel, blunt force?”

“That’s not your concern,” he says. “Do your job.”

Your hands stop. You look up slowly.

“I am doing my job,” you say. “Part of which involves asking questions when men who should be unkillable comes to me carved open.” You reinforce the dressing. “You can absolutely not answer. That’s your prerogative, but don’t treat my concern like it’s insolence. I’m not out of line.”

The words hang like a guillotine mid-drop. And with them comes the creeping, sick knowledge that you may have just overstepped in a way that most people don’t come back from. Not in this building. Not with him. He could make a call. He could decide you’re a liability. 

You don’t delude yourself about that.

And still, sometimes your mouth just runs. It always does. Always has. Your survival instinct left playing catch-up while your lips run relay races through landmine fields. 

There’s no fixing it now. So you work like your life depends on it. Because maybe it does.

You place every movement cautiously, betting everything on the idea that expertise might function as your immunity.

“Bold,” he murmurs. His eyes flick back to the ceiling. “See that your competence continues to justify it.”

Relief pools in your chest, warm and vaguely nauseating. You didn’t realize how tight your body had braced until he let the moment pass. Until the knife he could’ve twisted stayed sheathed.

“Yes, sir,” you say, trying not to sound too breathless about it.

You reach for the saline and rinse, careful to flood the wound without dislodging the early clotting.

Crimson thins into blush-pink streaks. 

“I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to,” he says after a moment, gaze still fixed upward. “And I doubt you’re naive enough to expect otherwise.”

He’s right. You’re also not naive enough to have expected an explanation, really. Even a fragment of one.

You know he doesn’t owe you anything. His authority dwarfs yours, renders you practically ornamental in the chain of command.

“Well, I mean. No. I get it,” you say, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “I do. It’s just…” You rinse the site again, slower. “It makes my job harder. That’s all. Not that that matters. Obviously. I’m sure you don’t really consider my personal job satisfaction.”

“If your satisfaction factored into operational decisions,” he murmurs, “we’d both be in far more danger than we already are.”

You almost ask what he means. Almost.

But some inconvenient part of you already knows, and that’s the part now chewing on the word danger like it might bite back. In this place, danger is a spectrum. A language. And he’s fluent in all of it.

You smooth ointment along the wound, watching it catch the light, watching the skin work so hard to heal.

So no, you don’t ask for clarity. You don’t know how he’d respond anyway. But you do know this: he would lie. And he’d be very good at it.

“You know,” you say, “you could’ve called for literally anyone else. Half this place would crawl over broken glass for the chance to treat you.”

You reach for new gauze, already calculating the angle, the cleanest line, the way you’ll make this neat because you always make things neat even when they intend to stay messy.

And then his hand snaps around your wrist, stopping you cold. The contact is immediate and awful in the way gravity is awful when you trip, because it pulls you out of motion and into awareness all at once.

It’s wrong-footing, the intimacy of it. You touch people for a living. You touch wounds and hands and shoulders, press gently here, reassure there. 

You’ve touched him a hundred times under that logic, guided by necessity and protocol, but he has never touched you, and now that he has, you hate how ungentle it is. 

His grip is strong without being careful, your wrist caught at an awkward angle that’s already starting to ache.

You can feel his blood slick against the latex, tacky, meeting its maker as it seeps into the creases of his palm.

“Don’t talk like this is some kind of prize. Like being near me is anything but dangerous.” He leans in and suddenly he’s all you can see, scarred knuckles, tension in his jaw, eyes that look like they’ve never once forgiven anyone for disappointing them. “You think it’s flattering? It’s a liability. One I chose. And if you can’t handle that — walk. But don’t mistake this for favoritism. Don’t mistake it for anything at all.”

You wrench your hand back like it burns, like distance might cauterize whatever just got exposed, your pulse skidding under your skin as embarrassment floods you head to toe.

You tell yourself you overstepped, that you read into something that was never offered, that this is what happens when you forget the difference between access and intimacy.

“Message received,” you say flatly.

His eyes stay on you for a second longer than necessary. 

“I know you’re taking this personally,” he says. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“No,” you say quietly. “Taking it personally would imply a familiarity that doesn’t exist.”

For a fraction of a second, something shifts in his face, so small you might’ve missed had you not been watching him so intently. You catch it in the way his lips part, the way his eyes narrow not in anger but consideration, as if weighing the cost of one sentence against the damage of silence.

He doesn’t say it.

You watch him lock it down with the same discipline he applies to everything else. The air between you goes taut with it, full of a statement that never makes it out. 

So you finish your job without rushing it. 

You clean, secure, double-check, because you don’t cut corners just because your feelings got nicked.

And when you’re done, you step back and give him the same neutral smile you give patients who don’t say thank you.

You pull off your gloves, toss them, and pick up your clipboard.

“Dressing stays on for twenty-four hours. If there’s more bleeding or pain, report it through your chain of command.” You give a small nod, polite and final. “I’ll defer to your judgment on future staffing.”

this fic was part of my 6k celebration: maria's internal affairs

“I have a name,” she said calmly, evenly. The butter chicken now held a lot of interest for her.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know it! How do I get to Imaging from here?” Her knuckles turned white around the plastic fork she was using, and she started to turn and read this greenie the riot act, but someone beat her to the punch.

A hand appeared from behind the intern (she realized with a little chuckle that she didn’t know his name either) and smacked him soundly upside the head. “What the FUCK?!” he cried. Dr. Langdon pushed him out of the lounge and down the hall.

“You will show respect to the nurses of this hospital if you want to continue working here, got it?” Langdon called after him. The kid muttered something snotty, she assumed, and she saw him amble away like a dog with its tail between its legs. “Sorry about him,” Langdon apologized. He hung on the door frame for a minute and chewed his lip. Her hand that wasn’t holding the fork searched for something to do, landing on smoothing down the hair that was already pulled into a perfect bun. “Kid’s an asshat.”

“I’ve known a few of those in my time here,” she joked, and Langdon grinned. She dropped the fork. “There was this one guy…Langdumb, or something like that. He was insufferable.” Langdon gave her an exasperated look that made her laugh and say, “But he’s much better now.” The exasperation was replaced with an angelic beam. 

“Well, thanks for saying that. Some days, I wonder,” he said, then rubbed the back of his neck. She pouted in sympathy without realizing she was doing it. Langdon laughed. It was a little gravelly and when he smiled, he showed off each of his straight, white teeth. Her heart hammered at the ribcage prison bars that held it hostage.

Residents had a reputation. Of course they did; they’d toiled away in thankless obscurity for four years as medical students, so it only made sense that at the first opportunity they had to stretch their newly-educated legs, it would go straight to their head. She remembered Langdon being somewhat of a douche himself as a first-year, always correcting nurses and, on one occasion he later apologized profusely for, disregarding an order Dr. Robby had given for a patient to be intubated. Langdon had been correct in his estimation, thank God, but Robby had berated him in that terrifying, humiliating, cool as a cucumber way that he always did. She had been assigned to that patient at the time, and the memory of Robby quietly seething at Langdon in the corner of the hospital room still made her cheeks hot. That had been what finally whipped Langdon into shape.

Some residents also had a reputation for certain, seedier behaviors. There weren’t enough fingers or toes on the planet on which to count how many times some new hotshot had hit on her, usually opting to do so through negging and second-guessing her work, like she would be tripping over herself to go out on a date with the grown man tugging her pigtails on the playground. The kid Langdon had shoved down the hall was no doubt on his way to do something similar to the first nurse distracted enough to walk across his eyeline.

 Dr. Langdon had no such reputation for flirtiness, and he had never made any sort of advance to her. Thank goodness. It was nice to have a friend in a slightly higher place than her.

She cleared her throat. “Anyway, what’s going on for you, Dr. Frank?”

“Quit calling me Dr. Frank, especially in front of patients.” He rolled his eyes. “That puts a whole ‘Dr. Phil’ image in their heads and I hate it.”

“Oh I’m glad you mentioned that…” She turned in her chair to face him fully and seriously. “My teen has been drinking at parties and my husband is an absent father,” she said, face grave.

Frank adopted a Southern drawl and put his finger above his lip to simulate a moustache. “You have gawt to send that child to military school, it is the only waaay.” They giggled. Frank’s pager went off and he pulled it off his waistband to read it. “Shit, gotta run. Don’t have too much fun without me,” he ordered sternly, a frown creasing his pretty forehead.

Pretty forehead? Fuck is wrong with you? She admonished herself without mercy while she went through the motions of undressing and redressing the various beds in the Pitt for the rest of her shift. It was not a desirable duty to be stuck with. Luckily, it was a slow day in the ED by ED standards, with only two ambulance visits and a quiet trickle of less urgent cases admitted from the waiting room, so she had ample time to think about the piece of hair that was always falling in Frank’s bright blue eyes when he was working, and the way Frank cackled any time he cleaned up on one of his and Mateo’s college basketball bets, and Frank…

God, you’d think I had a thing for this guy, she mused to herself, slipping a pillow into its fresh case. Do not fall for the evil Hot Flirty Resident Curse. It might be a canon event for some nurses, but not for her. No, sir, she had her head on her shoulders more than that. 

Didn’t matter if Frank wore a kitschy, clunky little bracelet, beaded with love by one of his daughters, every day. Didn’t matter if Frank spoke with the utmost respect about his ex-wife whenever the topic came up. Didn’t matter if he had once placed his hand on her lower back to steer her towards the patient’s room that he had needed her assistance with, and that she hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. Didn’t matter if Frank–

–was knocking gently on the door of the room she now stood, motionless, in and asking, “Hey, did you see Mrs. Horowitz getting discharged?”

“Mrs. H-Horo–?” Her tongue felt about ten inches thick as she tried to remember which patient he was talking about and how to move her feet like a normal person. 

“The low blood sugar.”

“Oh, right.”

Frank raised his eyebrows, making her realize she hadn’t answered the question. She wished a hole would open up in the speckled tile and swallow her. “Yes, I saw her checking out with Dana at central an hour or so ago,” she said. Ok, got it all out without stammering. This was just Frank; why was her brain foggy and making it impossible to speak to a man she’d always just thought of as a coworker? Her favorite coworker, sure. The highlight of her day? Also sure, but it wasn’t…She pulled a face that mirrored her thoughts before she could stop herself.

Frank thanked her, then paused on his way out of the room again. 

“Uh..are you done for the day?” he asked, and a glance at her watch told her that yes, she was three minutes past being done.

“I could stick around for a bit,” she shrugged with all the nonchalance in the world. “Need help with something?” Frank shook his head, a tiny smirk she would have missed if she hadn’t been staring too hard at his mouth flickering around his lips. 

“No, no worries, head home! I can totally just grab someone–” 

“No!” She tried to play it cool with a chuckle and threw the pillow she was still holding down on the bed. “Let me help. What is it?”

Frank sighed and yanked his right sleeve up to show her his shoulder, and all the mortification that had been comfortably fading away in his presence came back in full force. She stared dumbly for a few seconds before he turned a degree to his left and she caught sight of the ugly, crimson gash that ran from the back of his tricep to the top of his shoulder. “Jesus, Frank! Mention this shit first!” she cried, rushing to him. “What happened?” 

He grimaced. “Turned my back for one second and a patient grabbed the scalpel off my tray and slashed. I’m angrier about the scrubs, to be honest. FIGS ain’t cheap.” He plopped himself down on the bed and looked up at her. “It’s not bad, really, I just can’t reach it to dress it myself. Would you mind?”

No, Man Who is Colloquially Referred to Around the Hospital as Dr. Dreamboat, no, I would not mind patching you up even a bit. She cleared her throat, trying to muster all her calm and competence, and said, “I’m not sure this hospital accepts your insurance, Mr. Langdon.” Frank grinned while pulling his sleeve up once more and holding it in place so she could access the wound.

“My work,” he groaned. “They got me on the worst plan possible. Acts of God are about the only thing they cover, so if anyone asks, God stabbed me.”

Her laugh surprised her. It wasn’t nervous; it was loud and probably obnoxious and it made Frank beam even more widely. She dashed over to the nurse’s supply station and requisitioned a wound care kit. When she reentered the room, she was horrified to discover that Frank had given up on holding his scrub shirt out of the way and had opted to pull the whole thing off. He was, thank heaven, wearing a white tank undershirt, and sat waiting for her expectantly. She took the second before he realized she had reentered the room to ogle as much as her professionalism and casual friendship would allow.

The sound of the alcohol swab’s packaging tearing echoed through the awkwardly quiet room. “Is it gonna hurt?” Frank whispered, making his eyes huge. She wanted to tell him to shut up.

“Shut up, just stay still,” she said, more thankful than she’d ever been that there was a layer of blue latex between her and the person she was patching’s skin. Using quick, dabbing motions to hide her trembling hands worked better than she had hoped. Frank got bored and started fidgeting after about 20 seconds. She had once told him that he needed four more letters added to his MD title: ADHD. It had been the hardest she’d ever seen him laugh, until, of course, he got distracted by something brightly colored in the distance.

He blew a puff of air from his lips and looked around the room. “Soo. Any plans tonight?”

“I was supposed to give the keynote speech at the Annual Best Nurses in the Universe Banquet, but my friend needed help putting a band-aid on, so I missed it,” she deadpanned absently, while opening the bandage and aligning it over the wound. “Are you worried about infection?”

“Not anymore, ‘cause the best nurse in the universe fixed me up real good,” he simpered. He batted his eyelashes up at her and she snorted to hide the smile that she couldn’t stop from appearing. “Um, well, anyway…” Frank began, but then trailed off. His tone had changed. 

She was almost scared to ask, “What?” Her fingers smoothed over the bandage, adhering it flush to his arm, and tried to ignore the way she felt every ridge and groove of him. Or maybe she was memorizing.

Frank coughed and shrugged the shoulder she wasn’t working on. “Just…if you ever do have a free night, I mean, after work. Or not!”

She frowned. Whatever he was rambling about took a backseat while she made quick work of cleaning off the tray of supplies. “Again, what?” Her grocery order would be ready for pickup in ten minutes, and she didn’t want to miss the window by getting stuck in the parking garage with the rest of the mass day-shift exodus.

“Jesus, do you wanna go out with me?” Her eyebrows shot skyward as she whipped around to face him. “I’m sorry!” He immediately jumped up. “I wasn’t snapping at you, I mean, I was snapping, for sure, but at myself because I couldn’t just…cough it up. It’s taken me, what, like three years?”

He had a sheepish look on his face, and couldn’t seem to hold eye contact with her anymore. Three years. Three years? Three years was how long she had known him. Every last drop of nerve, embarrassment, confusion, attraction all threatened to bubble up in her stomach. She slammed the tray down on the counter next to the sink. 

The reality of her feelings finally hit her full force, and she decided to acknowledge them for the first time in front of that serial stabber God and Frank and everyone: “I think I really like you, Frank.” It was easier than she could have imagined to say it, at last. Especially now, that he’d gone and taken their flirting to its natural conclusion. 

“Well I know I really like you,” he replied, a grin spreading as rapidly as the elation that was filling her chest so tight she thought she might start floating away.

“You fucking doctors, you always have to come out on top, don’t you?”

Frank reached for her hand from the bed and tugged her to him. She stood between his legs, which were dangling off the bed, kicking back and forth like a kid who just got told that school would be ending three hours early on the sunniest afternoon of the year. “That remains to be seen,” he muttered up at her, his blue eyes a lot softer than his tone was suggesting, and she swatted him on the forehead for being so presumptuous before leaning down and kissing the stupid smile straight off his lips. Langdon groaned and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her down and onto the bed. 

“Shit, we–” It was hard to get words out when Frank chased after her lips every time she pulled them away. And she had never been good at saying no to him. “We really should not be doing this in here.”

He agreed by putting his hand on the back of her head so he could kiss her even more deeply. “Definitely shouldn’t,” he hummed into her mouth. “Could get caught. Could get fired.” Frank pulled away fully and she took the opportunity to gulp down some air into her neglected and giddy lungs. “Wait, will you still go out with me if I’m not a doctor?” “I’d rather you were ortho, but–”

“Don’t piss me off, baby.” But they were both giggling the same, stupid way they did when they exchanged jokes and insults. Only this time, she was kneeling on one leg in front of him on a freshly-made hospital bed, her other leg slung over his, his strong hand resting on the back of her thigh. Her heart was pounding at a wild rhythm she was not familiar with, and when Frank placed his hands on her waist and pulled her even more flush against his chest, she felt his beating similarly. “I’ve already taken off like half my clothes,” he murmured. “Should we just round up and get rid of the rest?” 

“Definitely not,” she admonished through a laugh. “At least take me to get some jello or something first.” Suddenly, she was pushed off his lap and back to a standing position, her legs wobbling like a fawn’s after being folded under her so awkwardly. Frank tugged his scrub shirt back over his head and rose from the bed as well.

“Jello sounds really fucking good right now, good call,” he said, eyes already focused out the door and mapping the quickest route to the cafeteria. She wanted to laugh and cry and put blinders on the hyperactive physician so he kept kissing her until one or both of them died, but she opted instead to push that one strand of hair (the 90’s Leo one, she would later refer to it as) out of his eyes and said,

“You are insufferable.”

Frank shrugged. He grabbed her hand in his, loosely locking their fingers together and leading her out of the room. Her grocery order seemed like the least pressing matter in the world. “You love it!”

She kinda did.